Chapter Two
Dal carried the sick man with ease, and Hecate wasn’t terribly surprised, since what she could see of his limbs betrayed his weakened state. His wrist bones protruded, his skin was colourless, and it was likely he’d not eaten for quite some time. She could understand—the crops that might have sustained him were not growing, and there was little in the way of fruit on the trees, nor sunshine to ripen any that had tried to survive.
As they walked back to Doireann Vale, Hecate did her best to keep the blanket covering him, but she saw several spots on his body where his skin lay bare.
“Dal, we must rid him of all his clothing,” she said urgently. “Do not bring any of it into the house.”
He frowned. “I do not understand, Miss Hecate.”
“He has typhus, I believe. And those clothes may carry the cause. I'm not sure. But I do know that typhus patients can be cured, and that the first thing to do is to burn their clothing.”
“Should I burn mine as well? I am carrying him…” Dal’s question was logical.
“Hmm.” Hecate thought about that as they turned onto the path for home. “Leave your cloak outside and we’ll see about getting it washed. Since I don’t think the rest of you is touching him because of the blanket, other than your gloves, I believe it’ll be all right. To be on the safe side though, the gloves should be disposed of. And if there’s a way to clean your cloak, we will.”
“I understand. I have seen this disease in my country now and again. We will need to be vigilant, Miss Hecate. For the next few days at least.”
“I know.” She put the man’s tattered bundle down outside the front door. “I’ll go inside and ready the smaller guest room at the rear, upstairs. Can you manage to rid him of his clothes out here by yourself?”
“I believe so. He is too thin, but thus quite light and easily maneuvered.” He gently laid his burden down on the front steps. “You might see if there is hot water, Miss Hecate. He should be washed.”
She nodded. “Yes. We’ll take care of that as well. I’ll tell Mrs. Trimmer to stoke up the fires.”
For the next half hour, a hushed pandemonium ruled Doireann, since Mrs. Trimmer had some strong opinions on bringing naked, half-starved men into the house, especially sick ones.
“Please, Mrs. Trimmer,” soothed Hecate as she fussed over her case of medicines. “He’s ill, and he was a soldier. An infantryman, if I recognise what’s left of his uniform correctly.”
“Oh.” The other woman stopped dead. “Oh, the poor lad.” She rushed to put more logs on the kitchen fire and fill the large kettle that would swing over the blaze.
Since she’d sent two of her own off to fight Napoleon, both of whom had returned safely, Hecate knew her sympathies would be immediately roused upon learning there was a soldier in need upstairs.
“I’ll want some extra sheets, I think,” mused Hecate, pulling out a couple of bottles of powdered herbs. “If his fever persists, we must get it down with cold wraps and compresses.”
“He’ll not be wantin’ food?”
“We should try and get something into him. It looks as though he’s been starving for quite some time. But perhaps some broth to start with?”
“I’ll make up a nice batch, Ma’am. ‘E’ll ‘ave it by dinnertime.”
“Excellent. That will be just the thing.” She closed her case. “Now I have the medicines that I think might be best, and I’m going to take a cup and a pot of hot water. I’d like to get these inside him as soon as I can and start the healing process.”
Mrs. Trimmer eyed the little bottles. “Yer knows enough ’bout this stuff to ‘elp ‘im get better, then?”
“I’ve had some time to study the medicinal benefits of our native herbs, yes.” She smiled. “I’m going to give him a little extract from the Tree of Life. It’s excellent for typhus. And this one is powdered fly agaric. A mushroom.”
“An’ that works?” Mrs. Trimmer’s eyebrows rose. “A bit o’ weed and a mushroom?”
“Let’s hope so.” Hecate gathered her supplies and rested them on a tray. “Dal has been cleaning our guest up a bit, so that is a good start.” She turned then recalled something important. “His clothes are outside the front door, Mrs. Trimmer. They must be burned. Do not, under any circumstances, give them to anyone, or let anyone take them? It is believed that this disease lurks within infected clothing, which is how it gets into a human. So we have to make sure they’re bundled and put onto the bonfire for Mr. Green to burn next time he comes by.”
“If’n yer says so, Ma’am,” answered Mrs. Trimmer. “Dunno as anyone’d want ‘em, anyway. Torn ter bits, by the looks of ‘em.” She shook her head. “Ol’ Art’ll be by in a bit to finish up clearin’ out t’ stables. I’ll ‘ave ‘im start a fire, if’n ‘e can in this weather.”
Leaving the woman to her chores, Hecate took the tray upstairs to the guest room. She was very grateful they’d cleaned up the second floor, since now they could offer private space to visitors, should the need arise.
Dal had taken over the attic chamber and Mrs. Trimmer was happily ensconced downstairs. Which left Hecate to enjoy her own small suite, and still have plenty of space for family if and when they decided to drop by.
The rear guest room was the quietest, a good space with a bow window that caught the last rays of the setting sun. Not that there had been many visible sunsets recently, but it was still a pleasant and bright place.
The bathtub and an empty bucket were outside the door in the corridor, so Dal had been quite busy in her absence, probably heating water over the fire in the room rather than waiting for some to boil in the kitchen.
