All Fall Down

by Christine Pope

  I located a large, deep pan and went to the pump to fill it with water. Afterward, I set it on the trivet and swung it over the fire, which at least had been well-tended. Probably Elissa had seen to it merely to ward the morning chill from the kitchen, but whatever her reasons for building it up, it helped me now. The water must be hot enough to increase the fermentation process, but not so hot that it would break down the mold and render it ineffective. How precisely any of these mechanisms worked, I could not say—I could only rely on my years of working with herbal remedies and the procedures my Order used to compound them. I didn’t know how they would translate into this new and strange ingredient I had never worked with before.

  “Is this enough?” Elissa asked, and held up the bowl, which brimmed with bits of moldy bread in various shades of green and blue.

  It will have to be, I thought, but I only nodded and said, “It will do. Bring it here.”

  She came around the table, holding the bowl in front of her with all the gravity of a temple acolyte bringing an offering to Inyanna’s altar. I took it from her and carefully tipped its contents into the pan of hot water. “A spoon, please, Elissa.”

  At once she dashed away to fetch the requested utensil, while Alinne also sidled around the corner of the table and peered suspiciously into the pot. Her nose wrinkled. I had to confess the mixture didn’t look particularly appetizing, as the bread and its accompanying mold had begun to break down in the warm water, turning into a green soupy mess that looked rather like blended pond scum.

  “Here, mistress,” Elissa said, and handed me a large wooden spoon. I took it from her with a nod and began to slowly stir the contents of the pan, keeping the viscous fluid moving so that the heat would be distributed evenly through it. When I compounded my tinctures, I usually tried to keep them at a simmer for at least an hour so the ingredients could mix properly, but I had no idea whether the mold would react the same way as the extracts of the various herbs and plants I used. Then again, mold did tend to like the heat, which was why it could thrive in a kitchen even in the heart of winter, as the kitchen hearth was usually the one fire that was never allowed to go out.

  “What are you going to do with it?” Alinne asked. Apparently she had no great fear of me, or perhaps she had already seen so much that a woman physician was no longer the fearsome thing she might have once been. She was a pert little thing, with a sharp nose under its linen swathing and tilted dark eyes. In fact, she reminded me rather of an inquisitive little rat, although I supposed she was pretty enough, in a pointed sort of way.

  “I’ll heat it, and then strain it. And then I shall give a measure of it to everyone to drink.”

  “To drink!” she exclaimed. “How will you get anyone to swallow that?” And she pointed at the soupy greenish mass in the pan.

  Well, then, that was always the question. I’d encountered many over the years who had no desire to take their medicine, even when they had evidence all around them that it would do them good. But I rather thought there wouldn’t be many at Donnishold who would refuse the concoction, not when the alternative was almost certain death—Master Wilys’ almost miraculous recovery notwithstanding.

  “I’ll simply ask them if they would rather have the plague, if they give me any trouble,” I replied calmly, still stirring away at the mold mixture.

  That seemed to mollify her; she appeared to swallow, and bite her lip, and suddenly seem very interested in the tips of her toes in their scuffed low boots. I guessed that, like Raifal and his comrade—and most likely everyone else in the hall—she had been counting the minutes and wondering when it would be her turn for the hollow cough to descend, for her forehead to flush with fever.

  “You can test it on me, mistress,” Elissa said in stout tones, with a sideways glance at Alinne. I got the impression she didn’t have much use for the other girl.

  I smiled then, and said, “As to that, I always taste my tinctures first, so that I am not inflicting anything on my patients that I would not take myself. But you should have the first dose after that, so I know you are protected.”

  “How does it work?” She peered over my shoulder into the pan; despite everything, she still smelled good, of the chamomile and peppermint hair wash I had mixed up earlier in the fall.

