Chapter 71
Seventy-One
Callah
Most of our "brave hunters" had made it back from the last hunt alive.
There had been some injuries, but far fewer than expected.
So many of them had been animal bites, although Mrs. Worthington and I didn't bother using ethanol on those.
Simple soap and water would do, and if they became infected, then that was God's will.
Yet when the men became frustrated, the wives were the ones suffering. I'd seen more cuts, bruises, and broken bones lately than I had in a while. Most of them happened because we women were no longer ignoring the injustices, which meant my supplies were much lower than I liked.
So after lunch, I headed to the infirmary to get a few more things. Mrs. Worthington had made it clear I could, although it still felt weird to just walk in and ask. But when I stepped into the infirmary, the head of healing was there, bent over a young girl with a gash on her brow.
She heard me and looked up. "Callah?"
"I'm low on supplies," I admitted sheepishly, feeling like I should be embarrassed about it.
Mrs. Worthington gestured to the storage cabinets. "Take what you need. Next time, bring a basket."
But the girl she was treating flinched hard and whimpered, "Ow!"
"Breathe," I suggested. "Long, slow breaths. Focus on the air moving, not the pinch of the needle. It does help."
"What would help more is if the men hit a little less hard," Mrs. Worthington grumbled.
"I didn't even do it!" the girl insisted. "Juras said I did, but he was the one - and I still got punished."
"That's the way things are for women," Mrs. Worthington said softly, soothingly. "It is better to offer an apology in innocence than risk punishment for your pride."
"No, it's not," I grumbled under my breath.
"It hurts less," Mrs. Worthington corrected, changing her stance and proving she'd heard me. "It's also easier."
I opened the cabinet and began stacking up the things I'd need.
"It's a trade-off, girl. Being meek, subservient, and obedient will spare you the pain, but it will destroy the self.
Every woman has to make that decision. Does she suffer one way or the other?
Only you can know which is right for you. "
"But the punishment hurts!" the girl whimpered, gripping the arms of the chair she was in too hard, proving she was struggling not to flinch again. "Is there a trick?"
"I don't know one besides breathing," I admitted, "and someone else told it to me. I couldn't take the pain, so I smothered my pride."
"Most of us have," Mrs. Worthington admitted. "We give and we give until there's nothing left to offer. The lives of women are short ones, and rarely glorious."
I murmured and kept stacking. Bandages were used far too often. My ethanol supply was now low, and the men didn't deserve it. I could take the fine suture, because men would handle the thicker stuff better.
Soon enough, Mrs. Worthington finished with the girl and sent her back to sermon. The moment that child was gone, Mrs. Worthington sighed heavily, and when she began cleaning, she sighed again.
"That bad?" I asked, leaving my pile to grab another cloth so I could help her.
She pushed out a tired chuckle. "I'm pregnant again."
"No..." I breathed.
Because Mrs. Worthington had to be over thirty! Each child was harder on the body than the one before, but we couldn't lose her. She was too important!
She gave me a weak smile. "I'll be fine, Callah. It just means I'll need to rely on you more. One day, you will be in charge of this place."
I felt like time stopped as her words hit me. I couldn't be in charge here. I didn't want to be here at all. Still, guilt slammed into me, because if I didn't do this, then who would?
"We need more healers," I realized.
"And most men want to be the center of their wife's world. They despise her wasting her time cleaning something besides their rooms. They refuse to tolerate her being called away in the middle of a meal. Callah, there are dozens of girls who can heal, but few - "
"We need stitches!" a woman begged, rushing another into the infirmary.
Mrs. Worthington and I turned, and both of us rushed to assist. The women were a pair I recognized: Deenah and Helah, but this time Deenah was the one wounded and Helah was supporting her.
"What happened?" I asked, steering Deenah onto the closest bed for care.
"The elders were watching the servings being handed out," Helah explained. "Deenah was given a fair serving for her lunch and Mr. Morgan hit her across the face with the bowl!"
"The other women were yelling at him to stop," Deenah explained, lifting a cloth from her chin only to have blood well up the moment the pressure was released.
"Don't talk," Mrs. Worthington told her. "Just hold that while we get some things to make the bleeding stop."
