Darkness
Chapter 54

Samuel Duncan

“How is Matilda?” I ask my uncle as soon as I join him at his table in the club. The fact that he is present here, dining as usual, makes me optimistic that the child is fine.

“Running the servants ragged,” he says with a fond smile. “She is taking your admonition to remain in the nursery very seriously, and is therefore requiring the staff to bring everything to her that she can fathom being at all entertaining. Treats, toys, books, cushions, pillows, even some furniture has been summoned to her side.” He is laughing as he describes the uproar that Matilda is causing.

“So in other words, she’s feeling well?” I ask, chuckling.

“Very much so,” he says. “When can you release her from the nursery, and release the staff from this purgatory?”

I smile. I’m very pleased that not only is my cousin well, but that my uncle seems to have recovered from the fright he experienced due to her seizure. “I’ll try to find time to come and visit tomorrow. If she’s still feeling well, she should be able to resume her normal activities. Just keep an eye on her for a few days to make sure her symptoms aren’t returning. That could be the sign of a relapse, which is more dangerous.” I start eating the meal that has been brought to the table. “There is a patient at the infirmary today who I believe is suffering from a relapse, and I am not optimistic about his chances for survival.”

My uncles both nod soberly at me. Death inevitably follows a yellow fever outbreak, even if we have been lucky enough to stave it off until now.

I finish my meal as quickly as I can. “Good luck, Samuel,” Henry says softly to me, clasping my hand for a moment when I rise to depart. I have a package that was prepared for me, a dinner to bring home to Ben.

“Thank you,” I reply. “Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day. Other than the one truly ill patient, I hope that the others will all recover.”

“Until tomorrow, then,” Uncle Samuel tells me.

I carry the covered basket quickly down the street towards my medical office. I glance through the window on the way past - an odd feeling, since I have not been inside to treat any patients since this outbreak began. My efforts have been focused on the infirmary Under-the-Hill.

I see that a lamp has been lit upstairs, and it makes me very eager to see Ben. I assume this means he is feeling well enough to at least not be lying in bed in the dark.

When I make it in the door, I expect to find him reading quietly on the sofa as I had suggested. So I am shocked when I am attacked immediately, practically making me drop his dinner as he seizes me in a fierce embrace.

Oh my!

My hands are trapped holding the basket, and all I can do is kiss him back as he grasps both sides of my face and ferociously presses his lips to mine, leaving me breathless and laughing.

“My goodness,” I say when he finally releases me. “I hope this means you are feeling better?”

“No,” he grumbles, “I’m dying.”

“What?” I lean back and look at him with alarm.

“I’m dying of loneliness, and boredom.”

Ha! “Come here, silly, I brought you some dinner. Presumably your appetite is restored?”

“In more ways than one,” he says, leering at me hilariously while he follows me to our little table. I am so relieved to see that he apparently is back to normal.

I lay the meal before him, and sit with him while he eats. The poor thing seems starving. I should have thought to bring him lunch too.

“Thank you for doing what I asked today, Ben,” I tell him seriously. “I think that resting all day was exactly what you needed. And knowing that you were resting was what I needed.”

“Am I released tomorrow?” he asks. “I can’t stand another day in jail like this.”

“If you’re still feeling all right, sure. Only light duties, though. I still don’t want you to over-exert yourself. You may be feeling fine, but your system has been taxed. It still needs some time to finish recovering.”

He is nearly finished with his food. “Gregor actually told me that if you approved it, I could stay and help at the infirmary for a couple of days before getting back to work at his house. Would you like me to do that tomorrow?”

“Mmmm. That sounds lovely,” I tell him. “Have we ever actually worked together before?”

He grins. “Not really. Any excuse to spend time with you sounds perfect to me.” He takes my hand. “How is it going down there?”

“Except for one patient, fine.”

“Oh? Who’s that?”

“A patrolman. Actually, I think it is the one who was responsible for whipping Gregor.” His brow lowers. I go on, “I am not sure he’ll survive.”

“Good riddance,” he growls.

