RAVENOUS MOTHER’S TALES: A HEALER

KENDIRO

KENDIRO’S WORLDS

Ravenous Mother’s Tales: A Healer

Ravenous Mother Saga – Novella #2

Edited by Dakshita Matta

Cover Design by Roderick Lange

Published January 2026

All rights reserved.

Any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

© 2026 Kendiro

Thank you for exploring The Mother's Membranes: A Healer, a fragment of the Ravenous Mother narrative sac.

To receive informational nutrients about upcoming chapters that will sprout from the tissue of the saga, subscribe to my newsletter at www.kendiro.com.

The Mother feeds her readers,

The readers feed the Mother.

Kendiro

1

Khulekani looked at the young people gathered before him. The classroom, a large semicircular structure with an imperfect shape, with calcified growths protruding at irregular intervals from the walls and floor, was crowded, but not the slightest whisper could be heard. The translucent membrane-windows pulsated slowly, filtering the light from outside and projecting dancing shadows on the interior surfaces. A long crack ran across one of the walls, a sign of the earthquake that had shaken the sac the previous month, making every tower in the city vibrate.

In the center of the classroom, on an improvised raised platform, a commoner was visibly trembling. He was naked from the waist up, his thin chest showing ribs in clear relief beneath the skin. His lips moved in silent prayer, while his eyes wandered nervously around the room.

"Today," announced Khulekani, "you will witness a real Selection. A standard one: healthy man, worker, no crimes, no deformities or disabling diseases. Simply, he has reached forty years of age. Memorize everything: it's the same procedure that you yourselves will have to perform to pass to the Second Circle."

He approached the commoner, who was now babbling disconnected words. "Kneel," he ordered firmly.

The man tried to obey, but his legs were trembling so violently that he fell forward, collapsing onto the platform. He tried to get back up on his knees, but continued to stagger, unable to maintain the position.

Khulekani snorted. "Zola," he pointed to a boy in the middle row, "and Vuyo," he pointed to a girl in the last row, "come hold him up."

The two students stood and quickly descended the steps toward the platform. The commoner began to tremble violently, muttering increasingly frantic words. Taking him by the arms, the students put him on his knees.

"Don't worry," whispered Vuyo to the man, "it will be quick. The Mother will welcome you."

"Silence!" snapped Khulekani, glaring at the student. "We're not at a public fountain chatting."

"Sorry, master," stammered Vuyo, "I just thought to calm him down. In a real Selection I would never—"

"This is a Selection," Khulekani reprimanded him, with a cutting voice. "It doesn't matter whether it's done inside a tower or on a sacrificial hill. Show due respect to the Mother, to our profession, and to the Selected."

The boy lowered his gaze, mortified. Silence returned to reign in the classroom.

Khulekani observed the commoner, who seemed to have calmed slightly, although he continued to tremble. "Zola, you stand up. Vuyo can manage him alone." The girl immediately obeyed. "Bring the tray from the desk here."

Zola hurried to the teacher's desk and returned with a tray of polished petroclast on which were arranged a translucent membrane that pulsed slowly and a thin-bladed stiletto, also made of black petroclast.

Khulekani took the membrane, which began to quiver more intensely at the touch of his hands. He examined it with a critical eye, stretching it slightly with his fingers.

"Elasticity is fundamental," he explained, addressing the class and rotating the membrane on his hand, showing it. A sweet and vaguely metallic odor spread through the air, like fermented sap and molten copper. "It must be flexible enough to adhere completely, but robust enough not to tear during the process."

He turned to the commoner and positioned the membrane on his head, letting it fall like a living veil. As it adapted to the skull, the membrane emitted a sound similar to that of a suction cup. The man let out a choked groan, held firmly by Vuyo.

"The Mother feeds the child, the child feeds the Mother," the commoner began to pray. "The Mother feeds the child, the child feeds the Mother."

From the rows of students, numerous voices joined in chorus.

Khulekani took the petroclast stiletto from the tray and, with a sharp movement, made an incision on the surface of the membrane. At his side, Zola watched with wide eyes. Her hand moved imperceptibly, mimicking the gesture that Khulekani had just performed.

The tissue quivered violently and contracted, wrapping tightly around the commoner's head. The corners of the membrane extended into translucent tentacles, which coiled around the neck. The man's eyes widened in a last flash of lucidity, as the suffocation process began.

"Observe the edges," said Khulekani in a didactic tone, as the edges of the membrane began to change color. All the students leaned forward from their seats to see better. Khulekani pointed to a spot, continuously moving his finger, adapting to the commoner's convulsions. "The coloration shifts toward red when the process of absorbing bodily fluids begins. A uniform coloration indicates an optimal process." He tilted his head slightly, observing the tentacles on the Selected's neck. "This is not our case: Vuyo, adjust the membrane on the left side."

