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For Whom the Bell Tolls by John Donne
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
The infection arrives like a sudden storm, blanketing the east side of town in a grimy, viscous fog. It smells just as bad as it looks, like burning rotten wood. If you open your mouth it tastes like rancid meat and the flavor lingers long after the air leaves your lungs.
Artemy trudges through the Hindquarters with heavy feet. Sweat drips down his face and collects on his top lip, scruffy from lack of shaving. He wipes the back of his hand across his jaw and smears dirt across his face.
To say Artemy feels unwelcome in the Town on Gorkhon is an understatement. The kin treat him like some kind of interloper, and if that isn’t enough, it’s beginning to feel as if the town itself is rejecting him, like a dead body with unfinished business. If he wasn’t an educated man, he’d think the infection was some kind of divine punishment—For what exactly, he can't say. Granted, he hasn’t slept for longer than a couple of hours in the three days since he arrived, so that might obscure his perception. Exhaustion is one thing—he has become familiar with exhaustion in medical school, staying up late to study, long hours at the teaching hospital, in the operating room—but this is something altogether new.
Like now, as a gray infection cloud pulses and oscillates before him, the shape warps into a child bent over, coughing their lungs out.
Wait, that’s no infection cloud.
He rushes over to kneel on the dirt.
“Are you all right?” he asks the child. They cough so much they begin to gag. Their little lungs can’t take it. Artemy doesn’t think, just moves. He scoops up the child. “Let’s get you out of here.”
He rushes down the path until they reach the Gut which hasn’t been touched by the infection yet. There, he sets the child on the ground once more, which spurs another coughing fit.
“Don’t stick around when the air is dirty, okay? It’s not safe,” he says to them. They nod, their face contorting in pain, though Artemy isn’t sure if they understand. “I’m not mad, I’m just worried.” But he really can’t blame them, can he?
The kid doesn’t seem to be infected yet, but it’s a close thing. Artemy rifles through his pack to see what he can give them. He doesn’t have much left: one tincture, a handful of herbs, a morphine capsule. He administers the tincture and the pain medication. The kid seems to lighten up a little and gets to their feet.
Without saying thank you, they run away from him, into the brush. But Artemy doesn’t need words of appreciation. What he needs is that tincture and the pain medication, and now he’s left with nothing. But this is the job, right? A bitterness burns in the back of his throat. It's a feeling he has become quite familiar with over the last few days.
He continues on to the Bridge Square.
Compared to the twisted and winding cobblestone streets in the rest of the town, the path to the Stillwater feels almost quaint, underdeveloped. He trods along the dirt path, unruly steppe grass scraping against his boots.
For a moment his mind wanders and he appraises the oddly shaped Stillwater.
The building is round and painted a faded cerulean, adobe bricks peeking through the cracks in the layers of paint and plaster. Oddly, it’s supported by a buttress or two, jutting out sharply against it. He can’t tell if they are load bearing or purely decorative. His father hadn't sent him to the capital to study architecture anyway. He was trained to be, meant to be, a surgeon, a menkhu, and that alone.
But before he has time to dwell on the feeling a sight greets him that makes his heart begin to race. He clenches his teeth and his hands curl into fists. He swears that his right eyelid is twitching minutely.
A cabal of executors stand in a circle in front of the door to the Stillwater. The beakheads were blocking the way and chatting genially amongst themselves. One of them occasionally looks around as if they are looking for something or someone.
He can tell when they notice him approaching. He watches the executor closest to him stiffen and then turn around and whisper something to their companions.
Artemy decides that he will try to just shoulder his way past them without a word. He's learned that they are much like vultures; they follow the stench of rot, and wherever they land, there is sure to be carrion.
Every time he has seen them in town or in his dreams they either carry ill omens or simply mock him. For what? For being too slow, too stupid, too ambitious, too principled? It doesn't matter, he doesn't plan to talk to them anyways. He will quickly move past them before they can sink their talons into his shoulder and pull him aside for conversation.
As he tries to push his way past them, one of them squeaks, “Hey! Get in line! Bachelor Dankovsky told us he would meet us here thirty minutes ago to discuss further sanitary precautions and he still hasn't arrived!”
