Penelope's Unconventional Odyssey

A man stumbled into the clinic, wiping blood from his face.

"Señora..."

"Doctora," I corrected him. "Doctora."

He looked blankly at me, and then turned to the knight standing behind him. "She said señora..."

"She's a doctora," said the knight, gesturing to my white robe with a gauntleted hand. "Doctors don't go around calling themselves señoras."

The patient started to say something, but the knight cut him off. "And she's not a lady... she's just a doctor."

I sighed, pulled off my gloves, and smiled at the patient. "How can I help you?"

"I was... I was attacked in the alleyway on my way home," he stammered, pointing vaguely behind him. "Three men jumped me, and one of them had a knife." He touched his cheek where blood still streamed down his face and chin.

"Go get some water in the corner," I told the knight, pointing to the bucket next to the little work table against the wall. He looked at me for a moment, then grabbed it and brought it over to the patient, who gratefully splashed some water onto his face from it. The blood began to steam slightly as it mixed with the water that had been sitting there for weeks now that we didn't have enough money for soap anymore.

I moved in closer to examine his wound; as I suspected, it was already beginning to clot up nicely. "It's not bad," I told him, cleaning away some of the blood with a wet rag. "But you're going to have a scar." He winced slightly as I wiped more blood away from his face. "It really wasn't that deep... definitely not worth making such a fuss over." I picked up my small pair of scissors and snipped off a few threads before applying a dab of ointment and wrapping it up with a clean piece of cloth. The patient took it gratefully as I turned back towards him and began unwrapping my hands. "I'll give you some herbs for your wife or mother to make into an infusion for you... that should help clean any infection out of it. You'll be good as new in no time." I smiled at him reassuringly and he shook my proffered hand before leaving through the door behind me wrapped in his fresh bandage and holding his herbs hopefully in front of him as if they were offerings from a celestial healer.

The knight quickly followed after him, pausing only long enough to whisper something into my ear: "You need to watch yourself out here... this is dangerous territory." He closed the door behind himself before I could answer him. I continued getting re-wrapped so that I could begin treating another patient when suddenly there was a loud noise outside which sounded like someone screaming before ending abruptly. In an instant, the knight flung open the door again and ran out into the alleyway outside while I hesitated briefly before following him out to investigate the source of the commotion.

What we discovered was a scene of chaos and violence. Three men were lying on their backs on the ground while two other knights were trying desperately to subdue another man who had been grievously wounded with an arrow protruding from his side. One of the knights applied a makeshift tourniquet to the injured man's leg while the other struggled to keep him restrained on the ground until reinforcements arrived, which they did moments later when two more knights appeared, brandishing large mallets that they employed decisively to subdue the wounded combatant, who seemed determined to fight to the bitter end.

Around us, women screamed in terror from their windows above, or else ran out into the street, screaming insults or pulling their children close behind them while gesturing in anguish toward the violence. As the wounded man finally met his inevitable demise – still clutching the arrows that had brought about his downfall – a sudden hush fell over the scene, save for the women who continued shrieking hysterically.

In this tense silence, one voice rose up above all others, demanding an explanation for the calamity and accusing me of failing to prevent it. The presence of these strangers – dark-skinned individuals dressed in black clothing who spoke no Spanish but conversed amongst themselves in what appeared to be Arabic – set the locals on edge, with many insisting that they were responsible for the carnage before us. Amidst the cacophony of fear and anger, I found myself dragged remorselessly into this gathering storm, as blame and responsibility were heaped upon me – an innocent bystander caught in the midst of events spiraling rapidly out of control. And as the mob cried for retribution, one refrain rang louder and more deadly in my ears: "Kill! Kill! Kill!"