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PeaceTaker: Chapter Two- Of Miracles and Wyrids |
| Written by Rai | |
| Monday, 07 April 2008 | |
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Share it:       Chapter Two: Of Miracles and Wyrids The three healers labored through the rest of the day and into the night, a night as clear and cold as any seen in these regions. Because they were cramped in their small wagon with glow-stones to light their workspace and no doors nor windows to let in the harmful humors of the outdoors, they missed the miracle that the rest of the caravan witnessed. They missed something so wild and wonderful, most of those who saw it disbelieved it until it was forgotten from their memories. Dismissed as a dream. The storm, which had grown so large as to be an impassable wall spanning the western horizon, had gained rapidly upon the caravan despite their best efforts to find shelter. Too soon the winds had begun to pick up and what had been the softest caress of windblown sands had become a stinging assault that would soon have the force to strip the flesh from their bones. The roar of the storm was as that of a ravening beast, it's maw miles wide and stretching to devour them whole. A pitiful morsel. A small snack. Then, the scream of a hawk had echoed with such force as to make the storm grow silent. The winds abruptly stopped and, when a person turned toward the west to check the progress of the ruthless storm, they disbelieved their eyes. The light seemed to shimmer and curve around something that was and yet was definitely not there. It bent around the form of a massive hawk, a hawk who's crest was made of clouds, who's wings were swirling sands, a hawk so huge and mighty that the gentle fanning of its massive wings was enough to pound the storm into submission. As the many pairs of stunned eyes watched, the storm went from ravening beast to mewling babe, it's once powerful winds scattering as so many zephyrs and dust devils that troubled not the littlest lizard. Yet the healers saw none of this, though they saw something else that was wondrous in its own way. After they had stripped both coat and shirt from their patient, they gazed upon an object that was both common and rare. A wyrid, a holy emblem, hung around his neck and rested upon his skin. As if the weight of their gazes were what it was waiting for it burst into light that eclipsed those of the glow-stones, a small sun of cold white light. The gunman reacted slightly to this, his fists clenching and his jaw working slightly as his eyes rapidly flicked under his lids. Wyrids were nothing special in truth. They were a visible symbol that a person was held in favor by one, and on occasion more than one, of the Great Spirits. They often granted powers or boons to the wearer, such as the gift of Healing each of those standing above the man possessed. Once a wyrid had been something rare and wondrous, but now days most folks had one. There were some that were uncommon, and a few that were considered rare. Between them these three healers had seen their fair share of wyrids which meant the one the gunman possessed was indeed, something very special since none of them recognized it. It was circular in shape and made of stone. It was a perfectly smooth ring, two inches across, the hole in the center just big enough to put your little finger through. The ring was about as thick as a mans middle finger, carved all about with odd markings. The sinews of a wolf were wrapped around the outer edge, passing across the center before looping back with no visible ends, intricately twined almost like the web of a spider, but one of them knew well that the Spider had not chosen this man. Beads carved from the talons of a hawk, and the claws of a cougar and bear, threaded the sinews while a braided plait of horse hair, mixed with a few strands of the man's own corn silk mane, bore beads of elk antler and ravens beak. That plait held the wyrid on the gunman's neck as securely as any iron chain. A piece of all seven of the Good Spirits on the same wyrid...uncanny to say the least but it could mean nothing. It could mean everything. The healers managed to put the glowing wyrid out of their minds as they worked to make sure the gunman's wound was empty of shrapnel and fragments before removing the remains of the surgeon neat stitches. They cleaned the crusted blood off the wound, fighting a futile battle as crimson tides continued to roll forth and coat their hands. The ragged edges where the stitches had torn free were useless for the fresh stitches and required them to move further out into untainted flesh for the thread to take. Slowly did the eldest of them, a man with a cap of hair like the snow on the peak of a mountain, pull the ragged edges together with neat rows of clean thread, the needle diving in and out of the gunman's flesh like some hooked fish. Jumping and dancing and always pulling on the line. When he finished the second eldest, a woman with long raven hair and ruby lips, reached forward with a jar of salve to smear some on the wound before the youngest, a girl with summer eyes, bound the wound in clean gauze. Yet when her fingers were but a hair's breath away, the gunman's wyrid flashed brighter than ever causing the healers to throw up their hands to shield their eyes even as the man himself gasped a strangled word. The jar of salve flew across the wagon to shatter against one of the walls the waning wyrid light illuminating the viscous liquid as it slowly oozed toward the floor. As the storm died outside so did the light of the wyrid subside and the gunman himself slipped into a state of near coma. For a moment the healers gazed at him before the youngest began, with trembling hands, to bind the gauze around his torso, the other two lifting the gunman's midsection to allow her to pass the bandage under him when needed. At last it was wrapped good and tight and no blood leaked through to stain the snowy surface. Still, none of the healers held great hope for his continued life as they gazed at the coating of crimson that lined the bed of their workspace. How could one body hold so much blood? As their wagon came to a halt, they wiped their hands and quickly chose who would stay and watch the gunman first. The youngest healer was quickly elected as her youthful energy was still strong and she had done the least of the tiring work. She watched quietly as the other two departed and waited a long time before she sat next to the table bed where her patient was stretched out. She ran fingertips lightly across his forehead, brushing away corn silk strands as she felt for any signs of a fever. Finding none she smiled. "You'll live. I know it. Hawkmother keeps you, she tells me so." Her other hand pressed against the Healing wyrid of the Hawk which hung around her neck, pulling on it's chain so that it could dangle above the man. A slight shimmer danced across the surface and the young healer returned the wyrid to it's place under her blouse. "I am Ingrane and I know these things sir gunman. You will live." As she gazed at him, frowning as she tallied the marks of a violent life that painted his flesh, her mind suddenly seized upon something she didn't realize she knew. The word the gunman had spoken as his wyrid had flared. A word nearly lost amid shattering glass and her own half scream of blindness. She chewed her bottom lip, summer eyes gone dark and stormy, as she troubled the word over in her thoughts. What could he have meant by it. Unbidden the word passed her own lips, softly. "Tomorrow." Copyright 2008 Rai |
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