In The Prince's Secret Service - 9. Incursions of Evil

The Village of Nut Grove lay at the end of a 15-mile spur off the Royal Road. A swamp curled around one side of the village. Nut Grove looked as if once it had been prosperous. The walls were tall and thick. Towers guarded the corners of the wall and flanked the road where it entered the village. The road approaching the village was paved with stone, and was wide. However, it seemed that hard times had come. Of the city gates, only a single beam attached to the hinges remained. One side of the road had collapsed where a stream had undercut the stone. There were a few sheep and goats in the pastures. The fields had been planted, but the crops were stunted by weeds.

There was no challenge when the companions rode through the gates. Beyond the gates, a few merchants had set up stalls, and there were people in the street. Trade was light, and there was none of the usual enthusiastic bargaining of a market square. Near the gates, a stone building bore the sign of an inn. The paint that once embellished the sign had been erased by weather and time. Incised lines created the symbols for bed, ale, and food. The name-symbol was entirely illegible. A trickle of smoke from the chimney indicated that the place was occupied, and a yeasty smell suggested that the publican brewed his own ale.

“If this place weren’t on the list, I don’t think I’d want to stay here,” Alan said to Patrick. “Are we in danger?”

“James and I both tested the magical field as we approached. There’s no significant disturbance indicating Evil. There’s no glow that a Temple of Light would normally create, either. We should take ordinary precautions, but not extraordinary ones, I think.”

After stabling their horses, the companions sat around a table in the common room of the inn where, indeed, the publican brewed a fine amber ale. The ale was the only thing about the place that was fine, however. The bread was coarse, the cheese watery, and the fruit spotty. The scullery, who doubled as the serving boy, was so lethargic that even Alan thought he was being insolent.

There were a few other customers, locals who shared a dullness of dress and slowness of movement.

“These people all seem to be half-asleep,” Alan whispered to Patrick.

Kenneth slapped his arm. “Got you!”

“What is it?” Thom asked, as Kenneth wiped a smear of blood from his arm.

“I don’t know what it was, but it’s a bloody mess, now. Oh…” Kenneth paused. His face flushed and he began to gasp for breath. James, who had been at the other end of the trestle table, rushed to Kenneth as Thom held the boy from falling to the floor. Putting his hand on Kenneth’s forehead, James looked at Patrick and said, “Anaphylactic shock…”

Patrick stood and hurried to help James. Kenneth’s throat was swelling, blocking his breathing. The boy’s heart was racing. Quickly the two healers stabilized Kenneth. “I’ll maintain functions; would you analyze and counteract?” James asked.

Patrick nodded, and dove deeply into Kenneth’s body, seeking and finding the foreign protein that had triggered Kenneth’s reaction. There…and there’s the receptor. Odd that Kenneth should react this way…Ah…Apparently exposed before. Too many histamines; the reaction cascaded…This should do it. Patrick twisted magic and sent it into Kenneth’s body. With the cause of the anaphylaxis removed, James was able to reduce the swelling in the boy’s throat, and Kenneth was soon breathing on his own. In the few minutes that elapsed, Patrick adjusted the existing anti-bodies. Hmmm, there’s something else, there…have to look at it more closely…

“That shouldn’t happen, again,” he told Kenneth and James a few minutes later. “Now, let’s look at whatever it was that bit you.”

“Mosquito,” the publican, who had hovered over the table unnoticed by either James of Patrick, said. “They’re everywhere. A man died, just like that boy was about to, a couple of months ago. Most folks around here are accustomed to them.” He put down the tankards he was carrying, and returned to his post.

“Mosquitoes carry several diseases,” Patrick said to James and Kenneth, “and I think that one may have left one in you, Kenneth. Let’s have another look.”

James and Patrick focus magic to aid their examination of Kenneth’s blood. “There he is,” James said, “I recognize him. Plasmodium falciparum: the mosquito that bit Kenneth carried malaria.”

“Malaria? That means bad air,” Kenneth said. “But that’s not what made it hard for me to breathe….”

