A Mute and a Cellmate

Polished — 36m16s — 2023/12/02

The door to the cell popped open and Krumpus shielded his eyes from the blinding light of the outside world. Three figures stood in the doorway. There were the two guards, Cairn and Brough, large and imposing; with a limp prisoner between them. The prisoner could not keep his feet, so the guards carried him across the room. Krumpus moved to the floor as the guards glared at him—and since the shaman was now out of the way, the two large men arranged the stranger onto the cot. Cairn simply let the man go, as Brough lowered him with a gentle hand.

The new prisoner was in visible pain and seemingly delirious. He moaned and groaned as the guards set him down, then turned on his left side and curled into a ball.

A sickly sweet smell emanated from the prisoner, vaguely familiar to the shaman. From his seat on the floor, Krumpus frowned at the guards.

Brough shook his head. “Non, old man. This one was sick when we found ‘im.”

Old man?! Krumpus thought as his frown deepened.

“Got another one for you to heal,” Cairn informed. “This one gon’ keep you up all night!” he smirked.

The two guards made their way to the door. “Come get yer stuff when yer ready,” Brough said over his shoulder as he left the door open.

Krumpus stared at the prisoner. He was about to approach when another man stepped into the cell, a strange and small Ministrian that he had not seen before. Unlike the guards, Krumpus did not know this man. He was short, with a mess of hair, and a nervous air about him. “I am told you speak Ministrian,” the stranger began in a quivering voice. “Or at least, that you understand it when others speak?” he amended.

Krumpus gave a nod.

“Good!” he grinned, and stood straighter. “I am Celt, surgeon of the Empress’ Own! This man suffers the sweet rot of the waokie. We cannot heal him. Can you?”

Waokie? Krumpus wondered at the word, especially since these Ministrians kept asking about them. He turned to the sick man on the cot, lifted his shirt, and finally recognized the smell that emanated from his side. It was bugger rot! So that’s what they mean by waokie, Krumpus turned back to Celt with wide eyes. They speak of bugbear!

Celt frowned at the Trohl. “I dare say, you are not inspiring much faith.”

Krumpus signed at the man, but Celt shook his head.

“I do not know the Hand,” the surgeon stated.

Krumpus shrugged. There was bound to be one that didn’t know it. He wrote in the dirt for the man to read in neat Ministrian letters. I will try, he wrote with a nod.

“Try?” Celt frowned. “I only ask for a little certainty.”

Krumpus shook his head and wrote his response. Only fools are certain.

Celt glared at the witch doctor. “Do you call me a fool, for I am certain I cannot do it!”

Krumpus refused the bait. He glanced at the Saot. He could hear fatigue and discomfort in every breath. He resumed his neat letters. I will do what I can.

“Then it is decided!” Celt smiled. “You will treat him, and we will observe! In this way, the surgical corps of the Empress’ Own will learn to fight this insidious infection, and thus we shall overcome the waokie’s greatest weapon against us!”

Krumpus frowned at the man and shook his head. He was not interested in giving away his secrets, especially for nothing in return. Besides, his magic would be stifled by their doubting hearts.

“What do you mean, no?!” Celt snapped. “This man is dying!”

Krumpus scribbled on the floor. I will heal him, then I will go free.

“You will not go free,” Celt huffed. “You will heal him, and we will watch!” he countered.

The shaman continued to draw neat Ministrian letters. If you stay, he dies.

The surgeon’s face turned red as he glared at the shaman. “By refusing, you fail your human brothers!” Celt charged.

My human brothers fail me by locking me in this box, Krumpus replied.

“Behave, or we will put you in a much tighter box,” Celt threatened.

Krumpus shrugged, unintimidated.

“You’d let this man die!?” Celt raged.

Go away and I will heal him, Krumpus wrote, knowing that even if the surgeon left, he might still fail.

“We will watch,” Celt insisted. “You will teach us, for the good of mankind!” He said as he stood as tall as he could, in what he hoped was an intimidating manner.

I am man’s kind, and you refuse to do me good. Krumpus wrote. Stay, and he dies.

Confused and frustrated, Celt took a different tact. “If you allow us to watch, I will personally argue for your freedom,” he bargained.