  A very good question. One might as well ask how the plants grow, or why the sun rises in the east. To these and so many questions, neither I nor the members of my Order had the true answers. Oh, we knew that a cough could be soothed with coltsfoot, and a fever with willowbark; that packing a wound with honey speeded its healing, and that peppermint—besides adding a sweetness to soaps and hair tonics—was a sovereign cure for an upset stomach. But why these things worked, how they interacted with the body and effected these cures, we still had very little idea.

  I knew, though, that to confess my ignorance would only bolster Alinne’s suspicions, and would of course set Elissa somewhat less at ease, and so I attempted to manufacture a reply that settled the matter to both their satisfaction. “In my order, we are taught that disease and contagion are carried in the air, and in the blood, by tiny specks one cannot see with the naked eye. And there is something in some cures that fights these specks, and drives them forth from the body. Not all cures work for all ailments, which is why I would not dose Merime’s weak heart with feverfew, nor give a patient with plague an infusion of foxglove. And because the plague is so rare, and so pernicious, it requires a very special medicine to treat it.”

  Elissa seemed to accept this explanation without question. She nodded, and returned to watching me swirl the greenish mold mixture. Now, after some time over steady heat, the bread had almost broken all the way down, and the solution had taken on the consistency of very watery oatmeal. Alinne seemed rather less convinced, as her eyes had narrowed when I spoke of the tiny specks that carried disease, but she forbore from saying anything else.

  “Alinne, do you know if Merime had a strainer?” I knew it was better to ask her, as she had been assigned to the kitchens, whereas Elissa had spent very little time there. It was something that the laboratories and stillrooms of the Order took for granted, but I knew it was not the sort of thing one might readily find in every kitchen because of the expertise required to make such fine screens. These things were easily procured in Lystare, whose factories churned out an astonishing amount of useful items, but in Seldd they did not have such resources.

  As I feared, Alinne hesitated, then shook her head. “I do not know what that is. When Merime wished to strain something, she used a length of cheesecloth.”

  It made sense, I supposed. After all, linen in all weaves was the one thing of which there was no shortage in Seldd. “It will have to do. Please bring me several lengths of it, and several clean pans.”

  Pert or no, the girl was used to following orders. She stepped away from the hearth and went to a cupboard at the far end of the kitchen, from which she drew forth a pile of the thin, open-weave cloth. On her way back to the fireplace, she stopped and retrieved two more pans, both of which looked clean enough, although I would still have to make sure they were thoroughly cleansed. It would do those suffering from the plague no good to be introduced to more illness because I could not be bothered to make sure all my pans were clean.

  To that end, I set Elissa to fetching another large pan of water, and moved the trivet to one side so she could set it over the fire on a second trivet. As it heated, I bade Alinne continue stirring the mold mixture so I could steal a few minutes to look in on those in the hall. All around me was the sound of coughing, and haggard, hollow-eyed faces. But the women there seemed to still have things in hand, and I could do little except administer some more tea, and murmur a few reassuring words. At least no one seemed materially worse than they had been a half-hour before, and I prayed they would hold on long enough for me to administer the brew I was concocting.

  And you hold on as well, I thought then, looking up at the dark stone ceiling and seeing again the shape of Lord Shai
ne on his bed, his pallid face, the fearful slackness of his mouth.

  When I returned to the kitchen, the water was at full boil, and I instructed the girls to wash the two new pans I had brought out in it, and then dip the cheesecloth in it as well. Afterward they draped the dripping fabric across the openings of both the pans, preparing them to receive the sludgy batch of mold broth I had prepared. Because the liquid was so precious—and because I was taller and stronger than either of the girls—I lifted the pan from the trivet myself and brought it over to the table where the prepared receptacles waited. Slowly I tilted the pot so the liquid could pour out. Somehow I found myself holding my breath as I did so, so fearful was I of splashing even a single drop. But it all transferred easily enough, and I was relieved to see that most of the bread had been broken down enough that it passed through the cheesecloth. Only a fine grit remained on the surface of the fabric, which meant that almost all of what I had prepared could go straight into the mouths of the people who needed it.