So Helah took over. "The girls behind the counter said the wives had told them to give equal portions.
No wife wanted to say she'd been the one to do it, but three offered Bible verses for why it was only right, and a crowd was forming, but that's the thing, Callah.
They knew. The men knew to come look at how much we're eating. "
"Which means," Mrs. Worthington told me, "someone said something to her husband. They never pay attention to us."
Of course someone had. Someone always did.
For some reason, there were wives who convinced themselves that if they could just be better, follow the rules a little more than everyone else, and prove how pious and proper they were, then their suffering would stop.
In truth, I'd been worried Meri would become that sort of person, and was so thankful she never had.
But plenty tried it. Usually, they suffered just as much, so they eventually learned to keep their mouths shut, but when I heard voices in the hall, I realized the argument had followed these women here.
Grabbing Helah, I shifted her around to the far side of the bed.
Mrs. Worthington was pouring ethanol on a cloth and moving before Deenah, and those voices?
They entered the room with a group of screaming women and four men trying to push them back. That was not at all what I'd expected, but most of the faces I saw were the widows. Women without a husband to punish them often grew more brave than those facing danger every moment of their day.
And in the middle of all of it was Mr. Becker, one of the quieter elders - and younger.
"Who," he roared, "made this decision!"
"The Lord says - " a widow tried.
"Enough!" Mr. Morgan screamed. "I can't hear myself think over the screeching of you women! Now shut your gossiping mouths until you're spoken to."
And I slammed the bottle of ethanol beside me down on the table, making a loud bang. "This," I said, turning on the group, "is the infirmary. This is where we heal, so if you are not injured, get out or assist. Those are the only two options for men in this room."
And Mr. Becker slowly turned his glare on me. "Excuse me?"
"I did not mumble, Mr. Becker." But I did lift my chin.
"Girl - "
"It's Mrs. Warren," Mrs. Worthington corrected. "She is not a girl. Not after the recent change to the rules."
The man lifted his lip like he'd smelled something foul, but tried again. "Mrs. Warren, there has been an incident, and we need to determine the cause. This is the business of the elders, and we will conduct it here."
"Then do it at a respectable volume so those of us trying to work can focus," I told him. "The infirmary is still a woman's domain, sir."
Mr. Myers moved to Mr. Becker's side. "She's right. Women must have control here or they cannot do their duty in this place."
"Just like the kitchen!" Felicity said, proving she was in the middle of this mess too. "And while you keep complaining about the amount Mrs. Hinton was served, you have yet to explain why, Mr. Becker."
"Because women should not be gluttons!" Mr. Becker spit.
And that made another roar of voices surge forth.
Women were flailing their hands and screaming, trying to be heard over each other, but none of it was helping.
And yet it was. For the first time in my memory, they weren't clasping their hands and staring at the ground. They were bickering - at elders!
But I clapped my hands again, making it all stop. "One at a time, please?" I begged. "You, tell me what happened." I pointed at Felicity.
"Mrs. Hinton was given a fair share for lunch. She did not ask for it. She did not demand it. It was simply given to her, but Mr. Morgan punished her for merely existing."
"That's not..." Mr. Becker growled in frustration instead of finishing his thought.
"No," I said, gesturing to him. "Please, let us know the problem, sir?"
"There is not enough food to go around! Women need to eat sparingly so the hardworking men of the compound do not suffer!"
"And yet the hunters go out more often than ever before," I pointed out. "I know, because I'm aware of when my own husband is not home. So why is there insufficient food, Mr. Becker? Mr. Morgan, do you know?"
Mr. Morgan sighed. "Times are hard on the surface."
"My husband doesn't seem to think so." I lifted a brow.
"So who is telling the falsehood, Mr. Morgan?
I'm sure my husband would do no such thing, but an elder shouldn't either.
So if the hunts have been successful, yet there's no food, then we have a larger problem.
Starving the wives and widows isn't going to solve that.
Never mind that these wives are often working just as hard to make the next generation, or do you think children are formed of merely the blessing of God? "
"Now, Mrs. Warren..." Mr. Myers said, pushing the other two men aside. "That is not what we're saying at all."