James explained that malaria, from Old Elvish meaning “bad air,” was so named because people once thought that it was caused by the miasma of a swamp—a swamp like the one near this town. The real cause of the disease was a single-celled parasite carried by the female mosquito. When she fed, she injected the parasite along with the foreign protein in her saliva. It was the protein that had caused Kenneth’s allergic reaction.

“That’s what’s wrong with this town,” James said. “Everyone’s got malaria…don’t they know it?”

“That’s a logical conclusion,” Patrick said. “Let’s get a few more data points.”

James nodded, a little abashed to have spoken so surely with so little information.

Patrick called the publican over. “You saw that we are healers?” When the man nodded, Patrick continued, “I noticed that your scullery boy seems a little lethargic. May we examine him?”

“I’d be most grateful if you would,” the man replied. “I wouldn’t mind it if you looked at me, too. I was feeling poorly a month ago…aching and creaking…it went away, but it was back this morning.”

Examinations of the serving boy and the publican confirmed James’ hypothesis. Both the publican and his son carried the malaria parasite. “The parasite has destroyed some of your blood, which is why you feel tired,” James explained. “The healing has killed the parasite, and your body now has a natural defense against it…not that you shouldn’t avoid mosquito bites…there’s no sense in inviting the parasite—or one like it—back into you. It will take a while…a tenday or more…for your body to re-build your blood, but you should start feeling better, soon. You’ll need to eat turnip greens, sorrel, and mustard greens to give the body the foods it needs to heal itself. Do you grow quinoa here? No? Don’t know that? Chickpeas? Yes? Eat plenty of them, too.”

At Patrick’s puzzled look, James explained that quinoa was a grain, rich in iron, grown as a supplement to be added to horse feed. “It can also be used to bake an iron-rich bread.”

By this time, several other customers had broken from their lethargy and asked to be examined. All carried the parasite. The word spread beyond the tavern, and more people arrived, all asking for help.

After treating more than two score patients, James and Patrick were exhausted.

Alan took charge. “Publican, these two…three when Kenneth feels better…cannot heal everyone in the town. And they can heal no one else, today. If you will summon the Reeve or Constable or Senior Guildmaster or whoever is in charge around here, we’ll determine what can be done, tomorrow. For now, I’m sorry, but the rest of these people will have to be turned away.”

There was grumbling and muttering, but Alan, with Thom’s help, assured the people that they would be treated beginning the next morning.

“Triage,” Alan explained to the others. “Something my father told me about. It’s done on a battlefield. Soldiers who are too badly injured to be healed and who will die; comfort them, ease their death if they want it, but don’t waste energy or time healing them. Soldiers who are only slightly injured; bandage them, but don’t heal now…do that later. Soldiers who are too badly injured for only a bandage but who will likely survive; heal them. It sounds cruel, but it saves more lives than otherwise.”

James, Patrick, and Kenneth reacted with some disbelief, but after their experience earlier that day, came to realize the wisdom, even necessity, of such a system.

“Kenneth, you can see more easily than can Patrick or I, how sick someone is. It will be your job to turn away those who don’t need healing now…and those who are too close to death to benefit from healing. The latter is a terrible burden…if you don’t want to do that, Patrick or I will do it,” James said.

“I…I don’t know if I can,” Kenneth said. “I’ll try, though. I…well, I’ll ask for help if I need it.”

By then, the village’s constable had arrived, summoned by the publican. Patrick spoke to him, and explained what Alan had described. “Constable, Alan and Thom will enforce Kenneth’s decisions, by your authority, and with steel if required. You must remain here so that people know they act in your name. Is that agreeable?” The man nodded.

After the constable had left, and the inn doors had been shut, the companions were able to relax in the hot soak. “There’s something wrong,” Patrick said to James. “These people have lived by this swamp for years and generations. They should have natural immunity.”

“I’m glad you said that. I had thought it, but wasn’t sure. The Plasmodium may be a mutation,” James replied.

“Let’s get some blood samples, tomorrow,” Patrick said. “I’ll send them to my former teacher, Master William, in Arcadia. Perhaps he can tell us something.”

