The Beaver King, Cautionary Tales of Medieval Dysfunction

It is widely accepted that Vast Sister does, in fact, suffer from the sugar affliction. This much is true, documented, and reluctantly agreed upon by the Parish Physicker. Unfortunately, Vast Sister has never allowed this to be enough. In addition to her confirmed ailment, she is believed to harbor—often simultaneously—no fewer than four to seven imagined illnesses at any given time, each more urgent than the last and all discovered moments after breakfast.

Among the Beavertonians, this condition has no formal name. Among the parish ledgers, it is referred to simply as “Again.”

It is also said—quietly, and never within earshot of the throne—that Wind-Tongued Robert shares this same tendency. The difference being that Vast Sister believes she is dying, while Robert believes he is being wronged.

As a result, BillDong Grier is forever rushing Vast Sister to the Parish Physicker, often under circumstances that defy both medicine and transportation standards.

On one particularly memorable morning, Vast Sister became convinced not only that she herself was gravely ill, but that the oxen normally tasked with pulling the parish cart were also unwell. Their eyes were “too knowing,” their stance “incorrect,” and their silence “deeply suspicious.”

With no healthy oxen available—and Vast Sister already reclined dramatically—BillDong was forced to improvise.

Thus, the parish ledgers record the only known instance of a low-riding cart being hauled through Beaverton by a two-wheeled foot-pedal bicycle, BillDong bent forward in misery, Vast Sister stretched behind him, offering periodic updates on her condition and apologizing in advance for her inevitable passing.

Witnesses confirm she survived the journey.The oxen, later located, were found to be in perfect health and openly resentful.

The Parish Physicker prescribed rest, fewer imagined symptoms, and—once again—less sugar. Vast Sister nodded gravely, thanked him, and by sundown was certain she had developed something new. It was BillDong, however, who did not fare as well.

Having pulled both cart and conscience across Beaverton, BillDong collapsed from exhaustion and was briefly infirmed himself—becoming the only recorded case of a man hospitalized by another person’s imagination. The Physicker advised water, sleep, and avoidance of parish carts. BillDong agreed.

Vast Sister asked if exhaustion was contagious.

After a full fortnight of rest for BillDong—and just as long for Vast Sister to ruminate upon her health with renewed creativity—emergency struck again. This time, BillDong was prepared.

During his last hospitalization, he informed Vast Sister that he had begun feeding the oxen “supplements.” These supplements were, in truth, nothing more than carrots carefully painted to resemble medicinal capsules. This knowledge brought Vast Sister great peace. If the oxen were being treated, then surely the world was once again in order.

Reassured—but still gravely ill—she was rushed, once more, to the Parish Physicker. The Physicker, upon seeing her, made a decision but a medical one. A final one.

It was agreed—quietly and without ceremony—that something must be done to end the charade. And so, with a solemn expression, the Physicker announced that it would be necessary to “have a look.” Where, precisely, this look would occur was a matter of some debate.

Eventually, an incision site was selected at the base of what the Physicker generously referred to as “the stomach.” This term was used loosely, as no one present could say with confidence where the top ended and the bottom began.

To prepare, the nursemaids applied a rag soaked in Dream-Smoke, known to induce deep sleep, mild confusion upon waking, and the occasional prophetic mumbling.

Once Vast Sister was fully asleep, snoring gently and murmuring something about her spleen being “too round,” the Physicker instructed all four nursemaids, plus BillDong, to come closer.

The operating theatre of Beaverton was small—two patient beds pushed together to accommodate Vast Sister’s geography. Medicine in Beaverton was advanced enough to be respectable, but not enough to cure anything ambitious.

Candle lanterns were placed carefully around the patient, especially near the intended incision site. One lantern was held in each hand by the nursemaids, who stood solemnly, sweating lightly, and trying very hard not to drip wax.

Because Vast Sister was so… vast, BillDong was handed lanterns as well.

Being extremely squeamish, BillDong insisted he could not see. To prevent him from becoming yet another patient, he was blindfolded with bandages and instructed to stand still and be useful without reacting.

The Physicker lifted his scalpel. What followed would later be referred to in the parish records by three separate names, as no single phrase seemed sufficient.

Among the Physickers, it was clinically recorded as an Internal Expulsion. Among the faithful, it was whispered as a Lower Benediction.

And among those unfortunate enough to be present, it would forever be remembered as the Gastric Proclamation.

No one could later agree on what came first—the gasps, the arrival of the odor, the Physicker’s scream as surprise drove the blade into his own palm, or the sudden atmospheric ignition when lantern flame met conditions no one had prepared for.

For one terrible second, the theatre bloomed with light.

Hair singed. Wax splattered. Smoke rolled.

And BillDong—blindfolded, obedient, lanterns raised—took the full force of it.

It took a full minute for poor BillDong Grier to realize what had gone wrong. He had not been burned so much as introduced to fire personally. The blast struck his southern hemisphere like a medieval flame-thrower with opinions, instantly removing every hair not protected by bandage.

His favorite bone-clad blouse lay beside him, riddled with holes and still smoldering softly. Only his eyebrows survived. And only because the bandages had spared them.

“…Am I …alive? he asked quietly. No one answered.

When Vast Sister finally awoke, she was untouched. Unsutured. Slightly groggy. Beside her lay a hairless, lightly smoking BillDong, his ruined blouse resting nearby. Around them stood a room full of medical professionals who very much did not wish to explain themselves. It was at that moment a decision was made. Vast Sister was officially banned from further treatment in Beaverton. Henceforth, she was to seek care in StillPoint or Frankleton.

She needed to be someone else’s problem.

The oxen were declared fine. BillDong’s hair eventually grew back. Vast Sister crocheted him a new bone-clad blouse. And within the week—much to BillDong’s deep and personal chagrin—Vast Sister began listing her newest round of symptoms.

She felt, she said, “a bit off internally.”

The parish ledger concludes, simply: Again.