Chapter 64: Foundations for Healthcare Infrastructure

‘In the primacy of woman and man, the epiphany of the Goddess cometh to Celeste in the still of night.’

“You must lead thy fellows through thickets and dangers, corrupted creatures and wicked flora, to found The Holy Kingdom upon the crest of this new world. Erect sanctuaries around my shrines and prepare for the cataclysmic battles of the end times. Heed my words, lest demonic forces drive the world into chaos once more afore the advent of my apostle.”

“Yes, my Mother,” Celeste prayed, grasping a twig of the almighty birch. “Bestow upon me thy power so thy will may be done.”

‘The magnanimous Goddess empowered her twig till it groweth into a branch, a cane, a staff. Power incandescent and true, Celeste brandished it afore the weary and the hungry, the desperate and the broken.’

“Come, my people! Our Mother spoketh of our destiny and salvation. I am the shepherd to guide us through the storm to the crest of the new world!”

‘Shirking the shackles of volition, woman and man rose to claim their birthright under the benevolent eye of Zera. For only by her might could humankind—’

Dimitry slammed the book shut and slid it across a dusty granite table. “When you’re right, you’re right. A waste of my time.”

“Told you. You haven’t even gotten to the part where it says ‘thou shall killeth’ me.” Precious sat on the cover, her torn white dress blocking the third word in ‘Gospel of Awakening’. “Seriously, why would anyone want to kill someone as charming and graceful as me?”

“If all corrupted creatures are as arrogant as you, maybe the sacred texts aren’t too far off the mark.” Dimitry averted his gaze from the pouting faerie to glance around the sunlit study he sat in—one of several rooms on the cathedral’s third floor.

Like the rest of the building, only scraps, dust, and grandiose furniture too heavy for thieves and pillagers to carry out populated the room. The holy scripture Dimitry found probably would have been stolen as well if it didn’t lay crammed in a nook between a shelf and a wall. Not that he searched for it: religious ramblings didn’t interest him.

He came here to inspect the building he intended to turn into a hospital before accepting the queen’s proposition. How much space did the cathedral have? Were there health hazards like mold or bacterial growth? Magic traps? Could it provide housing for the twenty refugees taking shelter in the main chamber downstairs?

“So?” Precious asked.

“So what?”

“Are you going to blaspheme and turn this oh so sacred place into another butchery?”

“Well, that depends.” Dimitry squirmed to get comfortable in a granite chair whose cushion-less and rigid seat made his butt ache. “You’re going to be a tenant too, so I might as well get your opinion first. What do you think?”

“Hmm.” Precious’s golden ponytail darted side to side as her eyes shot from one corner of the room to the other. “Aside from broken windows letting cold air in and Zeran emblems covering literally everything, it could be worse.”

“Is that your way of saying you like it?”

“Maybe.”

“Personally,” Dimitry said, “I thought you’d love it. With all this space to laze around in, you won’t have to hold in your laughter around suffering patients and can sleep in on winter mornings instead of hiding under my clothes. I can get you a doggie bowl full of grapes and—”

Precious perched onto Dimitry’s shoulder, her green wings ringing like tiny wind chimes. She rubbed her small hands together and grabbed his earlobe. “You… will… regret… saying… that!” Despite pulling back full force and grimacing like a powerlifter thrusting six hundred pounds of steel off the ground during a squat, her efforts went in vain.

“Ow. Stop. That hurts. You’re too strong.”

“Yeah yeah. I can sense you having fun at my expense.”

“I just wanted to encourage you,” Dimitry said with a grin. “You’re precious when you’re flustered.”

“Puns too? What a very Dumitry thing to say.” She released his ear and glanced at an arched marble doorway. “Oh no, the loud one is back.”

“Pocket or shoulder?”

“Pocket.”

Dimitry flapped open his cloak and tugged at the side of a sewn leather pouch, which Precious promptly glided into.

Stomping followed by impatient knocking.

He sat up straight. “Come on in, Angelika.”

“Does that mean you’re done talking to yourself now?” she asked, opening the door. “I’m not disrupting anything, right?”

“No, you’re fine.” Dimitry pointed at a chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Did you find anything?”

