Page 47 of Fallen
A few feet away, Gunn’s face twisted. “It will take Fen too,” he said, his voice hoarse with grief. “My bonny love.”
Flora’s chin trembled at these heart-wrenching words, while Craeg swallowed hard.
He wanted to reassure his friend, to tell him that maybe Coira would find a way to save her. Yet he wouldn’t lie to Gunn. He wouldn’t lie to himself either.
“Dear Lord of Mercy, send out yer words to heal.”
Coira’s whispered words blended with the rasp of Fenella’s breathing in the tent. Kneeling before the fur on which the sick woman lay, her hands clasped in prayer, Coira squeezed her eyes shut. “Please send yer healing words to yer servant. In the name of Jesus, drive out all infirmity and sickness from this woman’s body.”
The words, murmured in desperation, poured out of Coira. She’d donned her scarf over her lower face to re-enter the tent, but noted immediately that Fenella’s condition had worsened.
The lumps that had formed under her armpits had grown. They were now red and angry-looking. Her skin had gone a pasty color, highlighting a strange rash upon her lower arms. Just like the farmer’s wife and daughter in Torrin, it looked as if Fenella had been bitten by fleas. The woman’s breathing had become labored.
If she continues this way, she won’t last the night.
Coira squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn’t let despair in; she couldn’t lose hope. “Dear Lord,” she continued with dogged determination. “I ask ye to turn this weakness into strength, this suffering into compassion, sorrow into joy, and pain into comfort. Let this woman be filled with patience and joy in yer presence as she waits for yer healing touch.”
Drawing in a ragged breath, Coira opened her eyes. The prayer had calmed her, focused her. She’d been close to tears when she left Craeg’s tent, and the urge to find a shadowed corner where she could seek refuge and weep had almost been overwhelming. His gentle words had nearly unraveled her.
However, she couldn’t indulge in tears—not when she had the sick to attend.
Fenella needed her.
Coira lowered her clasped hands, her gaze sweeping over the woman’s body. She was clad in a sweat-soaked linen tunic, and although she’d been conscious when Coira entered the tent, she appeared to have entered a strange delirium now. Her limbs twitched and shivered, and she uttered soft, piteous groans.
Watching her, Coira searched her mind for every last bit of healing knowledge her mother had imparted upon her.
How I wish ye were here, Ma, she thought.I could do with yer wisdom right now.
Indeed, her mother had been bold and fearless in her skills; never afraid to go against common wisdom if she thought it would save a patient.
Coira’s gaze settled upon those horrid swellings under Fenella’s armpits. The two men from Dunan had shown the same symptoms. She’d heard about these ‘plague boils’ and how they appeared during the latter stages of the illness. However, no one had said how a healer dealt with them.
Shifting closer, Coira peered at one of the boils. It reminded her of a large abscess.
How would she treat such a thing usually?
I’d lance it.
Coira’s belly twisted at the thought of touching the vile swellings. However, as she continued to stare at the swelling, an idea took form in her mind.
Her pulse quickened then, and she rose to her feet. Emerging from the tent, she found Craeg, Gunn, and Flora seated around the fire, their faces grim.
Craeg glanced up, his gaze meeting hers. His lips parted as he readied himself to speak, but Coira forestalled him. “Can ye get me a pair of leather gloves?”
His eyes widened, while both Gunn and Flora turned to stare at her. “Aye … the smithy will have some … why do—”
“I also need a small, long-bladed knife,” she continued. “And some vinegar.”
Gunn drew a boning knife from a sheath on his thigh. “Will this do?”
Coira nodded. Meanwhile, Craeg had risen to his feet. “I’ll go and get those gloves and vinegar.”
Coira swallowed down nausea and held the knife steady.
The gloves Craeg had found for her were too big, making her movements clumsy; yet it was a necessary precaution. She’d not lance these boils without protecting her hands.
She’d cleaned the blade by holding it in the flames till it glowed red. Now she held a small earthen bowl under the boil she was about to lance, ready to catch whatever fluid escaped.
