Chapter Thirty-Four

WE REACHED THE City shortly after midday. In our travels, we’d already run into a few homes, quite remarkable in their own way. But nothing prepared me for the City.

I supposed I’d formed an idea of a collection of tiny, tree-bound boxes, like a city full of a thousand children’s tree houses. I’d envisioned something very drab and sad and cramped. How could this manner of habitation be anything but? That proved to be a failure of my own imagination.

The influx of people who came to greet us was the first and only clue we’d neared the City. Our band, already at some several hundreds, seemed to be growing exponentially. The hum of chatter reached a fevered pitch, and curious faces lined the way to catch a glimpse of us.

And then, with no warning at all, the dense growth vanished, not above or below us but in front of and around us. A city stretched out as far as the eye could see, springing out, huge and wondrous, from behind a veil of branches and needles. I stopped short, catching my breath at the sight.

The highway continued, crisscrossing with a wide network of smaller roads. And everywhere, buildings—genuine buildings—lined the way. Single-story structures had been built around one or more trees, made of wood and thatch, with shutters surrounding open windows. As with our path, these homes incorporated both dead and living wood, building off of the vast trees and pressing them into service as a part of the construction when possible.

It seemed very surreal, as if we’d stepped into the pages of a fairy story and found ourselves in the company of wood elves or something of that nature. But with this sensation came another, even more powerful. This was no makeshift shelter or tent city in the trees. These people had real habitations, real homes. A real city.

Time moved very quickly for us after this. I was, I suppose, still in somewhat of a daze, reeling from the discovery of a civilization that had advanced so far beyond what my initial encounter with residents of Kepler had led me to expect.

We passed a great many homes, ending at last at a large building that spanned across some several dozen trees. This, we learned, was Gat’s residence. He invited us in and dismissed the throng of Keplerites who still trailed us.

Again, I found myself stunned to see how similar this residence was to a home on Earth. The place contained chairs set with cushions, tables, a desk, and even décor. In a distant room, I caught a glimpse of something like a loom, and at the far end of the main hall, what looked like musical instruments.

I wondered, surrounded as I was by the accoutrements of life, at my earlier expectations. These people had long ago dealt with the basic necessities of existence and since moved on to concern themselves with comforts.

A handful of attendants waited on us here, and Gat issued a command I didn’t understand. The man disappeared forthwith and returned a minute later carrying a stack of paper-thin sheets of a light greenish composition. Gat seated himself at the desk—a curious affair that rather resembled a wicker basket in composition, with the sides and back formed by a network of interwoven boughs, and the top a polished plank.

“Kayleigh,” he said in his curious tones, gesturing for her to take a seat opposite him. He’d peeled one of the sheets from the stack and began tracing letters with a long stick of charcoal.

“Your people are wounded?” he wrote, then slid the page toward her.

With a glance for guidance at Caspersen—a glance, I noted, which didn’t get past Gat’s notice—Kayleigh took up the charcoal. “Mostly, we are tired. But Sgt. Russell and Capt. Johnson took injuries.”

“I’m fine,” I protested. Which was not really true—my back still burned with pain. But no one paid me any attention.

He read this and seemed to struggle with the word “injuries.”

Kayleigh pointed to his use of ‘wounded” up page and explained further. “Russell was hit with a spear. Johnson was swarmed by insects.” Gat’s eyebrows raised at that, and she elucidated through text and a series of gestures.

The hives, we learned, were raised by the Lava Dwellers, who weaponized them in order to take advantage of the firewing’s powerful venom. The firewing’s sting, Gat told us, caused severe inflammation, discombobulation, and even in some cases temporary paralysis. I had, apparently, made out rather well, all things considered.

“Our herbalist will help your wounded,” he wrote. “And we will prepare a meal for you, and beds so that you may sleep. Tomorrow, we will talk more, of your ship and your crew.”

This settled, Gat called for the herbalist. She appeared a few minutes later—a tall, fair woman of middle-age, clothed in the same sort of tunics and leggings the others wore. Hers were not the standard browns and greens but were purple in color—a deep, dark purple, adorned near the hems in bands of brilliant white, embroidered with threads of purple. Whether this was a sign of rank, wealth, or simply preference, I couldn’t say. I suspected it had more to do with status than preference.

She conversed for a few minutes with Gat and then turned to us. “Marge,” she said, pointing to herself. Then, taking up a writing stick and papyrus, she penned in a neat hand, “I am Marge. I am pleased to meet you. Please, if you are hurt, follow me.”

