Two of a Kind - 8. Chapter 8: Waiting

Bashta's nose wrinkled as soon as he walked through the glass doors into the large community center. The smells of illness were overwhelming; stale sweat, vomit, diarrhea were all masked by a thick stink of pervading fear. To the sensitive nose of a transformed Carthera it was all but overwhelming. He could hear piteous cries and moans from the stricken kitlings as well as quiet sobs of their watching parents. Pain, in all its forms, was stalking the Carthera of the Jaguar clan.

He flinched when a hand came down on his arm. "Can you handle coming inside?" The same woman who had faced him so intractably was touching him gently, understanding in her eyes. Bashta shook a little but nodded, even as his ears flattened to the sides of his head. He would not fail his mate or his new clan.

Cavel moved up to his other side and handed him his brown bag, brought all the way from the jungle. "Piscel got this from Mackent." Bashta slid it over his head, his hands caressing its soft flexible sides for a moment. Taking a shallow breath, he shuddered as he let it out.

"Take me to the sickest kitlings so I may see what ails them. If you have some way to heat water while I am looking at them I will be able to prepare some teas to help."

"Raselie can take care of that." At her comment another woman that had entered with them turned right and hurried off down a hall, presumably to get that started. Bashta turned to the woman at his side, "I'm sorry, I don't know your name."

"Laurell."

"Thank you, Laurell, for help me," Bashta said gently.

"If you can help our kitlings, save them..." she trailed off, unable to finish her thought. Her own daughter was one of the sicker kitlings, her fever raging unrelieved for days.

"I will do my best." Cavel reached out for his free hand, squeezing it as he tried to comfort his mate.

Cavel caressed the hand he had captured with his thumb. "That is all anyone could ask," he reminded Bashta.

They started walking again; turning left to go in the opposite direction Raselie had gone. The room they walked into was large, with high ceilings, taking up the center of the building. Usually it was filled with a TV and a few couches, some video game machines, and a foosball table; it was now filled with rows of beds made up on the floor. Some of the small bodies lay on thin mattresses; others lay on makeshift pallets made of blankets. Parents crouched down over their suffering young, sponging their brows, holding hands, whispering words of comfort to soothe the tears the sick kitlings couldn’t hold back.

Their faces were lined with grief and worry as they looked up as Bashta's party passed between the rows. The kitlings lying on the floor they were so desperately trying to save were not the only ones being ravaged by the horrible disease. Here and there pregnant women dotted the pallets, the babes their bodies protected suffering in their wombs, the disease poisoning the blood of both mother and unborn child.

Piscel moaned and rushed over to a woman sitting on the floor between two beds, holding the hands of identical twin girls. He dropped to his knees in front of his mate, reaching for her as she reached for him. He rocked her for a moment while the rest of their group paused, looking on discreetly. The girls lying in the beds looked frail, the bones in their faces prominent against their pale skin. Their small bodies were wracked with fevers that made them shiver, even with jackets and blankets piled on top of them.

"Cara, are they?" He leaned back and looked at each little girl, tears streaming down his face. His hands hovered over their beds as he hesitated to touch them.

"Sleeping. They have the fever but they aren't as bad as some of the others." She wiped at the tears falling down her face with the back of her hand. The other one was buried in Piscel's shirt, holding on so tight her knuckles were white. "They got sick about four days ago, within minutes of each other. I didn't know what to do, nothing helps, none of the medicine. I tried everything, I swear I did."

Piscel shushed her, drawing her close to him. She buried her face in his chest and he rocked her, murmuring quietly, "I know you did, I know. Shhhh..."

Bashta bent over them, pressing his hand down on Piscel's shoulder. Piscel looked up at him. "I will send some tea good for fevers as soon as I get it made. We will save your kitlings, Piscel."

Piscel looked up at him, tears in his eyes threatening to fall as he blinked rapidly. "Thank you," he whispered. Bashta backed up, reaching for Cavel's hand. He really liked Piscel and his pain was palpable. His determination to help the clan was made even stronger as they kept walking, seeing more and more parents sitting over children listless with fever sponging their foreheads or trying to soothe deep wracking coughs in vain.