  I repeated the procedure with the second pan, and then instructed the girls to boil three pewter mugs, one for each of us to carry into the hall. Although I would administer the broth myself—I did not want either Elissa or Alinne to deal with recalcitrant patients—still I knew it would go more quickly if we didn’t have to keep returning to the kitchen to replenish our supply. Likewise we cleansed a quantity of spoons, as many as we could find, so that each plague victim could have his or her own utensil and not risk further contamination.

  But first Elissa must have her dose, which she took meekly enough, although she couldn’t help wincing as I had her swallow two large spoonfuls of the concoction. Her face screwed up in disgust, and she coughed a little as she tied her linen mask back in place.

  “That’s awful!” she exclaimed, once she recovered her breath.

  “Yes, I suppose it is,” I said cheerfully. Somehow now that I was done with the brew, I felt immeasurably lighter. Although Inyanna had said the gods did not meddle in human affairs, but only stood back and observed them, I wanted to believe that because I had done as she bade me, she would allow the medicine to work, and drive back the sickness that had threatened to take away all within Donnishold’s walls. At any rate, I had done the best I could. Now only time would tell if those efforts had been for naught.

  And then it was Alinne’s turn, and her reaction was much as Elissa’s, although I guessed she exaggerated somewhat for effect. After spluttering a bit, she, too, retied her mask, and then we all went out to the hall, bringing our little pot of hope with us.

  Because they had done so much for me, and because they had yet to show any sign of the disease, I gave doses to the women who had been acting as nurses first. Made of sterner stuff than the girls, they swallowed the medicine without complaint, although I saw one give a brief shudder afterward before she stoically replaced her mask and moved on to provide fresh handkerchiefs to a young woman from the dye hut who was coughing incessantly. And from that point it was only a matter of going from bed to bed and cajoling or persuading everyone to take their dose—or in the cases of those so far gone that they barely knew who they were or why they were there, simply pouring the medicine down their throats. By my count there were some forty souls gathered there in the hall, and each of them was given the gift of the precious liquid. By the end I was down to a few inches in one of the pots, and the other was quite dry, but it would be enough. All who were left were Lord Marten and his family, and Lord Shaine and the watching Raifal.

  I told Elissa and Alinne that I would go upstairs to tend to those few remaining, and that they should remain in the hall. “And if anyone should show a reaction,” I added, “come and fetch me at once.”

  “What kind of reaction?” Elissa asked, her eyes widening above the linen mask. It was obvious that she had expected once everyone had their medicine, then the cure would begin and we would have nothing else to worry about.

  “Some people are sensitive to certain substances—I’ve known some who could not eat nuts, or who cannot ingest honey. So there is always a chance that someone might react in the same way to the mold. They may develop hives, or become nauseous, or even have convulsions. Although I hope it will not come to that.”

  They both looked similarly worried, if not downright alarmed in Elissa’s case, so I assured them that such reactions were very rare, and then hurried away, carrying the last of the mold broth with me, although I had transferred it into a smaller receptacle that I also rinsed with boiling water. No need to lug one of the heavy pans all the way upstairs when I only had half a flagon’s worth left at best.

  It seemed I had climbed these stairs too many times already, although now they appeared somewhat different with the wintry morning light coming through the tower’s slit-like windows. Candles still burned in their sconces, however; most likely no one had thought to make the usual rounds this morning to put them out. I stood on my tiptoes and blew out the flames before continuing on my way.

  All was silent at the suite when I paused outside the door. Uncertain as to whether this was a good or a bad sign, I raised my hand to knock, and then realized that the door stood slightly ajar. I saw Lord Marten then, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, his head in his hands. He did not look up as I said his name, but through the entry to Larol’s room I heard a faint cough. So perhaps I was not too late after all.

  That hope died, however, as I entered the room and beheld the still form of Larol in his bed, covers pulled up to his nose, and the huddled form of his sister next to him. It had been she who was coughing, for even as I moved toward here she began to hack again, her thin frame shaking with each spasm.

  “Alcia,” I said softly.

