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“He’s running a fever. Can you give him—”
“No.” I cut him off. “Nothing I give will help him, I can assure you that. You have to let this run its course and hope—” My voice caught around the words, and I looked down at the kid again.
Neither of them said anything, all of our minds going to the exact same place. It was useless to hope that he was going to make it out of this. If he did, well, simply put, death was far better.
I put my bag on the bed, opening it to take out my supplies. I cut off the torn-up sleeve and poured alcohol cleaner on it, washing away the blood so I could clearly see the damage done. White shone up at me, the meat of his arm torn out in chunks. I cleaned it up with antiseptic and wrapped his arm up tight. Blood turned the white gauze pink almost instantly.
I stared into my bag at the little vials, each one with a different colored liquid. I hesitated before taking a bright green one out and popped the corkscrew out, grabbing hold of the kid's chin and jaw between my fingers to pry open his mouth a little more. I poured a little under half the vial into his mouth and tilted his head back, pressing his teeth together to close them. He swallowed, his body squirming before he went limp, eyes fluttering closed.
“What did you just give him?” Stan demanded, a floorboard creaking as he stepped towards me.
“A sleep draught,” I explained, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. “I can’t give him anything for the pain or fever because they just won’t help. But sleep might. It’ll be uneasy sleep, and he probably will have nightmares, but for the most part, he’ll sleep through this.”
“Then what?” Stan pressed, breathing hard.
He was practically panting behind me, desperate for answers, anything that I could give him.
“There’s no telling,” I stated sadly, my heart squeezing in my chest as I had to give the truth.
I wanted to help; I really did. I wanted to do more than just clean and patch up the wound and put him to sleep. There was a clawing in the pit of my stomach, desperate to be able to do more, but logically I just knew it wasn’t possible.
“Here.” The jingle of coins reached my ears as he handed them over to my father. “Thank you for your help.”
Help. That word sounded so wrong in my ears. All I could do was stare down at the sleeping boy, who fidgeted slightly in his sleep. For the moment, he didn’t seem to be having nightmares, which was a good thing. Hopefully, he didn’t have any, but I knew to not hope for that part too hard.
“He’ll be all right,” my father promised, but the words sounded strained.
I knew the tone well. He’d been around healers far too long to know that when we knew there was no hope, there was none. There was no praying to a deity, screaming to some form of an external force, or even buying the highest-powered witch or warlock to fix the problem. If nothing could be done, that was that. As sucky as it was, at least we played by the honor system. We didn’t give false hope, which was against the rules, and well, everything we believed in.
ChapterFive
“I’m honestly glad I’m not a healer,” Carli groaned, handing me a fresh mug of steaming coffee.
It was my third of the day, a desperate attempt to not fall asleep on my feet. It was Carli’s first of the day, though, getting at least two or three hours longer of sleep than I got. Every day, not just this one. Lucky. I wasn’t bitter, though, not even irritated. Carli did her part to keep the village running just like I did. Hers just didn’t start when mine did, that was all. Hers also wasn’t as demanding. She got to turn in at a certain time and leave at a specific time. I didn’t get that part, even if I wanted it. This was my calling, and unfortunately, I knew that. It couldn’t be helped, and I had to live with it.
“Working in the dirt must be a lot nicer,” I half-teased and sipped the hot liquid, scalding the tip of my tongue.
“It is, though. I don’t have to deal with putting intestines back into bodies. I would rather have dirt under my nails than blood, goop, and possible death on my hands. That’s the worst, don’t you think?”
After the morning I’d had, I couldn’t exactly argue with my best friend on that subject. Instead of saying anything, I took another sip and led the way down the hill, away from the small bakery.
“You know, I’d probably die without coffee.” I moaned, tipping my head back as I took another long swig.
Carli snickered. “You’re something else, Zu. I’m gonna tell Timothy.” She teased.
I stuck my tongue out at her like a kid and bumped her with my shoulder as we hit solid ground, making our own path toward the docks. I could smell the salty air of the sea hitting my nostrils, stinging them. Laughter drifted through the air, and the faint sound of splashing was heard.
“Sounds like the fishermen are back,” Carli surmised, excitement trickling in her words slightly.
The girl always got a kick out of their return. Not that I could blame her. The fishermen weren’t local to the village, even if some had been born here. They lived on their boats, fishing all year long, from sea to sea and port to port, to feed the many villages on and just beyond the coasts. Most seemed pretty happy. I’d met a few before that were slightly tired of the repetitive lifestyle, but what kept them going back out was the fact that if they stayed put on land, they would be thrust back into the war. I didn’t blame them for sticking it out; I’d probably do the same.
At least they got a choice. If they didn’t want to fight, they got to fish. If they wanted to fight, they got to. I wasn’t allowed and not by choice or some dysfunction. It was law.
The laughter grew louder as we got closer, and soon we caught sight of the group taking a break from their tedious job. All backs were turned to us, not paying even an ounce of attention. Suddenly, they cheered excitedly, glasses going up in the air, sloshing brown liquid all around. On top of the salty air, I could smell the stench of the alcohol that they were drinking. I wrinkled my nose, but we didn’t stop, our attention not captured in curiosity to see what made them so happy.
Splashes were caught as we drew closer. A little nudging pushed a couple of the guys to the side for easy access as we slipped through the small throng. They didn’t even seem to care, or if they did, they didn’t show it. Breaking to the front of the circle, Carli and I came face to face with a tank. It was just inches taller than us, filled to the brim with salt water, seaweed drifting through it, turning it cloudy. It was swirling, but not because of the random bits floating about. I saw the dolphin-like fin before I saw the rest of her.
She was a beautiful specimen, but she shouldn’t be held prisoner in such a small space. Spotting us, the mermaid slammed her fists against the tank, webbed fingers splaying out as she pressed against the glass. Her eyes were wide, pleading for us to help her, and she slammed her palms against the glass again, desperate to be freed. My stomach curled at realizing these men were keeping her for some sick spectacle, amused by her suffering.