"The worst cases are here in the back. These families came in first," Laurell said.

"The kitlings that were sick before we left?" Cavel asked.

"Here for the most part. None have died yet but..." she trailed off, gesturing discreetly. Cavel and Bashta could see dark smudges beginning to appear on the naked chest of one little boy who lay in his bed, moaning as he moved restlessly. His wasted hands plucked at the sheet over him. He couldn't have been more than six years old.

Bashta moved among the beds in the back of the room, touching the children, moving their clothes and sheets to feel their chests and look at their stomachs. The parents watched him silently, their eyes dull. They had lost hope that the cure would save their children; the days to wait seeming insurmountable. They were just too sick.

His face was very grave as he turned back to Cavel and Laurell. "I need boiling water and also some sort of cream or oil. I have some things that might help."

"Down the other hall is the kitchen. Raselie should have the water boiling by now." Turning, Laurell led them back through the crowded main room filled with the slightly less sick kitlings. Bashta didn't look around again, his mind focused on the herbs and seeds he had in his bag and the main symptoms he had seen. Cavel's face was set into stoic lines but his eyes flicked from clan member to clan member, the litany of names of each of his sick people running through his brain over and over. His clan would survive as a whole; he was sure of that the antiserum would work. The real question was how many would die before they had it.

***

Cavel watched as Bashta dumped out his bag on the table. He quickly sorted through the packets and bags, placing them in different piles. Turning to the women watching him, he held out his hands. "I need a bowl about this big and this deep. Do you have something like that? I'll need some smaller bowls too, cups. Things we can put liquid in so the kitlings can drink it." They both began to rummage around in cupboards, stacking all the cups and bowls they could find on the counter. Since the center was often used to keep the kitlings overnight when the parents went on group hunts or runs the center was well stocked, fortunately.

Cavel approached Bashta quietly. He was barely holding his panic and pain in, only his amazing self-control keeping him from losing what little calm he had left. He couldn't fall apart; not when his clan was in desperate need of his strength. His mate was calm, working furiously to help his people. He would do no less.

"What can I do?" Cavel asked.

Bashta thought for a moment, biting his bottom lip as he considered what needed to be done first. "I need something, a cloth of some sort, to hold the cacahuatl leaves and other herbs. I also need to shred some clavillia root. Combined, both will make a drink that will help bring down their fevers and soothe their coughs. These medicines are very strong though so we will have to be careful dosing them though and it must be made fresh each time they need it. A cream made from the clavillia leaves and flowers will also help the kitlings developing lesions, maybe slow their spread."

"Well I can shred the root on a cheese grater." Cavel offered. He frowned, and then turned to Raselie, "Do we have any cheesecloth here?"

"I think so. I know we did a project with some a few months ago. Back before... before," Raselie trailed off, tears in her eyes. She was the activity director for the center and all the kitlings loved her when they spent time there. It was just as hard for her to see the kitlings sick as their parents, even though she wasn't mated and had none of her own. As part of the same clan they were very close, the loss of any one would be devastating to all.

"I know, it’s okay to cry." Cavel pulled her into his arms for a quick hug. She looked over at Bashta nervously but he just smiled at her gently, reaching over to touch her back for a moment before he turned back to his herbs. Cavel was relieved that Bashta wasn't jealous. Their kind were very tactile and were reassured best by touch, especially between sub-dominant members and the alphas. Raselie soaked up the comfort her alpha offered, hiding the tears she had been trying to stop in his chest. She quickly managed to bring herself under control.

Raselie wiped her eyes and stepped back. "Okay, I'll look for that cheesecloth. The grater is in the third drawer down." They had some hope for the first time in days and she would not delay anything that might help the kitlings feel better.

"I need to get back to my daughter," Laurell said. "My mate is with her but..."

"Go," Bashta told her gently. He reached out and touched her hand, squeezing it for a moment. "I will bring tea for her as soon as it is ready."