The commoner continued to struggle, while Vuyo moved a tentacle with difficulty downward. His movements became increasingly weaker.

"Who can tell me," Khulekani asked the class, "what specific mechanism causes death during Selection?"

The silence lasted for several seconds, then a hand went up in the last row.

"You," Khulekani pointed.

"Strangulation," said the student.

Khulekani slowly shook his head. "Common mistake. Look at the bluish veins around the mouth. The tentacles are tightening: sealing. The membrane creates an airtight closure around the skull, preventing any exchange of air. In any proper Selection, and this one is proceeding fairly well, death comes from asphyxiation."

Behind him, the commoner lost consciousness and slumped forward; Vuyo let him go to avoid being dragged down too. Khulekani turned for a quick glance, then returned his focus to the class.

"And what vital signs should be monitored to confirm death?"

"Lip coloration, pupil dilation, and cessation of heartbeat," Zola promptly replied, still standing next to Khulekani.

"Exactly," nodded Khulekani. "Vuyo, check the pulse."

The boy placed two fingers on the commoner's neck and counted mentally. "Absent, master," he reported after a few seconds.

Khulekani approached the body and placed his own fingers on the man's neck.

"The Selection is complete," he announced. "Now, who can describe the mechanism of death?"

No one moved. Khulekani sighed.

"Shameful," commented the master healer, shaking his head slightly. "In a week you'll be performing your first real Selection, and you can't answer such an elementary question. You, answer."

He pointed to a terrified fifteen-year-old boy. The boy stammered something incomprehensible and, before he could formulate a complete sentence, Khulekani moved on to the girl at his side.

"Forced inhalation, respiratory arrest... collapse of the airways?" she proposed, with an uncertain voice.

"Partially correct. Use a firm tone when answering my questions. Continue."

The girl bit her lip, looking around for help.

"I'm in front of you," said Khulekani, gesturing for her to look him in the eyes.

Finally, the girl capitulated. "It's too advanced a concept, master," she said, justifying herself.

"But it's a damn simple thing," Khulekani snapped.

He turned, took the stiletto, and went to the huge membrane-blackboard behind the desk. He began to make incisions on it. With each pass of the stiletto, the blackboard quivered in pain, but Khulekani proceeded indifferently, with his only care being to adjust his writing to the sudden spasms. The glyphs took shape quickly and precisely under his fingers, having performed these gestures countless times.

While he was making incisions, two attendants entered the classroom, quickly collecting the commoner's body. One of them murmured a brief prayer as they moved the corpse toward the back door.

Khulekani turned again to the audience, pointing with an outstretched hand to the glyphs on the blackboard. "The membrane induces three distinct phases: hypoxia, paralysis, collapse. Is this how you think you'll be promoted to the Second Circle?" He shook his head slightly. "Ravenous Mother, I have never witnessed such a concentration of ignorance in a single class."

He turned again and inserted a finger with a crimson nail into an orifice on the edge of the blackboard, turning his finger clockwise and pressing hard. The blackboard had another spasm, but of evident pleasure; the glyphs incised on it began to disappear, as the wounds healed. Khulekani waited half a minute in that pose, until the blackboard was completely healed, then extracted his finger and wiped it clean of the orifice's fluids on his robe of the same color as his nail.

Finally, he took the stiletto again and returned to torturing the blackboard, with more brutal incisions, dictated by his dissatisfaction.

He turned again and said in an exhausted tone: "Now that the part everyone is always interested in is over, let's return to theory. This is the list of subjects for the written tests you'll have to pass. I trust none of you wants to dishonor his parents, or uncles if the former have already been selected, by failing."

From above the last row of the hemicycle, which rose in slope like an amphitheater with irregular, pulsating walls, a hiss was heard, and several heads, including Khulekani's, turned to look. Through the valve-door entered a healer in her thirties, in the last months of pregnancy. Her crimson dress had a golden border along the neck. Seeing her, all the students stood up and bowed.

"Sit down, sit down," she said, smiling, "sorry if I disturbed you."

Khulekani also greeted her, bowing his head and saying: "You never disturb, Makhose. It's an honor to have a member of the Fourth Circle among us."

"It's certainly a relief for your students," she replied, "your didactic observations were heard all the way from the corridor."

Some giggles rose among the rows of students, but they stopped immediately when Khulekani gave them an icy look. Then, the man composed himself and said: "With Makhose's permission..."

