There was no thought of anything but him, lying twisted in bed, alone and in the dark, without even the flame of a candle to comfort him. I, who had no previous experience with imagination, could not help the terrible flights of fancy that overcame me.
Would I be in time? I knew of sickness, and I knew how to treat it, but the human body was a stunning contradiction of strength and frailty, and I knew all too well the dire consequences that could befall him without treatment. I would think of it no further.
I could think of it no further.
All I could do was think of reaching him.
~:~
Blearily he opened his eyes, to be greeted by a very dear face leaning over him, and a very terrible odor filling the air around him.
"I know this is a dream," he mumbled, "but usually it smells better."
"Yes, it is a dream," said the achingly familiar voice. "But even the dream-you needs to take medicine when he falls ill. Drink."
Head pounding, he struggled to sit up and found strong, gentle arms helping him. Tentatively he took a sip of the offered mug and then pushed it away with a grimace. "Phaugh! It is foul!"
"Yes, and it is also very good for you. Drink."
"You are very demanding for a dream. You are usually much nicer," he complained.
"I will be nicer in the next dream if you drink this."
"Promise?" he grumped.
"I promise."
"Oh, very well." Soon the mug was drained and he fell back into a slumber. "Remember, you promised," he mumbled.
Smiling, she reached out and smoothed the hair away from his forehead. "I'll remember," she murmured.
"Can you sit up?"
"Of course I can sit up. It's a dream. I can do anything in a dream," he slurred as those careful hands lifted the twist of blankets away from him and stroked his forehead.
"Good. Then you can drink more of the medicine."
"I don't want to."
"It is better this time. Although it is still very bad."
"I liked it better when you were dancing in the snow."
"As did I. Now drink."
So three days passed before his fever broke. Slowly the high color left his cheek and sweat broke out on his brow. Once the worst of the worry had passed, she was able to concentrate on his condition aside from the illness. It had indeed left its toll, between the high fever, painful head, and hacking cough, but he seemed at last on the mend.
But his thinness was too great to be accounted for by the illness, and the same for the dark circles beneath his eyes and in the hollows of his cheeks. Patchy stubble, too, had erupted on his face, as if he had only shaved parts of it, leaving it uneven and scraggly.
"What has become of you?" she sadly asked his sleeping form. She was having difficulty believing that her absence could have such a profound effect. Of course she realized that he cared for her, but to this extent? It was unfathomable.
Leaving such a riddle for another time, she took the mug that had held the infusion of willow bark and other herbs into the kitchen and washed it thoroughly with scalding hot water.
Despite another storm, and having to force the door open every time she needed to go outside, she was able to see to the livestock and take care of the other sundry chores, which she noticed had been done very badly indeed while she had been away. There were cobwebs in the corners of the nave, and the altar showed smudges and streaks in the polish. The floors had a piebald appearance, as they needed to be scrubbed at least once a week in this weather and it was obvious they had barely been swept. What had those foolish girls been doing while they were here?
The cupboard and larder were well-stocked, though, so she need not worry about necessities for a while. Considering the blizzard that still howled outside, that was very good indeed. Even she would have difficulty making it through that.
From the clean and dry laundry, she gathered the items that needed to be mended and returned with to him. Even the demons outside seemed to be cowed by the weather. He was at his most vulnerable in this state, but they had melted away until they were barely on the fringes of her senses. Neither could she sense any tampering had been done before she had arrived.
Firmly, she refused to think about if she had not so shamelessly eavesdropped at the gathering, and what could have happened to him left in the cold, unheated chapel, uncared for and unable to care for himself.
When she had burst through the door, calling his name, the answering silence had made her heart skip a beat. Discovering him poorly buried in his blankets, but alive and breathing, had granted her a bloom of relief, but it had quickly evaporated seeing his state.
Gently pulling back the blankets had shown him curled in on himself, arms wrapped around his chest, restlessly jerking in a state that could not be called anything as peaceful as sleep. Quickly she had gone to her room and stripped the bed of everything. She saw that the room had not been touched since she had left, everything was covered with a fine layer of dust. Ignoring that, she had taken the armfuls of bedclothes and pillows back to his room.
Dumping them into the chair, she pulled off the smelly blankets and sheets, and his night shirt. As swiftly as she could, she pulled a fresh shirt over his head, and piled him high with the fresh pillows and blankets. For the time being, she kicked the dirty linens into one corner and returned to the kitchen.
Piling wood chunks into the cold stove, she started a small fire, angry that no one had come to see that at least this had been done. The church was freezing, the same temperature as the outside although missing the icy wind. The fire had to be started slowly, too fast and the iron would crack, or even explode. She fretted at the delay.
Once the fire was properly going, she piled in as much wood as she dared and set a full kettle on to boil. That was when she realized that the scarf she had hastily wrapped her one change of clothing, a comb and the medicine in was still tied to her back.
Pulling it off, she opened it on a counter and pulled out the earthenware jar, tipping it onto the counter. As the starosta said, several fragrant packets tumbled out, each one neatly labeled. Fever, cough, chill, stomach, head. There was a generous amount for each. While she waited for the fire and the water, she washed several mugs and readied them for later use.
After seeing the general state of cleanliness for the rest of the chapel, she was not going to trust to something like a cup having been properly washed.
There was a copper footwarmer in the pantry, and she made a face when she saw its unpolished state. Still, it would serve its intended function, and she reached in to the stove to generously fill it with burning coals. No one was watching to see she didn't use the tongs as she should. The kettle began whistling as well and she poured it over the herbs so it could steep. Taking footwarmer and mug, she returned to his room, where he had once again curled into a ball.
As gently as she could, she straightened him to lie straight and got the footwarmer shoved in under the covers.
He had begun muttering again, getting progressively louder. Brow wrinkling in concern, she worked quickly, trying to disturb him as little as possible.
"Tovarichka!"
Trying to dismiss the stab in her heart that the unconscious cry had inflicted, she set her jaw and sat on the narrow bed next to him as best she could. It took all her care and strength to l the infusion down his throat without hurting him, but somehow she managed. A quarter of an hour later, and he lay quietly, breathing slow and regular, only an occasional cough to interrupt his rest.
Suddenly weak, she slid bonelessly into the chair next to his bed and buried her face in her hands.
But that was days ago, and he was much improved. Now she sat in another chair, but this time with needle and thread in her hand, and her eyes were trying to find the rips and tears in the fabric than staring sightlessly at the floor.
As his room was all the way across the chapel from the kitchen, and thus the stove, she had carried him to her former room, and made him as comfortable there as she could. She had debated exchanging beds as well, as hers was quite short for him, but had decided against it. When he started complaining that the bed was too small was when she would switch them. His room she had converted into a drying room, as his linens had to be washed and the inclement weather made it impossible to hang them outside.
The stove was stoked as high as she dared, and all the doors closed but for the one to the kitchen and her room. Finally the precious heat he so needed had begun to trickle into the room, then rush in. The temperature was at least one that she thought was tolerable for him, although she would have to watch to make sure it didn't get too hot. The little stove was cranking out heat at an impressive rate. If she were fully human, the kitchen would have been quite uncomfortable.
When not actively tending to him, she sat by his side as much as possible, leaving only to perform the other duties that demanded it. No one from the village would be venturing forth to the chapel, but she performed the devotions as best she could. Not at the altar, though. At his side, pausing in the chants where he would be performing his part. The hours passed slowly, but every minute of them seemed to imply his improvement, and so she did not care how many hours it took.