Wonders Never Before Seen

-- Wonders Never Before Seen --

“Aaaand then we knot the stitches, like so.” Dr. Olivetto smiled as he worked, his hands moving deftly with the speed and surety that only came with hundreds of hours of practice. Raw, red, rent flesh--a crippling injury knit together by little more than catgut, a needle, and time. A young man given a second chance. The doctor’s eyes, artificially enlarged by the Aleraran lenses he wore atop the bridge of his nose, crinkled with pleasure as he gently tugged the final loop of the suture. As he sat back in his chair with a slight groan, he took off his glasses and glanced back towards his apprentice with no-nonsense look.

“As you can see,” he said as he gestured to the wound, “the incision itself is closed, but the site of the injury will still require regular cleaning.” The Doctor turned his attention to the young man sitting atop the operating table. “Do you hear that, Stefan?” Dr. Olivetto asked in an exaggeratedly stern voice. “You must keep the area clean and bandaged. And please, let either myself or Maria know if you see any pus, or if the area becomes inflamed and hot to the touch. An infection can kill you just as easily as a drunk’s shiv in a bar fight.”

Stefan stared at the floor as he nodded slowly, appropriately chastised. “Sorry, Dr. Olivetto…” he muttered quietly. “Won’t happen again.” The porter had come into the office complaining of sharp, stabbing pain in his leg, but neglected to mention that he had in fact, actually been stabbed in the leg. Thankfully, the wound had not been terribly deep, and Stefan had had the good sense to wrap the injury while he was waffling over whether or not to seek help.

Maria frowned down at her notes as she scribbled furiously. Dr. Olivetto charged a minimal fee, and the Coronean doctor was kind and accepting to anyone who walked through his door. It didn’t matter if the patient was sick with the flu, or had broken a bone in a fall, or if he had been stabbed during a bullheaded, asinine, utterly ridiculous argument at a bar in the middle of the day over a woman-- The charcoal snapped in Maria’s fingers, causing her to blink in surprise. She tsked to herself as she set the broken stick to the side and walked over to the nearby writing desk to grab another.

It just made her so… angry! Time and time again residents of the neighborhood would come in with injuries like Stefan’s which clearly happened some time ago and, invariably, they would hem and haw about why it took them so long to seek medical assistance when, in reality, the why was never in question. She took a deep breath and schooled her expression, lest she start snarling at the porter on the exam table. She knew, of course, about the rumors: Doctor Olivetto is a demon who experiments on children. No! He’s a madman who will kill you and your family and will stitch the corpses together to play god. No, no… he’s a wizard.

The last one hurt her most of all because of the kernel of truth it hid. The fact of the matter was that Dr. Olivetto did use healing magics in his clinic to assist in the mending process, no one contested that. But the good doctor himself always asked his patients if they were alright with him using his gifts to heal them. There were no mysterious rites, or sacrifices of children, or summoning of demons; he was perfectly transparent with the process. The problem was that the people of Salvar were so… so… ass-backwards about magic that they couldn’t tell a healing spell from an infernal pact. Not that their ignorance kept them from commenting on the subject--oh, no! Until very, very recently it had been illegal to be a mage in Salvar unless one was closely monitored by the Church--a crime punishable by burning at the stake.

Maria frowned towards the large, iron stove that heated the room, watching the cherry red coals through the thin slits in the door. Better you than me, friends, but I do say thank you for the warmth.

“Maria?”

Maria jolted and looked up at her mentor as he eyed her with a raised brow.

“Welcome back. Now, as I was saying, how would you proceed with Mr. Stanovich’s treatment, hmmm?”

The physician’s apprentice flushed at needing to be called out, but searched her memory for an appropriate remedy. “I would prescribe a tincture of bloodleaf and poppy, sir; the poppy for the pain, and the bloodleaf to reduce the swell...” Maria trailed off as Dr. Olivetto raised a hand, cutting her off mid-thought.

“A good idea, but one that could prove to be fatal if dosed incorrectly.” The elderly physician turned his gaze back to Stefan, who had blanched at the doctor’s comment. “Or, if the patient does is not cautious.” The doctor whirled back to Maria, his hand pointing at her dramatically and a playful glint in his eye. “Why?”

Maria’s face fell as she realized her mistake. “Because the bloodleaf could stop his blood from clotting--he could bleed out if the wound opens again, or if he is injured in another way.” She looked over the doctor’s shoulder in time to see the young porter meeting her gaze with a horrified expression on his face. There goes my credibility with him… she thought glumly.

Dr. Olivetto walked towards his student with a smile and clapped his hand on her shoulder. “Correct, but like I said; a good idea nonetheless.” He gestured behind him towards the surgical tools and cleaning solutions that had been prepped for the procedure. “Why do you clean this up and we can chat, yes? I’m going to go prepare Stefan’s prescription up front.”

Maria watched as the doctor handed Stefan his fur mantled cloak and led him with a supportive arm through the exam room door and into the narrow lobby of Dr. Olivetto’s Apothecary and Surgery. She admired the Coronean; although it was clear from his carriage and his speech--to say nothing of his extensive education--that the man was of noble birth, he never seemed to be weighed down by that baggage. He set up his clinic in one of the poorest parts of one of the most magically averse nations of the world, but he didn’t do it for accolades, or for anyone to view him as a savior… Marcus Olivetto was just a man who truly believed in his work.