Angelika shrugged, sat down, and removed her hood to reveal long and curly red-brown hair. “Just random crap like baptism cups. I didn’t see any traps. Knowing the conniving pricks at the Church, I’m sure they had some lying around at some point, but their enchantments would’ve dissipated years ago. Though you can never be sure without using revealia.”

“I see. Any other thoughts?”

“It’s an easy place to fortify in case heathens invade the city. With only one entrance and thick walls, we can have sorceresses attack from the windows while archers shoot crossbows from the roof. The only problem would be carapaced devils, but if they got into Malten, we’d be fucked anyway.”

Were carapaced devils the ones that looked like giant turtles? Dimitry rested his chin on his hand and tapped his cheek with a pointer finger. “And what are the chances of that happening?”

“A week ago, I would’ve said impossible.” Angelika leaned back and threw her boots onto the granite desk with a loud thunk. “But since heathens started coming from the north during the last night of repentance, I couldn’t tell you for sure.”

“Yeah, I saw. Didn’t they break parts of the city walls? Does that happen often?”

“No. It’s just that those bastards caught us with our pants down. We had to split up in the middle of the night without a plan. Maybe this month will be different if we manage to pull our heads out of our asses.”

Dimitry looked up at an old and rusty iron chandelier dangling over his head and took a deep breath. Heathens were a problem. His problem. Although he wasn't responsible for fighting them, he would be for mending the casualties. With other surgeons closing down their shops since his arrival, this kingdom’s small army relied entirely on him, just like Dimitry relied on them.

Would he be able to keep up with demand?

Even on a regular day, when attacking heathens were few, at least one soldier arrived at his hospital seeking treatment. A non-issue since their wounds would have received rudimentary first aid by then. Heathen’s blood already flushed out, all Dimitry had to do was disinfect and seal the liquefied gashes.

However, on a night of repentance, when hordes of heathens swarmed the city walls all at once, would casualties on the front lines receive first aid? Or would they die from rapidly deteriorating injuries while their comrades struggled to fend off nightmarish invaders?

Dimitry didn’t know.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t prepare.

There were able-bodied refugees seeking employment in Dimitry’s cathedral. Potential employees that could learn first-aid. Carry fallen soldiers. Become medievalesque EMTs and perhaps one day, with adequate equipment and training, paramedics.

“How many soldiers are injured during a typical night of repentance?”

Angelika tilted her head to the side as if in deep thought. “Maybe like twenty hurt and a few die? But usually, it’s just militiamen. Knights have armor and enchantments to protect them while we combat mages stay in the back.”

“Do you think there’ll be increased casualties in the future?”

“If heathens keep coming from the north, you can bet your ass there will.”

“In that case, we have a lot of work to do.” Dimitry stood up and kicked his uncomfortable chair back. “Go downstairs and get the refugees in order. I’ll join you shortly.”

“This isn’t a guard’s responsibility, you know? Dealing with refugees all day.” Angelika gave Dimitry an inconvenienced sigh, trudged out of the room, and stomped away.

Making sure the girl had left, Dimitry tapped his cloak’s pocket.

“What now?”

“Change of plans. Climb up into my hood. I’ll be needing your help.”

Whistling wind blew frigid air into the cathedral, directing an occasional snowflake in through shattered glass windows. It would drift down and melt on the heads of refugees who, with recently filled bellies, stood against an inner sanctum wall. One little girl, an elderly man, nineteen working-aged adults, and a giant named Milk. Promised employment, all but the latter watched a seated surgeon with hopeful eyes.

Dimitry wriggled to make himself comfortable on a cushion-less granite chair. It didn’t help. Resigning to discomfort, he examined the refugees in front of him, studying their dirt-smeared faces, ragged clothes, and eager expressions.

There were more of them compared to when Dimitry first visited two days ago. Since he promised every refugee in this cathedral jobs and basic necessities, he hoped their numbers wouldn’t increase further. By accommodating too many people, his limited resources would vanish before he could turn a sustainable profit, and his business would collapse.

Trying to support everyone would end up helping no one.

Regardless, a hospital required many workers. A fact obvious even to someone without administrative experience like Dimitry. He needed clinical assistants to handle housekeeping of patient rooms and employee living quarters, guards to keep order and pacify troublemakers, porters to move beds and patients, and a chef to feed them all. Not to mention the pharmacists and ambulance operators he wanted to train.

