Economics

Jolly surveyed the boy’s skin. Lesions covered his upper body, leaking noxious pus. The boy caught Jolly’s eye, silently pleading for relief. It was a well crafted avena curse, a child killing curse. The boy had days before death would grant its own succor.

“Shit, kid,” he muttered.

“Please, your man swore you could save him. Can you?” his mother asked.

Jolly nodded. “I can, but whoever cursed you is still out there. Do you have the eighty silver?”

She pursed her thin lips, the only thing delicate about her. She pushed a snarl of red hair out of her face. “If I pay eighty, we won’t survive the winter. Please, Wise Master, have mercy. How can you save my boy just to condemn him to starvation?”

Haggling. Jolly hated haggling. That was Rheumy’s job. “I’m not a Wise Master. You can’t afford a Wise Master. That is why you called me, and I came here in good faith at great personal risk. Pay me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fine. I’ll get your damn coin. Just save him.”

Jolly motioned her out, waiting until her ample backside cleared the door before he slammed it. He looked back at the boy twisting around in bed to avoid the sores. Jolly sighed and grabbed a chair to wedge the door shut. Unbuttoning his black coat, the hem nearly sweeping the wooden floor as he crossed the room, Jolly returned to his charge’s side. His fingers scuttled down the inside lining until they bumped against the right pocket. He pulled out a vial of silver liquid dancing around its glass prison. There wasn’t much left. Curses were always in fashion when tensions were high, and the kingdom was on the verge of another war.

Jolly held the vial up so the boy could see. “I’m going to heal you, but first it’s going to hurt like hell.”

The boy nodded, blue eyes filling with tears.

Jolly looked away and uncapped the vial. The liquid congealed to the side and began inching its way to the top. Jolly was not fooled.

It reached the opening and sprang out, stretching and expanding as it wriggled through the air towards the window.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Jolly said as he raised his hand and let the power flow out, the release shivering through him. “Take a breath, kid. Here it comes.”

The liquid snarled and sputtered, flexing against invisible bonds as it settled on the child’s emaciated chest. It slithered over the boy, testing the flesh for breaks and slipping inside the wounds. As it burrowed inside, the boy began to scream. His mother pounded on the door. Jolly ignored them both. Instead, he directed the mischievous liquid through broken flesh until the curse was cleansed.

Jolly snapped his fingers and the liquid gave a squeal of terror before transforming into a harmless jelly. The boy stopped screaming and went limp. Jolly waited until he could see the boy’s chest rising and falling. He had survived. That wasn’t always the case with Jolly’s patients.

Jolly let the boy’s mother back into the room. She ran to her child and fussed over him. She ran her fingers over the still mending flesh. “You did it,” she breathed. “Oh gods, Peter.” With a cry of joy, she leaned over and pressed her forehead to Peter’s.

Peter pushed her away and sat up, looking at Jolly. He wiped his tear stained face and held his hand out.

Jolly hesitated, but took the tiny hand in his and shook it. He let Peter’s hand dropped and looked at the woman. “Make it forty.”

She jumped up from the bed and wrapped her arms around him, squeezing her large breasts against him. “Thank you. Thank you. Gods bless you.”

“Not necessary. Nope.” Jolly muttered as he peeled her off.

He got the money and got out. Rheumy was waiting for him with the horses in front of the little farmhouse. Jolly grinned at Rheumy, but the man shook his head as if he already knew Jolly had done something stupid. Rheumy met Jolly in the yard just as Jolly lost his footing.

Rheumy was sixty but strong, muscles forged in the smithing of his younger days. He got Jolly to the horse and boosted him up.

Once Jolly was on the horse, Rheumy held out his hand and raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Money,” he barked.

“Outside right pocket,” Jolly replied. He let himself sink down onto the horse’s neck.

Rheumy grabbed the purse and hefted it in his hand. “Why is it so light?”

“Shut up, Rheumy. Tie me onto the horse and let’s go.”

“You stupid ass. I should let the damn horse trample you,” Rheumy grumbled.

“You still get your cut,” Jolly snapped.

Rheumy began tying Jolly to the saddle. “Of course I still get my cut, ass.”

With that settled, Jolly gave in to the overwhelming urge to sleep.

More of Jolly’s story coming soon!

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