Again Gar and Alea were invited to spend the night with one of the village family; Gar was amazed that these people felt they could trust total strangers and thought that perhaps they really didn’t know what theft and violence were.
Alea was concerned about one of the children who coughed all evening and found a chance to ask his mother Celia, too quietly for little Orgo to hear, “Is he ill?”
“Only a cold, pray the Goddess,” Celia said, but her face was shadowed with concern. “He’s had it for two weeks, though, and I think it’s growing worse.”
“Don’t you have a doctor here, or a wise woman?”
“Only old Priscilla,” Celia said. “She’s told me to put hot compresses on his chest at night and have him breathe over a steaming bowl when his head feels too full. I should take him to the temple.”
Alea was surprised to hear a temple mentioned instead of a doctor but reminded herself that monks and nuns o£ many different faiths had been healers. “That might be well,” she agreed.
In the middle of the night, a rasping and gargling woke her. She lifted her head, frowning and looking about—then saw Orgo, his face turning blue.
Celia reached the little boy a second before her. “What’s happened, Orgo? Here, try to spit, then breathe!”
Orgo opened his mouth and made a hacking sound, but nothing came out and no breath came in. “My boy is dying!” Celia cried, beside herself. “Gorbo! Gorbo, call the priestess!”
The oldest boy, pale with fright, pulled on his trews and ran out the door. His father came over, wide-eyed with apprehension.
Alea pressed her lips thin in exasperation. Surely the consolations of religion were important, but wouldn’t a doctor … Then she remembered that here, the priestess probably was the doctor.
The temple must be far away, though; she hadn’t seen it in the village. She turned to Gar, who was levering himself up. Do something!
“Go find me a clean piece of hollow straw with thick walls,” Gar told her. He knelt and laid his ear against the boy’s chest, then thumped with his thumb. He looked up at the anxious parents. “Bartrum, Celia—I can save his life, but I’ll have to make a small cut in his skin. Do you wish me to do it?”
They stared in shock. Then Celia said, “But … but you’re a half-wit!”
“Bandits struck him on the head two years ago,” Alea said quickly. “Since then, his wits come and go. Thank your gods that they have come back now.”
Inside her mind, Gar’s voice spoke with approvaclass="underline" Good improvisation.
“I thank the God indeed,” Bartrum said fervently, and Celia cried, “Do what you have to! Only save him!”
“Hold him still, Bartrum,” Gar said to the father, “and don’t be frightened by what I do.” To the mother, “Bring me the candle; I must heat the blade.”
She brought the candle with a trembling hand. Gar held the blade in the flame; then Alea watched closely as he performed an emergency tracheotomy. Celia cried out in despair as she saw Orgo’s blood—then wept with relief as she heard his breath whistle in.
The blueness faded from Orgo’s face. His breath rasped, but he began to regain the ruddiness of health.
“His voicebox was clogged with the mucus from his chest,” Gar explained to Celia and Bartrum. “He can’t breathe forever through that straw, but it will keep him until your priestess can come.”
“Thank the gods that you knew what to do,” Bartrum said in a shaky voice.
“He won’t have that thing there forever, will he?” Celia asked anxiously.
“No, but there will probably be a small scar.”
“Little enough price for his life,” Celia said. “Oh, thank you, Gar! The Mother-Goddess must have sent you here!”
Gar didn’t answer, but Alea could see his face glow in the candlelight.
“Thank you, thank you a thousand times, Gar,” Bartrum seized his hand and pumped it fervently. Gar frowned vaguely, looking down at their joined hands, then back up at Bartrum’s face, and the light of intelligence faded from his eyes. “Thank?” he asked. “Why?”
“For my son’s life, of course!” Then Bartrum realized what was happening and dropped Gar’s hand. “Oh … my friend…”
“Yes,” Alea said softly. “His wits have fled again. It was only Orgo’s dire need that brought them back, I guess.”
“Or the goddess.” Celia stroked sweat from her child’s brow. “Lie easy, son. The priestess will be here soon enough.”
She was indeed; not even half an hour later, the priestess came in the door, face taut with urgency, and looked about her. “Where is the child? … Oh!”
“The strangers saved him,” Celia told her.
The priestess came over to study the tracheotomy closely and frowned. “This was well done, but it will not endure. Still, it will hold till we have brought him to the temple.” She called over her shoulder, “Take him up!”
Two brawny young men in leather jerkins and hose came into the house. They wore bows and quivers slung over their backs and thick knobbed sticks at their belts. They spread a stretcher next to Orgo and lifted him onto it.
“Lie still, my son.” Celia stroked his brow. “They will carry you to the temple, and how many other boys can say they have had such a privilege?”
In spite of it all, Orgo’s eyes lit with eagerness. The priestess reached out a hand to the boy’s throat. “This took skill and great knowledge.” She turned to Alea. “You did well, lady.”
“Oh, not I,” Alea protested. “There sits your surgeon.”
The priestess turned and stared at Gar.
The big man sat on his heels against the wall, rocking back and forth, staring at the coals on the hearth with a vacant face.
“How is this?” The priestess frowned. “Do you mean to tell me a simpleton could work such surgery?”
“He is more than he seems,” Alea said quickly, “and perhaps less, too.” She caught a wordless but indignant burst of thought from Gar and stifled a smile.
The priestess studied Gar, still frowning, and for a moment Alea was afraid she was reading his mind but she turned to Celia and said, “There is some urgency still. Come if you wish.”
“I shall,” Celia said instantly, and turned to Bartrum. “Stay with the others, my dear!”
Bartrum could only nod, mute, and the priestess gestured to her escort. They lifted Orgo onto the stretcher and carried him out—but two more came in and stood to either side of Gar.
Alea looked up, tensed to fight.
The priestess said, “The one with the damaged mind must come, too.”
Gar only blinked around him, confused. One of the guards caught him by the arm and said, “Come along now, fellow. We’ve a nice soft bed for you, and good food.”
“Food?” Gar asked hopefully.
“Sweet food,” the guard confirmed, “good food. Come on, now.” He started toward the door and Gar came willingly. His thought spoke in Alea’s mind: I’ll be back soon enough, I’m sure. Wait here.
Hanged if I will! Alea hurried after him and said, “May I not come too, lady? He’s my brother, and I’m concerned for him!”
“Yes, of course, lass,” the priestess said with gentle sympathy. “Mind you, I’m not saying we can cure him.”
“I don’t want to be parted from him, that’s all—at least, not while he’s like this!”
“You’re a good woman to take care of him so,” the priestess assured her. “Come with us, then.”
Alea remembered her manners and turned back to say quickly, “Thank you, Bartrum and Celia. Your hospitality…”