A terrible, sick sound comes from Jeremiah’s lungs, making Cynthia’s heart plunge down into her stomach. Blood–there was blood in his lungs.
“I–I need clover,” she says, snatching her skirts around her when she stands. “Daniel, stay with your father. I’ll be right back.” The little boy (and her heart hurts, he’s only eight, two years younger than when she lost her father) sniffles and slips his small hand into his father’s, large eyes wet with tears.
Their house isn’t large. The kitchen is right off of the bedroom, rough counters scattered with bloody bandages and healing tonics that don’t work. She’s not supposed to know what she does, had thought to never use her skills again, but this is her husband. Her son’s father. Needs must.
She gathers her ingredients and tools with shaking hands. Clover and rosemary, mugwort and daffodil, basil and mint. Mortar and pestle, the holy water the priest left them when Jeremiah first fell, the beads he gave them yesterday when Jeremiah started to have difficulty waking up.
They tell her what she’s about to do is a sin. They being Jeremiah’s mother, the priest, the villagers. But she can feel her God in her heart when she reenters the room, lays her things on the floor. Daniel is still at his father’s side and Jeremiah’s eyes are closed again. God is in her heart and she knows this is right.
She wipes her tears with the back of her hand and sets to work. After a moment’s thought, she collects the moisture with the rosemary. It’ll make it all the more potent.
“D-daniel,” Jeremiah wheezes from the bed some time later. Cynthia pauses in the last stages, arms aching from grinding everything into a paste. She looks to the bed where Jeremiah weakly turns his hand over to better grab their son’s. “Daniel, I need–I need to tell you…”
“Dad?” Daniel says, voice high and scared. “What?”
“Take…care of your mother,” Jeremiah says. His eyes flutter. “Y-you’re the man of the house now You–you’ve got to take care of things. For me.”
It’s a good thing that she’s finished with the paste now, because whipping up a healing with incredulous fury in her heart wouldn’t be possible.
“I–I,” Daniel stutters and looks to her with his big eyes. There’s so much fear there and she knows (knows) the weight that is descending on his shoulders. Everything is not alright now and it won’t be for a long, long time. She knows from experience that that’s how grief works, you can’t just “take care of things”, not when you’re eight or ten or ever.
She is furious that her husband would dare try and put that on their son.
“I will take care of things, Jeremiah,” she says and rises from the ground like she is born from it (she is). The mortar is clutched to her breast, a desperate act manifested, but the fear is fading now. “As your wife, as his mother, I take care of things.”
Daniel, pushed to the side by her, holds onto the back of her skirt. She can feel him trembling as he peers around her at his father.
“Don’t listen mind your father, Daniel,” she tells her son, working the paste in her hands, imbuing it with heat and power. “He’s not in his right mind. Why don’t you go outside and see if there are any ripe tomatoes? Thank you.”
“’kay,” Daniel says and practically runs from the room.
“N-need a man of the house,” Jeremiah says, eyes bright with fever. “Cynthia…”
She slams the mortar on the bedside table. With her bare fingers, she drops a ball of the paste into his water. The rest, she gathers in her hands, eyes sparking. “You had better hope that’s the pain talking, Jeremiah, because if you think for one second that I am not capable of taking care of myself and my son without you, then you may find yourself no longer a man and no longer capable of residing in this house, much less presuming yourself to be the man of the house.”
She slaps the paste to Jeremiah’s bare chest with more force than is necessary, no longer minding the horrible, gurgling sound he makes. He’ll be fine, she’ll make sure of it.
Of course, that’s presuming she doesn’t drown him in the healing water she’s made up. She’s still undecided about that.
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