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Like all myths, the story of the ancient Oracle contains a kernel of truth. From that truth, many grand tales have been spun of heroes and heroines seeking clarity, risking life to beseech the all knowing Oracle for a gospel of truth. Often, the message of the Oracle was enigmatic and disappointing, leaving the hearers in a higher state of confusion than hence they came. It would only be some future event or insight that would give the Oracle's words meaning, a ring of truth that was impossible to understand in the moments previous moments, but had profound revelations later on. It was this mystical nature of Truth that carried the stories of the Oracle into legend, and with each retelling the Oracle would become more grandiose, more wise, and more befuddling.
There is, of course, no such thing as an all-knowing Oracle spouting the answers to life's questions in poetic phrases, but I believe that there are oracles, persons who, in those common moments when life seems without purpose, give new insight that inspires meaning. In reality, there are many oracles, but they are different for each person. When a man or woman is born, a charge is given to another human being to be their Oracle. They are unaware of this charge, and there is a good chance that the two will never meet. But if they do, they fulfill their roles perfectly: the Oracle bestows truth and the hearer receives it, perhaps not understanding its meaning in the moment, but the words are enough to drive them to seek a deeper meaning and purpose.
This is the story of meeting my Oracle.
I was all too green upon graduating from the School. I wasn't particularly distinguished among my peers in rank or skill, but my profession was a noble one. I was trained in the art of medicine, and I proceed to secure a modest position at a hospital in a more rural section of the planets. My new employment caused something of a stir in the local community; a fine, young doctor from the Central School was coming to cure the ills and usher in a new era of excitement and hope to a planet that had seen one too many natural disasters and epidemics. The most recent disease nearly rendered the planet uninhabitable were it not for the quick action of the planet Senators. They called in many political favors to procure the necessary supplies and medications for the people, but it cost two of them their posts. Alive but jaded, the people of planet Horion had all but given up hope. That is when the planetary hospital received my application.
I applied to that specific hospital not because the money was good, or for the location. In fact, it was relatively standard income, and it moved me farther from family. No, my reasons were more idealistic than that. I tended to pride myself for my compassion and it was here on Horion that I saw the greatest need of care. Unlike some of my colleagues, I was not terribly obsessed with a desire for a perfect record. Many of my classmates boasted more of their low mortality numbers than of lives they saved. I had one notable classmate who refused patients entirely unless it could be proven scientifically that their survival rate was at least 93%. I believe he only treated one person his entire junior year.
As for myself, I have lost many patients. Death has never troubled me; I find it to be perfectly natural and sometimes, in the right context, a beautiful event. I like to think I have felt more with my patients, more sadness, more joy, more despair and hope than some of my fellow graduates. These sentiments are awfully judgmental, but I find they are apt more often than not.
Shortly after I arrived on Horion, my role as the inspirational idealist was immediately put to the test. I found that the hospital had terrible conditions; unreliable supply lines for medications, drifting workers that would often be absent, too few beds for too many stricken... It was more than I could handle. There was one other doctor, Jasper, who only worked part-time. He was responsible for "showing me the ropes" and provided a small wealth of knowledge for treating this poor planet.
"You will start to develop a keen sense of who can live and who can die," he would say, without so much as a pang of conscience. "Save your skill and supplies for those who can survive. Do what you can for the dying, but our work is for the living. We don't have much in the ways of saving lives, so we must make do with those who have the strength to fight as we try to heal them." While it would have been easy for me to disregard his words as dreadful, there was a certain pragmatic character to them that could only be attained through painful experience. I began my orientation under Jasper's tutelage, and we set out to save the planet.
Practically speaking, it was more effective for the doctors to scour Horion and perform house calls, that ancient and forgotten art in medicine. Jasper took me into several homes in my first week, showing me the sheer breadth and tenacity of the plague that had crippled the planet the year before. The disease showed no signs of discrimination; young or old, rich or poor, wise or ignorant, they all succumbed to its ravages. The vaccination had long been developed, but getting it was expensive, and the most recent strain of the plague proved to be somewhat resilient. Just as the planet was starting to make a turn towards health, the fear of a second wave of the plague across Horion was quickly coming true.
