The Healer, page 1
The Healer
A Century Series
Tania L. Ramos
Drowning Moon
Copyright © 2024 by Tania L. Ramos
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Acknowledgements
Considering this book is loosely based on a true story, I suppose thanks goes to the tangled web of deceit that sparked the flame for this book.
The larger host of gratitude goes to my children, all of whom waded through the fog with me. And when the world became clear again, they collectively said, "You know you have to write this story."
Special thank you to my oldest, Dasan Storm. You listened to me go on for hours about mythology, plots, characters, and gods, and kept me humble. You brought me back to earth anytime I went a little power hungry over killing a god, by reminding me that thousands of gamers kill gods daily.
Thank you to River Jordan, my baby boy. You tell everyone I'm a writer and even managed to sell my books to a group of my enemies at a barbeque. Takes class and sass, kiddo.
And to Jorja-Rayne, my budding socialite, who promised to make me booktok famous … I'm still waiting. And I'm so sorry you got sucked into the madness at such a young age. Thank you for constantly yelling, "Shouldn't you be writing?" You are the cheerleader to my life.
Every bit of thanks to my kids, who encouraged me to write this mockumentary of my life. And didn't laugh too much when I turned myself into a warrior for the telling. And who also had to endure the real life melee that premised this book. My kids who encouraged me every step of the way while I complained about writing and rewriting this. Eight times. You are the true heroes of my real life story.
Dedication
This book is dedicated to me. Because I survived that narcissistic relationship with my mental health mostly intact.
And if you ever survived a toxic relationship, this is also dedicated to you. Stay strong warrior.
The Healer
Sticky, humid air molded into every crevice of the hellish triage arena: an old concrete factory converted into a hospital. Pearls of filthy sweat oozed down the brows of the medical staff and the sick. Talora stole an isolated moment to examine the day’s chaos from a dark corner while sucking down air from behind an antiquated respirator mask. Reminding herself, slow breaths. In and out.
Bodies amassed, moaning fleshy foundations, as staff trudged through the injured. The dying padded every fissure of warm dankness within the arena. Metallic scents defiled the thick atmosphere. Whether from blood or rusted metals, nobody questioned. Hardly the aseptic bouquet of a therapeutic dwelling, she thought. Under the fractured respiration mask, she took a deep inhalation. A trace of death mixed with the oxygen.
What remained of her jaded soul ached for the waning patients. Acidy vomit lingered in her throat. The mask refused to protect her from the pungent stench of death and rust. Talora panted, holding back bile. Migrating with her mother to the east may have been a wiser choicer. To follow the politics and safety. To escape the foulness of rotted dreams.
The last great war left the country in derision. Wealthy families scrambled to eastern regions, huddling to elect a new system of capital. One by one, states withdrew from the Union. Regions established laws appointing themselves as new independent countries. Each one relied on their own means and tradeable exports—food, clothing. People.
Those in the desolate West Desert needed Talora’s talents. Lunacy brought on by moist heat ran rabid. She could not help those with brain demons; respiratory ailments were her specialty. This is where she belonged. Her decision to stay back felt lost now as she wiped sweat from her neck with her unclean, already saturated handkerchief.
Many failed to survive alone in this era of gloom and restructuring. The ones who endured best had ties to social clusters. Family. Friends. That was not her life. Searching the hall of lonely faces crying into soiled skin, she realized her error of staying behind. Alone and unprotected. Mostly alone.
Though she found a niche amongst the medical circles, she remained on the outskirts. Tinctures were her forte. Herb and spice mixtures to heal the sick of minor afflictions became her duty—her barter. Outwardly, the ill looked to her for treatment of the infections that thrived in mugginess. Secretively, she possessed more: the gift to heal with only the touch of her hand.
Others with gifts were called Strangers. The word rang in her ears. The craving for her gift amplified daily, but today she felt parched. Drained by enclosed work in the arena, she collapsed against a water-stained pillar. Slimy liquid seeped into her clothing. She wiped her neck again. Zapping prods rushed her fingertips in unison. An electrical force buzzed her nerves. Someone close by tugged at her energy for healing.