Kayleigh glanced up at Caspersen. “Can I go with them?”

Tracie nodded.

So, picking up the charcoal she’d been using earlier, Kayleigh wrote on her own sheet, “I am our ship’s medic. May I observe your methods?”

Marge frowned at the word “medic,” speaking it aloud in musical tones that sounded very little like the actual word. On her page, she inquired, “What is a ‘medic’?”

“Herbalist,” Kayleigh wrote. “In Earth terms.”

Marge’s eyes lit up at that, and she lowered her upper body in what could only be described as a bow. “Medic,” she repeated. Then, turning to her sheet, she wrote, “I am honored. Please come.”

Kayleigh flushed and hastily bowed as well. “Honored.”

Marge smiled and seemed genuinely quite thrilled. She beckoned us to follow, and I did, throwing a glance behind me at the rest of our crew. I caught Caspersen’s gaze for a moment, and I imagine my own expression mirrored the uncertainty in hers. We were splitting up. What happens now?

But whatever ill intentions the Keplerites might have been harboring, they didn’t manifest during our visit to Marge’s home.

Gat’s had been substantial in size, one of the larger residences we’d passed, but Marge’s was easily several times as big, spanning a huge chunk of the forest. My first thought was that she must, indeed, have been wealthy.

But entering the facility dispelled this notion. We stepped into a main room, well stocked with shelves and racks full of herbs and chests. I saw a worktable covered in earthen and wooden bowls and a vat of water in the center of the room. Beyond this room lay a long hall, which, if I judged rightly, spanned the length of the building. And down this hall sat a number of open rooms, in which I glimpsed mattresses and sometimes patients.

We’re in the hospital. They have a hospital.

She led us past these rooms to the rear of the building. Here, we found another large space, stocked like the first with herbs aplenty. But there was a bed in the center, a low mattress like the ones we’d passed, and tools of an ominous nature: knives and tweezers and needles.

I shivered at the sight, and my mind wandered of its own volition to the early Earth hospitals and all the horrors those had wrought on their unlucky patients. Marge, meanwhile, busied herself at the shelves, fetching various herbs and tools. In a minute, she returned and donned an apron. Glancing between Russell and myself, she took up her page and wrote, “Please wait for firewing treatment.” She gestured to a seat on the far side of the room.

Nodding, I did as I was bid. I had half a mind to refuse treatment, to declare myself miraculously healed if Russell’s session took a particularly brutal turn. I was glad Kayleigh was here anyway. If Marge started to get too medieval, she could hopefully rein her in, one herbalist to another.

The image of our first work together, of Kayleigh’s early attempts at healing me, came suddenly to mind, and I had to repress the urge to laugh. That she, with her curt, no-nonsense approach to medicine, was the model of medical expertise to which we now had to appeal indicated perhaps just how screwed we really were.

Still, I felt damned glad to have her there. Russell, too, I could see was easier for Kayleigh’s presence. Marge’s directions came through in written form when simple gestures wouldn’t suffice, and now and again, he threw a glance at our medic for reassurance.

In the end, he stripped off his shirt and sat on a stool, chewing a chunk of bark. My skepticism increased by the moment. Marge filled a bowl of water from her vat and proceeded to sponge down his torso.

At first, when the rag got too near his shoulder, Russell grimaced or grunted. Inflammation and swelling had spread across the entire area, and I could only guess it hurt like a motherfucker. Before long, he seemed almost not to notice. When his chewing slowed and his head started to sag, Marge gestured to Kayleigh, and together, they guided him to the mattress.

Signaling for him to spit out the bark, the herbalist laid Russell back against the bed. She disposed of his expectoration while he lay still, and by time she returned, he was snoring. Conferring over notes to which, at my distant vantage, I wasn’t privy, Marge and Kayleigh set to work.

The elder woman threaded one of those needles I’d earlier noticed, and Kayleigh fetched a vial of some sort of liquid. They returned to Russell’s bedside, and the herbalist took the vial, sprinkling its contents over the wound.

Ghoul flinched in his sleep but did not wake. Then, after pouring the same substance on the needle, Marge drew the wound closed and began to sew. Now and again, Russell would twitch. Still, he remained fast asleep throughout the process and was still snoring away when they tied the last threads off. It took a half hour easily, but the work seemed neat and professional enough.