Dimitry cleared his throat to address the refugees. “Although many of you know me as the Jade Surgeon, my name is Dimitry. You may refer to me by whichever is most comfortable for you.

“Her majesty offered me the opportunity to take ownership of this cathedral and turn it into a hospital, and I intend to do so. But, as promised when I visited two days ago, I don’t intend to throw any of you to the curb. Anyone who wishes to stay will receive a job along with payment, housing, and food. That includes new residents.”

“Celeste guided us here!”

“I’ll do anything, Jade Surgeon! Just say the word!”

“Is it true that you intend to pay us?” a woman asked, her weary eyes holding a faint glimmer of hope.

Their unbridled enthusiasm and praise made Dimitry feel like some shady televangelist. Burying the feeling, he continued. “Before I begin assigning jobs, I want to make something clear: this will be a real hospital. I’ll be asking questions to learn what role you’re best suited for, and you must answer honestly. Raise your hand for yes, keep silent for no. I have magic that allows me to detect lies, so don’t bother trying. Is that clear?”

Despite a roar of resounding yeses, the eyebrows on Milk’s unfaltering face furrowed.

As far as Dimitry knew, this world didn’t have lie detection spells.

Did the giant man catch onto his bluff?

Acting unfazed, Dimitry lifted Gospel of Awakening’s tough leather cover to reveal a collection of sacred scriptures—his source of scrap paper. Unlike modern books, every character was handwritten and, more importantly, the book had ample blank pages. Each one clean and uniform and made from smooth yellow paper, they were doubtlessly too precious to use as a scratchpad.

But now wasn’t the time to appreciate art.

Dimitry lifted a quill from a ceramic inkwell resting on a recently emptied food barrel, then drew a chart inside the gospel. A row for every prospective employee, identified by their current number in line, and a column for each desirable trait. He glanced up at the gathering of dirty and impatient faces. “Who here can read at least one language?”

Three hands shot up.

“I don’t sense anyone lying,” Precious whispered from the back of his hood.

Expectedly, most of his prospective employees had low education levels. The knowledgeable among them would make excellent pharmaceutical apprentices for Clewin. Dimitry held his quill horizontally and etched three pitch-black checkmarks into his chart. “And how many of you can write?”

All three hands dropped.

“I see. Who here has worked in health care or medicine before?”

No response.

“Anyone here a wizard or a sorceress? Or, more broadly, can cast spells?”

The refugees shared worried glances in silence.

Dimitry stroked his freshly shaved chin. In this war-torn world, mages were more desirable than doctors: it made sense that they wouldn’t end up homeless and hungry in a country under constant threat by heathen attacks. He moved on to the next category. “Can anyone use glassware like vials?”

Once again, no response. Unsurprising results. Not only was glass rare and expensive, but it was also useless to most people. Ceramics and iron were cheaper and easier to handle.

Disappointed, Dimitry moved onto broader categories. “Who here knows how to do laundry, clean floors, among other related activities?”

Fourteen people raised their hands, mostly women. Excellent candidates for clinical assistants and launderers.

“Very good.” Dimitry scribbled an equivalent amount of checkmarks. “Who here can cook? I need someone who can feed the entire hospital and all of its patients.”

Almost everyone thrust their arms into the air, perhaps excited by the prospect of having constant access to food.

“I can, Jade Surgeon!”

One woman bowed, her voice trembling. “By Zera, choose me, Dimitry sir!”

“Me!”

“There’s no need to worry,” Dimitry said. “I promise there’ll be enough food for all of you. Who here has experience with a diverse array of cuisine and can use a bread oven like the one on the second floor of this cathedral?”

Most hands fell down, leaving only two in the air.

“Someone’s lying,” Precious whispered, “but I can’t tell who. They’re too far away.”

Thankful to have access to a corrupted creature, Dimitry stood up and stopped in front of the man who claimed himself a chef. “What’s the most people you’ve ever cooked for?”

“At least seventy, Jade Surgeon.” His eyes gleamed and sparkled like that of a car salesman. “No one knows food like me. Fish, grain, and brewing ale from fent. I’ve even prepared feasts for counts!”

Precious tugged on Dimitry’s left ear—an action indicating the presence of a liar.

Knowing that starvation made people do things far worse than lying, Dimitry preferred not to throw a desperate person out onto the streets. As a warning, he took a dark green pellet out of his cloak, flashed it before the liar’s eyes, then returned it to his pocket. “Have you heard about the Jade Surgeon’s strange magic?”

