Bedtime Before Lightning

The assistant croons as she rocks the jars; livers and ears and brains and hearts.

"Little one, or ones. However many you are.

Would you like to hear a story?"

Once, there was a girl who got hurt. Her body shattered and shredded so badly she should have died. But she was saved by the Surgeon.

The Surgeon, oh, he was a genius. He could work miracles with medicine. He could make even the dead feel better, so they say.

The girl, let us call her Elizabetta, was stitched and patched with an artistry that whole circles of quilters would envy, better than before. And when she opened her eyes and saw who saved her, she saw not just a genius, but someone gentle, and sweet. Well, first she saw how very handsome he was. But she saw the sweetness soon after. He was eager, then, to show her how sweet he could be.

So when he asked her, she said yes, and she went to him, and was his wife. And she was happy.

She was so happy.

They'd been together a year when he came from his work distraught. His mood was black, his face downcast.

"What's wrong, love?" Elizabetta asked.

"I have a patient whom I cannot help," he lamented, "A carpenter who has lost her left arm. Without it, she has no livelihood, and cannot feed her family. Normally it would be an easy thing to sew on a new arm, but alas! I have no other arm to give her."

He looked at Elizabetta, and had a thought. "My darling, can you spare your left arm? I hate to ask, but it pains me so to turn away one who needs my help."

It made Elizabetta's heart ache to see her man so sad, so she said "why, is that all? Give her mine, then. I can surely get by without it."

So the Surgeon cut off her left arm, and it hurt her only a little. He sewed it on to the carpenter, who was so grateful that she built the Surgeon and his wife a fine grand house to live in, which was surely a good trade for an arm, Elizabetta thought. What's an arm? She could still hug the man she loved, even if it was a bit lopsided.

The assistant hugs a baled bundle of arms, though they are cold and cannot hug back.

Not yet.

Well, they'd been living in the fine new house for six months when the Surgeon came home all drenched in misery again.

"What's wrong, love?" Elizabetta asked.

"I have a patient whom I cannot help," he moaned. "A miner who has lost his right arm. Without it he has no livelihood, and cannot feed his family. Normally it would be an easy thing to sew on a new arm, but alas!"

"...You have no arm to give him," Elizabetta said. Her phantom limb twinged.

He nodded, and looked at Elizabetta. "My darling, can you spare your right arm? I hate to ask, but it pains me so to turn away one who needs my help."

It made Elizabetta's heart ache to see her man so sad, so she said "This old thing? He can have it. I hardly use it."

So the Surgeon cut off her right arm, and such a neat job he did this time that it scarcely hurt her at all. He sewed it on to the miner, who was so grateful that he showered the Surgeon and his wife with copper ore and gold ingots and uncut jewels, which was surely a good trade for an arm, Elizabetta thought. And it paid for servants to come to their fine house to do all the tasks she couldn't manage any more without arms.

Though... she did miss hugging her man.

The assistant bounces a skull in a jar upon her knee, gently, so as not to slosh. She plants a kiss upon the lid before she carries on.

Three months later, the surgeon came home again sorrowing, bleak and teary.

"What's wrong, love?" Elizabetta asked.

"I have a patient whom I cannot help," the surgeon whispered brokenly. "The King, our King, his heart is failing. He will surely die of it, and he has no heir. Our land will fall to ruin. If he were young and strong, it would be an easy thing to simply take the bad heart out. I have learned by my arts that a heart is not nearly so necessary as one might suppose. But alas! The King is simply too old and frail to do without."

He looked at Elizabetta, and had a thought. "My darling, can you spare your heart? I hate to ask, but it pains me so to turn away one who needs my help."

Elizabetta hesitated, but her heart... necessary or not, her heart still ached so to see her man sad.

"My heart is yours, love," she said. "It was always yours, to do with as you please."

So the surgeon cut away her heart, and so practiced and advanced had his skills become that she did not feel a thing.

She barely knew it was gone.

He sewed it into the King, who was so grateful that he made the surgeon Prince of all the realm, and his wife a Princess, and bade them come live with him in the palace. A crown was surely a fine trade for a heart, Elizabetta thought.

She didn't even miss hugging the Surgeon anymore.

The assistant places a hand on her own heart. Her left hand, with four fingers. The right hand with six, an extra pinky stitched to the side, she rests on the heart jar upon the shelf. The assistant's own heart is beating. The heart in the jar is not.

Both those things will probably change. Sooner than either heart would like. And isn't that always the way of things?

One scant month after their coronation, the Surgeon (now the Prince) came into their royal chambers, his face a mask of despair.

"What's wrong?" Elizabetta asked.

"I have a patient whom I cannot help," he said, weeping openly.

"Who is it?" Elizabetta asked.

"Myself," he sighed, "myself. My wits are beginning to leave me. My mind is beginning to decay. The medical miracles do not come so easily. The art of statecraft, which the King is trying to teach me, is coming slow, far, far, too slow. I fear that when the King dies, I shall not be able to do all that is expected of me."

He looked at Elizabetta. "My darling, might I have a little of your brain? I hate to ask, save that the need is so dire...."

And Elizabetta's heart did not ache. Because it wasn't there.

Elizabetta didn't feel anything at all.

And Elizabetta said "No."

The Surgeon blinked, the scalpel already in hand. Thinking he'd misheard, he said again. "May I have a little of your brain, my darling? I hate to ask...." He stepped towards her, blade raised high.

And Elizabetta kicked him in the face.

She kicked him over and over. She kicked the Surgeon's head in. Until he was shredded and shattered worse than she had been when they met. His face a cracked ruin of blood and bone, his failing brains soaked through her shoes.

And then she ran.

She ran and ran and ran. Perhaps she's running still.

The assistant swallows. Tears trickle down the scars and stitchwork in her cheeks. The practice grafts. The training for tomorrow.

The barometers and almanacs all say the perfect storm is coming.

What is the moral? Who can say? Maybe it's a warning not to give too much away.

There is electricity in the air already. The assistant's hair crackles with it, puffing like a dandelion. Here and there an organ twitches in its jar. On the table, the legs already strapped in place wiggle their toes, she thinks, just slightly.

Though he would say she's deluding herself.

She tries not to listen. He doesn't listen without even having to try.

Not like their child.

She's sure it hears her, even now.

She hopes it will remember.

Maybe it's a warning that if you're going to start chopping...

...Take the legs first. Or leave the heart 'til last.

The heart beats once. She's sure it does. And the jar of eyes is all turned towards her. She wipes her own eyes and smiles at them.

"Good night, my darling. Darlings, all. I'll see you in the morning."