Artemy bares his teeth and snarls, “Get out of my way beakhead. I have more important matters to discuss with him.”
The executor tilted his mask slightly, expressing a sudden curiosity. “You think your business is more important than ours, Burakh? Pray tell, what is this most important business of yours?”
Artemy should ignore them. He could easily push past these orderlies on stilts and be on his way. But the frustration of the last few days and his exasperation with Dankovsky boils over and he can't help the venom that laces his words.
“Your venerable Bachelor Dankovsky left a child to die today. Barely spared a glance at him before he rushed off to ‘more important’ business. And guess who was able to help him? Me, a man who never finished his schooling. So if you can excuse me, I have to go remind this fellow doctor of his Hippocratic Oath.”
He can feel the impact of his words as the executors clatter out of his way without saying a word.
When he enters the Stillwater, he is greeted by a winding hallway with closed doors on each side. He takes an educated guess and opens the door into the rotunda. The first thing he notices when he walks in is the shallow pit at the center of the room. Carved into its sides are simple benches. Books are strewn about in the pit, and the room looks unoccupied.
On the far wall, he sees a barefoot woman,her straw blond hair tied back into a ponytail. She's draped in scarves and rags, seemingly in an offensive mimicry of the kin's herb brides. She sits atop an old piano, picking at the peeling white paint.
He can tell when she notices that he's staring at her rather than around the room. She leans forward to gaze at him inquisitively with aquamarine eyes.
She's the one to break the silence. “Who are you?”
Artemy straightens his spine and corrects his posture before responding “Artemy Burakh. Surgeon.”
She very deliberately looks him over, wrinkles her nose and says harshly, “What do you want? You look like you can barely read. And I don't think you're into stargazing.”
He supposes that by trying to straighten up, and perhaps puff his chest a bit, he instead invites her to take in his appearance in its entirety. He knows his clothes are stained and grimy, he has dirt and blood under his fingernails and the odor of death must still cling to him from his foray into an infected district not more than half an hour ago.
He wants to be understanding about her reaction, he really does, but he cannot find it in him to be empathetic. He didn't want to talk to the executors, he doesn't want to talk to this girl, he just wants to give Dankovsky an earful about Patches, and frankly what a rotten little bastard he's been since he's taken up residence in the town, mere days ago.
Anger wells up inside him, so he pinches the bridge of his nose and takes a breath before responding. “Where's Daniil Dankovsky? He's staying here right?”
His words must have come out harsher than he expected because the woman looked startled and she stuttered as she began to respond. “He…He isn't here. And he isn't coming! He's gone to the Town Hall. For a meeting. An important meeting. With doctors.”
Whatever thin thread of self control Artemy was holding onto snaps and he begins to laugh. “Oh, I'm sure. I bet it's a whole convention too, doctors from all over the country traveled to meet in our backwater shithole to discuss the latest developments in immunology. Let me go there myself, I haven't been able to attend a lecture since I was sent off to the front.”
The woman sputters, face red, and reaches for him, grabbing his arm before she speaks. “No, it's true! There is going to be a meeting in the town hall with all the town’s leaders and doctors, which I think is my Daniil, Isidor’s apprentice, and some guy named Vorakh?”
He yanks his arm out of her grasp and stalks toward the door, then points at the ceiling. “Oh I'm sure sweetheart, and I'm sure that those are rats upstairs that are wearing a hole into your floor. Excuse me, I have very important business to discuss with ‘your Daniil.’”
He ascends the spiral staircase, aware of the clomping of his boots but unable to care about the noise. If it offends the Bachelor, well, he’ll just have to deal with it. Oh, I’m sorry, Artemy will say. We don’t have time for pleasantries, Bachelor. It’s just that your negligence may put Patches in the grave. Yeah, that’ll shut him up.
When he reaches the top of the stairs, he pauses. The attic is circular with sparse furnishings and a tall, dome vaulted ceiling. Daniil stands at his desk by the window, sans snakeskin jacket, his crisp, white sleeves folded to his elbows. He’s hunched over, his attention split between texts laid open before him, muttering under his breath as he scribbles in a notebook. Either he hasn’t noticed Artemy yet, or he’s pretending he hasn’t.
