Into the Deep Wood

It was summer when the news came. By this time, Peitr had spent six years studying the properties of aquatic saltwater plants that grew in the lagoons of the Western Territory by the sea. He’d first been interested in this as seaweed had been the primary source of iodine, although foul in smell - a revolutionary breakthrough in treating infections.

It was a letter shrouded in secrecy, the contents urgent and of a royal order from Roska. Korschey himself decreed that all medical practitioners travel to Midtrade immediately. There, they were to remain at the embassy and await further orders.

Peitr had not wanted to go. He was not a man who was fond of interruptions. But, this was the King.

Three other men met him at Midtrade City. Another four joined from both the East and South. Then, soldiers showed up and took them without explaining where they were going.

Peitr carried with him his medical bag full of various tools and rare concoctions promising to cure a variety of ailments. He’d also traveled with no less than ten books, bound together by leather cord and gingerly placed in a wooden crate. The soldiers expressed their distaste toward his luggage, but their captain had waved them off and said that Peitr could bring whatever he wanted where he was going.

They arrived in the evening to a valley among the mountains.

As they passed the vineyards, farms, lumberyards and granaries, nearing the heavily populated hill, it was unmistakable why they were brought here.

Coughs, deep and wet - the lung strain could be heard in their violent outbursts. Peitr recalled later that his first memory of the River Cities had been a little boy - no more than ten - sitting atop a stump. Blood crusted on his chin, its lines running from the corners of his mouth. He’d been deathly pale, his bare arms thin as birch twigs.

He buried this boy not a week later, outside the city in a grove of oaks.

Upon their arrival, First Matron Avgusta recited a list of rules and laws. Most were common sense, and Peitr had felt patronized by their simplicity.

As seasons went into fall and the weather chilled, more and more would succumb to the call of the illness. Barns and storage yards would be converted to infirmaries and immediately filled with the sick and dying. Fevers ran rampant over frail bodies, not discriminating sex, age, or wealth. Blood was being coughed up into cut linens, piles of them being burned outside the city and buried in dried-up wells. Children would come and lay cold cloths on their dying parent’s foreheads, so young that they could barely reach above the mattress on the cots. Supply wagons came every other week, full of food, medicine, and blankets. But, this had only comforted the dying but had not slowed their demise.

All seven of the doctors were worn themselves, and before winter, two had fallen ill. The city became a ghastly corpse of its former self. Crops, left unharvested, died in the fields. Buildings fell into disrepair.

Peitr’s eyes had quickly grown old and tired, although he’d only seen his fortieth birthday not too long ago. He’d been a stoic man already, but the months spent in the River Cities had drained the blood from his face, hollowing his eyes and robbing him of any slight expression.

They had to train young women to be nurses by the bedside of the sick. Scared, with shaking hands and tightly pulled lips, they did their best - but in the end, all failed.

One of these girls, no older than sixteen or seventeen, helped Peitr. She arrived when he did and did not leave until he did.

Inna had been patient with occasional irritability and understanding when he needed time to lock himself away in his room. He’d grown fond of her quietness, her guessing the patient's need before instructed, and her bright smile even at the night's end when no one else had one to spare.

But, even she fell ill.

Peitr visited her bedside. He fed her soft foods that would not hurt her throat. He would stay later than he ever had, sitting by her bedside and reading aloud from the books he had brought with him. Of course, they were books of instruction, alchemy, and herbology. She had no interest in these but listened still, only interrupting him in fits of coughing.

Perhaps his efforts had not been in vain as she began to recover. Like many now, she sat in bed and asked for food and water, sometimes even attempting to stand on feeble, shaky legs. As the people around her began to get better, the doctors were able to take their first deep breath in months.

The end was on the horizon now.

It was a late night, and Peitr had been seated by her bedside, reciting the most effective oils for treating burns and rashes from the book, when her dainty arm was raised and gripped with force.

“Pietr…” She whispered urgently.

He removed his round spectacles, lowering the book, a look of rare concern twisting his face. Something in her voice was desperate and pleading.

“What is it?” He scanned her up and down, “Are you feeling feverish?”

But she shook her head no.

“Peitr, I must ask something of you - and please, please say yes to me.” She begged, only loud enough that he would hear. He also lowered his voice, feeling that this must be a very private matter.

“I’m pregnant,” She said, her eyes darting hurriedly around, “They will take me, Peitr, they will take me…”

“You cannot be pregnant in your state. Your body can barely support itself. That is preposterous.” His voice grew too loud on the last sentence, and she squeezed his arm, fearful.

“You do not understand. Please, you must take me away. I passed the trial on Fauna’s Day. I picked a husband for myself - but he is dead, Peitr, and I am alone. I can feel it. It is not a boy.” Her eyes filled with tears, growing red with pulsing veins in the candlelight.

“A boy or girl, I will deliver it for you; do not be afraid.” He said matter of factly.

“No!” She forced herself to hush again. “They’ll take me; they’ll give me to the river. I know it is not a boy; they will take her too.”

He looked at her. Perhaps it was the fever talking. But, upon placing his hand on her head, she felt cold.

“I cannot get involved in the dealings of other’s gods…” He said finally, quietly, unsure, as if reciting a line he read in a book somewhere.

Her face reddened in anger, her hand again squeezing his arm painfully.

“It is no god of mine that eats its people's children! It is no god of mine that drags my sisters into the woods. No god of mine would drown a mother and child in the Crimson River. Please, Peitr!” Inna’s words were filled with passion, anger, and desperation.

Peitr looked at her face until something inside him broke and fell away.

“You cannot travel, and I cannot leave.” He said, falling into thought. It was less of an excuse than a reiteration of a puzzle he had meant to solve.

“We are not to be out and by the wells and rivers at midday or midnight - please, we can take a horse tomorrow. No one will miss it - its master is likely buried in the fields. We will go at midnight when no one is around and let the night wraith be our cover.” She whispered to him.

“Three days.” He shook his head. “I must have three days. I am to pack, treat my patients, and brew oils of horsetail weed and garlic for the sick.”

“Give the recipes away, forget your books - we must go!” She pleaded again.

“Not. My. Books.” He said. As if anyone could ever suggest such a thing.

On the third day, under the cover of darkness, the tall, slim man had left his room with a leather bag and exactly three books. He waited until a candle had been lit in the third window from the left in the infirmary and made his way to the stables.

He’d exhaled hard when his weary arms lifted a small woman's body onto the horse, her figure immediately slumping forward, trying to stifle a cough in her coat sleeve.

They rode in the shadows between empty houses. As people disappeared off the streets, they rode downhill, and neither the man nor the woman would ever see the River Cities again.