When healers are no more, what will we do?

[LaffenOutLoud 355]

 

The crackling of a fire joins together with the sound of water delicately crashing against the shore's rocks. The sound of battle, or war, emanates from isles away. The air smells strongly of salt-water and blood. Faint groans are all heard from warriors lying atop beds, but are soon followed with comforting whispers by healers. A certain Mali’ame removes a cauldron from the fire and carries it to a nearby pond; and another pours distilled water from a pitcher into a basin for washing hands. A Mali’aheral surgeon cleans her bonesaw of blood, and a much gentler healer whispers calming religious stories and prayers to soothe a warrior who had just lost a limb. Novice nurses clean used tools, soiled towels, and rags in a large bucket. A Druidess welcomes boats to the shore, and helps the incoming injured onto medical transports. This peace and tranquility, reflecting the gentle healing touch of the Springmother, did not last.

 

The body of an enormous sea-serpent found itself on the opposite side of an isle where the attack on it was taking place. And it came tumbling, crashing down on the camp. Patients in the middle of surgery, who had just lost limbs, who were being sewed together, who were burnt, cut, impaled- All were met with the impact. It was unforgiving, sending some flying into the air, others rolling down the shore, and others impaled and crushed by the wooden frame of the tent. More tragically, the same happened to the healers. Bottles and jars shattered, spilling their medicinal contents all over the rubble. The healers, in the middle of treating injured, became injured themselves. Those who did not die found themselves beneath the rubble, surrounded by the tools they were using to save lives. But who was going to save their lives?

 

The shore was quiet, it was quite peaceful, really. The fires and lanterns had been put out and shattered from the impact, leaving the shore in pure darkness beneath the eclipse. It looked as if nothing had happened from afar, as if the tent was never there. Not a person was visible, all covered in the wreckage. More injured warriors from the battle arrived to the shore, and they found nobody who could help them. It was a tragedy, these peaceful caretakers were given the cruelest fate of irony. The menders of broken bones, impalement, burns, and stabs; were found unconscious, mangled, in a coma, bleeding out, and dead.

 

Fate gave all a cruel lesson never to be forgotten. Value those who pledge themselves to Descendant life, for when healers are no more, what will we do?