Artemy clears his throat. No reaction. He nearly sees red.
He does it again, this time louder, with enough force that his throat feels raw.
At the second cough, Daniil puts his pen down and turns around to look at him. He has a soft smile on his face and the dappled light from the window makes his amber eyes glimmer.
He claps his hands together and says “Ah Burakh! I'm glad those urchins in the warehouse conveyed my message to you. Also, I'm glad that—”
Artemy cuts him off. “Oh I received your message. From the dead palm of—From—” Daniil purses his lips between two fingers, watching him. Artemy shakes his head in an effort to gather his thoughts. “Where do you get off telling Patches he’s a lost cause? Who do you think you are? Coming in here…” He waves an arm to gesture vaguely at the town, at everything.
“Patches?...The orphan at the warehouse? I examined him. His breathing was weak and he cried out in pain when I held his wrist in order to try and calculate his pulse. I was not able to determine what ailed him. I'm not a clinician, I'm a researcher.
"I knew I had nothing on hand to help him. I also happen to be apprised of the medicine supply in town and I doubted anything we have in stock could help him. You're a physician as well, you know how excruciating it would be if I had administered the wrong medicine. I did not wish to put him through any more misery.”
“I don’t understand how you can talk like that. You know we have a responsibility to these people. And I was able to help him. With my father’s alembic I’m able to produce tinctures.” He reaches into his pocket to show him an example, but comes up empty. “I might’ve been too late.”
“Too bad they hadn't called you first, you know how frail children are, you have less time.” Daniil looks down contemplatively before his head snaps up “Give me that tincture. Let me examine it. Perhaps this can be the bit of steppe ‘magic’ I can put my faith in.”
Artemy’s breath catches at Daniil’s interest, but he recovers quickly. “I gave my last one away. But if I find some time later, I’ll deliver one to you. It’s, uh, the twyre. My father—He left instructions.”
“And what are the effects of this ‘twyre’? I remember Ms. Lyuricheva saying that an unusual number of these herbs were in bloom. It's the reason why the air is so painful and spicy. It's the reason I tire quickly and hunger constantly tears at my stomach. You're saying this herb can also be used as a medicine?” Daniil leans back against his desk and grips it with both hands. He drums his fingers against it waiting for Artemy's response.
“Yes. It’s…” Artemy trails off. He didn’t expect Daniil to listen to him, let alone engage with what he has to say. And the way Daniil looks at him—not that it’s in any sort of way, most likely—makes Artemy momentarily forget why he was so mad in the first place. “Who’s the girl in rags downstairs?” he asks.
Daniil gives Artemy a curious look.
“Ms. Yan? Well, she's the mistress of the Stillwater. This is her house. While I am still in town at the request of the Kains, it's due to Eva’s kindness and generosity that I am staying in this spacious attic.”
He speaks measuredly, but with a sort of affection Artemy can’t place. He should drop the subject, but he can’t. He studies Daniil for a moment as he decides how to word his question.
“And are you also…hers?”
A slight blush rises to Daniil’s cheeks but his eyes harden and the corners of lips turn down. He responds “Am I her what?” His tone is steely, and it seems like he wants Artemy to spell out his question.
“I didn’t know if perhaps, well.” Daniil raises his brow, prompting him further. Artemy straightens, unsure of himself now. “She called you ‘her Daniil,’”Artemy says, his voice low. He has yet to say Daniil’s name out loud in his presence, and it is vulnerable, delicate on his tongue. “It was not my intention to…My apologies, Bachelor, I feel out of sorts today. You must forgive me.”
Daniil’s eyes soften as he watches Artemy struggle for words. “You are forgiven Burakh. I imagine you must be having quite a difficult time with the recent death of your father, not to mention that you were being hunted in the streets as his murderer. I imagine it can take a toll on the psyche.
“As for Eva, she has taken quite quickly to me and holds a deep affection for me even though we've scarcely known each other for three days. While I am greatly appreciative of her generosity and her companionship these last few days, I do not return her…affections.”