Then it was my turn. When Marge seemed content to skip the step, Kayleigh made a show of drawing water to wash her hands. To my relief, the herbalist followed suit.

Then she offered me a root.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It’s a painkiller,” Kayleigh answered. “From the same plant Russell’s bark came from. The root is milder. It relieves pain, but you won’t lose consciousness.”

I shook my head. “No.” We were in a strange place among strange people. I was in pain but not enough to justify letting my guard down. “I’m good.”

Marge, seeming to understand my intention if not the words, shrugged, and Kayleigh nodded. “All right. Well, then you can get undressed now.”

“You know, none of this is really necessary,” I protested. “It hurt earlier, but I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you’re covered in welts,” she told me.

I glanced down at my arms and hands and saw to my mortification that she was right—my injuries betrayed me. “Speckled,” I quibbled. “They don’t even hurt anymore.”

“She’s got something that will reduce the swelling, some kind of balm. Apparently, they have to deal with this fairly frequently.” A smile caught the corner of Kayleigh’s lips. “Don’t worry. She won’t be using any needles.”

I flushed. I wasn’t sure if she’d caught my cringing as they’d sewed Russell back up or if she was simply poking fun. I decided to ignore the comment. “It better not kill me, that’s all,” I said instead.

She laughed. “Get going.”

Sighing dramatically, I unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off.

“Fuck.” Kayleigh caught her breath as I turned to set the shirt on a chair.

“What?” I asked and glanced downward. There were a few more welts but nothing worse than I’d already seen.

“Your back. It’s…covered.”

I reached back instinctively, and no sooner had I done it than I regretted it. Renewed pain flashed through me from the pressure, but more than anything, my skin crawled as my fingers brushed a dozen rises and valleys in an area no bigger than a quarter. “Shit.”

Marge had fetched another bowl of water and, seeing me, frowned. She turned to her note, wrote something, and passed it to Kayleigh.

“Uh. Pants too,” she read.

That was not happening. I shook my head firmly. “My ass doesn’t need any balm, thanks. You can tell her I’m fine; they only got my torso.” I’d been stung all over, but it was leap of faith enough to trust the herbalist’s remedies anywhere above the waist. I’d be damned if I would take a chance lower.

Shaking her head with what looked like a subtle smirk, Kayleigh wrote my response. I suspect her transcription was something less than faithful because Marge laughed aloud and nodded when she read it.

“All right, then,” Kayleigh said. “You can take a seat.”

This I did, rather stiffly, and Marge proceeded to sponge off my back. Put mildly, it hurt, but as a point of pride, I refused to flinch and sat rigidly, swimming in a sea of agony.

And the herbalist had only just begun. As soon as they’d sponged me down, she began applying the salve. She rubbed the paste on the individual welts on my face, chest, and neck. But on my back, where the attack had been the worst, she simply spread the balm everywhere.

I’d grown more or less used to the dull burning of the stings. This treatment, though, seemed to send a shard of ice straight into every welt. My facade of immovability was well beyond shattered by the time she was done, for I was physically trembling with pain long before she finished. Marge, seeing this, shook her head and retrieved the root from where Kayleigh had set it.

This time, I didn’t argue, and I chewed as if my life depended on it. It carried a bitter taste but, mercifully, acted fast. In a few minutes, the agony lessened and, by degrees, receded until I felt nothing more than a dull tingling.

Kayleigh sat with me when the herbalist had finished, her brow creased as she watched my recovery.

“Careful,” I told her when the pain had finally lessened enough to allow a focus on anything else. “I might believe you’ve finally adopted a little bit of the empathy a real doctor is supposed to have.”

The frown didn’t disappear. “You shouldn’t have had to go through this.”

“What?”

“It should have been me. The hive, it was aimed at me, not you.” I tried to shrug the comment off, but her gaze held mine. “But you pushed me out of the way, and…” She gestured to the welts. “Why?”

“Why” was very much not what I expected, and it struck me as decidedly unfair to wait to ask until I had ingested something to dull my senses. “Hell. I don’t know. You were going to get hit.” It wasn’t much of an answer, I supposed, but it was true. I didn’t add that I’d thought the hive was a grenade. It didn’t seem necessary to emphasize I had covered her thinking it would cost my life.

She held my gaze for a minute more and then nodded. “Well. Thank you.”

I shrugged nonchalantly and shivered as pain inched up my spine with the move. “Of course.”