The Plagues of Kondar by Lynne Kositsky

Author:Lynne Kositsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2014-06-09T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Anar appears to be very sick, apparently after ploughing the wold near Edge.

“The drog he took with him,” says his mother, “is very poorly too.”

“Did he come across anything unusual while he was turning the earth?” I ask his mother.

“What looked like black rags, he said. And bone fragments thin as needles.”

He’d found the remains of the Oscurans. Dead though they were, they must have infected him and the drog. Although I feel it may be hopeless, we do everything possible for him. First we rip his quilt off, for his mother fought with Morlova earlier as he attempted to do so. She screams that we must put it back, that the lack of heat will kill him.

“It’s a warm day,” says Neretta, “and he’s hotter still. We must cool, not warm him.”

She continues to scream. Morlova drags his sister outside, gripping her arms so she can’t escape, as we wash Anar all over with tepid water, leaving cool wet cloths on his arms and legs to quell the fever. Later we turn him onto his belly. Angry blue-grey boils have appeared on his back.

“I’ve never seen their like,” says Neretta. “I’m baffled.” After peering at the boils a second time, she calls for the poultice. As we apply it, praying to the gods to cure him, the boils begin to fester and spread. Neretta softens nartle and janny herbs in warm water. “They are best for fever,” she tells me. She adds maymint, explaining that it’s good for eruptions of the skin, and strains the mixture through a sieve that I find in the cookroom.

“Should we lance the boils with your knife?” I ask.

“I wondered about that. It’s the usual remedy, but I’m afraid it might kill him straight away if we do.”

Lacking any other ideas we turn him back over and prop him up. I hold his lips apart while she spoons small amounts of remedy into him. She massages his throat so he swallows.

He opens his eyes briefly, and I smile at him, thinking the disease, whatever it might be, is waning. I hasten outside to try to help the drog. But it’s already dead.

When I return, Anar’s eyes are closed again. We try to feed him more remedy, but he starts making a rattling sound as his gold-red blood leaks out of his mouth and onto the floor. Nothing we try helps. He never reopens his eyes. By evening, despite our best efforts, he is dead. We take off our sopping hand warmers and put them in the basket. When we tell her the tragic news, his mother screeches that we have murdered him. I already feel miserable and guilty. Her shrieking gives me a dreadful headache, as though someone is wringing out my brain like a piece of wet washing.

“We did everything we could,” Neretta replies quietly. “We were called in too late. He was all skin and bones, poor boy. And he had symptoms the like of which I’ve never seen.”

“He was strong and healthy two days ago.

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