Wilbur knelt in the cloistered garth of the monastery, carefully tending to the rows of medicinal plants. The soil thrummed with life, and the ancient oak provided a comforting shade over his patches of feverfew, valerian, and comfrey. The villagers of Kent were mostly healthy now, but the town beyond still faced challenges.
He picked feverfew heads, those delicate daisy-like flowers known for their ability to ease fevers, and placed them in a woven basket. Nearby, valerian thrived with its drooping pink flowers; its strong and fragrant roots soothing restless patients. Comfrey flourished in its spot, vibrant purple bells hanging low, ready to mend the wounds and fractures Wilbur encountered all too frequently.
Wilbur carried his basket into the dimly lit infirmary. Shadows danced on the stone walls as he moved quietly among the cots. He approached a feverish woman, pricking her wrist with skill, murmuring soothing words as her blood dripped into a bowl. Later, with the patients asleep and the monastery enveloped in silence, he took the bowl down to his hidden sanctuary.
There, alone, he raised the blood to his lips, drinking deeply as strength and clarity surged back into him. His hunger was momentarily sated, allowing him to continue his work by candlelight, crafting potions and caring for the sick under the serene cover of night.
___
The communal fire crackled softly, sending spirals of smoke into the cool evening air as Ryne and Claude sat together, the warmth of the flames keeping the chill at bay. Wilbur watched them contentedly. They had been sharing quiet conversations. The monastery loomed behind them, its dark stone walls silently observing their exchange. Ryne, lost in thought, absently stirred the logs with a stick, the embers glowing red like faint stars against the night sky.
Suddenly, hurried footsteps broke the stillness. Claude’s head snapped up, his brow furrowing as he stood. A figure emerged from the shadows, stumbling toward them.
“Who goes there?” Claude called, squinting into the darkness as he stepped beyond the firelight.
Ryne and Wilbur didn’t need to strain their eyes; they could see clearly a slim woman crawling out from the dark trees, her hair spilling from her wimple.
“Gabriella?” Claude exclaimed, rushing to her side.
Gabriella. Wilbur recalled that she was Claude’s closest neighbor in Rothfield. Even in the dim light, the fear on her face was unmistakable. Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her clothes were soiled from travel.
“Claude, please… I didn’t know where else to go,” Gabriella’s eyes darted between him, Ryne, and Wilbur, wild with panic. She panted, her voice trembling with desperation. “It’s my boys… they’re so sick… I’ve tried everything, but it’s getting worse.”
Claude quickly moved to her side, steadying her with a firm hand. “What’s wrong with them?” he asked, concern etched in his voice.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“Each one is different,” Gabriella said, her voice shaking as she looked between Claude and Ryne. “One has these terrible boils that have turned black. Another trembles as if he’s been cursed. And my youngest… he’s burning with fever, his mind lost in babbling nonsense.” She swallowed hard, wiping away the tears that threatened to fall. Her gaze landed on Wilbur, and then she noticed the large satchel slung over his shoulder. With wide eyes filled with recognition, she collapsed into Wilbur’s arms. “Help us, brother. Please!”
Wilbur had heard of the ailments Gabriella described, but never all at once in one family. He glanced at Ryne, who nodded gravely.
“We’ll help,” Claude said, squeezing Gabriella’s shoulder in reassurance. “Wilbur will know what to do.”
Gabriella’s relief was evident, though fear still lingered in her wide eyes as Claude guided her toward the monastery. Ryne followed closely, his senses heightened. He could sense something darker lurking beneath Gabriella’s plea. Both he and Wilbur shared the same thought: the miasma had worsened in their town.
They entered the monastery, the heavy wooden doors creaking as they shut behind them, shutting out the night. Inside, the flickering light from tallow candles cast long shadows on the stone walls, and the air was filled with the scent of herbs, dried flowers, and old parchment. The cool, musty atmosphere of the monastery added to the somber mood, and Gabriella hesitated as they stepped into the central hall.
They made their way to the infirmary. Wilbur approached a collection of medicinal vials and herbs laid out on a long wooden table. His pale hands moved skillfully, grinding something in a mortar and pestle. His dark, intense eyes focused on Gabriella with an unreadable expression.
Wilbur wiped his hands on a cloth, shifting his gaze from Claude to Gabriella. He could detect the faint scent of her children’s illness clinging to her; a mix of sweat, infection, and fever.
“When did this happen?” Wilbur asked Gabriella.
“A week ago.”
Wilbur’s mind raced as he mentally listed the ingredients he would need. Feverflukes for the boils. Shivering maiden for the tremors. And something stronger for the fever; perhaps yellowtongues mixed with a tincture of cooling ore. He nodded, already crafting a plan in his mind.
“I will help them,” he said, his voice steady. “But, Gabriella, you must understand that these remedies are not… ordinary. What I do here cannot be discussed outside these walls. The townsfolk might fear what they don’t understand.”
Gabriella’s eyes widened. “I don’t care what it takes. I just want my boys to live.”
Wilbur stepped closer, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face, accentuating his features. He observed her, noting the rapid pulse in her throat, a sign of her anxiety and fear. He could hear her heartbeat, smell the blood beneath her skin. He realized he was hungry.
But he pushed the hunger aside, knowing he would feed soon enough.
“Claude, Ryne, prepare a place for them here in the infirmary. Gabriella, I’ll send some of the men from Kent to help bring your boys as quickly as possible. Time is not on their side,” Wilbur instructed, turning back to his table, where he began gathering the necessary ingredients. He moved with the precision of someone who had done this countless times before, though in truth, each concoction was as much an experiment as it was a remedy.
As Gabriella hurried out into the night, her relief momentarily lifting the weight of her worry, Wilbur turned to Ryne.
“This sickness will spread if we don’t treat the whole town. We have to make them immune to it, or at least help them tolerate it,” Wilbur murmured. “If I succeed in treating her children, then I will take their blood and use it for the next generation of medicines to combat these mysterious illnesses.”
Ryne nodded, his unease growing.