After a few visits, Jasper judged that I was competent enough to go out on my own. I objected, citing my ignorance of planetary customs and locations of settlements as reasons for his continued observance. He only laughed, threw a planetary locator at me, and left. That was a humbling moment. I had come to realize the hollowness of the ideals i had. My desire to truly help those in need, my judgments against my classmates, my sense of moral superiority... all vanished in fear. In that moment I desperately wished I had kept better mortality numbers, that I had applied to more Central planets, that I chose instead to specialize and pursue a doctorate at the School. But it was too late. I could do none of those things. I could only climb in my craft, punch in the location of the next patient, and wonder why I made such idiotic choices.
Soon, I came to a small home on the outskirts of the main continent on Horion. I exited my craft, and was greeted by a fellow hospital worker that had just seen the patient. "She's inside." she said, rushing past to a craft of her own. I turned to say something, perhaps ask for some consolation, but the worker had already left. I stood there, at the threshold of the home, and wondered if I had not made some terrible mistake in coming to Horion.
I entered, and found an old woman, seated and smiling. She had a great hunch, her eyes almost level with her shoulders with her elbows splayed out beside her, rather haphazardly. She shook slightly, but didn't seem to notice.
"Hello. Are you Mallory?" I asked tentatively. She gave no response, but only looked at me and smiled. Her grin revealed several missing teeth, though one stuck out prominently from her lower jaw. She had a kind face, but it was worn and loose, like great volumes of life had been taken from what was behind her cheeks.
"My name is Jacob, I'm your new doctor." Still no response. "I've come to check on you." She only looked into my eyes. There was no light in them. They still functioned to provide sight, but they only communicated a pleasant confusion to any who saw them. I was able to give a quick glance to her chart placed beside her. Diagnosis: end stage Tramaculosis. She had been infected with the plague, and it had destroyed her brain. She could no longer speak, at least, not coherently, and she had forgotten how to eat. There was no telling her level of awareness or understanding; some of the more learned sick continued to write even though their other faculties were abolished. Judging from the make of Mallory's home and her personal effects, she was clearly poor, and it was doubtful she could read, let alone write. But it was only fair to ask.
"Can you understand me, Mallory? Are you able to read or write?"
Her face was void of understanding, but it still held the smile. She was so simple... she had no care save one: that there was another person present in the room with her. I sat next to her to check her vitals and organ calibration. As I tinkered with my tools, she leaned in close, her fragile body feeling the warmth of another close by. She then took my hands in hers, and she met my eyes and smiled larger. Still shaking slightly, only breathing and seeing, Mallory began to speak to me. She did not use words, but she had somehow captured my attention and began to communicate in a way that was ancient, subtle, and intimate.
In that moment I froze and understood that she was human, no different from me. She was alive, or perhaps had lived her life far ahead of me living mine. Her eyes were still kind... perhaps out of pity? An understanding of all the years waiting for me? But she only grinned innocently, then took my hand and brushed it softly against her cheek. Her eyes closed in satisfied peace. I thought her such a child, wanting nothing but the feel of a smooth hand against her face.
I left there shaken. What I had just experienced was nothing but a routine examination of a patient who could not be saved from death. But it felt like so much more, like I was reminded of something important that I had forgotten, but just as I remembered it, the memory faded again. Dreams are like this, I wondered, and I stumbled to my craft in tears. Why was I crying? Was it the fear of such age and mortality, or the naked simplicity of pure love that needed nothing but a hand to hold? I felt as though I had encountered both a great and terrible god, as well as a plain and pure babe. Separate, a man of courage could confront the god or nurture the child, but together... together such a creature would inspire the horror of unenlightenment and awe.
Shortly thereafter, Mallory died. There was another doctor on-call to make the pronouncement, and I never saw her again. My mind often drifted back to that holy moment, when Mallory was both so much greater and so much lesser than anyone I had ever met. It took me some time to realize, but my doubts in vocation disappeared with that visit. I know that I am here on Horion, doing work that I was meant to do. Its still difficult, and there are days when I want nothing more than to go back to the controlled environment of the School, but these people need me here. No... its more than that. I can't easily put it into words, but I need this place just as much as they need me. Mallory showed me a different way to be valued, one completely separate from the doctor who I thought I was. I just needed to be there, and she just needed a hand to hold.
And without ever saying a word, Mallory spoke the very thing I needed to hear. That is why she was my Oracle.
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