Turbinio

Mint and Jambu

You left a little more than two hours ago. As he had promised, Mountain Tim called in a group of police friends to fix your wagon, and you're pretty sure it was cleaner than before. You promptly thanked him and handed him some special balms to help him recover as quickly as possible, and went on your way.

On the way, you had enough time to think about everything Mountain Tim had said about that cursed skill and also think about the moment when you shot that girl. Later you found out that her name was L.A. Boom Boom and she was in the race along with her father and brother who were killed the same night. You felt a sinking feeling in your stomach when you thought about why Gyro and Johnny had killed that family, but by all indications, they were terrorists just like Oyecomova.

The sun was burning like hell, and you had no more clay in your bag. You spoke little to Cadichon and ate almost nothing. You stayed on the wagon calm, quiet and serene like a lake in the sun. You remembered the words of an old friend: ''Blessed are those who haven't seen and believe.'' And those who need to see to believe? What about those who, like you, see and still can't believe? Mountain Tim said that only a stand user can see someone's stand and those words pounded in your head for hours.

Thinking about that phrase and your old friend brought back memories that should have been buried by then.

May 1883, in Nicaragua.

It wasn't so long ago that you had a vehicle and a mule to travel around. In hard times you stayed in small villages and hitchhiked with strangers or hid in trains. But now and then you got lost in the vast expanses of the rainforests.

On one of these daring journeys, you got lost in a region known as the Bosawas and spent many weeks in a village. Although the place was very remote, there was a small commerce, a communal stable, and even a church. You were very young and so were taken in by a man named Reverend Innes.

You remember two particularly striking episodes that occurred in Nicaragua that year. The first, before you reached the village.

In some regions of the Americas at that time of year, the climate is unmistakably tropical: wet as a swamp and hot as a desert, ideal for dying as fast as your body can rot. Of course, there was water and food in abundance, but the weather was debilitating and made you feel dizzy all the time.

You always carried the bare essentials: knives, water, a first aid kit, herbs, and of course your precious dried bananas.

During one of those episodes of vertigo, you cut yourself on the terrifying branches of a silk floss tree. A deep wound on your arm that bled for a long time and cried out to be stitched. After a few stubborn groans of pain and failed attempts to move your arm, you retrieved a needle and thread from your pocket.

Sewing up your own arm in such a situation wasn't for everyone. Because of the sweaty, dirty, swollen, and aching skin, the needle just slipped out of your fingers and unnecessary holes were poked in you. When you finally calmed down, you managed with difficulty to make the first knot in your skin. The pain was unbearable, a few tears ran down your dirty face and all you wanted to do was scream and kick. For a moment you thought about giving up halfway, but you remembered that the pain of pulling the thread out of a wound was worse than what you felt at that moment.

What made this event unforgettable, apart from the unbearable pain, was the feeling that came. Sudden stability, as if someone more experienced had taken over your body. What was at first irregular and widely spaced knots became a perfect suture worthy of a surgeon. For years you thought it was only in the heat of the moment, desperation and need that enabled you to make a fantastically perfect suture.

The other memorable event occurred a few weeks later when you were already being welcomed by the villagers. Reverend Innes, like you, wasn't from there. You had different experiences as travelers, but your spirits were similar. The Reverend was a wise and generous man who had earned his Catholic title in the village. He knew and always said that your skills as a healer were unusual, something he, as a man who had crossed three continents, had never seen in someone so young.

You always gave your mother that credit, of course. But Reverend Innes knew it was something else, or rather, he sensed it.

His faith was strengthened when you promptly responded to the cry of a woman in the church. She was carrying a thin, weak child in her arms, desperately lamenting past sins.

The child was born with what was called a cleft lip. You had no idea what caused it and what you could do to help the child who hadn't been able to nurse for days. The mother blamed herself for simple adulterous thoughts she had in the past, now dipping her son in her tears. You couldn't watch this suffering for long and decided to believe for a brief moment in the potential that Reverend had placed in you.

You asked the woman for her trust and performed a brief surgery on the child. You gave him mint oil and extracts from a plant called jambu to serve as an anesthetic. The same calm and the same stability ruled your body as you placed the first suture in the child's lips. Everything happened so quickly and was perfect. You were adored, admired, and claimed. That day you recognized your talent. You weren't just anyone.

A few more weeks passed and you decided to get back on the road. At that time there was a lot of colonial tension and you felt that you couldn't stay in one place. Your talent wasn't selfish or money-minded but would help you and others survive.

Cadichon was a parting gift from Reverend Innes. Seven years have passed since you last saw him, and a certain resentment still rages in your chest. You don't expect to see him again, but you promised him and yourself that you'll take care of Cadichon and protect her with your own life. Reverend's eager smile and wise words keep coming to your mind when you need them most.

After wandering for a long time, you came back to the horrible reality of the Arizona desert. Those barren, repetitive plains hurt your eyes, but there was something else on the horizon.

A small, blurry green dot on a palomino horse. He was alone, and you shook your head to make sure you weren't delusional.

''Hey... Cadichon, he looks familiar.'' You said to the mule, who put up the ears in concern.

It was Diego Brando, the insufferable Britain you saw on the first stage. He looked tired and the sun had beaten on his sensitive skin. You knew that the heat of the tropics was especially dangerous for the Europeans, and your thoughts intensified when you saw Diego's half-closed eyes dodging the burning sun.

''Hey, your name is Diego, right?'' You called out to him and briefly felt that he had already noticed your presence. ''Judging by your face, you already drunk all the tea you bought, hadn't you?''