"Thank you." Laurell turned and left the room, her arms wrapped around her small torso as if she were trying to hold herself together. Bashta watched her sadly. She reminded him of his aunt, a small woman that had often taken care of him and his littermates when his parents had been busy with clan matters. She had died along with everyone else while he was at the Temple with his mother. Bashta prayed that the heat he felt coming from Laurell wasn't the fever beginning. The adults in his clan had faded far faster than the kitlings once they got the sickness.

Working quickly, Raselie, Cavel, and Bashta soon had tea made from the cacahuatl and clavillia as well as a salve of sorts to put on the chests of the kitlings. Raselie took the salve and began to tend to the sickest kitlings, very carefully spreading it on the lesions beginning to mar the small bodies. Cavel followed Bashta with a bag of cups and small bowls while Bashta carried the large bowl with the tea in it. Over forty kitlings needed medicine but each one needed to be measured for their size and how sick they were. Bashta could not pass the burden on to anyone else. A cup with the dosage was left for each parent to coax the kitlings into drinking. For each dose, a fresh batch of tea would have to be made every four hours.

Bashta refused to leave the kitlings, working alongside the parents to make them as comfortable as possible. Every few hours he was back in the kitchen area, measuring herbs and grating roots. The day turned into night and he still worked, dark shadows beginning to develop under his eyes. The only rest he had in the past few days had been from the drugs on the plane ride. He needed food and natural sleep.

"Come and eat," Cavel coaxed him as he stood up from the last kitling that needed tea. Bashta wanted to say no but he was too tired to argue. Cavel pulled him into the kitchen area and back to the table he had been using to fix his herbs. He gently sat him into a chair. "You can't go so long without food; it's not good for our kind to be hungry." He pushed a bowl of stew in front of Bashta who sat looking at it blankly.

"I'll help you." Cavel picked up the spoon, feeling a surge of worry. His mate was very distant, their bond almost seemed shut down but he could feel it wide open. It was as if all the memories of his clan dying were pressing Bashta down, his fear growing that it would happen again. Only this time he would lose his mate as well as the clan he called his own. The fear was all Cavel could feel but he knew that it wasn't the only thing Bashta felt. He just had to break through to him. First... food.

"Take a bite, Bashta." Cavel slid the spoon into Bashta's mouth, watching him chew mechanically. He held up another bite, carrots and celery as well as beef on this spoonful. Bashta tried to eat it but began to choke and cough as soon as he swallowed. His stomach rebelled and he wasn't able to hold the food down. Bashta opened his mouth to apologize but Cavel shushed him.

"No. It is my fault. I know things must be very hard for you now." He didn't want to push Bashta into eating if it was going to make him sick but he needed the nutrients. He thought for a moment and then picked up the bowl. In a cupboard over the sink was a strainer and he placed that over a wide mouthed mug. Pouring the stew into the strainer, the meat and vegetables were left inside while the broth went into the mug.

Cavel took the mug and wrapped Bashta's hands around it. "Feel the warmth?” Bashta sighed but his hands tightened around the mug.
Cavel urged him to drink, “Try this; it shouldn’t hurt your stomach."

Bashta took a cautious sip, the warm liquid soothing his irritated throat. He sighed a bit and drank some more. Thirstier than he thought he soon finished the broth. Cavel refilled the mug with some water and urged him to drink that as well, stroking Bashta’s back as he drank. When he put the mug down empty on the table Cavel reached for his hands.

"Let's go lay down. You need to rest."

"But the kitlings..." Bashta began to protest.

"I've set the alarm on my phone. Just three hours of sleep, Bashta. Then we'll get up and make more tea, okay? You can’t help the kitlings if you don’t rest a little." He drew Bashta to his feet and led him down the hall to a small dark room, the window shades drawn so that the only light came from a small lamp on the bedside table. The double bed was small but they squeezed on it together, cuddling as much for comfort as space.

"I'm sorry," Cavel whispered as he stroked Bashta’s hair. "When I thought about finding my mate I always thought that welcoming you to your new home, your new clan, would be a joyous occasion. All we have done is tend the sick. Not an auspicious start to a mating," he said sadly.