She nodded and sat in a calcified growth in the last row.

"Let's resume the lesson," continued Khulekani. He moved to the center of the available space, absently running a finger over his sharp nails. "We are at the end of your first year of studies, yet you demonstrate a shameful knowledge of the Protocols. This is unacceptable. You," he addressed the student he had questioned earlier, "let's hypothesize that by miracle you enter the Second Circle. You have to perform a Selection, would you be capable?"

Surprised to be questioned again, the girl cleared her throat. "Certainly, master healer."

"I believe it, since you've just seen one and I've described all the steps. But anyone knows how to end a person's life, it's easy. Why do we do it?"

"Because it is our duty," replied the student.

"Yes, yes," said Khulekani, impatient, "but why is it?"

The girl lowered her eyes. "I'm sorry, master healer. I cannot answer."

Khulekani curled his lips in an expression of intolerance. Before he could speak, Makhose spoke loudly, to be heard by everyone.

"You're admitting your ignorance. That's the first step to improvement."

The healer smiled at Khulekani, who looked at her annoyed. "It's as Makhose says," he said diplomatically, then turned again to the student. "But at this point in the year, you should have already taken many steps."

He turned and went to the desk, with a brisk pace. "As a species," he resumed, "we must be strong and healthy. This is why our most sacred duty, from the Second Circle up, is to decide who must be Selected. And since we accept this responsibility fully, we are the ones who execute it." He looked around, observing the students. "Soon, if you are promoted, you will have to do it too. Additionally, new knowledge will be revealed to you. Not just the public principles of the Second Protocol, but the operational practices that only we can know. All for humanity."

Khulekani paused, carefully observing his students' reactions. "We healers consciously base our entire knowledge on the Four Protocols and never compromise on them. Responsibilities increase. Always. If you don't think you can handle it, leave."

A murmur ran through the classroom. The students exchanged glances, some clearly doubting whether that "not just" included the commoners or, more dangerously, the nobles themselves.

"That's all for today," concluded Khulekani, "tomorrow we'll return to discussing basic anatomy. If you can't answer my questions again, you'll spend the rest of the day in the Pain Room."

The students hurried to gather their things and leave, leaving only Khulekani and Makhose in the classroom. The healer was still adjusting the blackboard, with his finger inside the orifice, when the woman, from the top of the tier, spoke to him.

"Always scaring the new recruits, eh?"

"I don't scare anyone," he replied without turning, "I educate."

"With you, scaring is educating," she retorted, rising with difficulty and beginning to descend the steps.

Khulekani pulled his finger from the blackboard and hurried to approach, helping her down. "You shouldn't exert yourself, sister. What week are you in?"

"Thirty-fourth," replied Makhose with a sigh.

"Do you want me to examine you? We can go to an observation room now, if you wish."

Makhose shook her head. "No. I came to give you the news in person, before Ayanda spreads new poison about you."

"I'm immune to that woman," replied Khulekani, but Makhose raised a finger.

"This time it's different. Our beloved chief healer is furious." She looked at Khulekani seriously, but then a smile lit up her face. "You've been chosen."

Khulekani widened his eyes and mouth, incredulous. "You mean..."

"Yes, you've been nominated along with her for the Elevation."

The healer opened his mouth in disbelief and for a moment his face emptied of any expression, then he exclaimed: "Oh!"

Makhose applauded and moved to embrace him, but Khulekani drew back, visibly uncomfortable with the idea of physical contact. Makhose sighed and observed: "You don't seem particularly happy."

"I haven't yet entered the Fourth Circle," he replied. "All that knowledge, I risk losing it."

Makhose rolled her eyes, snorting. "What kind of priorities! You have the chance to live until old age and you think about these things?"

Khulekani's face hardened. "I am a healer. My priorities are established by the Protocols." He brought a hand to his chest and began to beat it with each word. "Mother. Humanity. Knowledge. Mercy. No Protocol speaks of old age."

"You've always been strange," said Makhose, smiling and shaking her head. "The nobles must be crazy to nominate you."

"It's normal that they did," replied Khulekani, "I'm a genius."

"Ah, yes," she said, "a humble and modest genius, as is well known throughout the Sac. And what about Ayanda? Genius too?"

"Genius!" repeated Khulekani with a scornful tone. "Her whole life is based on high-placed friends and relatives. She has her position only because she's the daughter of the previous chief healer."

Makhose shook her head, with a slight smile. "It's incredible how you manage to be so intelligent and so naive at the same time. We too are healers thanks to our mother, does that make us unsuitable? Besides, Ayanda directed Toxicology for years with exemplary results. And she too, in her way, is a genius. Don't underestimate her."