Depleted, she surveyed the dimly lit hall with flickering lights. At the far end stood a younger man in drab makeshift scrubs, pant legs tucked into tattered boots. Soil and sweat covered his face and misbehaved, golden locs. His eyes, in drooping slants, shared her attention. Scrutiny hung on his gaze behind weary compassion.
He waved without energy. Much too tired for the twenty-something she took him for. But he had an old soul behind those eyes. On occasion, when he glanced her way, she wondered what misery he saw in his young life that made him so glum. That was Shivawn’s way. His presence. They didn’t speak much, but always exchanged pleasantries.
He worked as a crowd keeper, wary of the relentless crowd that gathered outside. His arsenal of weapons hung off a thick, old leather belt repurposed from older belts. Chunky vials with viscous orange fluid sat inside leather loops. Black ampoules with oxidized pull-rings hung off discolored secondhand rivets. His thick gloved hand remained steady over a scarred shotgun with short and wide double barrels. Those were his tools. He was proficient with them and kept the chaos outside in order.
This day already proved busy with a fresh wave of infirmed rushing the open steely doors. Talora watched Shivawn push into the growing crowd. Stance wide, one leg back, he dug his heels against the ground. The bodies of the sick leaned back, then rolled forward, like a tide rushing the shore. Each swell of the groaning wave grew more powerful, forcing Shivawn to draw the gun and load an orange vial.
Ramming into the swarm, he flicked an electric trigger charge and pointed the gun above their heads. Talora cringed at the abrupt bang followed within seconds by a pop. Breathing paced her heart rate while sucking down oxygen faster. She watched, fingers in a fretful twist, body tensed, as the vial burst above the masses. Thick liquid evaporated into a bright orange haze.
The cloud dispersed and drifted downward. It was almost lovely how the vibrant sunny hue broke up the dreary browns and grays. A fleeting array of colorful cheer amongst death. A child in his father's arms beamed at the display. His innocent grin and wide eyes were mesmerized. Within moments, the masses—and the child—stumbled into a hurried sleep. Piled like lambs to their slaughter.
From the shadows emerged the Sentinels, lower-ranking Sentries. Men weighted with enhancements of clanking metal gears, pistons, and bolts from shoulders to fingers. Machinery to boost strength. They lowered oxidized, steel colored shields fastened to snaps embedded on their heads. No sane person dared sprawl with them. But the arena lacked sanity. Within minutes, they carried off every fallen body. Some fallen at their own weighty hands.
Shivawn watched the grounds, finding his place back at the doorway. Shoving against a fresh tide. The triage arena never slept and never found a shortage of angry, delirious mobs. With a heavy breath, Shivawn clipped the gun to his belt and counted the three remaining vials. He nodded at Talora, then leaned into the new horde of the nearly dead.
Talora grew eager to drown the energy attempting to extract her healing gift. Deep breaths. Breathe in and out. A man sitting cross-legged across the hall caught her attention. His thin body rocked through shivers and a cool cerulean gaze darted in her direction. The steely stare sent her to a forgotten memory when similar eyes twinkled down at her. A time long before her gift was known. When the world still held hope and dreams. She would stay in that moment forever if she could.
Despite the arena being hot as the devil’s own sin, he appeared freezing. Curious, Talora raised a hand toward him, ensuring others were not looking. In that instant, her heart skipped and air evacuated her lungs. She stumbled hard into the pillar. Her feet slid across the floor. She fumbled for balance before hurrying toward the door.
Jerking her away from the onslaught of the crowd, Shivawn grasped her hand. Wrinkles furrowed his young forehead. Some already permanent creases. Searching for any excuse to escape the humid enclosure, Talora blurted about escaping the heat. Empathy filled his eyes, which appeared in a relentless state of sadness even through smiles. Hesitancy occupied his sideways grin. Talora noticed he touched her skin to skin. He rarely went without his thick rubber gloves. Swiftly she withdrew and tucked her hand to her chest. Their muddled expressions met as Shivawn pulled the glove on.