Artemy is suddenly self-conscious of his hands. He rests them on his hips, then clasps them in front of him. Daniil’s gaze, while kind, is unforgivingly consistent. “Ah. I see.”
An uncomfortable moment passes before Artemy remembers himself.
“Yes, the last few days have been chaotic indeed,” Artemy says. “I’d hoped for a break, but with the situation in the east of town, I fear we won’t have the time.”
Daniil pushes off the desk and stands in front of Artemy and speaks. “That is actually why I wanted to meet you today, as soon as possible.” He pulls out his pocket watch and checks the time. He returns the watch to his vest pocket and continues.
“In a few scant minutes, we will be summoned to the town hall for a meeting with all the 'feudal' leaders of this town as well as all the medical professionals, which as far as I can tell is just you, me and Rubin. As you've clearly noticed, an outbreak of the sand pest has started spreading, and according to Rubin, the worst is yet to come. We must prepare.”
“Sand pest,” Artemy repeats. “Just like five years ago. When did you figure this out?”
Daniil crosses his arms and taps his fingers on his upper arms. He emanates an impatient energy. “I confirmed it this morning and left a message with those children when they said they were going to seek you out. With confirmation in the form of blighted houses, the leaders started making preparations and organizing a meeting. To be frank, everything was being organized and arranged without your input.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Frustration pricks at Artemy like a thorny weed. “I ask you contact me sooner in the future. I’m not as incapable as everyone has decided I am. I’m a surgeon, and a damn good one at that.”
“The town leaders decided you didn't need to be kept in the loop, that you were just a pair of hands to command.” Daniil's voice softens at what he says next, making Artemy feel oddly vulnerable. “But I've seen the bodies at the station, I've seen how their sinews were cut with surgical precision. I know that you not only have nimble fingers and can wield a scalpel with exceptional finesse, but also that you have a keen and quick mind.”
“Right.” Something soft buzzes in Artemy’s chest, an unfamiliar feeling. He is reminded of when he was a child, lost in fields of twyre, feeling like he probably knew the way home but was unsure until he tread that path. He shifts his weight between his feet, resisting the urge to move forward. To do what, he isn’t sure. “Exactly. I mean—Thank you, emshen. Really. It means a lot to me.”
He can hardly recall that morning. He didn’t expect to be welcomed back with such animosity, and it happened so quickly, he had no choice but to react in kind. And it threw him into social exile.
“The town leaders can—” He stops himself before he can say something truly out of line. “First Saburov sends out his patrol men to grab me and accuse me of my father's murder. Then the Kain’s acolytes tear at my clothes and my flesh because they think I killed old Simon. And Böos Vlad, he lets me out of jail. He convinces Saburov to let me go and the Kains to call off their search. And now fat Vlad sits on his chair, sedate and dismissive, trying to keep me at his beck and call.”
Daniil taps his chin with a slender finger as he considers his next words. “I don't know if you have heard, but the elder Olgimski has taken to calling you ‘his personal physician.’ We've only met briefly so far, but this didn't seem like something you would have consented to. So, I called you to see what you thought of that and what you were planning to do. You didn't seem like you were one to be collared like that.”
Artemy scoffs. “Fat Vlad has another thing coming if thinks I’m going to be his lapdog.” Exasperated, he massages his forehead, hoping it doesn't leave a sooty smudge. “But I don’t know that I have a choice. He runs this town, owns everything in it.”
“And that's the heart of the matter isn't it? We have to work around and despite these men rather than with them. While they're occupied by their petty political squabbles, we will be developing a vaccine!” Daniil finishes the statement with a flash of a manic grin and a flourish of his hand. He holds the pose for a moment and then deflates with a sigh. Artemy can see the weight of the last three days in the lines on the bachelor's face.
“A vaccine?”
“Yes, a vaccine.”
“I don’t understand. What about the people who are currently sick? Have you been to the skinners?”
Daniil's posture stiffens and the corners of his mouth pull into a frown.
“I don't know. I don't know anything about the disease. The only thing I know is that the last time the sand pest visited this town it had a one-hundred-percent mortality rate within twenty-four hours. But, I don't need to know much about this particular bacteria to make a vaccine. The procedure is the same every time. Cultivate the bacteria, weaken it and administer it so it can act as a prophylaxis.”