That night, James hugged Kenneth and whispered to him, “You are a good healer, Kenneth, but you are also a boy. Please do not try to do too much, tomorrow. Part of your training is to face more and more difficult situations. However, not all at once, rather, over time. Like a sword, the experience will temper you. A sword whose tempering is rushed may break and I will not allow that to happen to you.”

*****

The companions came early to the common room, but already people waited in the street outside the inn. Patrick drew the publican into a discussion in one corner while the serving boy, a little more energetic than he’d been the day before, provided breakfast. Tables and benches were rearranged, and the common room turned into a makeshift hospital.

“Constable, would you please send someone for Mistress Ellenwyn?” Patrick asked. “We could use her help.”

“A midwife?” The Constable was nonplussed as well as a little frazzled.

“Yes, and she also knows herbs,” Patrick replied, turning back to his book.

Late in the morning, the midwife and the four reasonably healthy boys that had been found to assist her returned with a tumbrel. The baskets it carried were filled with the silver-green leaves of the sweet wormwood. Although the publican shook his head in dismay, the leaves were dumped into the huge retort normally used to brew beer. The publican sighed, “Beer will never be the same.”

“James, James!” Kenneth called. “Over here, please!”

James hurried to the corner where Kenneth was performing triage. “This one…needs your help…now!” Kenneth urged, insistent. Kenneth held the hand of a boy-child. He was gaunt and wasted from the effects of the disease. This is not what we agreed, James thought. Perhaps Kenneth cannot let one die… Despite his misgivings, James dove into the child, finding and destroying the parasite and pouring energy into the child’s shivering body.

“Mistress,” he said to one of the healthier women who had been recruited by the Constable to help. “Please, put him on that table and bring him some of the soup.” Earlier, the publican had been instructed to prepare a large pot of soup containing both meat and the blood of a healthy sheep.

As the woman fed the child, James drew Kenneth aside. “Are you all right? Do you want someone else to decide if someone must die?”

“No, James. It wasn’t that—although he would have been the first. So far, no one’s been as sick as he. No, there was something else…I just knew that he must not be allowed to die.”

James hugged the boy briefly. “I’m sorry, and I’m happy. I’m sorry you must see such pain; I’m happy that you will be a better healer for it.”

By dusk, Patrick, James, and Kenneth were exhausted, but nearly everyone in the town—and surrounding farms; word had spread quickly—had passed through the inn. There were at least three times as many still needing treatment as those who had been healed, but there had been no deaths. The child whom Kenneth had singled out for special attention still lay on the table, his parents at his side.

“Another look at the child, and then only absolute emergencies until tomorrow morning,” Patrick told the constable. James examined the child while Patrick watched.

“Renal failure…that’s been corrected, but there’s still a lot of pois…uh, by-products in the blood. Patrick, I’d like Kenneth to be able to do this. I can do it, but I can’t teach it. Will you help me, please?” James asked.

Speaking for Kenneth’s ears alone, Patrick took him through the process of cleaning the child’s blood. “Be sure you know where the poisons are going to come through the skin. Pick an area…the cheek well away from the eye can be a good place since there are a lot of small blood vessels, there. Don’t allow anything to fall into the eye. You’re going to use magic to mimic the kidney filters…thus…and sweep the body. Start near the spot you’ve chosen, and sweep to there…that’s it.” A brownish puss seeped from the child’s cheek and was wiped away by Patrick. “Take the cloth, and sweep, again … wipe … sweep … now start the sweep a little further away…that’s it. Slowly, or you’ll burst the tiny vessels. Keep doing that, a little at a time, until the blood is clean. The further away from the exit site, the slower the sweep. As you move away from the cheek, you’ll want to change exit sites. Use the palms of the hands when you’re in the arms, the soles of the feet for the legs. No, not the knee…the skin there is thin, but there are very few small blood vessels. You’ll not get it all, but what’s left the kidneys can cope with.”

