IN THE MOUNTAINS OF FIRE by Dolores J. Nurss
Volume I: Welcome to The Charadoc!
Chapter 36 Political Dilemmas
Tuesday, April 7, 2708 You know, Diary, Cici is absolutely hopeless when
it comes to comprehending political science, like most of her class. Today she went on and on about a "Police
Riot" over in Noveskey
Village. And typically, she got it all
wrong. I heard about it, too; I'm still an agent, I listen
when people think I'm too far gone to care.
Didn't Cici realize that the peasants threw bricks and bottles at the
police, that they actually endangered lives by setting fires? She seems to think that the police set the
fires, but she wouldn't say where she got her "information". As if they'd have any reason to. I've heard of incidents like this before. I told Cici about a decent young man I'd met
through Soskia: a straightforward kind of guy with a wife and kids, who used to
be a cop till a brick struck him blind.
He spoke at one of Soskia's fundraisers for policemen injured in the
line of duty, and came to her Chinese New Year’s Party on account of that. But no amount of funds will ever enable him
to see his little daughter's face on her wedding-day, nor someday show him the
smiles on his grandchildren's faces, nor ever again count the colors in a
Sargeddohl sunset. That's the thing--he
hasn't just been robbed of today's wage, of something precious for now but soon
replaced, he has been robbed of tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, like a kind
of little murder, the part of him with sight forever killed. But Cici just rode on, sulking on her mule and
trailing wisps of that obnoxious smoke of hers, the sun and leaf-shadow shifting
across her face. That kid just had a job
to do, I told her, just wanted to keep the peace! No word from Cici about that, just the sullen
clop, clop, clop of her mule's hooves on the overpounded mud, and the whine of
mosquitoes all around us. And the heat
beat down, and the bites oppressed me, and my head hurt like I'd taken that
brick myself, and Diary, I couldn't possibly wait till noon. * * * At
least the honey sweetens the air as I daub some onto the crisscross of inflamed
abrasions, then move on to the next wound.
With the mats so close together and so low I find it easiest to follow
Rashid's example and move from patient to patient on my knees. It also blessedly takes the weight off my
infected feet. It wore at my knees at
first, even with the towel that I tucked under them to slide along with me, but
I think I've already begun to develop calluses on them. Some
of my patients begin to rally. I had
asked if any roses grew nearby. Rashid
slapped his forehead and demanded how he could forget something so basic. Well, no sooner mentioned than a dozen
cracking voices clamored about a feral rose garden not too far from here, still
struggling to reach higher than the weeds, but all of them bobbing with rose
hips, some as big as walnuts, at least half of them ripened to a scarlet-bright
perfection even as new roses bud and bloom, all seasons being equal, here. So
now we have rose hip tea to give our charges, so rich in vitamin C you can
practically see their faces bloom with every sip of the tangy stuff. I take a sip myself, when we have enough to
spare, so that now I have some hope that my feet might begin to heal a little. Alysha
says she'll dispatch some gardeners to cultivate the roses; she hadn't realized
that they served any purpose besides ornament.
When Cyran returns she'll suggest that every troop who can should carry
a bag of rose-hips for treating the sick and wounded. What
does that mean, precisely, in terms of my soul?
Have I given aid and comfort to the enemy? Have I influenced rebel policy? Or have I acted as a good Tilan should,
spreading medical knowledge? No one's
going to blow up any bridges with a handful of rose hips, surely! But
these are my captors--I wear a chain among them! Yet here in the infirmary Rashid always
clicks it off and hangs it up on the wall so that it won't drag across our
patients. Alysha posts guards at the
door, each half my size, but they spend the day playing jacks or
pick-up-sticks, hours and hours hunched over their games, hardly ever looking
at me. I am by no means ill-treated for
a prisoner, certainly not as badly as these poor creatures that I try to nurse
back from the brink of death. "Ow!"
I cry as hands grab my foot behind me.
Then I recognize Rashid's clean and probing fingers. "They're
better," he says after some examination, "but they need protection to
heal the rest of the way. Guards,"
he summons, "take Deirdre to the cobbler." He helps me to my feet and I hobble over to
my chain where he snaps it on under my chin.
"Tell them to make sandals tailored to fit her, not just give her
standard issue." He glances down at
my feet and I suddenly want to hide one beneath the other, conceal the silly
duck-shape of them. "She's a full
size smaller in the heel than the toe." |
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