Shit Water and Holy Nonsense

The stench hit me like a physical slap the moment I set foot in the village.
A nauseating blend of excrement, vomit, and death rushed into my nostrils, dragging me straight back to the worst nights of my ER shifts. Except this time, instead of disinfected hallways and sterile air-conditioning, I was greeted by the authentic perfume of the Middle Ages as I’d always imagined it: filth, sweat, and raw despair. Lowstone suddenly felt like a luxury spa by comparison.

“Holy hell,” I muttered, pressing my sleeve over my nose. “Even the room of a greasy shut-in would smell better than this dump.”

Pururun squirmed nervously inside my satchel, compacting herself into a dense blob. Even she could sense the sheer atmosphere of decay hanging over the place.

The village itself was in catastrophic shape. Bodies lay in the alleys, covered with stained sheets that looked like they hadn’t been washed in decades. Those still standing stared at me with hollow, glassy eyes and the waxy pallor of the terminally ill. A few sat hunched against walls, groaning weakly as they emptied their guts onto the muddy ground.

Cholera, I diagnosed mentally. Massive dehydration, bloody diarrhea, relentless vomiting… textbook waterborne epidemic.

I headed toward the village square, where a massive stone cross rose from the middle of a suspiciously wet and muddy patch. A handful of villagers had gathered there, more out of sheer exhaustion than any real desire for company. Heads turned as I approached — wary, desperate, hopeful.

“Who are you?” croaked a middle-aged woman, her face hollowed by disease.

“I’m a doctor,” I replied. “I came to see if I can help.”

“A healer from the Temple?” wheezed a man, pushing himself upright.

“No. Just a doctor.”

The woman let out a bitter laugh that turned into a rasping cough.
“A doctor… it’s the fever talking nonsense.”

“I came from Lowstone. People there — against my will — started calling me the Healer of the Poor.”

“Healer of the Poor!?” the man spat. “The priest told us we’re cursed! Said we needed to pay two hundred gold coins for divine intercession! That’s more than the village can make in ten years!”

“And since we can’t pay…” the woman rasped.

“…he’s letting you die,” I finished. “Charming fellow.”

I pulled Pururun from my bag and set her on the ground. She immediately began sliding across the square, examining everything with her usual curious wiggle.

“What’s that thing?” asked a scrawny boy who had been trailing me.

“My trusty partner. She helps with analysis.”

As if on cue, Pururun oozed toward the central well and began inspecting its stone rim. Moments later, she turned bright crimson and started vibrating furiously.

“Problem identified,” I said, joining her.

Leaning over the well, I got a good look — and smell — at the water. Its color was… let’s say “suspect,” and the odor was undeniable. Looking closer, I noticed the village latrines were located slightly uphill, with a faint but steady trickle running straight down toward the well.

“Your problem isn’t divine wrath,” I announced to the villagers. “It’s your toilets.”

“Our… what?”

“Your latrines. They’re contaminating your drinking water. You’ve been literally drinking your own shit. That’s why you’re all sick.”

A heavy silence followed my declaration. Then the woman shook her head slowly.
“Impossible. This well’s been here for generations. Our grandparents drank from it, and they — ”

“ — probably died of the same thing, just slower, because there were fewer of them,” I cut in. “The village grew, the latrines grew, but no one thought to separate them. Classic case.”

“But the priest said — ”

“The priest’s an idiot. This disease is called cholera. You don’t cure it with prayers. You cure it with hygiene and common sense.”

I walked through the village with Pururun, confirming my suspicions. The worst cases clustered around the well. People who lived further away or had private cisterns were in better shape.

As I circled back, a skinny man staggered out of a nearby house like a drunk. Unlike the others, he still had some color in his cheeks and didn’t look about to keel over.

“Hey! You there!” I called out.

He approached warily. “Who’re you?”

“The guy who might keep you all from dying like rats. You drink water?”

“Water?” He snorted. “Never! Only beer and wine. Water’s for horses.”

I almost burst out laughing. The village alcoholics — the ones “allergic” to water — were the only ones not sick. Delicious irony.

“And your family?” I asked.

