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

Chapter 5: Words in Stone

The boy's name was Leo. He did not speak it for many years. He only looked at Alexander through the wary, ancient eyes of a boy who had seen too much dying, then gestured towards a collapsing toolshed behind the largest house in the village.

Inside, among rusting farm equipment and burlap bags of rotten grain, they found a cracked but serviceable ceramic jug, the kind one filled with oil or wine. It was large enough to hold several gallons. Leo also drew a torn but relatively cleanish cotton shirt from a hook, holding it out gravely like an elder.

"For the cloth," he snarled, his voice a dry rasp. It was the first time he'd spoken.

Alexander took it. "Thanks, Leo. Excellent."

The boy's eyes flashed a bit at being called by name, but he didn't inquire. Alexander's new, always-active Active Scan offered data without invite, an unwelcome intrusion he was already getting used to.

They walked from there to the riverbank. The river was low and slow, its shores littered with trash. Leo stood in a daze, as Alexander steered clear of the nearby, clean sand within reach and dug deeper, looking for grittier, cleaner sand and gravel beneath the surface soil. He shoveled into a beaten bucket they'd found.

"Not that sand?" Leo finally asked, pointing to the finer, darker sand by the water.

"That sand also has illness in it," said Alexander, the Obelisk's knowledge embedded on his tongue. "We need sand, water can seep through slowly, but that has been cleansed by the ground. And we need bigger stones to drain it at the bottom."

He pronounced as if he read from a text book he had never cracked. The words were his, but the confidence that accompanied them was borrowed from the unspoken stone deity in his mind.

Their final ingredient was the toughest: charcoal. They found a cold, dead cooking fire in the center of the village gathering area. Alexander used a rock to smash up the big chunks into a coarse, gritty dust, scooping it into the cotton shirt. The black powder coated his hands and arms, making him look like a mine-extraction survivor.

Leo worked alongside him in unspoken, frantic toil. He didn't know the cause, but he knew action was preferable to the awful, waiting quiet that had descended upon his house.

They drew their materials back to the area of shade next to the well. Alexander placed out the urn, covering up the drainage hole at the bottom with a big, flat rock. Then, following the schematic burned into his brain, he began to pile up their materials.

First, a coat of the largest of the gravel stones. Second, coarse sand, thicker. Third, the crushed charcoal, which he smoothed over as well as he could. Coarse sand, another coat, and finally, a thick layer of the cleanest, finest sand they were able to get. He tore the cotton shirt apart into strips and used one for covering the top of the sand and weighing it down with smaller stones so that it would hold back.

It looked absurd. A cracked, grimy old urn filled with dirt and black powder. A mud-pie craft for a kid. Leo scowled at the machine, his excited energy visible to deflate noticeably. Was the cure great? This quantity of sand?

Alexander felt the same hesitation burning within him as well. This was it? This rough filter was what the Obelisk replied with a twenty-first-century bacterial infection? He had at his disposal a power that could de-burn fire, and his first true mission was to produce a science fair project?

As if in response to his incredulity, the world fuzzed. The village green, Leo's concerned visage, the atrocious filter—all of it softened, bleached of colour and sound. He stood again before the Obelisk, though not quite submerged this time. It was a vision superposed over reality, the stone column looming over Oakhaven's thatched rooftops.

The carvings on its surface were not churning over information. They were static. And upon one flat face, new writing was being carved. Not by any visible tool, but as though the stone itself were relearning a message long forgotten. Patterns of cold, unyielding light carved themselves onto the obsidian surface with glacial slowness. He felt it—a low, grinding groan of stone against stone that resonated in his teeth.

They weren't English words, but their meaning was unmistakable.

FAITH IS THE SCALPEL THAT CUTS DOUBT.

The words hung there, searing with cold light. It wasn't a pep talk. It wasn't encouragement. It was a statement of operational doctrine. The System needed faith in its provided truths. His doubt was a byproduct of metabolism; it was to be eliminated, not nurtured.

The vision vanished. He was back by the well, blinking in the harsh sunlight. Leo was staring at him, his head cocked.

“Doctor? You… went away.”

Alexander took a deep, steadying breath. The words in stone were seared into his mind. Faith is the scalpel. He had to trust the process. He had to trust the forgotten truth.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice more solid than he felt. “It’s time.”

He dipped into the well and drew out the wooden bucket, immersing it in the water. The water that came to the top was cloudy, studded with large visible impurities. His Active Scan automatically lit up, bathing the water in a red, glowing alert.

[H2O Sample - Contaminated.] [Pathogens: Vibrio cholerae, Escherichia coli, Giardia lamblia.] [Toxicity: High. Fatal if ingested.]

