Thrand (Part Three): Adventures!

 

To begin with, she pulled down the coverlet and gently opened Thrand’s rather ornate sleeping gown. She held back her thick hair and put one slightly pointed ear to his wide, hairy chest. After a moment, she moved her head down to his paunch and listened there, too. The Morg became acutely aware of every gurgle and squelch rumbling in his stomach; apparently his eggs were not best pleased with their new home and wanted to swim. The healer lifted her head. She looked vaguely satisfied, but whether this was because all was well or because she had found what she had expected was hard to tell.

She put her hands on either side of his head and turned his face firmly towards the lamp.

“Open,” she ordered.

Thrand obeyed, and the next thing found her head halfway down his muzzle, fingers moving the lips up and down to examine his fangs down to the gums. He almost gagged trying to hold his breath out of courtesy, but her next command was “Exhale. Long. Deep.” With some relief he did so. To his embarrassment he heard her take a prolonged, assessing sniff. She withdrew her head. Thrand raised his eyebrows, but the healer said nothing.

Instead, she silently drew back the pouches of his eyes and examined their yellowing, bloodshot sockets, peered into his ears, lifted his arms and smelled the pits, threw back the covers and felt his feet and up his legs, pressing them firmly like a housewife judging a ham at the butcher shop. She dropped the leg and stood back.

“How often do you use the chamberpot during the night?” she asked, face neutral.

“Four or five times,” he rumbled. “Quite often during the day, as well. It’s getting to be a nuisance,” he confessed pettishly, as if complaining about the service.

“And how often do you … make?”

“Once every three days.” Thrand said testily. “But when it comes, it’s a big one. Look, what does this have to do with my heart?” he growled. “That’s what I’ve called you here for!”

“Everything’s connected,” the old lady said calmly. “Your body is all one system, you know. Now, has your pot been emptied tonight?”

She insisted on looking at that as well, swirling it under the light, and even taking another long, deep sniff of the contents. After she put it away, she asked him to sit up in bed.

“This part may take a while. I ask you to be patient. I ask you not to stir much, or to say anything; part of what I am doing is Listening, in a special sense. Your Morg doctors do not do this, I know. They cannot do it.” She took his arms just below his paws. Her fingers seemed to seek out certain points of contact and press gently but firmly into them. Thrand could feel his pulses moving under her touch. The old healer closed her eyes.

“Quiet,” she breathed. “Peace.”

Notes: This section is greatly influenced by Robertson Davies The Cunning Man and his Dr. Jonathan Hullah with his holistic diagnosis methods. But the 'magic' is coming up soon.