The surgical shelter stood behind two rows of medicine wagons, close enough to the rest of the Elune camp that supplies could be brought quickly, but far enough from the market’s dust and noise for careful work.
Everything inside had been designed to travel.
Panels locked together to form the walls. Instruments rested in fitted cases that could survive rough roads. Even the floor had been constructed to keep dust from rising whenever someone crossed it. Simi had helped assemble these spaces more than once and cleaned them often enough to know where every cabinet belonged.
Today she counted the instruments, watched the healers’ measured movements and listened to how quietly they spoke.
Every movement had a purpose.
Meka had been brought to the preparation chamber. His mother waited outside with another physician, and the attendants were already working. Màíra walked through the room, confirming the arrangements and assigning responsibilities.
Tàlé would monitor Meka’s neurological condition. Sẹ́ni would supervise supporting treatment and Chi circulation. Two experienced assistants would help Màíra directly. Others would tend to supplies, records and instruments.
Simi was assigned to the observation station.
She set her writing board down and kept her eyes on the instruments.
Màíra noticed anyway.
“You haven’t assisted with an operation like this before.”
“No, Physician.”
“Then you’ll watch the measurements, record any changes I ask you to record and make sure the instruments are ready. Those are important jobs.”
“Yes, Physician.”
“And questions wait until we’ve finished, unless something you observe may affect the patient.”
Simi nodded.
She had imagined being closer to the physicians. Instead, she found herself beside a table with recording boards, clean equipment and a bronze-framed monitor. Yet when the work began, she had little time to think about disappointment.
Readings changed as the treatment progressed. Tàlé compared each new measurement with the earlier examinations. Sẹ́ni maintained a precise flow of supportive Chi, adjusting only when the patient’s condition called for it. Màíra directed the team with short, clear instructions.
Simi had seen these instruments in lessons. She knew the purpose of their needles and shifting lights. Here the same measurements carried weight she had never felt in the classroom.
She glanced through the partition at Meka before recording the next reading.
She checked the scale and marked the time beside the rising figure.
“Repeat the measurement,” Màíra instructed.
Tàlé adjusted the lens assembly.
The result remained troubling.
“Pressure is rising,” he said.
The scratching of Simi’s charcoal was suddenly audible.
Simi’s hand tightened around her charcoal. She kept writing because it was the work she had been given. An assistant requested a different instrument. She found it, checked the casing and passed it across the station.
Màíra issued another direction. Sẹ́ni’s hands shone faintly as she adjusted the support treatment.
Simi watched her aunt.
At breakfast Sẹ́ni had been teasing Khepri about missing pieces of medical equipment. Now there was nothing casual in her attention. She listened, checked, responded, and wasted no motion.
Another reading appeared.
“Circulation is responding,” Tàlé said.
“Hold the support steady,” Màíra replied.
The team continued. No one celebrated a single improvement.
Màíra asked Tàlé to repeat the reading before she changed the treatment.
Simi followed the marks on her board, but Màíra’s next instruction still caught her by surprise. The physician changed the plan as soon as Tàlé confirmed the new reading.
An instrument tray shifted near Simi’s elbow. She caught it before it could slide from the table.
Her own fingers were shaking.
She took one quiet breath and set the tray down.
She was only observing and recording, yet her shoulders had grown stiff from concentration. The physicians had been working much longer than she had, and their attention had not wavered.
At last Tàlé studied another set of measurements and nodded.
“Improving.”
Màíra acknowledged him and continued.
Simi checked the figures once more. Then, reluctantly, she let herself breathe.
* * *
Khepri found Meka’s mother beneath the great tree, holding a wooden cup in both hands.
He had tried to enter the surgical area twice. On his third attempt, an apprentice told him that if he could not assist, the most useful thing he could do was stop blocking the entrance.
The apprentice had been right. Khepri stayed outside.
The woman’s drink had gone cold. Her eyes remained on the medical shelters.
“Excuse me,” he said.
She turned.
“Are you Meka’s mother?”
“Yes.”
“May I sit?”
She shifted to give him room.
Khepri settled on the bench. A bird landed on a branch above them and immediately flew away. He watched the place it had left, trying to think of something intelligent to say.
“My aunt is helping with the operation.”
The woman nodded. “I know.”
“Sẹ́ni knows what she’s doing. So does Màíra.”
“I’ve heard.”
The woman held her cup more tightly. Khepri stopped trying to reassure her with names.
Khepri looked at his hands.
“What does Meka like doing?”
She turned towards him again.
“My son?”
“Yes.”
“Climbing.” Her voice changed slightly. “Trees. Walls. Anything he can reach.”
“That sounds familiar.”
“He was trying to see the river from the top of the orchard wall.”
“Is it a good view?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Has he taken you up there?”
The woman lowered her gaze. Khepri regretted asking.
For a while, neither spoke.
Then she said, very quietly, “Perhaps.”
They watched the movement of the camp together. Khepri let the silence remain.
So he stayed.
* * *
The operation ended in the late afternoon.
Meka had survived the immediate procedure, but the physicians warned that recovery could take time and that some problems might not be resolved at once. He was moved to an observation bed where his condition could be checked continually.
Simi helped gather the equipment no longer needed. Her legs ached when she bent to retrieve a folded cloth. The charcoal had left dark marks across her fingers.