He carried the bucket to their urn-filter. Silently praying to a stone god and losing traditions, he slowly poured the stinking water over the clothed sand.

For an instant, nothing stirred. The water clung on the surface, soaking into the cotton. Leo held his breath. Alexander's heart drummed against his chest. It was now. It was the pinnacle of his death, his rebirth, his revelation. All held in a layer of sand and charcoal.

And then, one, distinct drop of water built up at the bottom of the urn, dangled for a moment on the lip of the clay, and fell with a small plink into the spotless pot they had placed underneath.

Another dropped. Then another.

Slowly, gradually, a delicate, clear stream ran from the filter.

Leo gasped, his breath inches from her face. The water that poured out of it was crystal clear. It looked. like water. And not like that dirty, dubious stuff from the well.

Alexander's hands were trembling as he scooped up some of the outflow in his cupped hand. He brought it to his lips. It was cold. It had a little, earthy taste from the charcoal, but it was pure. It was like nothing except itself.

His Active Scan focused on the water in his palm. The writing that emerged was a shining, peaceful green.

[H2O Sample - Purified.] [Pathogens: Negligible.] [Toxicity: None. Potable.]

Relief so great that it dazed him washed over him. It worked. The knowledge that had been lost was accurate.

"It's clean," he gasped, then more loudly, turning to Leo. "It's clean! The disease is eliminated from it!"

A wide, disbelieving smile broke across Leo’s grimy face. It was the first spark of true, untainted joy Alexander had seen in this place. The boy scrambled to his feet.

“I’ll get others! The ones who can still walk!”

He darted off between the huts, his voice suddenly strong, calling out in the local dialect. “The doctor! The doctor has made the water good! Come! Come and see!”

Alexander knelt next to the filter, watching the pure, life-giving water drizzle steadily into the pot. Each drop was a victory. Each drop was a letter of the Obelisk made of liquid and concrete.

They started to come out. Timidly, fearfully. Some older children holding onto one another. A woman in a shawl, her face pale. They came together in a hushed, semicircle, regarding the dripping urn, the pot filling slowly with limpid water, the odd, dusty doctor kneeling beside it.

Their Active Scans had spoken a tragic story of collective suffering: Severe Dehydration, Metabolic Acidosis, Renal Failure pending. They were ghosts waiting for the ground to swallow them up.

Alexander got up, holding the now half-full purifier pot. He looked at their gaunt faces, at hope fighting a fear of yet another letdown.

The water is safe, he told them, his voice carrying across the still green. "It won't hurt you. It will heal you. It will save you.".

He glared at the weakest of them, a young woman who was barely standing. He filled a clean cup from his med-kit with liquid from the pot and brought it to her. Her eyes were wide with terror. She gazed at the cup, from it to his face, to the villagers standing by.

It was too much. She took a shuddering step back. She would rather die of thirst than to the drink that had killed her family.

The moment hung in the balance. Faith was the scalpel, but fear was a fortress.

And Leo insisted. He snatched the cup from Alexander's hand, met his elder's eyes, and without trembling, drank the entire thing. He swallowed the water that had flowed through the well of death, through sand and stone and forgotten truth.

Everyone watched him. Seconds were suspended in mid-air like eternity.

Leo set the cup down. He smacked his lips. He looked over at the woman, and a rosy flush seemed to come back to his cheeks immediately—a trick of the eye, perhaps, or the power of conviction.

"It's good," he asserted, his voice clear and firm. "It's just water.".

It was the final of the important turns in the lock. The woman swayed forward, arm outstretched. Alexander filled the cup again and pressed it into her hand. She sucked down water, water trickling down her chin. A choking, wailing scream of relief from her throat.

That opened the floodgate. They pushed forward, not wildly, but with an imperative, frantic order. Alexander was a machine, skimming and pouring, his Active Scan indicating the heightened improvement in every person's Hydration Level with each glass they drank.

He worked, and as he worked, a new message wrote itself across his vision, its light a golden warmth inverse to the Obelisk's familiar cold blue.

[Quest Status Updated: Purify the Source of Water - IN PROGRESS.] [Village Hydration Level: Recovering.] [Mortality Prediction Revised: 42% and declining.] [+5 Exp] [+5 Exp] [+5 Exp]

The numbers edged up with every life he healed, a gentle, divine applause. He was not just healing them. He was getting paid. The Obelisk was counting.

The words of stone had been real. The faith had been vindicated. And while the sun beat down on the simple, marvelous filter, Alexander Carter came to know his new world. He was a merchant in forgotten truths, and his money was light and life.