When Kenneth had finished, he watched while James added healing energy to the child’s kidneys to help them recover and re-build themselves. Already the child appeared to be much better.

“What is the child’s name,” Patrick asked the parents.

“Santo,” answered the father, “but we call him June Bug…he was always so active and happy until…Will he ever be that way again?”

“James, who is his healer, will answer you.”

“June Bug, is he?” James asked. “He’ll be fine and active again, but you must not let him be too active too soon. His body suffered from the illness more than most, and will take some time to heal. He must rest for at least a tenday. We’ll be here a few more days, and I want to see him first thing every morning, please. Will you do that?”

The parents agreed, and left with the father carrying the child.

“Well, Master Publican,” Patrick said after sampling the elixir that had been cooking in the beer vat. “It’s not as good as your beer, but it will serve to treat those with low-grade symptoms. Constable, even those people without symptoms should take this. They may be carrying the parasite unaware. They must drink a half-mug each day for seven days. If they do not take it for seven days, they will not be cured and may die. You must enforce this. Mistress Ellenwyn and the publican know the ingredients. Perhaps you would like to keep some on hand…it can, of course, be made in smaller batches in a kettle. It would be a shame for the publican not to be able to brew his beer.” Patrick smiled.

“Speaking of beer,” the publican said, “I drew off two barrels yesterday when we emptied the retort. It won’t be as dark as I like, but it should be good. I think we all need to test it.”

The boys drank little of the beer with their supper. All were tired, and knew they’d need their energy the next day. Conversation was muted, but, “James, I don’t know what you’ll make of this,” Alan said. “This morning, I grumbled to the publican that a town this size should have a cleric-healer. He said that they did…until about five months ago. The publican said the cleric left one day. No one saw him leave, and no one knows where he went. Just thought you ought to know.”

James thanked Alan for the news, and then dismissed it. It was late, and he was tired. There were still things to do before they could sleep, and the morning would come all too soon.

*****

The corridor was dark, and stretched before him. In the distance, James could see a light. It was dim, but he knew it would grow brighter if he walked toward it. James strode confidently toward the light. Something nibbled on the edge of his thoughts. James pushed it aside and continued walking. Another nibble, and James reached for his sword. My sword! It’s not there! James realized not only was his sword missing, but also he was naked. Although he was still walking down the corridor, and the light was not getting brighter. A dream, he thought. I’m dreaming.

More confident, now, James willed his dream-self to walk faster. Something at the end of the corridor, he thought. Something I need to see.Wait a minute. If this is a dream, why am I walking? An instant later, James’ feet lifted from the floor and he began flying down the hallway. The light became brighter. There was a door. James swooped through the door and came to a sudden stop.

He was in a room—a familiar room. It was a cleric’s cell. The room was a little larger and a little more sparsely furnished than the Senior’s cell he’d enjoyed at the Temple in Arcadia. Nor was it as neat. The bedcovers were scattered on the floor. A ewer lay broken on the floor. A mosquito buzzed through the open window where a shutter hung askew from a single hinge. James woke, and realized he’d been in the cell of Nut Grove’s absent cleric.

*****

Two days later, the common room of the inn was no longer a hospital. Rows of ceramic bottles held doses of Mistress Ellenwyn’s potion, and a pair of boys were busy delivering them to all the homes in the village. The companions sat at the stammtisch, their mugs filled with short-batch ale. The publican had gone to the cellar to retrieve a barrel of older ale, and the companions had the room to themselves.

“The other day,” James said, “Alan told me that Nut Grove’s cleric had left, without saying anything to anyone. That night, I dreamed that I had gone to his cell, in the Temple here. I haven’t, but I think I should. Would you all come with me?”

Patrick glanced at Alan and the two boys before answering, but there was never any doubt. “Of course. Should we speak to the constable, first? I ask in part because I see him walking this way.” Patrick indicated the open doorway.

“Who’s taking care of the Temple?” The constable seemed surprised at the question. “No one, not as I know, anyway.”

“James and Kenneth would like to visit the Temple,” Patrick said. “Is there any reason they should not, or any reason we should not accompany them?”