Krumpus shook his head. If they should stay, he would likely fail—and if he did succeed it would be even worse! Having revealed some part of his magic, not only would they keep him locked up, they’d make a study out of him, and he’d never get any peace!

“You must heal him, and we must attend!” Celt snapped.

Bored with the conversation, Krumpus shrugged and turned away.

“There will be consequences!” Celt continued his threats. “I cannot say what will happen if you do not do as you’re told!”

Krumpus drew lazy circles in the dirt as he ignored the pompous little man.

Celt leaned over and peeked at the shaman’s work. His face grew dark as he realized the prisoner was doodling. For several seconds, the surgeon glared at the shaman’s back.

“Have it your way...” Celt glared. “If this man dies, I cannot guarantee that you will live,” he said in a huff as he turned and stamped from the cell. With a righteous fury, he slammed the door shut. The lock clacked into place.

Krumpus began to wonder what sort of trouble might now be brewing for him—but before his thoughts could spin too out of control, the lock clicked again and the door opened. When no one came in, he realized that he was still expected to gather his implements and attend the dying man—even if he would not allow for an audience.

Krumpus turned to the man on his cot, a true Saot by all appearance. He lifted the foreigner’s shirt and was astonished to see the man’s entire side was webbed with rot. No wonder the surgeons turned the man away! Cairn was right: this would be a long night indeed!

Unless the man should die. Then it would all be over in the space of one long breath.

Krumpus pushed aside his doubts. If this man was meant to die, nothing could stop it. If the shaman himself was meant to die at the hands of these Ministrians, nothing could stop that either. Worry certainly wouldn’t do the trick. He pushed aside his inconvenient thoughts; of being a prisoner, of death threats—even thoughts of wyrms, the distress, and Melmorahn. A man suffered and died before his eyes, and though it served his enemies, he knew it was right to try and save him.

First, Krumpus would need his medicines. He turned to the door and pushed it open. He made his way down the hall and past the other cells. He wondered who occupied these rooms as he heard the occasional cough or groan. His heart went out to these unknown retches, and he wished them comfort. He wondered how many deserved their treatment, and how many had simply run afoul of their Ministrian captors. He assumed it was an even mix.

In the guard’s room, Cairn stood from the table where he played cards with Brough and Leverkusen, the captain that arrested him. Krumpus stared at Leverkusen. For a second, he thought he should confront the man and demand an accounting of Meu—but he could not imagine such an argument going his way, and there was a sick man in his cell, so he let it go. Still, Cairn was hostile and obnoxious as he got in the shaman’s way. “What d’ya want?!” he snapped as a troublesome smirk split his lips.

Krumpus made a scissoring motion with his hand.

Cairn snorted and refused to move, “Non, fool! Use your words!”

Krumpus waited for the guard to step out of his way, but Cairn only glared at him expectantly. He tried to step around the guard, but the guard cut him off.

“Speak, I say!” Cairn roared.

Not wanting to waste any more time, Krumpus obliged. “Sublies,” the word tripped from the shaman’s mouth. “Wahder,” he added, and blushed, embarrassed by his rough tongue.

Cairn harrumphed as a grim smile stretched across his face. He turned to Brough and Leverkusen. “Didn’t I say he weren’t no mute?”

Unimpressed, Brough nodded his head, “Sure did.” He looked at Krumpus and pointed to a closet, “It’s all in there, now be about your business.”

Krumpus turned to the closet and grabbed his pack and cloak.

“Only take what you need!” Cairn yelled and grabbed at the shaman’s pack.

Yet, the shaman didn’t know what he needed. The bugger rot was something he’d rarely encountered—and never treated. “Olofit,” Krumpus said as he hugged his possessions close.

“Let ‘im ‘av it!” Brough said as he stared daggers at Cairn. “I swear, if you keep blockin’ ‘is efforts, I’m callin’ off our bet!”

“Come. Let us play,” Leverkusen petitioned Cairn. “You’ll know in due time if this emissary dies.”

Cairn snorted. Slowly, he sat down and picked up his cards. He eyed the shaman as Krumpus filled a kettle and a pitcher of water. Krumpus set the kettle on the stove as Cairn continued to stare, though the guard did not interfere any further.

