The men go about their business. A few of them sit around a fire. Someone plays a drum. Faint laughter echoes through the fog. All of it reminds me that I’m alone. I close my eyes and search my mind for Bran, for Paul, even for those damn ravens that never leave me alone-until now.
I’ve never minded being alone, but now I realize there’s a huge difference between being alone and being lonely. No Paul, no Bran, no father, no mother. And now, no Madda. Who will I look to for help? Who will teach me what I need to know?
“Madda,” I whisper to the stars, but I can’t say anything more. How do I say that a piece of my heart broke when I saw her body? How can I walk this path knowing that creatures of the spirit world took her life? Madda, who is so strong. Was so strong. Tears push at my eyelids as, in my mind, Madda’s face turns into my mother’s, and then I’m no longer able to hold them back.
Later, Henry Crawford comes to crouch beside me. “I have work for you,” he says.
My body is so heavy it takes all my strength to stand, but I make myself do it, and then follow Henry to the cabin. I won’t let him see how much I’m hurting, though maybe, he knows.
The cabin is filled with a light so bright that my eyes burn when I step inside. Four men sit on hunks of wood, watching me. None of them speak.
Henry Crawford steps in and stands beside me. “Well?” he says. “You don’t expect her to know what’s going on just by staring at her, do you? Fill her in.” He pulls up a rickety chair and nods at it. “Sit.”
I drop into the chair and lean back, letting it support my spine. I’m so tired.
A rat-faced man frowns at me. “We have a problem, girl.” I force my eyes open. “My name is Cassandra, not Girl.” He blinks at me. “I’m Chris. Chris Johnson.”
I nod. “So? What’s the problem?”
“Plague. At least, we think it’s Plague.” His gaze shifts to the other men. “Got two men quarantined outside in the lean-to. Sick as dogs. Pocks on their face.”
My heart stops beating. Plague among the Others? “Do they have chips?” I ask.
He nods.
“But you’re sure they’re Others?”
Henry Crawford nods once, slowly.
“How can that be?” I ask.
Chris Johnson shrugs. “We don’t know-a new strain, maybe? We found them wandering around outside the boundary this morning. They’ve been in and out of consciousness since we brought them back.”
“Oh god,” I murmur. “So you’ve all been in contact with them?” They nod again. I shake my head. “We all have to be quarantined, then. Why didn’t you stay away?”
Chris shrugs. “We thought they must be from the Corridor at first. Never seen Plague in one of us. We didn’t know…” His voice drifts off as he glances down at his skin. I do too, before I can stop myself. My mouth fills with a sour taste, like I’m about to be sick. How long? How long until we start to show the signs?
“Anyone else been in contact with them?” I say.
“Just us.”
“And now me, too, because I’ve been in contact with you.”
“You’re the healer. If you aren’t protected, none of us are.”
I lean toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He sits back. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”
A small, balding man who sits in the corner speaks next. “You look tired. You want something to eat?”
Yes, but I shake my head. “Later. Do any of you have symptoms?”
Chris shakes his head. “Not yet.”
Maybe they’re not really sick. Maybe everyone’s made a huge mistake. My skin crawls and I look at my arm again, half expecting the black marks of Plague to be worming their way across my skin, but nothing’s there. “I guess you’d better take me to them.”
Chris steps outside, blows a single blast from the signal horn to let everyone know to stay away, and then leads us out. I notice Henry Crawford’s brought his rifle with him.
The lean-to is directly behind the cabin. Chris enters it first, holding a lantern before him as he beckons me inside. I pause, draw a deep breath, and step across the threshold. Henry Crawford leans against the doorjamb and peers at the men on the floor. Even in the flickering light, I can see they’re in bad shape. Only one of them is conscious.
Everyone’s watching, waiting for me to perform some sort of miracle.
“Cassandra?” Henry says. “Need something?” “Give me just a second.” I draw a couple of deep breaths, trying to steady the pounding of my heart. “Okay. I need Madda’s medicine kit. It’s with the packs. Ask someone to leave it outside. We don’t want to contaminate anyone else.” Henry nods and disappears, closing the door behind him, sealing us away from the night.
I kneel beside the man who’s still conscious.
“Am I dying?” he says. His voice squeaks like a rusty hinge.
“I don’t know yet.”
“You look awfully young to be a healer.”
“I agree, but you don’t have much of a choice, do you?”
He manages a rattling laugh. “I’ll take what I can get.”
I draw a deep breath and start examining him. Maybe, just maybe, I might be able to heal him. I unbutton his shirt. Pockmarks stud his chest. I touch one. Liquid ripples underneath. His forehead burns with fever. I move to the other man. The black spots have burst all over his body. They’re seeping through his clothes, into the earth that he lies on. It’s all I can do not to gag. I know that stink. I smelled it back at the monolith, when Madda sent me on the journey to find the sisiutl.
Or does it?
The door opens and Henry steps in, interrupting my thoughts. “Well?” he says.
I shake my head. I don’t know. “I’ll have a better idea once I try a few things,” I say, but it’s more for the benefit of the conscious man than anything else. Hope works wonders, and when there’s none to be had, sometimes we have to make our own. “You can go back to the cabin if you want.”
“I’ll stay,” Chris says. “You might need someone to get stuff for you.”
“Thanks.” I smile. His thoughtfulness is a welcome surprise. “We’ll need water. Leave a bucket outside and have someone pour water into it. Make sure they don’t touch the bucket.”
Chris and Henry head out. I’m left with the two sick men and a medicine kit full of plants. What am I supposed to do now?
I lift the lid and scan the contents. Devil’s club. St. John’s wort. Mint. Lavender. No silver bullet. No secret antidote. No magic potion. Nothing that will eradicate Plague. Others just haven’t had to worry about it, and now, because of that, we’re all contaminated. We may all die a slow, painful death, just like these men. Or we could do what my mother did, and end it right now.
Chris returns with the water and I add a little, mashing the herbs into a fragrant paste.
“That smells good,” he says. “Reminds me of what my grandmother used to rub on my chest whenever I got a cold as a kid.”
The unconscious man starts coughing and the sweet tang of St. John’s wort is replaced by the stench of excrement. Chris gags as I draw my shirt up over my mouth. “Here,” I say, offering him the mortar. “Breathe this in.”
He does and hands it back to me. “Thanks.”
