The Obelisk of Healing Truths: When History Heals, the World

Chapter 4: The Obelisk Awakens

The city fell away from him, its wailing sirens and agony fading into a distant, dull thrum, then nothing. As he headed east, Alexander sensed the familiar world stripping away in scabrous shreds. The asphalt under his battered shoes began to turn to gravel, and then hard dirt. Antiseptic, chemical smells of the hospital gave way to the loam-soil reek of wet ground and the faraway, sweet-rotted stench of the river.

His flesh ached with a leaden, cellular fatigue, but a mysterious, nascent power thrummed just beneath the surface—the lingering resonance of the System Points he had spent, or perhaps of the Obelisk itself, pushing him forward. His mind was a battlefield. Logic struggled in a losing fight against impossible reality.

He replayed the stairwell encounter a thousand times. The collision. The pain. The silence. The light. And each time, his rational mind offered a new, more frenzied explanation: an affluent near-death experience, a complex seizure, a psychotic break precipitated by intense stress. And each theory disintegrated before the hard, chilly fact of the unbowed oxygen tube and the ghost text still blazoned at the edge of his vision.

The sun rose, a cloudy, watery eye in a pale sky. Heat began to accumulate, a physical veneer over his existential dread. He'd walked for a long time. His throat was parched, his stomach a hollow ache. The stolen med-kit felt like lead.

He crested a slight hill, and there it was: the valley holding Oakhaven. It didn't look welcoming. A cluster of perhaps two dozen dirty shacks huddled about a common well. A sluggish, narrow river, the very same one which provided the city's reservoirs a ways downstream, bent about the village like a stricken snake. The sky overhead seemed stagnant and heavy, devoid of the usual signs of life—no cooking flames, no children at play, no farmers tending. Only a sick, anticipatory silence.

And the smell. Even at a distance, it wafted on the breeze—the sweetly foul, unmistakable odor of cholera. The reek of a village killing itself from within.

His Diagnostic Insight flared unbidden without him even trying it, outlining an unpleasant vision of pain he couldn't yet feel.

[Area Scan: Oakhaven] [Population: ~112] [Infection Rate: 89%] [Mortality Projection: 96.7% and rising.] [Primary Vector: Contaminated Water Source - Central Well.]

The numbers were a frozen clenched fist around his own heart. This wasn't a clinical statistic, but a grave. The Obelisk's projection had been chillingly accurate.

He drew his legs down the hill to the village's edge. The first house was a hovel with a twisted roof. The door groaned open. Within, in the dim light, he saw a woman kneeling on the dirt floor beside a pallet upon which a small child lay still. Too still. The woman wasn't weeping; she simply sat, her body swaying slowly, all hope long since extinguished.

Alexander's stride hesitated. He had missed that one. The knowledge was a body blow.

A faint groan came from the next house. He pushed open the gate, senses alert, the doctor in him banishing the fear. A skeletal old man crouched on the floor by a doorway, his body gaunt, his rags dirty. His skin was stretched tight to his skull as dehydration stretched it out, and he gasped for breath in staccato jerks.

Alexander fell to his knees, his training taking hold. He leaned forward, his fingers seeking the man's throat for a pulse. It was a spastic, struggling beat against his skin.

The moment his fingers made contact, the world dissolved.

The hut, the heat, the sound of the man's ragged breathing—all were gone, lost in an encompassing, formless blackness. He was back in the void. Before him, the Obelisk came to life.

It was no longer an inert, silent monument. It was an awakening.

The previously dull carvings on its surface blazed with blue-white, hot light, so intense that it should have blinded him, and yet he could look directly into its heart. The geometric designs and ancient scripts writhed and reconfigured, no longer set but pulsing with purpose. They flowed like fluid light, reorganizing themselves into new, appalling complex graphs: the precise configuration of the Vibrio cholerae bacterium, the human cell's osmotic imbalance, the hydrological layout of the well in the village marking the seepage of waste from pit latrines.

A voice, if one could call it a voice, spoke. It was not loud, or soft, or male or female. It was information, unfeeling and unchanging, pounded deep into the very soul of his being. It was the voice of the stone.

ANALYSIS CONFIRMED. VIBRIO CHOLERAE. STRAIN O1 BIOVAR EL TOR. WATERBORNE VECTOR. HOST MORTALITY IMMINENT.

The words were not English, but he knew them by rote. They arrived in a burst of information—mortality rates, vectors of transmission, genetic codes—that overwhelmed his mind, a firehose of fact that seemed to consume him.