With his belongings on his back and a pitcher of fresh cold water in hand, Krumpus returned to his cell—he’d come back for the hot water when it was ready. In his cell, he searched his bag. The majority of his stuff was still there, though they took his long knife and a couple of his medicines. The grave mushrooms were gone, which was a bit worrisome. He used them to escort the fatally wounded from the world—but they’d take a healthy man all the same. He wondered who had them and what they intended. He assumed whoever took them knew what they were. They must, or they were fools.

Before he could treat his patient, Krumpus turned his attention to his own well-being. Sweet conicle, he smiled as he packed a pipe with the pungent herb. Having no fire or flint, he channeled his inner energies and focused them to his fingers. A slight flame popped and danced between the tips of his thumb and forefinger. With this flame, he lit his pipe and flicked the fire from his fingers before it could burn him, then took a long satisfied drag on the pipe.

Krumpus blew the soothing smoke in the injured man’s face. It would alleviate a bit of the man’s pain and could do him no harm. For the patient, there were more potent drugs to come, or so he assumed. He wondered. Maybe he shouldn’t have been so hasty in blowing the smoke…

Krumpus took a few more drags of the flower, and blew the smoke away from the dying man. He set the pipe aside, stood, and stepped out of the cell and prayed that the soothing smoke might obscure the dark history of the room.

Krumpus returned to the guard room and fetched the pot of boiling water and a couple mugs. Leverkusen and Brough paid no attention to the prisoner, while Cairn glanced and glared a time or two. There was a pile of copper, peppered with silver, that languished between the guards. With cards in hand, they concentrated mostly on each other. Let it be a long and absorbing contest, the shaman prayed. Let the cards be fickle this night, that favor may ebb and flow between these men. Let them have no time or interest in interrupting my work.

With hot water and two cups, Krumpus returned to his cell.

Back in his cell, the shaman made himself a cup of peppermint tea. For several minutes he let the tea steep. He hummed songs to his dead kin and called upon them for inspiration. If there was any hope of curing this stranger, he’d need their assistance. He sang until his tea had steeped and chilled enough that he could drink it, then sat and drank the tea, as he listened to the quiet sounds of his cell. For several minutes there was little to hear but the stranger’s ragged breathing—then, a dim voice cut through the quiet.

Well, well, well... his Granana began. You’ve certainly got a stinkfest before you!

For a moment, Krumpus worried. What if Granana didn’t know a cure? What if none if his ancestor’s had ever encountered the bugger rot? Even with the help of his ancestors, the man seemed incredibly weak. It was unlikely that he would last a slow investigation.

You are correct, Granana told him. He’ll not last much longer at all. Indeed, the one that brought him this far is to be commended for taking such great care, she said.

Can we save him? Krumpus asked.

Granana smiled. Among this riot of angels, we have six cures that may do the trick. I’ll give you the one we think most likely to work, though it is long and arduous.

Assured that there was a plan, Krumpus stretched and mentally prepared himself for meticulous and smelly work.

First, we needed to kill the pain, Granana told him. We’ll need something strong that would last for hours, that won’t bother his blood or breathing.

Krumpus rifled through his pack, searching his herbs and potions. He smiled as he settled on dragon’s tongue to numb the man—then added a touch of mogwort, a heavy dose of gypsy leaf, and a dash of phoenix oil—items that would give strength to the suffering man and help purify his blood.

Although you must do the bulk of the work, you cannot do it all alone, Granana said. We will need to call the little doctors.

Krumpus nodded. He opened his small jar of blue honey, then added a heavy dose to the dragon’s tongue. For the stranger, it would make the harsh tea more palatable, and if the blue should take the stranger’s mind further from here and now; all the better. The dragon’s tongue itself would numb the man, and there was no damage of overdoing the blue for the patient. If he should live, let him wonder at the strange dreams that would see him through his sickness. And if he should die, why not let him die far from the ravages of his disease?

