Chapter 31 #2
“Please don’t take me,” Borja cries, sobbing aloud. The chicken under her arm fights harder, stabbing its beak against her hand. “I’ve got children and a husband that need me. I’ll pray every day, Lord Kalos. I’ll sacrifice in your name. I’ll—”
“No one’s dying,” I say soothingly, moving forward to approach the women. “And there’s no plague.”
“Yes, there is,” Metta retorts, and points an accusing finger at Kalos. “He’s the Vulture God. He brings plague whenever he’s angry at people.”
“Does he look angry?” I gesture at Kalos, who is dusting off a small wooden stool with his hand. He sets it on the dirt floor and crosses his arms.
“I can’t presume.” Metta lifts her chin, her posture turning defensive.
She moves to her friend’s side and holds the chicken against her armpit.
The chicken tries its best to escape, wings flapping, but it’s not going anywhere.
Metta looks unfazed, even as the chicken’s wings drum against her arm.
“I didn’t realize you two would be back, and Borja came to me for help.
I promise we’re not trying to circumvent the will of the gods. We’re just trying to survive.”
She’s getting worked up, and her ire is making Borja cry harder.
It’s the most absurd situation, and yet I can’t help but feel sorry for poor Borja, who’s terrified and has an angry chicken strapped to her underarm.
“We’re here to help, too,” I say, using my best barista-customer-service voice.
“Lord Kalos wants to assess the health of the villagers and discuss cures for things that ail you. He’s very interested in spreading his knowledge of medicine. ”
Metta casts a doubtful look over at Kalos, whose expression has turned bored.
The chicken’s wing smacks Borja in the face, and she sputters.
I step forward, because my sympathy is spreading towards the poor chicken, who has no idea what’s going on. At least if he was dinner, it’d be a quick death instead of whatever this is. “Let’s get that chicken free and we’ll talk.”
Metta steps in front of Borja, hands up and blocking me from approaching. “No! It must stay on her until it’s sucked the plague out of her!”
Blinking, I pause. “You…you know that’s not a thing, right?”
“Everyone knows that a plucked chicken arse will suck the plague right out of a sore,” Metta scoffs at me. “That’s why you tie the chicken on. When it breathes in, it can’t help but pull out all the foul poison.”
I resist the urge to rub my forehead, because ignorance is why I wanted to do this, right? I wanted to help them take care of themselves when it came to medicine. I just didn’t realize exactly what I’d be dealing with and how bad it was. “That’s not how chickens work.”
“My mother’s mother used her favorite hen to cure plague,” Metta tells me in a haughty voice as I step forward again. I reach for the chicken, and she slaps at my hands. “Let Lord Kalos strike me down, but I won’t let you kill Borja with your interfering!”
“I can assure you, your granny did not cure anyone of plague with a live chicken.” I ignore her slapping hands and try to wrestle the poor bird out of Borja’s grasp.
Somehow they’ve managed to tie the thing’s neck to her upper arm and the feet are tied down, too.
How on Earth did they manage this? I get my belt-knife out and start to cut the leather straps, and Borja begins wailing.
Metta tries to break my grip, and the chicken pecks at my hands as if I’m the problem.
Frustrated, I turn to Kalos. His fingers are pressed to his lips, and he looks as if he’s trying very hard not to laugh. “Do something.”
He clears his throat. “Metta,” he says in a very calm voice. “If you harm my Anchor, I really will send plague down on this sad excuse for a village.”
Her hands drop immediately, and I’m finally able to cut the chicken loose. I cradle it in my arms as Borja scratches at her armpit, still weeping. The poor chicken trembles in my grasp and I stroke it, then want to groan aloud as I realize what they’ve done. “Why is the chicken’s butt naked?”
“That way it can breathe easier,” Metta says sullenly. “Makes it better to suck the poison out.”
“Chickens don’t breathe through their asses.” I’m truly amazed I’m not screaming the words aloud. I’m even more amazed someone believes that nonsense. I hold the chicken out. “Look at his fucking beak! What are those little dots next to it? Hm?”
“Nostrils?” Borja asks between sniffles.
“And how do humans breathe?”
“But that’s not a human. That’s a chicken.” Metta shoots me a smug look.
“Yes, it’s a chicken,” I growl. “You want to talk about something that isn’t what you think it is?” I point at Borja’s now exposed armpit and the pink, upraised mark there. “That’s not a plague boil. That’s a fucking bug bite.”
“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Kalos says in a low, amused voice. “So very fun.”
Once everything has settled down and Borja’s arm is untied, Metta finds me a seat.
I hand the chicken off to Kalos—no way am I giving that poor abused animal back to either of those women—and pull out my new notebook.
I dip the feather in ink and make a few test scratches.
A quill pen is trickier than I expected, but I’ll figure it out.
“We’re going to make a list of ailments that trouble the people in this village and how you currently address the issue. ”
Kalos pets the chicken, who is calm in his lap. “Plague seems to call for chickens. Write that down.”
“You’re not helping,” I tell him, and focus on Metta. When she narrows her eyes at me, I gesture with my pen. “Let’s start with bug bites. How would you treat one of those?”
“You mean plague?” Metta accuses.
I bite back a sharp retort and decide to try a different tactic. Something else, then. “How about stomach pains? If someone comes to you with complaints about their stomach, what do you do? How do you diagnose?”
Metta doesn’t even pause to consider. “Stomach pain? You bleed ’em.”
Borja nods wisely.
“No bleeding,” I say. I seem to recall something about medieval people doing that in one of my history classes at university, so I’m unsurprised.
She scoffs as if I’m the ignorant one. “If we aren’t bleeding them, how do we get rid of the demons?”
“There’s no such thing as demons,” I say, only to have her scoff loudly again. I turn to Kalos, who’s stroking the chicken lovingly. “Stomach demons? Are they a thing?”
“They are not,” he replies.
I turn back to Metta. “See?”
She’s unconvinced. “Of course he’s going to say that. He doesn’t want you to find them and let them out. He’s a god of illness.”
I purse my lips and write down “stomach pain = bleeding the patient.” I can’t judge them for their ignorance if this is the very thing I’m determined to try and help with. “Okay then. What about a headache?”
“Bleed them,” Metta says, her posture one of pure defiance. “To let the skull demons out.”
Oh boy.