Day Twenty Seven: Retinue

Retinue

Definition

: a group of retainers or attendants

Retinue derives via Middle English from the Anglo-French verb retenir, meaning "to retain." Another
word deriving from retenir is retainer, which means, among other things, "one who serves a person of
high position or rank."

The hospital was dark and quiet, the lights dimmed, the night air filled with nothing but the steady
beeps of the various medical machinery and the soft last gasps of the dying. 

The children's ward was slightly brighter than the rest of the hospital. The nurses had dotted about
several small night lights for those of the children who were afraid of the dark. This was the long stay
ward. Many of these children would not be returning home for a long time, if ever. Therefore, tired and
drained as they were by their work, the nurses still found it in themselves to afford these small
kindnesses to the delicate charges under their care.

A small glowing toadstool, red cap burning brightly against the dark, small painted gnomes at the base
waving cheerfully at their friends just out of sight, was placed by the side of the bed of a small, dark
haired child. Despite the late hour, he had swung his lap table over his bed and was currently hunched
over it, fiercely concentrating on folding the small piece of paper in his heads in to delicate and
precise angles. 

The head nurse, doing her regularly sweep, came across him, still awake when he should be far away
in the land of slumber. She sighed. This wasn’t exactly an infrequent occurrence. 

“Milo, dear.” she said gently, trying not to wake the other children. “You should be sleeping sweetheart.”

He shook his head stubbornly. The nurse knew, from long experience, that should she try to force him,
he would fight against her, letting out a terrible wail of despair as if she had condemned him, and all
the others in the building, to death. This was not only highly distressing (for usually he was such a
calm, well behaved boy) but it also had the unfortunate side effect of waking up every other child on
the ward. 

General policy was that if they couldn’t convince him to try and sleep quietly, to just leave him to it and
let him fall asleep in his own time. After all, all he did was his origami paper folding, he wasn’t
bothering or disturbing anyone. They just let him sleep in a little longer than the others.

The nurse reached up and gently brushed the paper crane garlands that were strung across the
curtain bars of his bed. More paper creatures marched along his bedside table and were tied to the
headboard of the bed. It was like a small forest or bestiary of magical paper creatures. Milo was also
generous with his creations. He made them by the handful for the other children (all bedside tables in
the ward displaced at least one or two) and the nurses often discovered them standing guard over
their various paperwork, pens, forgotten coffee mugs and sandwiches over at the nurses station. 

“Don’t stay up too late sweetheart.” She cautioned him gently, “You’ve got more tests in the morning.”

He nodded briskly, not even taking his eyes off the paper in front of him.

The nurse returned to the desk, glancing casually over the appointment schedule for tomorrow. As
she said, Milo had yet more tests tomorrow. He seemed to have at least one every day. His arms
were beginning to look like pincushions with all the various needles and equipment jabbed into them.
Such a sweet boy but no one seemed to have the slightest idea of what was wrong with him. He
never spoke, which of course was purely psychological, but then there was the fact that he was
incredibly weak. He couldn't go more than a few paces without collapsing from exhaustion and he
bruised like a peach at the brush of a hand. His fingertips were constantly bruised from the pressure
of pushing down on his origami papers. He refused to give it up and the doctors, already pitying the
boy for being permanently bedbound, relented and let him continue as long as it caused do long term
damage.

“And it’s not as if we can retrieve his previous medical records or contact his family.” the head nurse
thought to herself ruefully as she looked out in the undulating sea lapping at the outside walls of the
hospital. The bottom floor of the hospital was completely under water, luckily the building seemed to
be watertight (even though, realistically, it shouldn't). Milo had been admitted to the hospital in the last
ambulance dash before the cataclysm had struck. The end of his stretcher had literally just brushed
through the entrance of the hospital before the doors had slammed shut behind him and the sky
above had split open and rained down storms, lightning and stars. It hadn’t taken long before the
hospital had somehow, despite being firmly planted into the ground with concrete and steel bars and
all the other modern engineering skills of man, drifted away from the rest of the city and when the
storm had calmed and day broke once again, the hospital found itself in the middle of an endless sea,
with no other structure or sign of life in sight. 

The managing staff tried repeatedly to contact anyone in the outside world and there were always
look outs, seeking out a rescue squad in the vastness of the water outside. No one, as yet, had
responded or come looking for them.

The hospital had carried on as usual. What else could they do? They were doctors, nurses,
radiographers. They were bound by their duty to save lives where they could and so they took care of
their patients within their reach. Even if, once they were better, there was nowhere for them to go.
Even if, despite their best efforts, they passed away and there was no one to tell. 

The strain was immense, but for most hospital staff that was just business as usual. 

Milo, peering round the door of the ward, nodded to himself as he saw that the head nurse was
completely engaged. He then quietly snuck past the door and up the emergency stairs to the roof.
Had any of the staff seen him now, they would have been shocked to see how energetically he
bounded up the flights of stairs. 

The roof was empty and deserted at this time of night, as it always was. Even the die hard smokers
were safely tucked away in bed at this time of night. 

The stars swung wildly above him, as if the cataclysm had knocked them loose from their normal
stately dance patterns and now they were dashing about all over the place like the sky had turned
into some sort of techno, drug fuelled rave. 

He carefully walked to the edge of the roof and looked into the clear sea water far below. The dark
shapes that the grown ups were very carefully pretending weren’t there, were swimming about quite
idly. 

Milo was quite grateful that the hospital had its own on site crematorium. He would not like to think about
what would happen if the creatures below started thinking of this place as some sort of open buffet. 

He opened his hands, his latest creation, a chinese dragon, long and slinky, rested on his palms. He
leaned down and breathed a combination of stardust and lightening flakes into the paper. 

The dragon shook herself and sprung from his hands, leaping into the star strewn sky, stretching out into
something much bigger than the small piece of paper she originated from the higher she went, her
paper skin glittering silver in the starlight. 

With an imperious nod from him, she flew off into the night air, off to patrol the boundaries of the hospital’s
little world, ready to paper over any cracks she found in the protective barrier which was keeping out the
various catastrophes and tragedies the cataclysm had unleashed into the world. 

Milo swayed on his feet. Everytime he did this it took away another piece of him. At some point, maybe
sooner than later, there wouldn’t be anything left to give.

But, like the staff of the hospital, he would willingly give his all to save those he could that were within his
reach. 

He looked to the horizon. Once again, for one more day at least, dawn was beginning to break.