“W-what?” the liar muttered.

“I saw it myself,” Mr. Roicht, an ex-patient, said. “Those blankets and mattress covers in your hospital glowed a mysterious, dark color. Never seen anything like it.”

“Precisely.” Dimitry looked away from the old man and back at the liar. “I have other spells too—one among them can detect the truth. Are you sure you have the credentials to become my chef? If you don’t, I’ll know.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I understand. I have nothing to hide.”

So the liar chose to remain one? Dimitry reached into his cloak, pretended to grab a vol pellet resting within, and chanted a made-up spell. “Truthia.”

The other refugees, as if watching a mind-blowing demonstration, looked on with amazement and bated breath.

Dimitry shook his head. “If you lie to me so blatantly, how can I be sure you won’t do the same to your patients and co-workers?” He pointed towards the cathedral’s exit. “Leave.”

“But I swear…” The liar twisted the edge of his creased shirt. “I’ve been doing it my whole life.”

Perhaps trying to pull off Dimitry’s left ear, Precious tugged with additional force.

“Angelika,” Dimitry said, “would you kindly show him out?”

A red-robed girl stomped out from behind a distant marble pillar, a scowl on her face. “Stop wasting our time. Can you leave yourself, or do I have to make you leave?”

Milk looked up at Angelika, a hint of admiration in his usually expressionless eyes.

“I think the liar pissed his braies,” Precious whispered, suppressing a giggle.

Watching the deflated man march out of the cathedral left Dimitry wracked with guilt: he threw a homeless person back onto the cold streets. However, he had to do it to uphold the integrity of the hospital and display a warning for anyone else considering lying or stealing.

Still.

It felt wrong.

Dimitry didn’t let his indecision show. He approached the other potential chef—a woman in her mid-thirties, and, with a hand remaining in his cloak pocket, chanted “truthia” once more. “What’s the most people you’ve ever cooked for?”

“H-hundreds. I used to be a miller’s wife, you see. W-we hosted all kinds of festivals for the village.” The woman edged forward. “Please, I speak the truth!”

“She’s terrified, but I don’t sense anything else,” Precious whispered.

“Try to relax. What kind of food did you serve?”

“Food?” The woman froze as if forgetting what the word meant. “Mostly pottage, bread, sometimes cheese and bacon.”

“That’s quite the assortment. You’ll be our chef. I expect that you remain honest in the future.”

Hands held by her sides, she bowed deeply, making her body parallel to the floor. “Y-yes, Jade Surgeon.”

“Just as a reminder,” Dimitry said as he walked away from his newly hired chef, “I can provide food, money, and housing for everyone here. All I ask in return is honesty and your best efforts.” He turned around to face the antsy refugees. “Next, I’m looking for anyone with combat experience who’s willing to keep order within the hospital… among other things.”

A hesitant hand rose. “I’m a… used to be a hunter. I can use a longbow.”

Then another. “I’ve fought heathens on Volmer’s shores for a half-decade.”

“A-are crossbows fine?”

Three healthy male volunteers in total. Enough to guard the hospital and avoid relying on Malten’s watchmen. Defending this cathedral, however, would be only half of their duties: their secondary purpose was to rescue injured soldiers on nights of repentance.

That was why Dimitry sought a fourth. Similar to ambulances in the real world, he wanted to establish them in pairs: one to drive a cart, while the other performed first-aid like flushing heathen’s blood out of fresh soldier wounds.

There was only one person with combat experience who was strong enough to carry a person, maybe even two, without breaking a sweat.

The scarred giant Milk.

Dimitry glanced in his direction.

Like an unsympathetic movie hit-man, Milk looked back without a shred of emotion on his face. Then he gave a slight nod. Or did he?

Dimitry couldn’t tell for sure, but assumed Milk did. He walked back to the Gospel of Awakening, checked a few boxes, then assigned jobs.

The easy part was over.

He shut the book and glanced up. “As of today, all of you work for me. Your first assignment is to clean this entire cathedral, starting with this chamber and the dormitories on the second floor. The sooner you do that, the sooner you receive pay and training. Any questions or concerns?”

Hushed yet excited chatter filled the inner sanctum.

Guess that meant no.