“While that may very well be useful for other people in other towns, I’m having a hard time seeing how that will help the people here, right now.”
“Don't you see Burakh? This is bigger than your town! The town is already a goner! We're dead men walking. What we can do is prevent this from spreading like the plague, which, mind you, started not far from here some six-hundred-fifty years ago.”
Daniil’s words light a fire in his veins, but Artemy has to keep a level head. There are so few people he trusts here, and most of them are children. And, despite their rough start, he and Daniil seem to be on the same page today, so he resists resorting to name-calling.
“The town you’re talking about is my home. It may be easy for you to give up on them, but I can’t. I have to try.”
Daniil sighs dejectedly. “What’s your plan? It's all well and good to want to save everyone, but this is no time to play hero! We can't afford to spend time and resources on some sort of…” He waves his hand as he thinks. “Some sort of panacea, a pipe dream. ”
“Maybe it is. But I suppose that’s the difference between the two of us,” Artemy bites. Daniil wears a slightly amused expression, but Artemy finds it isn’t nearly as annoying as it should be. “I’ll try to help you where I can, but I hope you can understand that my responsibility is to these people first and foremost. I will not abandon them.”
Daniil bows his head forward and exhales deeply. It appears he's given up on trying to convince Artemy of the folly of his ways.
“I disagree that this is the best use of your time as one of the only medics in town, but the way you hold yourself implies that there is more than mere sentimentality at play. However slim your chances of success are, I sincerely hope you succeed.”
He offers his hand, and the sight sends a jolt through Artemy’s near-empty stomach. He’s familiar with the custom, but it isn’t common practice for men to touch each other in such a way.
“Yes.” Artemy steps forward and takes his hand. “I hope the same for you.” Closer now, he can see the creases next to Daniil’s temples as a smile teases at his features. They linger for a moment, and the warmth of Daniil’s hand seeps through the supple leather of his glove.
Daniil’s lips part, and just as he looks like he’s about to say something more, the Bells begin to toll. The one from the cathedral rings loudly in Artemy’s ear, and the one from the town hall follows faintly mere seconds behind.
The two of them instinctively move to the window. Outside, it’s the same September evening, the same golden-gray sky streaked with cirrus clouds, though now everything is abandoned. No children at play, no townspeople wandering about. Assumably they’ve rushed inside at the sound of the bell.
“The meeting,” Daniil says, though neither of them move to leave. For a moment, they ignore the ringing as they idle by the vibrating window.
“The Polyhedron is quite something," Daniil says. He gestures to the tower looming over the square, his tone kind, even admiring. “Perhaps there is something in this town worth saving.”
The Polyhedron is a vessel made from its own entrails, a creature that seems embryonic despite having stood tall for over many a year. Artemy doesn't understand how it could inspire admiration in a man, awe perhaps, but appreciating it was beyond his ability.
As he scrutinizes the impossible structure, a shiver crawls up his spine. The longer he stares, the larger the pit in his stomach feels, and the deeper the chill in his bones sink. It almost makes the dread, fear, and loneliness that always lurk just beneath the surface bubble forth and spill out in the form of tears.
He rips his eyes away from the Polyhedron and instead looks at the man standing next to him. The bachelor looks contemplative, lost in thought, almost biting the gloved thumb at his lips. Artemy looks away before he can be caught staring.
He must return his thoughts to his duty. Daniil is right that time is precious, and every wasted second could mean lives lost. Perhaps Daniil can come to appreciate the people too. Perhaps he won't leave them to their fate without a fight.
So instead, Artemy agrees with him. “Yes, it's a marvel isn't it? I couldn't imagine anything quite like this being built anywhere else in the country.”
He studies Daniil, the way he squints at the light, how he chews on the inside of his lip. A big city dandy sticking his nose in the business of a rural steppe town. Daniil’s eyes dart to his. Artemy’s heart flutters.
“Ready?” Daniil asks as he waves his hand toward the door.
Artemy nods. He straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath in, filling his lungs to the brim. He puffs out his chest again. The odds are stacked against him, but perhaps fate knows something he does not.