"You're right, for her it's a real mystery. They should have nominated you."

"They did," she replied. "I came in third. Excluded after they said your name."

"Oh," repeated Khulekani, caught by surprise. "I'm sorry."

Silence fell between the two siblings. Makhose put her hands on her belly, looking down. Khulekani felt he had said something wrong, but didn't understand what.

"It's fine," Makhose finally said, looking back at her brother. "I'm just sorry I won't see my son grow up."

Khulekani felt uncomfortable in the face of that intimate sharing. He disguised it by taking his bag from the desk and slinging it over his shoulder.

"I'll refuse the Elevation," he said.

His sister's eyes widened in surprise. "You would do this for me? Khulekani, are you feeling well?"

"I'm doing it for myself," he replied. "I cannot accept living for decades without reaching true knowledge." He became more serious than ever. "I'll speak with Ayanda. I'll tell her that I'm withdrawing from the Elevation, in exchange for immediate promotion to the Fourth Circle. Once I'm out, you'll have a chance to see your son grow up."

2

That evening, in his apartment, Khulekani found himself upside down in a position of perfect balance, supported only by his hands.

The entrance area served as both bedroom and meditation zone. It was sparse, functional and, according to Khulekani's standards, relaxing. A bed grew as a protuberance from the floor itself, curling along the edges and remaining soft in the central part at all hours of the day. Along the eastern wall was arranged a row of small statuettes depicting the Mother in various positions, with a swollen belly, enormous breasts, and a wide-open mouth with sharp teeth. In front of them, a carpet of dried membranes offered sufficient space for his exercises.

His slender body, covered only by a thin fabric wrapped around his hips, appeared deceptively fragile. As he supported himself on his arms, his muscles contracted with surprising density. He wasn't massive like the guardians or nobles who could afford a diet rich in nutritious food, but every fiber of his body was chiseled with surgical precision.

"Breath, vigor, balance."

He intoned the litany of mental rest, the sound vibrating in his chest as he breathed with measured rhythm.

"Breath, vigor, balance."

With fluid movements, Khulekani shifted his weight on his hands, completely straightening his body. He lifted one hand, maintaining balance only on the other. There was no trace of effort on his face; only absolute concentration as he remained motionless like a statue.

He was mentally preparing to rise on his fingers when a decisive knock at the valve-door interrupted his concentration.

Go away, he thought, hoping the intruder would sense his desire for solitude. Uselessly. More knocks followed, more insistent.

Khulekani opened his eyes with an annoyed sigh.

"Why do they never leave me in peace?" he murmured.

With surprising agility, he bent his body and performed a half somersault in the air, landing on his feet. He approached the valve-door with measured steps and ran a finger along the sensitive edge. The membrane opened with a moist hiss.

In front of Khulekani appeared a young boy. He was one of the few commoners admitted to some areas of the healers' tower to perform service duties. The youth bowed his head obsequiously and handed a tray with food.

"Your dinner, master healer," he said with a deferential tone.

Khulekani took the tray mechanically, while the boy, with his hands finally free, extracted a roll from the satchel he carried across his shoulder.

"There's also this for you, master," he added, handing him a rolled membrane.

With both hands occupied, Khulekani returned to the room, absently examining the seal of the roll. He stopped suddenly, recognizing the noble glyph of the Kala clan. He raised an eyebrow.

The clan of the noble chief himself, he thought.

He placed the tray on the nightstand next to the bed and went near the membrane-window, letting the fresh air dry the sweat on his forehead. He gave a fleeting glance at the tops of the other profession towers, all overshadowed only by the imposing silhouette of the noble tower.

He looked at the package again. He removed the wrapping while moving toward the bed, simultaneously breaking the seal. He sat down and after putting a hot, greasy fungus in his mouth, began to unroll the membrane, dead but still hydrated enough to stretch without difficulty.

The letter was written in common glyphs, less elegant than those of the healers, but at least he could read them.

"For the magnificence and glory of the venerable noble chief Sokhulu of the Kala clan, Lord of the Sac! Master healer Khulekani is peremptorily summoned to attend the remembrance ceremony at the noble tower, tomorrow, at mid-morning. It is absolutely forbidden to bring profession instruments or other objects that can be used as weapons. At the entrance, you will be escorted by a guardian to the ceremonial hall: under no circumstances should you leave his presence."

Khulekani frowned, wondering why a Third Circle healer like him had been summoned. The remembrance ceremony meant that a noble had died and, given the glyph, it was someone from the Kala clan.

Another of Sokhulu's children, he thought.