“My wife drinks only water and tea. She’s in bed. My kids too. All sick.”

“Of course. Keep drinking, old man. For once in your life, your bad habits are paying off.”

Back in the square, I gathered the remaining able-bodied villagers.

“Listen carefully. First — close this well. Immediately. No drinking, no washing, nothing.”

“But then what do we drink?”

“There’s a stream two kilometers south. You’ll fetch your water from there and boil it before drinking.”

“Boil it? Why?”

“Because it kills the nasty little things making you sick. Second — move your latrines. As far from the village as possible, and downstream from your water sources.”

“But that’ll cost money…”

“Less than dying or paying for holy rocks!” I snapped. “What’s it gonna be — die smelling fancy or live smelling a bit less like crap?”

Pururun wobbled energetically in agreement. At least she appreciated my logic.

Before I could continue, angry voices rose at the village entrance. The priest was arriving, flanked by two armed guards, and he looked pissed.

“What’s this I hear!?” he bellowed, pointing a trembling finger at me. “You spread lies! You’re turning these poor souls away from the true faith!”

“I’m just explaining why they’re sick,” I said evenly.

“Lies and blasphemy! This epidemic is divine punishment for their sins! Only prayer and penitence can save them!”

“Oh yeah? How many people have your prayers saved so far?”

His face flushed scarlet.

“The Lord works in mysterious ways! But I will not let a charlatan like you corrupt these lost sheep!”

“Charlatan?” I echoed, summoning my surgical tools through Chirurgia Arcana. “Wanna compare methods?”

The sudden appearance of my floating scalpels made the priest and his guards recoil. In the orange glow of sunset, the blades gleamed menacingly, promising surgical precision — or violence, if needed.

“See!?” the priest cried, turning to the villagers. “He practices dark magic! He summons objects from the demonic world!”

“I practice medicine,” I corrected. “And my so-called ‘demonic objects’ save lives instead of charging gold to watch people rot.”

“You… you dare challenge the Temple’s authority?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. But honestly, I’m mostly challenging your stupidity. Pick a patient — any patient. You try your holy mumbo jumbo, I’ll try medicine. Let’s see who wins.”

The priest faltered. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being openly defied. Around us, villagers stared with a mix of fascination and fear.

“T-this is provocation!” he finally sputtered.

“No, this is science. But I get it — you’re scared.”

“Me? Scared? Guards! Arrest this man! He practices witchcraft!”

The guards hesitated. My scalpels were still orbiting me like metallic sharks, and Pururun had shifted into battle mode, her gelatinous body undulating like a predator about to strike. I wasn’t about to go down quietly.

“Think carefully,” I told the guards. “Do you really want to arrest the guy who might save your village? Or follow a man who’s been letting children die because they’re poor?”

One guard lowered his spear. The other glanced between the priest, me, and the dying villagers.

“Father Cornelius,” he said slowly. “What if… what if this guy’s right? About the water and all that. It makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Traitor!” hissed the priest. “You doubt divine words!?”

“I mostly doubt yours,” the guard shot back. “We’ve been here three weeks watching people die, and you’ve done nothing.”

The priest turned beet-red, glaring at us like the entire village had conspired against him.

“Fine!” he spat. “Fine! Try your impious methods! But when you fail, and the curse claims you too, don’t count on divine mercy!”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I said. “I’ll rely on my skills.”

With a furious huff, he spun around and stormed off toward his parish, one guard trailing him. The other stayed behind.

“So,” the remaining guard said with a shaky grin, “where do we start?”

I looked around. The sun was dipping below the horizon. The village still stank of death. And I had about fifty cholera patients on my hands — without modern medical equipment, antibiotics, or IV drips.

But I had Pururun, my knowledge, and, most importantly, a burning hatred for letting people die because of some self-righteous fraud in robes.

“We start by saving lives,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. “And by proving that medicine kicks holy nonsense right in the ass.”

Pururun quivered approvingly. At least I had one unconditional supporter.

All right, Ethan, I told myself. Time to show them what a real doctor can do when he’s not shackled by religious bureaucracy.

The night was going to be long.