Yet, while the blue was a luxury for the patient, it was a necessity for the shaman. He needed it to crack open his third eye, so he could summon the little doctors. He would also need to focus, that he would not be distracted by the ethereal plane, which was likely thick with energies and activities in such a place as this. But unlike the conicle, blue was a thing he might easily overdo. He should not want to do it at all, but he was not the sort that could summon the little doctors without it. He’d met a few that could call the little doctors without the help of blue—but he was not so endowed. Gingerly, he added a small dab to his peppermint tea, then decided it would not be enough, and grudgingly doubled it.

Gently, the shaman lifted his patient’s head. He offered the dragon’s tongue tea, mellowed with cold water. The man was ravenous and took the tea longingly. Krumpus realized he was dehydrated, and after the tea, gave him as much water as he might want.

Having satisfied the other prisoner, Krumpus sipped his own tea while he waited for the dragon’s tongue to numb the stranger. He hummed songs as Granana shared her knowledge of the rot. He knew the blue was taking effect when Granana slowly materialized and came into focus. Her face was easily readable, and her arms and hands almost seemed substantial, but her stomach and hips were poorly defined, and her legs disappeared altogether at about the knee, with her feet being completely invisible. There were also a few other hazy faces that smiled and whispered to Granana as they circled the small room.

Before long, the patient’s eyes grew far away and unfocused. There was an easy smile on the Saot’s face and his breath deepened and slowed. Krumpus grinned. The patient was ready.

Draw your knife, boy. It is time for the cutting, Granana told him.

A deep calm and clarity settled over the shaman. He stared at his patient and wondered at this chance to stick metal in another living man. He was fascinated by the human body and marveled at its inner workings. It was one of the great thrills of surgery to poke about a living man’s tissues—but he swore to remain delicate. There’d be no imprudent cutting, which was the great temptation of every surgeon.

Krumpus pulled the man’s shirt and pants away from the rot. The wound stretched to his chest and back and covered most of the right half of his body. It ran from his underarm all the way to his hip, a knitted webbing of infected blood vessels tied in knots where they crossed and bulged up the skin. He located the initial wound: a large sac of dark rot near the center of the infection. He took up his surgical blade in one hand and a clean cloth in the other, then braced himself against the coming onslaught, and gently lanced the boil.

Thick black puss sprouted from the prick. The stench of the rot multiplied. Krumpus gagged as his Granana laughed. He recoiled from the smell. He begged for a way to neutralize it, and turned to his belongings. He noticed his teacup, took several of the spent leaves of mint, and smashed them above his upper lip. Though it helped take the edge off the stink, the rot still bled through.

Unable to do anything else about the smell, Krumpus turned back to his patient. Under his Granana’s careful eye, the shaman cut the inflamed and jutting vessels. He drew the slight blade ever so lightly along the dark lines of rot and watched as the thick black puss oozed from the cuts. The reek increased. Krumpus breathed through his mouth. He soaked the rot away with a cloth, and gently wiped the wounds, slow and delicate, as his Granana instructed.

The rot concentrated just under the skin, and Krumpus was careful not to cut the man too deeply. It is a novice mistake to try and cut out all the rot—to think it must all be removed, Granana explained. The rot congeals near the surface, but there is little rot deep in the body until after the victim expires—at which point the rot blooms deep. Many believe they must cut deep and get every bit of the rot, but this is not a battle for the knife alone. The blade is simply to remove the bulk that boils close to the surface. We’ll call the little doctors to get the rest.

As the hours passed, Krumpus amassed a small pile of bandages soaked with stink. He set them near the drain and hoped the smell would dissipate sooner rather than later. Finally, he’d traced all the infected vessels and considered the cutting done. He dabbed at the pustules that still oozed and leaked. The stench was bearable only because Krumpus could do nothing more about it.

With the cutting done, it was time to call the little doctors. Krumpus crumbled bits of sugar petal into the drain. It was the second of three essential ingredients needed to summon the little doctors. First was the blue, so the barriers between this world and the other were blurred. Second was the sugar petal, to lure the little doctors into the physical realm. Third was an honest need, which the doctors themselves would judge. Krumpus called out for their help, quite certain the man would not survive without the little doctors to finish the work.