  She looked up at me with red-rimmed eyes, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth. As if unable to utter a word, she only shook her head at me and turned away.

  I knew she was angry with me for what she saw as an abandonment of her brother, for not coming up with the miraculous cure everyone had been expecting. And I had no words, nothing to say to soothe the pain she must be feeling. Perhaps I had the cure now, but it had come too late to help Larol, or Lady Yvaine.

  “I have some medicine for you,” I told her then. “That is what I have been working on.” Whether my words were an explanation or an excuse, I did not know, but I felt I had to say something. And as she still spoke no words, I added, “And you need to go lie down. Let me tend to your brother.”

  “As you did before!” she burst out finally, and then broke into another fit of coughing. “What good are you?”

  What good, indeed? Well, I hoped time would tell that tale, but at the moment my only concern was to tend to the girl before she went the way of her brother and her mother. “Alcia, please,” I replied. “Your father does not want to lose you as well.”

  That had an effect, as I thought it would. She straightened a little and shot me a glare of pure hatred before she rose, if somewhat unsteadily, and stalked past me out into the receiving chamber, and then on into her own bedroom. Still Lord Marten did not look up to regard what we were doing, and I could not spare him a glance at the moment. Time enough for him, as the only apparently healthy member of the family. At the moment, Alcia was my main concern.

  As she had still been wearing her nightdress with a shawl draped over it, she merely flung the shawl into a chair and then climbed into bed. Once she was lying down, she began to cough again, but with her head turned away from me, as if she could not bear to let me see her weakness. Her distress of mind I could do nothing to ease, but merely hope that time might work its healing magic on her. In the meantime, I must tend to her ailing body.

  “Can you sit up, just a little?” I asked. “I need you to swallow all of this.”

  For a few seconds she did nothing, but then rolled over onto her back and made a show of wriggling up against her pillows so she was in a halfway sitting position. Even this mild exertion caused her to begin hacking and wheezing again, and I waited until the fit passed before I poured
a measure of the mold broth into a spoon and held it out to her. It did not have much of an odor, but even so she wrinkled her nose—probably at its less than appetizing appearance. But at least she did not fight me, but opened her mouth and let me administer the medication. She spluttered a little and coughed again, but she managed to keep it down, although she sent me another one of those baleful stares. Perhaps she thought I was trying to poison her.

  “Sleep now, and let the medicine do its work,” I told her. “That will be best for you, if you can manage it.”

  Although she halfway appeared as if she wished to argue with me, she only nodded and slid down onto her back, then shut her eyes. I doubted she was asleep; more likely she thought that was a good way to dismiss me.

  As it was. I had done what I could, and now I must let the medicine do its work and hope, as I had with all the others I had dosed earlier in the hall, that some good would come of it. Nor did I think it would be as simple as that—one dose would help them along the way to health, if what Inyanna had told me was true, but we would need more the next day, to continue with the treatment until the last sign of plague was erased from Donnishold. I would have to set all the able-bodied to work to make more yeast mixtures, and hope for the best.

  I went back out to the receiving chamber and looked down on Lord Marten for a long moment. At length he raised his head and said, in the monotone of one who has lost all hope, “I suppose she is gone as well.”

  “Not at all,” I said gently. “She is resting, and I have given her some medicine. And I must give you some as well, for though there are no signs of the plague in you, still you have been exposed to it, and I would stop it before it ever gets a chance to start.”

  He looked at me with dull eyes, uncomprehending, and my heart was wrung, for I had a flash then of how he had looked on Midwinter Eve, hale and hearty, pleased to see his beloved son engaged to the daughter of Donnishold. As Larol was the middle son, I knew Lord Marten must have another son elsewhere, most likely back at his estate, but I could see he had either forgotten such a thing in his despair, or believed his own household had succumbed to the plague as well. As to that, I could give no reassurances. It could not be expected that the people of his estate understood modern quarantine procedures. And even one such as I who did could still make a mistake, like the one that had proved so fatal to many who lived within Lord Shaine’s walls.