“As you wish,” the constable said. “As far as I know, no one’s been there since the day after he left.”

The door to the Temple was closed, but not locked. James entered first, with Alan close behind him. Enough light came through high, narrow windows that they could see. The auditorium was empty save for a few benches in one corner.

“The cells will be through that door, likely,” James said. “Kenneth, so you see anything…mage sight, I mean?”

“No,” Kenneth said, nearly instantly. “No glow, but we knew that.”

James was not surprised that the cell looked completely unlike what he’d seen in his dream. Dreams are symbols, he remembered his lessons. They’re not reality unless you’re a scryer. The room was smaller than James’ old cell, and crowded with furniture. Besides the bed with its neatly folded covers was a chair at a table covered with neatly stacked scrolls and books as well as a stack of paper. A set of shelves held more books and scrolls, and another held a few pieces of clothing, carefully folded.

Without touching anything, Patrick examined the scrolls and books on the table as best he could. “It looks as if these are the village’s records, and that he was recording contracts…hmmm, a birth record, and another. Just the sort of thing you’d expect, I think.”

“James,” Kenneth’s voice was urgent. “Look. His psalter. On the table by the bed.”

Alan saw the look that passed between Kenneth and James. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Unless it’s secret stuff, I mean.”

James’ voice was sober. “Unless he were abandoning not only the Temple but also his commitment to the Light, he’d never have left this behind. In my dream, the bedcovers were strewn around, and a ewer was broken. That’s not reality—it’s not what we see—but…”

“You think he was forced to leave?” Alan said, his talent for riddles grasping the meaning of what James had said.

“Yes,” James said. “I do.”

“I believe you may be right,” Patrick announced. “That’s blood.” He pointed to a dark stain on the slate floor. “Old, and dried. Given the neatness of the rest of the room, I’d guess that the cleric who lived here would have cleaned the blood—had he been able.”

The boys found nothing else of note, and returned to the inn. Alan found the constable, and reported their findings—and suspicions—to him. James described the situation in a letter to Arne, in care of Correll the Cobbler. The letter would find its way to James’ friend and mentor, Alten, the Senior Cleric of the country.

The only healer in the village, save a midwife who has considerable knowledge of herbs, was the cleric. He has been absent for nearly six months. The people believe that he simply left, but an examination of the Temple suggests strongly otherwise. Not only did he not take his psalter, but also we found dried blood, suggesting he might have been injured (or might have injured an attacker). There was also evidence that a door, one leading to an alley, had been forced open.

The Constable, who has promised to see that this letter is sent to you, is a solid man, whose son can read and write. He will assume temporary custody of the village’s records, and see that the Temple is not allowed to fall into ruin. I earnestly hope that a cleric-healer might be sent here, soon.

Patrick carefully composed a letter to Master William. After greeting his old teacher, he described what they’d found in Nut Grove.

A companion, who is also a healer, believes that the parasite is a mutation, although we do not have the skill to make that determination. I’ve enclosed sealed samples of blood from several victims, should you wish to investigate.

My companion, Alan, described battlefield triage procedures to us, and we found them most useful in dealing with the press of potential patients. As it turned out, only one life-or-death decision had to be made, and the young healer who made that decision opted for life.

The local midwife was instructed in preparing an extract of Artemesia annuaand administering a seven-day course of that drug. This should help curb any new cases until the people develop a natural immunity to what may be a new strain of the disease.

We travel to Agium, expecting to arrive by late summer, and to remain for two weeks, at which time we hope to return to Fortmain.

Patrick’s letter to Cadfael, the spymaster, was straightforward:

The entire town was stricken with malaria, and although the situation has been remedied, it is doubtful that there will be trade opportunities in the near future. It will be months before the people recover their vitality and have surplus with which to trade. Our present plans are to stop here on our return to re-assess the situation.

We found good friends in the horse-breeder and among his relatives; however, since then, we have seen nothing but Darkness. What lies ahead, I cannot say. However, if the past few tendays provides any indication of the future, it will not be Good.