The little doctors did not come. Krumpus repeated the song several times, as Granana sang with him, her voice pure and heavenly. As they sang song after song, Krumpus became increasingly worried. He began to question himself. Did he take enough blue? Did he offer enough sugar petal? Could the doctors hear him since he was buried so deep in this tower? Then he wondered if perhaps the Saot was unworthy. Perhaps he would die as he deserved—though such a development would doom the shaman. Why do they not come? he asked his Granana.

I dunno, she answered.

Krumpus was beginning to think he must fail when the door to the cell popped open. Celt the surgeon stepped through the doorway. He glanced about the room and glared at Krumpus as wilted mint leaves dripped from his nostrils. Thankfully, he could not see the ghost. The shaman sat next to the cot and continued to hum, though he lowered his voice to a mere whisper.

Celt waved an arm in front of his face. “This room stinks!” he critiqued as he marched in. “Are you praying?!” He glared at the shaman. The surgeon wandered about the cell, as he pinched his nose, and tried to decipher what the shaman had done. He glanced about the various implements with questions and confusion on his face.

Krumpus doubted there was any chance Celt could decipher what was done, what with all his medicines and tools scattered about just so. Indeed, the cell was a bit of a mess. Almost all of the shaman’s jars and pouches were set out, including the ones that were not being used. A pile of soaked bandages sat in a lump near the drain and stank to high heavens.

“I won’t interrupt,” Celt said as he stared at Krumpus and stepped between the doctor and his patient. He continued to inspect the scene and sniffed both cups of tea, hoping he might catch some clue of how the operation proceeded. Krumpus smiled as Celt got a good whiff of the dragon’s tongue tea. “Gracious me...” Celt remarked with a wobble. He almost sat—until he remembered where he was and in what company. Woozy, Celt set the cup aside. “I come to see that you have not killed the man yet,” he confessed, as he reestablished his balance, then turned to the patient and checked the Saot’s wound.

Although the flesh no longer bulged with thick knots of rot, the stranger still had a web of dark lines under his skin.

“I should think he is not out of the woods yet,” the surgeon surmised with a smirk. “Keep praying,” he snorted as he turned and walked to the door. With knob in hand, and a deep frown, Celt glared over the shaman’s puzzling mess. “I give you another chance to teach us this cure!” he said. “Let the Empress grant you mercy!”

Krumpus turned away and ignored the man. Disappointed, Celt slammed the door shut.

Alone once more, Krumpus glanced about the room, relieved to see several translucent ants crawling about the lip of the drain. He was always curious to see what form the little doctors might take and was a bit surprised to see these strange, pale ants. He had not seen this form before. Once he’d seen the little doctors as a flock of birds with flame red wings and needle point beaks. Once they appeared as the smallest lizards he’d ever seen, barely the length of his first thumb knuckle. Twice they’d appeared as massive creeping spiders with long thin legs, easily the size of a sol. This was the first time they took the form of translucent ants, and he was curious to see how they might proceed.

More and more ants climbed from the drain. They were slow as they wandered about the floor and did not approach Krumpus until he stretched out his hand. With his invitation, they climbed up his fingers, across his hand, and up his arm in an orderly fashion. The ants tickled as they crawled under his shirt and across his chest and back. Slowly, the large ponderous ants ignored the shaman’s figdeting as they made their way to his far arm, down his hand and fingers, and finally to the patient himself.

Another trail of ants formed from the drain and spread to the nearby lump of rot soaked rags, where the ants drank the rot from the bandages, and turned as dark as night.

Krumpus sat still, although the ants tickled as they marched across him. Some crawled about the healer himself and wandered where they might. Most made directly for the sick man, but a few poked, picked, and bit the shaman himself.

That was the way of the little doctors. When they came, they attended everyone present. They cared nothing for labels of patient and practitioner.

Krumpus tried not to notice as the little doctors picked and pinched at his skin, though it was occasionally painful. They stayed out of his eyes, mouth, and ears—though one crawled over the spent mint and up into his nose. He dislodged it with a snort, though he also blew the mint away.

For some time, the ants crawled over the sick man and picked at his wounds. Twice, Krumpus restrained the patient so he did not wipe the ants away. The man was weak, and it was easy for the shaman to control his displeasure, though a little tricky with all the ants about.

