—WILBUR—

Wilbur hurried to the hut nearest the dark forest as soon as the vines released him. The air of the village had turned colder. He was unsure if it was the mountain’s cold breath or if this chill was the last collective breath of the entire village of Grant. The communal fire looked even dimmer tonight.

There was no candlelight in the sickly boy’s hut. Wilbur crouched down under the window and whispered Tatum's name. Nothing. Not a stir, not a sound.

“Tatum,” Wilbur whispered, wishing that a living soul still lived within. He remembered Swithin telling him that he heard the different heartbeats of his patients back at Shoreglass Monastery. Swithin pointed to the ones whose hearts were almost fading and those that banged on their chests. Wilbur had no gifts of keen senses. Still, he closed his eyes and strained his ears to the faintest sounds. A bedsheet, a rustle of twig-made bedding, a scuffle of bare feet.

“Wilbur…” Tatum said weakly from inside.

Wilbur did not hesitate. The window was not too high, but Wilbur was unsure if he had the grace and strength to squeeze through. He removed his satchel and placed it gently on the ground. He took two potent bottles of medicine and stored them in his pockets: the feverfluke and shivering maiden antidotes. They swirled along with the canister of egg-and-berries soup.

He leaped through the window and landed on his feet in Tatum’s small hut. Not as graceful as Woodrow nor as effortless as Swithin, but the shadows helped to pull him safely. He found Tatum lying on the bed, breathing heavily. Dried blood dotted his pillowcase. It reeked of the awful polluted metal stench. Wilbur swallowed.

"Wilbur…" the boy said, again weakly. “It’s dangerous. Father Clifton told me I’ll be with my family soon.” Then he coughed, lips shaped like a trumpet, lungs full of bile. It hurt Wilbur to listen. But Tatum smiled. His eyes were the only things bright in the tiny boy. He shivered.

Father Clifton can go bite it, Wilbur thought. He drew from his pockets the antidotes. In the hut's darkness, it glowed a brilliant yellow and blue. They shone, reflected in the tiny boy’s eyes.

“I told you. Your mother told me I help take care of you. Here, drink this. It will help you get better.”

Wilbur knelt down at Tatum’s side. The boy was shaking. He did not even have a decent blanket to cover himself. Wilbur frowned and touched his cheek. Tatum sucked in a breath. “I know,” Wilbur said soothingly. “My hands are cold. I’ve been walking through the dark forest to find you again. I said so, didn’t I?” Wilbur felt his fever. Tatum has not long.

He prepared the antidotes, setting them both on the ground. He grabbed Tatum’s empty bowl and poured a mixture of feverflukes and shivering maiden. It was like the liquid gold of the sun dropped into the vast blue lake. Then the colors swirled together, mixing into the rich green of the forest.

“You bring me colorful things,” Tatum said.

He tasted the antidote again, just to check, and confirmed its potency. It tasted like strong wine and it reminded Wilbur of a time when the winds were sweet.

“You have seen feverfluke flowers, yes? Well, these came from my garden,” Wilbur said.

“I would like to see them someday.”

“Drink this and you will.”

Carefully, Wilbur placed his hand under Tatum’s neck and raised him high enough for the boy to properly swallow the medicine. He was so light, that Wilbur might as well be holding the fleece. Tatum’s lips were dry and cracked. His lungs strained with each breath.

He brought the wooden bowl slowly to Tatum’s cracked lips and watched the liquid antidote moisten it. If he had cotton balls, he would have dabbed them onto those lips and patiently squeezed the liquid until the bowl was empty. If only there was a way to inject the antidote into the human body so that medicine could still be administered quickly and without moving the patient.

Wilbur waited for the boy’s reaction. He watched the liquid go down his throat and observed the unsteady rise and fall of his bony chest. Wilbur’s hands were always steady. Ryne had said so. Especially when handling the sick, tending to his gardens, and doing his lab experiments. But his fingers shook slightly as he held the bowl. It was half empty, and Wilbur had hoped that Tatum’s body would react by now.

When he finished the bowl, Tatum did not open his eyes. He softly closed his lips and licked them. “If flowers tasted that nice, why don’t we use more of them before?”

Wilbur set both the boy and the bowl down gently. He smiled. “These are flowers made with something else. Other ingredients to help cure you.” He had this conversation before: at the beginning with Ryne. “You add several right ingredients and follow closely a procedure. It’s like cooking. Not just everything goes into the cooking pot and you have to make sure your ingredients are of high quality.”

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He paused and looked at the boy in front of him. There was faint moonlight tonight. Tatum’s figure was like the small sharp brambles that hid behind the arched trees that formed a straight path towards Rothfield. Wilbur became uneasy. Something should happen by now. He checked the potion again. Maybe it wasn’t enough? But he wanted to start with the lowest dose possible for a new medicine. He was contemplating mixing another bottle, just to be sure, until Tatum’s chest began to wheeze, and he coughed.

Tatum frowned and touched his stomach. The bile that clung to his lungs had become more audible, like crackling wood. He looked at Wilbur, afraid and unsure. “Wilbur?”