"Isn't it?" I asked. "Because a wife - who could be pregnant, for all you know - was punished to the point of needing medical attention simply for.
.. eating? And the issue at hand is that men deserve food for what they do, but we women, who create entire new people from our bodies, do not?
I'm sorry, sir. It must be because I'm a woman, but I'm afraid I do not understand. "
"You're being insolent," Mr. Becker insisted.
"Is truth insolence, sir?"
"Enough!" he roared. "This place may be the domain of women, but we still allow you this!" And he gestured at where Mrs. Worthington was caring for Hellah. "If you want to continue to have these privileges, then you should respect your elders!"
That was when Mrs. Worthington set down her clamp and needle. "Or?" she asked.
"Excuse me?" Mr. Myers asked, clearly not understanding the question.
"He said 'if we want to continue having these privileges,'" she explained. "I want to know what the other option is, Mr. Myers. What if we do not want these privileges?"
"Then we can go back to healing only men in the infirmary!" Mr. Becker snapped.
Mrs. Worthington hummed thoughtfully and caught my eye. She didn't smile, but I swore she wanted to. I could see it on her face.
Then she turned to Mr. Becker. "We can do that. Who will be doing the healing, though?"
"Excuse me?" Mr. Morgan asked.
And the fourth, previously silent man in the crowd asked, "What are you implying, Mrs. Worthington?"
"I'm saying," Mrs. Worthington clarified, "that if we women cannot heal each other, it will not be long before there is no one left to heal.
Gentlemen, both Mrs. Warren and I are married.
That means we do have other duties besides healing.
The girls are not born knowing how to do this.
They can sew, sure, but that is only a small part of healing.
So, if we cannot care for each other, and have no interest in doing twice as much work for no extra benefit, then who will be doing the healing? I won't."
"Nor I," I said. "My husband would appreciate the extra attention, I would think."
"Everyone would take a turn!" Mr. Becker snapped.
"Your wife?" I asked, remembering how everyone in the laundry area had been too quiet around her. "Does she have experience?"
"Someone would!" Mr. Morgan insisted.
"Good," Mrs. Worthington said. "Then that's solved. We will no longer treat anyone in the infirmary."
"You can't do that," Mr. Carter insisted. "The hunters..."
I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned a bit, waiting for him to finish that. "What about the hunters, sir?"
"Women have always healed!" Mr. Morgan snapped.
"Women have always been fed equally," I countered. "It seems things have been changing lately. We are trying to be accommodating, sir. If God expects us to serve our husbands and not to care for our community, then we can do that."
"We never said that!" Mr. Becker insisted.
"Are women not a part of our community?" I asked, looking at Mrs. Worthington as if confused.
"Apparently not," she said. "But if we aren't, then there's no need for us to give to something we're not a part of, is there?"
"No," I agreed, "there's clearly not. I mean, unless this was all just a misunderstanding?"
"You..." Mr. Becker stormed right into my face and pointed like it was a threat. "Mrs. Warren, you'd best believe I will be talking to your husband about this. You are too proud and need to be put in your place."
"Yes, Mr. Becker," I agreed.
Not about the place, though. No, I was agreeing that I was too proud, and watching the four elders try to untangle the knot of words we'd just wrapped them in? It felt good. It felt powerful even.
It felt right.
But Mr. Myers was a sensible man. He waved his companions down.
"I think this has all become a big misunderstanding.
The women were hysterical because Mrs. Hinton had been injured.
We were led to believe something underhanded was happening - which it clearly is not.
Ladies, you are more than welcome to continue serving our entire community, and we appreciate the service all our healers provide. "
Then he looked at the others pointedly. There were a few grumbles, but the other three men eventually made their way out.
Begrudgingly, or so it seemed, but they still did.
The women, on the other hand, waited silently.
And when one leaned into the hall and signaled it was clear, all of us breathed a sigh of relief.
"That worked?" Felicity asked.
"That," I said, looking at all of them, "is what happens when we stick together. Any one of us is weak on our own, but together?"
"Together," Mrs. Hinton said around her now-bandaged chin, "we aren't helpless."