The Hope of Poker Westman by Cardenuto N. E.;

Author:Cardenuto, N. E.;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
Published: 2019-08-30T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 8

Malaria

When I awoke the next morning, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed. I was hot even with the fan whirling at top speed. Dad called me for breakfast, but I stayed in bed. I didn’t have the strength to get up. He walked into my room to see what was wrong. “It’s time for breakfast.” When I didn’t answer, he put his hand on my forehead.

“You’re burning up. What hurts? How long have you been like this?” he asked. I didn’t answer. He placed a thin sheet on the cement floor and suggested I lie on the cool floor. With his help, I slowly got out of bed. The floor felt cold against my back. “Stay right here. I’m going up the hill to get the nurse.”

I drifted in and out of sleep. In my mind, I saw a light shining and then flashing at me. In a strange way, I knew it was a signal. My thoughts were confused. A voice echoed thought my mind, “Beware!” The voice seemed to come from a plane wrapped and tied in a web of leaves and vines. I was on the ground and the cold metal of the plane was under me, lifting me, taking me somewhere I didn’t want to go. I tried to fight against it but couldn’t move my hands or feet. I was securely tied in the web. A dark face, like that of a spider, came toward me.

From the distance, I heard Dad’s faint voice. Slowly, it grew louder.

“He’s in here, Mary.”

I struggled to get my eyes opened. Mrs. Tommal, the principal’s wife was standing over me. As the nurse, she ran the medical clinic and stayed in constant contact with the doctor by shortwave radio. It took a few minutes for me to figure out what was happening.

“What’s wrong, Poker? It looks like you might have had too much fun on Cyclops yesterday. Let’s take a blood sample just to be sure you don’t have malaria.”

“Okay, Mary. Whatever you think,” Dad answered for me as he helped me get back up into the bed. I was dripping in sweat.

After taking my temperature, Mrs. Tommal took my right hand and rubbed my finger a bit. Squeezing it tightly, she poked it with a short object. Then she squeezed out a drop of blood onto a glass slide; the kind you use with microscopes.

“Give him two aspirin every two hours, Tim, to see if you can bring down the fever. Send word up the hill if he gets worse. I’ll take a look at this and let you know.”

Dad and Mrs. Tommal left the room. I vaguely heard the front screen door slam shut. Dad came in and walked over to my bed. He took my hand and held it. I was awake enough to peek into his eyes. They were a vast ocean, deep and mysterious. The last thing I remembered before I fell asleep again was the squeeze he gave my hand.

I slept on and off for a few days.

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