Chapter 20

Sick

From the moment I opened my eyes, I wanted to die. Every breath was laborious and painful.

When I rejoined the world of the living, I was dazed and confused. It took me a while to figure out where I was. I pieced together the clues: I was on a bed that was low to the ground, blankets were draped over my legs, they were scratchy and provided little warmth (but that could have been due to my oversensitive skin and fever), it smelt like carbolic acid, and someone was pressing a very cold object to my bare chest. I was in the medic’s tent.

I looked down to see a medic with their stethoscope pressed against my chest. A red Tibtan was placed in front of their ear. Their hair was pulled back into a messy bun. A face cloth covered most of their face. When I moved, they said far too loud, “Good, your awake. How are you feeling?”

I lifted my heavy, weak arms to cover my ears and croaked, “Too loud.” Even just those two short words left me gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry, Fi-Rico. I should have known you would be more sensitive to noise in your state,” they whispered. ‘In your state’, what did that mean?

“Who are you?” I breathed.

“I’m Me-Te-Raltum. I’m the expert in Sting at camp.”

I nodded but I wish I hadn’t. That small amount of head movement caused a coughing fit. Me-Te-Raltum very gently and carefully placed a hand on my back; they sat me up and held a handkerchief to my mouth. Sitting up made my chest ache slightly less once the coughing stopped, but it still made breathing even more painful. They laid me back down onto the bed with the same gentleness as they had sat me up. They were careful not to jostle me too much so as not to bring on more coughing.

I couldn’t quite see the handkerchief that Me-Te-Raltum had put over my mouth, but I saw enough to tell I had coughed up more blood.

Me-Te-Raltum rested their hand on my forehead; a look of slight concern crossed their face. “Get me some tea, Manuca.” They stopped a passing medic. Me-Te-Raltum must have been a senior medic considering the way they could boss people around in such a way.

Having to look up at Me-Te-Raltum while having a conversation dove me insane, so I tried to push myself up into a sitting position. My weak, shacky arms couldn’t manage it. I barely even lifted myself off the bed. Me-Te-Raltum noticed what I was trying to do and helped to prop me against the pillow. I would have liked to be sitting up a bit more, but at least I wasn’t fully flat on my back.

“How are you feeling?” Me-Te-Raltum asked again.

I fiddled with the scratchy blanket draped over my legs and part of my chest. “Fine,” I said.

I could have gone on a whole rant about everything that was causing me pain, both mental and physical, but speaking was too difficult, so I settled for a one-word response.

Me-Te-Raltum nodded but still had a look of concern on their face. “Please let me know if anything is bothering you. Have you had Sting before?”

“Yes. When I was seven.” I had to take a heaving breath in the middle of the sentence.

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“Hm,” Me-Te-Raltum muttered as they pulled a notebook from their pocket and quickly jotted something down.

Just as Me-Te-Raltum was stowing their notebook away in the folds of their skirt, Manuca came back with the tea. Me-Te-Raltum took the cup from Manuca before he hurried off to deal with the plethora of other patients in the tent.

Me-Te-Raltum handed me the small ceramic cup filled with tea that was steaming slightly. It smelt nice, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on what type of tea it was. It was probably a mix of teas. War rations didn’t leave much choice, so it was probably ginger and mint tea. Probably. I couldn’t tell you what I was dinking. It could have been really nice smelling poison, for all I knew.

The tea made my aching throat feel just a touch better. Me-Te-Raltum took the cup from me and pressed their hand to my forehead again. I asked if there was a shirt I could put on. I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable (and cold) at my chest being on display for the whole world to see. I really was not the most attractive person in the world, but Calla must have thought I was.

Shit. I had let my brain go there. I tried to get him out of my head before I completely broke down. The fever dream I had had brought back bad memories. I tried to stop the memories from overwhelming me. I pulled the blanket up to my chin (trying to ignore how scratchy they were), squeezed my eyes shut, and tried to think of anything else. It didn’t work. I started to spiral down into a vortex of my own emotions and thoughts.

I don’t know how long I was lost in the horrible memories of Calla’s broken, bloody body. Could have been seconds, minutes, or hours.

I was saved from getting so deep into my own swirling thoughts that I couldn’t be resurfaced by a voice. I recognised it immediately as Staggy’s. He was saying my name quietly. His hand gently stroked my cheek. “Rico, are you awake?”

I opened my eyes and looked into his blue-green eyes. He had a pink, flowery facecloth tied around his nose and mouth. It clashed beautifully with his blue ascot. He somehow managed to pull it off. Impressive.

He smiled down at me. I tried to sit up, but my body protested my attempts with coughing fit. Thanks a lot, body. Love you too.

Staggy, with practiced care, sat me up in the same way as Me-Te-Raltum, one hand on the back on one with a handkerchief to the mouth. I had no idea where they got all those handkerchiefs from. They seemed to materialise from nowhere. Staggy was careful not to cover my nose with the handkerchief and found a way to support my weight with one hand.

When I finally finished my coughing fit, Staggy propped me up on my pillow. He fiddled with the blanket, gently running his hands across it to flatten it out.

He finished with his fussing then looked at me with a smile and said, “I have been nice to you, so now I’m going to say it; I told you so. You should have let me check you for Sting. You have been very unhelpful, Rico.”

He took a deep breath. “How much would it have changed things?” I had to take a break to catch my breath. “If you had caught it a day earlier?”

“Not much change for you, but then you may have spread it to fewer people. Lessen the workload for me and the other medics.”

“Sorry Staggy. Please forgive me one day.”

He laughed. "Well, luckily for you, that one day is today. You don’t want to anger us medics; we have too much power.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I was breathing heavily after just that short conversation. My lungs were protesting every breath. Staggy picked up on that pretty quickly, he was a medic after all, so he stopped trying to have a conversation and instead just talked at me. I was so grateful for that.

He told me a story about how when he was at boarding school, he, Figra, and Gill had stolen all the salt and pepper shakers from the dining hall and hung them in the trees that led to the hall. He seemed very proud of that; apparently it had been his idea. There was also a story he told me about when he sat on the roof of the teacher quarters and had thrown snowballs down on the teachers. The teachers had had no idea what was going on until they looked up. He had gotten beaten for that one.

I loved hearing those stories from Staggy. They kept me from losing myself to my own mind. At some point I fell asleep. I fell asleep to the sound of Saggy’s voice. I loved the way he pronounced certain words. It had a formal sound to it. Now I knew he was a noble. I was surprised I hadn’t noticed that he was a noble by the way he spoke. Guess I wasn’t looking for it. Difficult to find something you aren’t looking for.

I dreamt that it was raining snowballs, and all the trees were growing salt and pepper. Staggy and I were sitting together, pointing out our favourite facecloths. It was the most fun dream I had had in a while.