“In its present condition I doubt whether the patient has any resistance left.”
“The decision is …” began Prilicla, then interrupted itself. “Gurronsevas, you are emoting very strongly, a combination of impatience, irritation and frustration characteristic of a person who is in disagreement but wants badly to speak. Quickly please, what is it that you want to say?”
“Pathologist Murchison is too critical of the Wem,” Gurronsevas replied. “And wrong. They do treat minor, non-surgical ailments. Usually the kitchen staff double as healers, so that—”
“Are they better healers than they are cooks?” Naydrad broke in, its fur tufting with impatience.
“I am not qualified,” said Gurronsevas, “to give an opinion on medical matters, but I wanted to—”
“Then why,” said Murchison sharply, “are you interrupting a clinical discussion?”
“Please go on, Gurronsevas,” said Prilicla, gently but very firmly. “I feel you wanting to help.”
As briefly as possible he described one of his recent food experiments in the mine kitchen, where he was continually trying to find combinations of taste and consistency that would lift the vegetable meals to a level where, so far as the tradition-bound Wem were concerned, they would compete successfully with their remembered meat dishes. He had been trying every variety of root, leaf and berry that he could find, including those he found in a small and apparently little-used storage cupboard. His first attempt to incorporate them into a main dish had led to much unexplained hilarity among the kitchen staff until Remrath had told him that he was using stale materials from their medicinal herbs store.
“From the discussion that followed,” he went on, “I learned that, while the Wem would not cut surgically into a living body, they use herbal remedies to treat simple medical conditions. Respiratory difficulties, problems encountered with the evacuation of body wastes, and superficial wounds are treated in this way, usually with hot poultices made from a paste of certain clays and herbs, and grasses to bind the poultice together and allow easier application to the injured area. When I asked them about your patient’s injuries, Remrath said that Creethar was seriously and irreparably damaged, that parts of his body had been broken, and that treating the superficial damage would merely prolong suffering that had already gone on for far too long.”
While he had been speaking, Prilicla had alighted on the bottom edge of Creethar’s bed and was watching Gurronsevas, as silent and still as all the others. The patient’s respirator was beginning to sound loud.
Hesitantly, he went on, “If, if I understand you correctly, Creethar’s internal injuries, the fractures, have been treated and it is the surface wounds that are causing concern. That was why I mentioned—”
“Gurronsevas, I’m sorry,” Murchison broke in again, “I did not think you could make any contribution, and impatience made me forget my manners. Even with the availability of these local folk-remedies whose effectiveness is still in doubt, we may not be able to cure our patient. But its chances
The pathologist laughed suddenly, but it was the sharp, barking sound which, Gurronsevas thought, indicated a release of tension rather than amusement. It went on, “But just look at us! We have the most technologically advanced ambulance ship in known space with, I say in all modesty, a medical team with the experience to match it, and we’re back to using dark-age poultices! When Peter gets to hear about this, he will never let us live it down. Especially if the treatment works.”
Feeling confused, Gurronsevas said, “I do not know the entity, Peter. Is it important?”
“You do,” said Prilicla, wings beating slowly as it rose to hover above the patient. “Peter is the name used by family and friends for Pathologist Murchison’s life-mate, Diagnostician Conway, a being who in the past has been no stranger to unusual medical practices. But the matter is not important to our present situation. What is important is that you speak with Remrath as quickly as possible. Ask it for supplies of its herbal medications, with information regarding their application and use. That is important, friend Gurronsevas, and very, very urgent.”
Before replying, Gurronsevas turned one eye towards the direct vision port. The valley was still in darkness but the slopes of the mountains were outlined by the grey light of early dawn.
He said, “My memory for colors and shapes and smells, as well as for words of explanation, is excellent. If the matter is urgent there will be no need to talk again with Remrath. I shall leave shortly to begin gathering the necessary herbs and mosses. They are at their most effective when gathered early in the morning.”
CHAPTER 30
Over the next four days Gurronsevas kept the ambulance ship supplied with fresh herbal vegetation when required, together with the Wem cook-healer’s instructions for using it, but he continued to spend as much time as possible in the mine kitchen. His reasons for doing so were both positive and negative.
Whenever he was present on the casualty deck, Murchison, Danalta and Naydrad were always worrying aloud about the ethical implications of a lay person dictating a patient’s course of medical treatment, and where the responsibility for treating Creethar really lay. Nothing was said to him directly, but he did not know how to answer the unspoken criticism and felt very disturbed by it, even though he normally considered the opinions of other people toward him to be of no importance. Since he had left the kitchens of the Cromingan-Shesk, where his authority had been absolute, his self-confidence had been under constant and successful attack. It was not a nice feeling.
Prilicla, who could not help but know of Gurronsevas’s feelings, waited until the others were either off-watch or too busy to listen before drawing him aside so that they could speak privately.
“I understand and sympathize with your feeling of irritation and uncertainty, Chief Dietitian,” said the empath, the quiet, musical trilling and clicking of its native speech barely audible above the translated voice in Gurronsevas’ earpiece, “as you must try to understand those of the medical team. In spite of the things you have heard them say, they are not being critical of you so much as displaying self-irritation at their own professional inadequacy over the fact that a mere cook — my apologies, friend Gurronsevas, when they take time to think about it they will realize that you are much more than a mere cook — is able to help their patient in ways that they cannot. They can no more help their feelings than you can your own, but I shall suggest gently that they refrain from showing them to you. Until the problem of Creethar is resolved, please make allowances for them. I could not have asked this of the Chief Dietitian who joined the hospital a few months ago. You have changed, friend Gurronsevas. It is for the better.”
His confused feelings were clear for the other to read, Gurronsevas knew, so he said nothing.
“For the present,” Prilicla went on, “it will be more comfortable for you if you spend as much time as possible with friend Remrath in the mine.”
That was not to be as easy as it first appeared. For some reason, Remrath, and to a lesser extent the rest of the kitchen staff and teachers, were acting in an increasingly unfriendly manner toward him. And Prilicla was too far away to read the subtle changes in their emotional radiation that would give him some indication of what he was saying or doing wrong.
Fortunately, the young Wem did not share the feelings of their elders and remained respectful, obedient, curious, and continually excited by speculations regarding the strange culinary marvels their off-world cook would suggest next. Even the returned hunters were sampling his offerings with decreasing reluctance, although, as staunch traditionalists, they still insisted that meat was the only proper food for an adult and that they would continue to eat it.
Considering the pitifully small amount they had brought back from their hunt — with careful rationing there would be barely enough to add a meat flavor to the standard Wem vegetable stew for a few more weeks — their personal shame must have been as great as their hunger. Gurronsevas did not openly disagree with them. He was educating ignorant palates and enticing them into trying new sensations, and generally winning their hearts and minds by a flanking attack through their stomachs. The pretense of losing the occasional battle was of no importance when he knew that he was winning the war.
But the hunters, too, were showing signs of turning against him for no reason that he could see. Unlike Remrath and the other teachers, they had never been friendly or relaxed in his presence, but they had adapted surprisingly well to having an off-worlder in their midst. Over the past few days, however, their behavior towards him had verged on the hostile. In his presence the silences of the Wem adults were lengthening to the point where an attempt to open a conversation with a simple question brought only the briefest and most reluctant of responses, delivered in a tone that should have turned the running water in the kitchen to ice. He could think of no