“Sweaty,” he explained. The long drag in his voice said he didn’t start in the desert regions. His elongated words were casual and as tired as his eyes.
He directed his sight to her armband. Talora pulled the band with the medical insignia from her right arm and tucked the cloth away in the pocket of her long red coat. Her hands fumbled. Why she felt nervous in his presence, she shook off as introversion. But there was more. Something she couldn't explain. Without anything to say she gave a shaky nod and slipped away.
In the open air she yanked off the purifying mask and gasped while clawing at her chest. Not that the polluted air fared better but feeling helpless brought suffocating discomfort. She found consolation knowing the smog-darkened sky masked her appearance from others. Sitting with a box of herbs and vials made her an easy target too many times.
The ill, seeking any manner of treatment, often saw the box and assaulted her for tinctures or supplies. She thumbed the band in her pocket, working it between her fingers, and studied the moping faces wandering the grounds.
Memories of Sentinels finding her trampled and left for dead beneath the crowds sent a shudder down her spine. She recalled one night in detail. Hazes of neon orange dusted the air and Shivawn plucked her tattered body from a pile of the nearly dead. He carried her away and warned her. “Desperate people would see you dead for a mere vial of hope. Keep your body and heart protected. The world might need you someday.”
The next day she rifled through forgotten boxes. A haunting whisper called to her from deep within her thoughts. A familiar voice reminding her of a hidden secret. She searched every hidden place until she secured her dead father’s black dagger. Something about the smooth curved stone blade worried her. A reminder of her father’s rage. Yet it brought comfort in her hands.
On that night, she started secretive training to learn to protect herself. To someone’s death if necessary. She choreographed every attack and counterattack until she collapsed with exhaustion. When they were perfected, she illustrated them in a drawing book. But they were only pictures until she could use them and train with another person.
Now three years later, and even with the dagger secured to the small of her back, she struggled for strength both physically and emotionally. No amount of training, and no weapon, taught her how to handle the energy depletion from her gift when used on the sick.
The arena alone drained her, with masses of the ill staggering in lines for days. Some did not live to see inside and with that came the clean-up. The Morticians would arrive, shrouded in their inky cloaks. Silhouetted, thin bodies that emerged at midnight. Loud archaic gas masks, with pinpoint lights on either side, caused the screams of the sick to go silent in reverence. In fear, all turned from the death harvesters when they made their rounds. In their gowns they appeared to float as deathly apparitions across the grounds. Smelling of iron from blood-saturated cloaks and the putrid stink of thousands of dead.
The masses parted for the Morticians. No soul dared to glimpse their black-veiled faces for fear it would seal their own demise. Morticians were shadowy salvagers, transporting rotted remains to a fiery end. Souls that kept the turbines churning.
Though lifeless bodies lined the grounds tonight, no Morticians came to collect. People casually traipsed over the deceased. Nobody was immune to the desert's diseases. Not young or old, Perfect or Enhanced. Deceased littering the grounds was a normal sight. Overlooked and ignored.
At the far end under a flickering lamppost, Talora noticed a Perfect hiding her face. Perfects were devoid of deformities which stemmed from chemicals spilled during the war. They were the lucky ones, most would say. Talora knew better. Those perfect specimens lived in fear of being kidnapped and sold for trade. Some for breeding among the rich—though most assumed that to be rumor. Light-haired and light-eyed women were sought the most. Though brunettes still fetched a decent barter. Taking Perfect males for trade into breeding mills was spoken of through whispers.
Fatigue set as Talora studied the variety of people about her. A group of men from the mines gathered in a corner. Their hands charred and clothes still smoking. Miners were an easy spot. Most had blistered faces and flesh-toned masks. Metallic mesh filters snapped over their mouth to hide deformities and strain the pollution before they inhaled it.