Wilbur patted his back with gentle force. “This is good, Tatum. The bile needs to be expelled.”

Tatum coughed, and he pointed to the window. Wilbur helped him back up gently, almost carrying him, and when his little face was level with the window, he coughed his corruption outside. Wilbur, being a professional, saw the black thing fly from his mouth and onto the soil. When he set Tatum back down, Wilbur saw the vile thing turn into ash. Stirred by the wind and polluting the air once more.

The plague, the miasma, caused by the Chaos. So that was what it looked like for Ryne. Or, no. He mentioned that it comes in different forms.

Perhaps it takes on many appearances too as it mutates sickness to infect the body.

Wilbur turned his attention back to Tatum. The boy was touching his chest again, but the wheezing had lessened. His eyes were wide. “I can breathe better.”

“You’re not completely healed yet, but yes, you’re on the way to recovery.” Wilbur deflated, sighing his worries away. He had done it. The garden of Rothfield had produced another cure, as the granges kept producing spring crops.

“Your eyes,” Tatum suddenly said. “They’re glowing.”

Wilbur averted his gaze and stood, controlling his joy under the cover of stowing away the empty bottle back in his pocket.

“No, don’t hide it. It had glowed since last night. I thought you were a cat before you crept out of the dark woods. Then I thought you came to collect me.” When Wilbur looked at Tatum again, he said, “They’re not so bright now.”

“It happens when we feel strongly. When we feel happy or angry,” Wilbur said. He kneeled in front of Tatum.

“We?”

Wilbur nodded. “I have two other brothers with me now. There used to be more of us, but we got separated.”

Tatum stared. “Do they also heal like you do?”

“No. Well, I’m not sure. My little brother… he has a way of healing the land. And he has been with me since the beginning. He knows how to care for people,” Wilbur smiled.” You remind me of him,” he added softly.

In the silence, a soft rumbling came. The sound was familiar to Wilbur. It embarrassed Tatum, surprising him. He placed a hand on his stomach. Wilbur silently retrieved the canister of food from his pocket and showed it to Tatum. He opened it, and the boy closed his eyes to the scent of the soup. To Wilbur’s surprise, the soup was still warm. He poured it into the wooden bowl, silently thanking Ryne. Wilbur could have easily gone back to the elder’s cottage, but he would rather not see Father Clifton tonight.

Tatum was grateful. With the little strength that returned to him, he brought the wooden bowl to his mouth with shaking arms. Wilbur was ready to catch it if it wobbled way too much. Tatum savored it. He smiled and closed his eyes, and Wilbur saw how some of the bruise-like markings on his body faded away slowly.

“The others… they are slowly dying," Tatum softly said.

Wilbur winced. This was the painful part. He had only medicine for one patient at this time. He cannot save all of the villagers of Grant. The woman's wailing from last night pierced his heart. I am truly sorry, he thought.

What kind of phjysicaian-monk picks favorites? A voice came from him. Wilbur was not sure if it was Blake or his conscience.

“I know my mama told you to heal me, but there are other more important people in the village. Like our carpenter and butcher. Like Father Clifton. Like other stronger children. Even when days I was strong, I was still weak. I was still inside most of the time helping Mam when my brothers were out trapping rabbits.”

Wilbur was silent, for it was like listening to Ryne. He shook his head and touched Tatum’s bony shoulder. “You’ve held on longer than they have. Longer than the rest. Clearly, you have strength in you. It may not look like it now, but I know that someday, your true strength will resurface. Keep holding on, Tatum.”

Tatum blinked. He smiled slowly. “Your eyes are glowing again. I am happy that they glowed when I spat that thing out of me. You’re my guardian angel, Wilbur.” And then Tatum hugged him.

Wilbur froze. He was smaller, even smaller than Ryne. Younger, too. But it felt like that first warm memory when Ryne talked and hugged him when he made his favorite jam. When Ryne started to trust him and follow him like his shadow. Wilbur’s hands shook where they hovered, just above Tatum's shoulder blade. Then he patted Tatum’s back and shushed him, setting him down gently on the bed. Just in time, too. For the boy yawned. By his expression, Wilbur guessed it had been ages since he yawned so contentedly like that.

“I shall come back tomorrow,” Wilbur said.

Tatum nodded and slowly closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep while Wilbur was still there. But Wilbur did not yet leave. He stayed with Tatum, simply watching him, his breathing, his markings. Quietly, he crept closer and pricked Tatum's small finger with his sharp nails. He waited until there was enough drop of blood to collect. He swiped it with his nail and tasted it.

Good. It tasted more like decent-quality blood than rancid meat and metal. There was something else there as well. The drowsiness was not just a product of a hearty meal and sickness. The medicine. Wilbur suspected it had side effects. He would analyze this later.

He went near the window and was about to jump. But he looked back at Tatum, smoothed his black hair, and dusted the dried blood off his pillowcase. If only he could carry him back to Rothfield. But no, the boy was not fit for travel and was not ready to know the mysteries of Rothfield and the monks dwelling in it.