“What?” I lightly whack his arm. “With that kind of attitude you do not qualify to be a doctor’s assistant, sir. You must agree to tend to every patient who comes to you, regardless of who they are or what they have done.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine.”

I stand from the table. “Gregor is down there minding the sick ward for me, I need to go soon. I just want to lay down for a few minutes before I go.”

He rises too, and as I am trying to walk towards the bedroom his arms wrap around me from behind. “I know a way to make the best of your rest time,” he murmurs into my ear, as one of his hands makes its way down my torso.

“Are you sure you’re feeling well enough?”

“Absolutely,” he growls, pushing me towards the bed, and then he demonstrates to me exactly how well he is feeling.

Gregor’s

My beloved methodically makes his way through each patient, spending time with every one, caring for them gently, tenderly, making sure to have as much physical contact with them as possible. I assist him in his effort, evaluating the health of each person, sharing with him the healing power that I pull from the energy at my disposal. In a fairly short span of time, since he arrived in Natchez, he has become incredibly proficient at healing through the laying on of hands. He always had the capacity to do so, but only recently began to understand and utilize it.

As a result, again these patients are recovering more quickly from the yellow fever infection than they would be able to if things took their natural course. Most of these patients will be well again within another day or two.

Smith, however, is another story. After Gregor’s crew leaves, he thinks, “Oh, Smith never got any dinner. Do you think he’ll want it? I’m not sure he’d accept a tray of food if I carry it in.”

“No, darling, Smith is not hungry. He overexerted himself earlier while… interacting… with you.” Gregor smirks, and winces because this tugs on the swelling in his lip. “He was exhausted afterwards, and has fallen asleep.”

He frowns. “Do you think he will be able to recover if I don’t help him again?”

“I do not know, beloved.” I am tempted to leave it at that, but it would be dishonest of me not to provide a full answer, and I have no wish to deceive my dearest one. So I continue. “I suspect not, the yellow fever relapse has damaged his organs to the extent that only a prolonged effort could make any difference to the eventual outcome. Your touch probably bought him some time, but I believe the disease will continue to progress.”

“So,” he muses, “he might die without me?”

“I believe so. However, any time that you make the attempt, I assume that the outcome would be the same. He would revive, see you, and violently reject your efforts. He believed you were attacking him. If this occurred again, he would be sure of it.”

“Well, how can I help him then?”

“Honestly, darling, I don’t think you can. He was very clear that he wanted nothing to do with you. I suggest you honor that wish.”

“But he doesn’t understand what I can do for him.”

“No, but there is no feasible way to explain it to him. Dearest, you have other patients to tend to, who are far more likely to benefit from your assistance. May I suggest that you simply focus your efforts in a direction that will be successful?”

It makes him unhappy. He has gotten into the habit of always helping, every time he can, everyone he can. It was not always so. Perhaps if I remind him. “Do you recall your analogy of the sinking boat?” I ask him.

He thinks back, and remembers. Long ago, he had gone through a period of time in which he was determined to use his abilities to assist every person in need. He had only lived a few decades at that point, and began to feel almost guilty about the long life and good health that he enjoyed, while he saw other people lapse into illness and decay. He also watched people fall victim to poverty, and greed, and cruelty, and he detested knowing that their short life spans could be squandered in such misery. He decided that at the very least, he would prevent humans from victimizing each other if he could. So he began playing the role of the rescuer, seeking out instances of theft, or assault, or violence, and actively intervening to prevent such crimes.

His success was intermittent at best, he often was injured as a result, the consequences were often not at all what he had intended, and eventually he realized that no matter how hard he tried, he would never make very much of a difference in the overall scheme of things.

He analogized it to trying to bail out a sinking ship. It was exhausting, disheartening, and ultimately futile. Therefore, he eventually stopped the effort, and began his long habit of living along the edges of human society, without becoming overly involved.

His life in Natchez is one of the few times that he has been able to become so thoroughly entangled with other people. It is because of his current relationships that he has perfected his healing techniques. But this does not change the underlying reality that he cannot save everyone.

He sighs, as we both contemplate this history and this truth. “I guess I have to choose my battles,” he says, and quietly passes by Smith’s closed door to tend to another patient.

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