----------

Maria hummed a short, upbeat ditty quietly under her breath as she re-read the passage in front of her for what seemed like the tenth time, her eyes alternating between the page and the dimly-lit hall of the Black Boar Tavern. A perpetual thin haze of smoke from the central fire hung near the rough-hewn rafters overhead, and the smell of roasting meat and hoppy beer wafted from the kitchen. A cacophonous clatter of pots and pans and the sound of raucous laughter filled the room, fighting for dominance against a few musicians who had taken over one of the room’s corners to ply their trade. A group of young people nearby had moved several tables and chairs to create an impromptu dance floor and were stamping, clapping, and singing along to the tune.

Maria smiled to herself as she took in the scene. She liked the taverns and bars of Knife’s Edge; they each had their own character, their own stories--and no shortage of their own characters, either. They may not have been the best place to try to study, but… There were certainly worse places to spend the evening. Besides, the book was hardly uplifting reading to begin with; it was nice to have the distraction.

“Was the food not to your liking then? Somethin’ wrong with it?”

Maria jerked in surprise, her eyes wide and she looked back towards a rotund, middle-aged woman with grey-streaked black hair standing in front of her. The woman’s expression was severe, and with her hands pressed firmly into her hips she looked the part of an offended chef, but a small smile quirking at the corner of her mouth belied her anger. Glancing back down, Maria realized that she had not touched the hunk of roast goat she had ordered, nor had she even picked at the bread that came with it.

The young woman gave a sheepish grin, a touch of color flooding her pale cheeks. “Sorry, Tessa…” she mumbled, “I’m just not hungry, I guess.”

The barkeep sighed and shook her head melodramatically, her black braid whipping back and forth gently as she did so. “You need to eat, girl! Look at you!” Tessa gestured to Maria, looking her up and down for emphasis. “You’re skin and bones!”

Maria self consciously smoothed her shirt and pants, keenly aware of how clearly she could feel her ribs when she did so. She grimaced and nodded, hoping the older woman would let the issue go. It’s not like I can tell her the truth anyway. “Sorry Tessa, I’m losing my Saints damned mind and food is the least of my worries.”

Tessa rolled her eyes and laughed, the crowsfeet at the corners of her eyes crinkling as she did. “Oh don’t look like the dog who got kicked; all I’m sayin’ is it’ll be hard to catch a man’s eye if he can’t even see you.” She gave an exaggerated wink before pointing down at the book clasped in Maria’s hands. “Whatsat you’re reading anyway, huh? Must be good if you’re not having fun with the rest of the kids over there.”

Maria shifted uncomfortably in her seat, looking down at the cover of the book. She had found the copy of Alexsander Itsan’s On the Illnesses of the Mind and Spirit in the back of Olivetto’s shop, haphazardly stored with the rest of his medical texts. The doctor had been surprised when she asked to borrow it, pointing out correctly that the majority of cases she encountered would be physical in nature, but nevertheless allowed her to borrow the book under the condition that she discuss what she learned with him after she finished reading it.

She did not have the courage to tell Dr. Olivetto that she was not researching the topic for her patients.

The physician’s apprentice was saved from Tessa’s prying when a particularly loud crash and clatter overwhelmed the music. Both the barkeep and Maria looked over in time to see two young men, both clearly deep into their drinks, shoving one another into tables and chairs near the dancefloor.

“Ahh fuck. Sorry, Maria, but I’ve gotta go.” Tessa trundled off in the direction of the fight, pulling a cudgel from beneath her apron as she went. “Alright you lot, break it up or I will! Yes you, Ivan!”

Maria exhaled slowly, releasing a breath she had not quite been aware she had been holding. She wiped the pinpricks of sweat dotting her brow and willed her roiling stomach to settle itself. Another glance towards the roast goat sent a fresh wave of nausea coursing through her, and she closed her eyes. If there had been a chance she might pick at the food earlier, that time had since passed. It would be another hungry night, then.

Maria allowed herself a moment to collect herself, checked to make sure Tessa was still occupied with other patrons, and pulled her book back out. She quickly located the passage she had left off at and resumed reading.

...What are we to make of these claims then? Is the individual truly hearing the voice of a god? Have they been blessed with otherwise inscrutable knowledge, or been visited by malevolent spirits? Does eldritch power course through their veins? Certainly, if we were to ask the patient in such cases, they would undoubtedly assure us that that was exactly what was happening. And, of course, arcane magic and divine miracles have created similar experiences among mages and saints, diabolists and witches--this author in no way, shape, or form wishes to discount the possibility of such things occurring. Rather, he only hopes to explain that such examples are the exception, not the rule. Through years of study and consultation with experts both medical and mystical, I have come to the conclusion that these experiences--though very real to the individual experiencing them--are far more often than not the result of an illness of the mind or spirit, rather than some preternatural phenomenon. In this text, I will use case studies and draw from the existent literature on the topic to demonstrate the mundane origin of these tragic maladies.

Blessed Mother Tristana, an accomplished exorcist and physician in her own right, explains in her work…

As she glanced up from the text, Maria froze, her heart skipping a beat. She had thought she saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of her eye--a thin black shape darting out of sight before she was even truly aware of its presence.

“It isn’t real,” Maria whispered to herself, even as she tried to focus on the place where the motion had caught her attention, searching for any evidence of whatever it had been. No dark shadows waited for her, no whispering phantoms. Only an elderly man alone at a table, his head lolled back as he slept off his drink. “You know that. You’re just exhausted and sick and hungry. It isn’t real. It. Isn’t. Real.”

Maria wished she believed that.