In the last ten years, the fratricidal struggle to inherit the throne had intensified, and the brothers and sisters in line of succession had killed each other with enthusiasm, both in official duels and in barely credible accidents.

But why must I attend? he wondered again, as he took a yellowish tuber from the tray and bit into it.

Perhaps because I'm a candidate to be elevated. They want me to start interacting with the other nobles and feel obligated to participate in their stupid rites.

Continuing to eat, he reread the letter, terrified at the idea that he would have to spend hours of his life at a ceremony, but then he cheered up.

They will certainly be less exhausting than the lesson I would have had to impart to a throng of imbeciles.

He wiped a hand clean of the purplish sauce on his bare chest, then took a sphere of fluid and sucked some liquid. As soon as the liquid entered his throat, he bulged his eyes and felt a burning sensation of constriction, as if hundreds of tiny spikes were sticking into the walls of his esophagus. He jumped to his feet, bringing his hands to his throat.

Think, idiot! he screamed within himself.

He had already made the mistake of agitating, giving the substance the possibility to act more quickly. Calmly, while his trachea swelled and his vision began to blur, he approached a cabinet. He knelt and opened it, then with one hand he dropped all the small spheres contained inside onto the floor.

Meanwhile, he felt something running down his face. He touched it and realized that blood was coming out of his eyes and nose.

Irritation of the mucous membranes, imminent convulsions, visual alteration... esophobic toxin.

He took a stiletto and pricked his wrist, letting more blood flow than he wanted. He ended up on the ground, unable to maintain balance.

Quickly, he thought, inserting his index finger into the wound and noting with detached concern that he felt no pain. He pulled out his finger and looked at the nail. The normally crimson color began to change, quickly becoming a bright blue.

Copper. Presence of sulfate derivatives. Respiratory toxin with metallic base. Must be derived from the secretions of the Red Pits... perhaps from the aziotoxin family.

As he began to have the first convulsions, he stretched a trembling hand toward the spheres he had voluntarily thrown on the floor, dragging his hand that he was now unable to lift. He tried to take one, but with a spasm he pushed it away and cursed inwardly.

Calm down, he told himself. Then, as if he were talking to his hand: Stretch out, stop, and take that damn sphere.

He extended his arm with a superhuman effort and managed to touch the sphere, which moved rotating on the organic floor. With another effort, he pushed himself forward again and finally grabbed it.

He brought it to his mouth, while a crystalline thought crossed his feverish mind: Twelve poisons of the same family, and this antidote works with only three. I have a one in four chance of surviving. May the Mother not see me.

Finally, Khulekani sucked the liquid, and the act of swallowing plunged him into darkness, his body now devoid of any residual energy.

He awoke with a pounding headache, not understanding where he was. Then he looked at the sphere he still had in his hand and thanked the Mother in a whisper. He got up, exhausted but alive, looking toward the membrane-window. He saw that it was now the middle of the night; he had slept for hours.

He dragged himself to a resin basin and rinsed his face, cleaning himself of the blood and fluids that had flowed during the crisis.

"They tried to poison me," he murmured, "but who?"

The first person he thought of was obviously Ayanda: she knew about his candidacy for the Elevation, and it would have been easy for her, as chief healer, to tamper with his food. But until then, as tense as relations had been, she had never resorted to something like this.

I must speak with her as soon as possible, he thought, weighing the various data. The sooner I tell her I don't intend to become a noble, the sooner I'll have her as an ally.

Ayanda was ambitious, certainly, but attempted murder? He had been born and raised in the tower yet had never heard of a healer assassinating a colleague. Generally, these feuds were more the stuff of nobles.

Whoever it was, why did they do it? Perhaps to prevent me from attending today's ceremony?

He looked at the sky through the membrane-window.

Today, he corrected himself.

He looked at his bed, but he was so agitated that it was impossible to sleep. He got back into position for meditation exercises, deciding that from now on it would be better to eat only in the public cafeteria.

KHULEKANI'S STORY CONTINUES

There You are!

I don't have much time - the guardians are after me. Sokhulu must not have appreciated what I told you at the public fountain! I hope you enjoyed these membrane glyphs, but now I need your help.

I propose an Akhenasi to you.

A small favor in desperation,

A great debt without expiration.

If you enjoyed what you read, check out www.kendiro.com for all upcoming stories growing from this saga. Want to dive deeper? Follow Kendiro's Worlds  Facebook page by clicking here and TikTok by clicking here.

I will repay the debt with more fascinating stories, I promise you! What do you say?

Has the Akhenasi been bound?

Table of Contents

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KHULEKANI'S STORY CONTINUES