"We have our whole lives to enjoy each other and the wonders of your home," Bashta assured him as he rubbed the tips of his fingers over Cavel's face. "Our clan is more important. If easing their pain and suffering is something I can do, then I must give up whatever is demanded of me. Even our time as new mates if that is what price we must pay."

Cavel nodded, "I understand. It is hard being an alpha but someone must lead and make the necessary sacrifices. But when this is all over I want to take you away. I have a place in the mountains, very little in way of comforts but we will be able to be alone there." He desperately needed that with his mate, their bond pushing him to bring them closer physically but he fought it for Bashta's sake. He needed rest more than he needed anything else and Cavel would give that to him.

Bashta snuggled his face into Cavel's neck. "I'd like that," he sighed.

"Good." Cavel rubbed his cheek on Bashta's head and held him close. "Now go to sleep. I will wake you in a few hours."

***

The next two days followed the same pattern. Each day Cavel called Dr. Waddel and each day he had to face the hopeful faces of the sick kitlings with the same message of ‘not yet’. The teas Bashta made helped bring down the kitling's fevers but the lesions on the sickest continued to spread. He frantically tried other herb mixes, creating salves and trying each one, muttering to himself as he went over the impressive array of herbs in his bag. Each evening Cavel had to force him to choke some food down and get some sleep but the stress was beginning to take its toll on both of them.

"Bashta, come eat," Cavel said on late in the evening of the second day. "Raselie made some sandwiches."

Bashta refused to stir from his spot on the floor next to a very small kitling, only three or four years in age. The little girl had blond curls that lay lank on her makeshift pillow. Tears trickled out of her eyes as she fought against the soft bands that held her hands down. She had the lesions and was unable to understand that she couldn't touch them or the oozing fluid that wept out of them. Bashta was chanting over her in desperation. He had already spread the strongest batch of salve he could think of over the many black marks that were beginning to spread up her neck and across her beautiful face.

"Bashta, you need to eat."

"I will eat when I am done!" Bashta said, his temper flaring. As he turned, his ears lay against his skull and he glared at Cavel, using his anger to fight the sadness and fear swamping him. "Tell Merilyn that her hurts will be soothed after I have stuffed my stomach if you feel it is so necessary that I eat."

"I am only trying to help, Bashta," Cavel said quietly.

"I do not need help, this kitling does. She is... I can't..." Bashta broke down and turned his face away, looking at a spot on the wall as he bit his lip. Cavel reached down and picked him up, alarmed at how light Bashta had grown. The little girl's father stood to one side, tears streaming down his face. Cavel could feel his fear. They all waited on the phone call from the doctors saying they were sending the antiserum they hoped would cure the kitlings but even that hope was fading fast for Merilyn's parents. She was the worst of all the kitlings, her small body overwhelmed with the sickness.

"I'm sorry," Cavel murmured. He had tears in his eyes.

"No, my lord. I understand. Your mate has done all that he can do for our Merilyn." He knelt down, his mate on the other side of the small pallet, their hands gently touching her, trying to soothe her as best they were able.

Cavel carried his distraught mate out a back door, the evening air beginning to grow chilly as the light faded into twilight. He sat under a tree, cradling Bashta in his arms. He stroked his back as Bashta's hot tears wet the shoulder of his shirt as they cried together. Bashta struggled to sit up.

"Why?" he cried, "Why did the Jaguar send me here to watch this clan die just as mine did? Why can't I save them? I was sent here to save them and I am doing nothing! They're just babies, kitlings. They don't deserve this!" he sobbed.

"Stop this," Cavel grabbed Bashta's face between his hands. "You are not doing nothing. You have been working tirelessly, doing the best you can. Many of them would be much worse off if you hadn't been here. I know the antiserum will work; we just have to give the doctor's time. The Jaguar would not have sent us back with false hopes."

"They don't have time! Merilyn is dying now!" Bashta collapsed against Cavel's chest, shaking as he sobbed. Cavel could feel his despair and anguish through their bond as he broke down and cried his pain for the suffering he watched that didn’t spare his clan and for the kitlings dying again. Tears fell onto Bashta's dark head as Cavel cried with him.