INTERVENTION NEEDED. RECALLING PREVIOUSLY ARCHIVED PROTOCOLS. RECOVERED PROTOCOL: 'SUN-AND-SAND'. EFFICIENCY: 99.8%. KNOWLEDGE STATUS: DESTROYED.

The Obelisk's light shifted, the medical charts melting away to be replaced by a new, exquisitely simple diagram. It had a tiered look: a large receptacle, a layer of fine sand, a layer of coarse sand, a layer of broken charcoal, another layer of sand, all covered in a cloth. A sketch showed water pouring in, and filtered, clean water oozing out below. Sunlight, shown as bright, ray-like lines, rained down on the device.

METHODOLOGY: CONSTRUCT BUILD FILTERING UNIT USING LOCAL MATERIALS. EXPOSE CAPPED WATER TO DIRECT SUN FOR A MINIMUM OF SIX HOURS. ULTRAVIOLET RADIATION AND BIOFILTRATION WILL KILL PATHOGENS.

The information wasn't just given; it was consumed. He had the accurate proportion of charcoal to sand. He had the exact grain size to apply to every layer. He had the photochemical process that would destroy the bacteria. It was a first-year microbiology lecture that had been removed from the memory of the world.

OBJECTIVE: ENACT PROTOCOL. SANITIZE THE WATER SOURCE. THIS TRUTH WILL BE RESTORED.

The voice ceased. The burning light of the Obelisk did not vanish, but its purpose appeared fulfilled. It hovered in the vacuum, a still, censorious god of truth.

Then a fresh, softer text rolled into view, close and direct.

[Skill Updated: Diagnostic Insight is now Active Scan. Range: 10 meters.] [New Objective: Construct Solar Sand Filter.] [Materials Required: Large container, fine sand, coarse gravel, charcoal, cloth.]

The emptiness receded as suddenly as it had arrived. He was on his knees again on the ground, his hands still on the old man's neck. The transition was so sudden he reeled, a surge of sickness rising up in his throat. The pulse in the man's neck remained, a feeble, wild beat.

The world felt different. His Active Scan was constant, low-grade hum now. He could sense the disease in the other homes—a score of pinpricks of pain and fading life, a scattering of pain layered over the material town.

He had received his orders. Not from the medical board nor from the director of the hospital, but from a living stone monolith out of previous death. The madness was total. The need was not.

He rushed to reach for his med-kit and pulled out a packet of oral rehydration salts. There was nothing with which to dissolve them. It was a cruel joke. He put the packet on the old man's hand, a hollow gesture. The real remedy was not in the kit, but in the ground, and in the air.

He stood, his resolve turning cold and bitter. He was no longer Doctor Alexander Carter, physician. He was the servant of the Obelisk. Its wakeful hand.

He walked down to the center of the village, toward the poisoned well. His gaze swept the vacant houses, the vacant fields. He required equipment. He required help.

His Active Scan beeped. He sensed a presence in a little, dusty back yard between two huts. Not one that was fading, but one that was a bright, fierce and unbroken center of life, shadowed by fear and fatigue.

A small boy, perhaps ten years old, was huddled behind a rain barrel, looking at him with wide, terror-stricken eyes. He was thin, but his eyes shone bright, his skin healthy. He had been spared the water, or had missed it.

Alexander stood there, hands palms up in a gesture of innocence. He sent a thought to his new sight, sending it forward on the boy.

[Individual: Unregistered] [Status: Dehydrated - Malnourished - Fearful - Uninfected.] [Vitals: Stable.]

"I'm a doctor," Alexander declared, his voice rough from disuse and dryness. He spoke in a low, measured way. "I'm here to help. Your village is sick. I need to purify the water again. I need your help."

The boy just stared at him, trembling.

Alexander knelt down, so he could speak at the same height as the boy. He gestured toward the well. "Water from that well is sickening all these people. But I have a way to fix it. A way from… very long ago." He took a wide sweep of his arm through the yard. "I need a big bucket. And river sand. And some clothes. Can you provide these things for me?

He was explaining ancient filtration techniques to a ravenous child. It was madness.

But the boy's eyes darted between Alexander's face, the well, and the house where surely someone he loved was suffering. The fear in them was slowly exchanged for an uncertain, precarious hope. He nodded once, firmly.

It was a start. The very first step.

The Obelisk had shifted. And its first secret was about to be pulled from the river's edge and built under the sun.