As the ants did their work, they increased in size, became very dark in color, and moved rapidly. They charged back across the shaman—but did not make for the drain. Now fat and riotous, the little doctors made for the far wall instead. They picked at the mortar that held the stones in place. Soon, there were a hundred tiny holes pocked between the stones.

Krumpus wondered at this. He’d never seen the doctors act in such a strange manner. Before, they always took a quick and easy exit instead of burrowing a new path. A secret hope lit in the shaman. Might they know he was held prisoner?

For an hour or so, the little doctors did their work. After such a long time, the line that returned from the patient was no longer tinted black and did not move nearly as fast. These ants returned from the patient a warm brown color, and continued to fade further as they found little work left to do. Now red, then yellow, and finally as translucent and plodding as they were when they first stepped from the drain, the little doctors moved back across the shaman and made their way to the wall, to slowly disappear into the holes created by those that went before.

The last of the ants were leaving. There was no visible rot along the Saot’s skin. The bandages were picked clean, and the reek of the rot was all but gone from the cell. Krumpus smiled. The operation was done and the stranger still breathed.

Krumpus searched among his medicines and found a gentle cream that he applied to the man’s raw skin. As he worked, he studied the map of freckles, moles, and scars about the Saot’s skin. Granana hissed and chided her grandson for taking such liberties. She told him it was not his place to know such things—but Krumpus read his recent history all the same. He could tell that the Saot was haunted by the memory of his daughter. He’d abandoned his responsibilities that he might hunt down a thief for the sake of a memory. This was not a good or bad thing—it was simply the man’s choice—but the choice had far reaching ramifications. In his continued absence, dark and ominous clouds gathered over his home, and threatened to storm it under. Only a few slim paths ever made their way back home—and most of those saw nothing but years of war before the man finally succumbed to the weight of the ongoing world. The man would either complete his quest, find what was lost and die far from home—or he’d abandon his quest and return home to find his house in flames. Neither choice seemed very appealing, and Krumpus wondered why he was given the opportunity to heal the man at all. yet, he knew that the ways of the true god were strange and twisting indeed. Such things were impossible to fathom.

Krumpus pushed the destiny of this stranger from his head as he decided It was time to worry about his own fate. He stretched and flexed his aching body, packed his medicines, and placed the cups and pitchers at the door. The bandages were picked clean by the little doctors, so Krumpus folded them neatly away—all while Granana and the accompanying angels sang soft songs of sleep and weariness to the unnoticing shaman.

Now that everything was orderly, Krumpus turned to the wall with so many ant holes drilled through the mortar. He scratched at the material to see it flake under his thumb.

Yet, the shaman was also exhausted, so much so that he could barely care about his own escape. The operation took many long hours, and no end of concentration. Suddenly, all he wanted was a little shut eye!

Granana and chorus of angels continued to sing lullabies that the shaman could not deny. Krumpus stretched out on the floor and decided to give himself a few moments rest. He closed his eyes and relaxed—if only for a few minutes—or so he told himself. After that, he would escape—if escape were even possible—there was still a stone wall in his way. He stretched out on the floor and listened to the sweet swaying lilt of Granana’s voice.

Then, just as he was losing consciousness, the cell door banged open. Krumpus lifted his droopy head as Cairn walked into the room.

“Did ‘e give up the ghost?” Cairn stared at the Saot.

Krumpus closed his eyes and laid back on the floor, unconcerned by the guard’s question.

“He lives, nah? Well, a bet is a bet, and a bet is sacred—but it’ll please the Lord Commander,” Cairn shrugged. “Either way, you’re done with your potions and poking, and that’s good, because Fedring wants words with you!” Cairn approached and grabbed Krumpus roughly by the arm. “Get up! You have a meeting with ‘is lordship!”

With one meaty hand on the shaman’s arm, Cairn pulled Krumpus roughly from the cell.

The ghost of Granana stepped to the door and watched her grandson as he was dragged down the hall. The next part of his journey was set the moment he insisted he would not teach the surgeons his cure, and although he was right to do so, it broke her heart to see him dragged away. After all, Granana knew he’d now have to face his punishment, and since she could not help, she dared not watch. She only hoped that when they returned him, he would not be broken, as so many before.

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