“Sit,” Màíra said.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t a question.”
Simi sat.
Màíra reviewed a record with Tàlé, then returned to her.
“You did well.”
Simi blinked. “I kept worrying I would miss something.”
“You watched carefully. You kept an accurate record. You brought what was needed and stayed out of the way when it was important.”
“I didn’t touch the patient.”
Màíra pulled a stool closer.
“Would you rather I had worked without reliable instruments?”
“Of course not.”
“Or tried to remember every change in the readings while also directing the operation?”
“No.”
“Then don’t dismiss work because it isn’t the most visible part of it.”
Simi looked at the recording board.
The pages were covered in her handwriting, each change recorded beside its time. She ran her thumb along the edge of the board.
“Physician?”
“Yes?”
“Could I learn to do what you do?”
Màíra regarded her for a moment.
“What part?”
Simi considered the question more carefully than she would have that morning.
“The part where you know what the measurements mean. How to choose what to do next. The surgery, eventually.”
“That will take years.”
“I know.”
“And you’ll spend a great deal of those years discovering what you don’t know.”
Simi nearly smiled. “I think I’m beginning already.”
“Bring your notes tomorrow.”
Màíra rose.
“We’ll start at the teaching shelter, with today’s readings.”
Simi stood so quickly that her stool scraped the floor.
“Really?”
“Provided you arrive before I do.”
“I will.”
“And leave the scalpels alone.”
“That warning is for Khepri.”
“I know your brother,” Màíra replied. “I prefer to be thorough.”
For the first time since Meka arrived, Simi laughed without having to force it.
* * *
Meka woke shortly after sunset.
His mother was at his bedside. When she said his name, he turned his eyes towards her. It took him a little while to answer, and his left arm remained weak, but he recognised her.
The physicians continued to monitor him. None promised a full recovery.
When his mother took his hand and he held it, she began to cry.
Simi stayed near the entrance as Meka’s mother wiped her eyes, still holding his hand.
Sẹ́ni joined her.
“Eat, Simi.”
“I will.”
“Before the food goes cold.”
Simi glanced at her.
“You tell Khepri that every day.”
“He forgets every day.”
“He thinks supper is optional.”
“And I feed him anyway.”
They stood together while the camp lanterns were lit. The air had cooled, and the nearby tree branches stirred in a faint breeze.
“Auntie?” Simi said.
“Yes?”
“Were you frightened today?”
Sẹ́ni looked towards the recovery bed.
“At times.”
“Even after all the operations you’ve helped with?”
“Especially after some of them. Experience teaches you how many things can go wrong.”
Simi had been expecting reassurance. Instead, the answer made sense of what she had seen.
“Then how do you keep working?”
“Some days you don’t,” Sẹ́ni said. “You go home and shake for an hour. Today I couldn’t do that. Màíra needed me.”
The boy was resting, and his mother sat close enough to touch his hand.
Simi turned the ivory bead at her ear until the indigo thread pressed a line into her fingertip. Màíra called for the next observation, and she was already moving.
She found her place beside Meka’s bed and opened the notes.
* * *
Khepri was waiting beside a supply crate when Simi left the shelter.
His resonance reader rested across his knees, though for once its casing was closed.
“You’re still awake,” she said.
“I thought you might want company on the way back.”
Simi smiled. “That was kind.”
“I wasn’t sure when you’d finish.”
“I’m glad you stayed.”
He put the reader away.
“How is Meka?”
“Awake. He recognised her. His mother is with him.”
Some tension left his face.
“I’m glad.”
They walked towards the family wagon. Simi’s legs felt heavy, and the smell of supper drifting from the cooking area was suddenly very welcome.
“Was the operation difficult?” Khepri asked.
“Yes.”
“Did the diagnostic equipment work?”
“Mostly. One reading had to be repeated.”
“Which instrument?”
“The large lens.”
“Was its alignment—”
“Khepri.”
He looked at her.
“I’m tired.”
For once, he stopped asking questions.
After a little while, Simi took his hand.
He looked down. “You’re not going to let go?”
“Not yet.”
She kept holding it. He let her.
By the wagon she paused.
“Do you remember the crossing yesterday?”
“The gear I cracked?”
“What you did after it cracked.”
“I thought I could replace every broken part.”
“You stopped forcing the teeth to carry the load. You listened to the workman.”
“Eventually.”
“Màíra changed her plan when the second reading disagreed. I think I understand why.”
Khepri kicked a pebble down the path. It struck a wheel, bounced back and stopped at his foot.
“So you can be very good at something and still need to change your mind?”
“Yes. Even Màíra.”
“I wish I’d seen it sooner.”
They reached the wagon steps. Simi opened the door and leaned against it a moment.
“I think I want to learn surgery,” she said.
Khepri turned. His usual joke did not arrive.
“Then you’ll be good at it.”
“You can’t know that.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I know how you work.”
She smiled.
Then he added, “And I can make you better equipment.”
“You’ll have to ask before you take apart my instruments.”
“I will.”
“You can start by leaving your instruments alone until after supper.”
Khepri considered the terms.
“After supper, then.”
“Come inside.”
He followed her, carrying the reader without opening it.
Inside, Simi found the supper still warm. Khepri took two pieces of bread, caught her looking and put one on her plate.