The Enhanced were different. Talora stared at a coal miner with his webbed, scorched mouth. Enhancement fitting was a flourishing business in the West Desert; most people needed at least one at some point. By the front entry waited a man with a mechanical hand, gears cranking, though thick oily fluid seeped and stained the exposed parts. A woman near the thicket of dead trees had pins from a thick barbaric headpiece drilled into her scalp. The headpiece held a reflective shield over her face; her head balding and covered with sores. Talora squirmed. She had seen that type of enhancement before on a Gauge—people who tested radiation levels at the energy archives.
Full-animated metal gauntlets were reserved for the Sentries. Some converted every extremity into a whirring machine made from scraps. The extremists had guns and flame throwers augmented onto their already heavy arms. The Regulators used tin amplifiers sewn into their ears with a dozen tiny antenna embedded across their head. No body part was beyond being repurposed.
Talora grew dizzy as the harsh heat lingered. She found an old metal bench and nearly collapsed on it. Thick air pained her chest as she gulped the stagnant atmosphere before sucking from the respirator. She gazed over the surrounding world while tightly cupping her ears with trembling hands. Drowning out the confusion and screams echoing off the abyss of dark corners.
She caught her breath, aware of those not as comfortable. The forgotten. They would always need someone at their aid. For that reason, she could never leave. No matter how often her mother sent for her. She would live alone, always watching her back. In that thought, Talora startled to see a young girl beside her. Disheveled from head to toe, she couldn’t have been over ten years old. Yet her eyes were markedly round and enthusiastic. Full of light in such a dark place. As if she never knew sorrow.
“You look sad,” the child said as Talora began placing her ragged respirator back on. “I can help.”
Talora looked around. Not seeing anyone with the child, she asked where her family was.
“I have none.”
An orphaned child was not uncommon in the new era. Parents and grandparents died from toxins left over from the war. States were so busy fighting over boundaries they didn’t bother to clean up the air or water. Orphans were abundant, raised by extended family and siblings, bartered into trades, or worse.
“I’m tired mostly.” Talora glanced back at the barely living bodies with their blank stares. She studied the child’s blouse with tiny yellow flowers long faded. A sense of warmth and contentment reminded her of yellow and purple flowers in a clearing on a distant mountain trail. One day she would have to go back to that place, she mentally vowed. With a weak smile, she whispered, “Maybe a little sad. This isn’t a happy place.”
“I can help.”
Curious, yet still untrusting, Talora leaned closer. “How can you help?”
The child’s dirty face radiated with flecks of gold and amber in her eyes. She reached out. Talora studied her, then slowly took her tiny hand. Instantly an outpouring of warmth flowed into her body. Her entire being was enveloped in warm rays of sunlight, like warm oils were injected into her spine. She melted into the sensation of a protective hug that awakened every sense. The worries of the world vanished, leaving her light as hydrogen—euphoric and unchained. When the child withdrew, the sensation lingered moments longer until it drifted away.
The girl beamed, pulsing on her tiptoes. “You’re a Healer.”
Talora angled her head. “What do you mean?”
The child whispered. “You’re a Stranger.”
Talora offered a hesitant nod. “So are you.”
The girl partially lifted her tattered, over-sized blouse to expose small, fiery welts on her dirt-streaked abdomen. Talora examined the angry wounds, then furled her lips, knowing exactly what they were. “Cigarette burns.”
The girl nodded; her smile never failed. “Punishments. For when I forget my place.”
With a rush of heat, Talora held a hand inches from the child and noticed the girl’s prominent bones that poked beneath her skin. An immediate surge of energy tugged at her nerves.
“You didn’t feel it when you were happy,” the child said. “They were on my arms, but you fixed them.” She leaned closer to touch Talora’s moist cheeks. In a whisper, she asked, “Can you fix them?”
