Healing

There were rumors spreading from the centre of town. Of course, it was from the centre. The origin was of no consequence, but the content boasted great things. Deadly things. Things that deserved respect, fear, loathing. She could, by letting the blood out of greedy monkeys, cure maladies of the liver brought on by too much drink. By sucking at wounds, she could cure the breath of frogs. And most unbelievable of all, with a soft word spoken, she could cure the symptoms of love. But it happened, as people walked through the jungle to meet her, braving flies and dragonflies the size of dogs, that she could not cure maladies of the liver; neither could she cure the breath of frogs. She could only cure the symptoms of love. With dark vials of pungent liquid and incantations of eternity she purged the specters of youth, foolishness, and humanity. But only those who dared come.

“Healing needs faith. God only knows what faith needs, for I know not.”

But those who had faith and heartache came. Those like me, who only had heartache, and who found their faith floundering with each tropical step: we failed.