The Will and the Wilds(49)

I slip into the house, trying to shake my weariness. My heart nearly stops when I check on my father.

For a moment, I’m sure he is dead.

But his chest moves, and I rush to his side, energy restored. “Papa?” I ask, feeling his forehead. Still no fever, but his skin is clammy and gray. He looks twenty years older. I hurry to get him a glass of water and help him drink it. I’ve never seen such a sickness before. Grasping the Will Stone, I picture the town doctor in my mind and plead for him to come. It will be faster than seeking him out myself. And while I don’t wish to force others to my bidding, I will not be refused in this.

I make tea and start stew, hoping to give my father something heartier than broth. I slice mushrooms thin and add them to the pot of water simmering over the fire. To my relief, only an hour passes before the physician arrives at my door.

He looks confused. “I don’t recall making an appointment with you, but—”

“Here, quickly.” I grab his arm and hurry him to Papa’s bedside. I chew on my thumbnail as the doctor inspects him. Papa responds to his questions, though more with sounds than words. I clutch the Will Stone and pray. Find what is wrong with him, please. Let him live. Live, Papa.

Don’t leave me alone.

The doctor frowns once he’s done with his assessment. “It could be a number of things. Gray fever, though you’ve said he hasn’t been feverish.”

“Correct.” My voice is small like a mouse’s. Even as I say the words, doubt creeps up my neck. Was he feverish while I was away?

“It could be failure of the heart or kidneys,” he suggests. My legs weaken, and I lean against the wall to stay upright. “Could be an ailment of the stomach.”

“He’s eaten nothing sour, and he hasn’t thrown up.” Has he? Could I have missed those symptoms, too?

The doctor stands. “Keep an eye on him, look for any changing or new symptoms. Lots of water and rest. Send me word.”

I offer him payment. I don’t see him to the door. Instead, I kneel at my father’s bedside, stroking his hair back from his face. Trying to be strong, like my mother was. A few tears blur my vision.

“You’ll be all right. Just rest.” I can’t believe it’s a failure of his organs; Papa is so healthy. Gray fever? Perhaps, but I know little of the disease.

I devote myself to his care, body and fractured soul, even read to him while he slumbers, pausing every other page to watch his chest rise and fall. Night comes. I make up a pallet at my father’s bedside and lie down, my weary limbs heavy.

I don’t sleep.

I think it is fear for my father, so I lie there, listening to him breathe. There’s only a light rasp to the sound, and it’s even. Peaceful. I’m so tired. I close my eyes and wait for sleep to come, but it remains elusive. Hour after hour passes, and my body is so fatigued I could cry for lack of rest. It isn’t until the blue light of predawn that I realize the insomnia might be my body’s objection to what I’ve done to my dwindling soul. Yet would my own body truly torment me so?

Papa stirs as dawn breaks. I force myself out of bed, will myself to be alert. To my relief, the stone lends me its strength. I make porridge and tea, trying a different blend of herbs. My father is only partially lucid. I help him sit upright and feed him, but he only takes a few bites of breakfast, followed by a few sips of water.

“You need to eat if you’re going to regain your strength,” I chide him. He doesn’t respond. I run my knuckles over his growing beard. “Papa?”

He sighs.

I help him back into his bed. Clean the kitchen. I should check on the mushrooms, but . . . I’m so weary. The thought of climbing up and down the ladder exhausts me. The little farm will be fine for one more day.

Near noon, my father begins to cough. I hurry to his side. He coughs harder without breath, until his skin’s gray cast borders on blue. I lean him forward and beat my hand against his back. Mucous flies from his lips and onto the blanket. He gasps for air, then settles back down.

I grit my teeth, steeling myself. At least this is something I can tell the doctor. I take off the top blanket and launder it. I can hardly keep my eyes open as I scrub it and hang it outside.

I check on my father once more. He slumbers, peaceful.

I drop onto my pallet and will myself to sleep.





Everything is red as candlelight inside a closed fist. It pulses. Far off, an inhuman shriek fills the air.

The smell of rotting eggs stirs around me. I try to move, but my feet are caught in something—the floor is like a giant, spongy tongue, sucking against my shoes. My breath is too fast as I try to pull free. I stumble. My hand hits the tongue and starts to sink.

I hear their giggle—the grinlers. They’re hungry. Their shadows blot out the red light.

I feel one sink its teeth into my neck.





I start awake, my throat aching as though I’ve been screaming. The sun is high; I didn’t sleep long.

My dress clings to the perspiration coating my body. I stare at the wall, trying to calm my breathing.

Never in my life have I had a nightmare like that. So foreign, so real.

I pick my heavy body off my pallet and find some bread and tea to settle my stomach.

Papa coughs again.

I speed to his side and beat his back. He gasps for air between spells. I will him to breathe. More mucous comes up—ugly brown slime. I catch it in a handkerchief. Papa settles down, but his breathing is harsher, uneven.