Veila’s mother hunkered over her small, bubbling cauldron. The smell of the brewing herbs hung heavy in the air, pungent and sour. Veila detested the familiar stench. Beyond her father’s growing blood cough, little Adum had endured a steady and persistent rattling through most of his early years. Her mother’s tea was renowned in the village for its ability to soothe symptoms, but it was only comfort. Veila stood by while the old woman used a ladle to push a floating bone out of the way and scooped some of the translucent brown liquid into a waiting vessel.

“You don’t put bones in Adum’s,” Veila said softly.

“Brunt needs the marrow,” her mother replied.

“He needs more than that,” Veila worried aloud.

Her mother let out a weak laugh before becoming completely taken with emotion. She closed her eyes, squeezed out meager tears, and slowly shook her head.

“Before it gets cold,” she said, pushing Veila away.

Veila stood and turned to face the back of the hovel. A rough canvas sheet separated a small private chamber from the rest of the main room. She took in a deep breath and looked down at the small mug of steaming liquid. She closed her eyes and slowly shook her head, stealing herself. It had been over two days since the council meeting, and Brunt had not left his bed since. She forced herself to step forward, taking care with the hot drink. Immediately outside the canvas curtain, Adum lay curled up in his bed. The nest of furs and rags constantly lay in a state of jumbled chaos. Veila shuffled past the sleeping boy and pushed the canvas back with one elbow. Inside was dark. Only slivers of the crackling firelight pushed around the edges of the canvas. The windowless hovel was closed off otherwise. The dogs lay at the foot of deformed bed matting. The fetid funk of her father’s sickened breath was thick and inescapable. Veila walked as slowly as she could, but found herself concentrating too much on the mug, and the liquid contents started to oscillate out of control. She stopped completely to regain her composure. Finally at her father’s bedside, she could hear just how raspy and shallow his breaths had become. The coarse texture and stilted cadence of his respiration were a painful manifestation of the damage being wrought in his lungs. She lowered the mug to a cross section of old stump that stood adjacent to the bed and removed the previous mug, which remained half full.

“Father,” Veila whispered. “Father, your drink.”

He elicited no response but wheezed through his labored breathing.

“Father,” Veila repeated, chancing to touch his exposed, bare shoulder.

His body shuddered violently, and Veila recoiled. The half-empty mug arched away, hitting the canvas curtain and sliding down to the floor where it clinked softly into a pile of old rags.

Veila balled her fists and forced herself to become angry with him in order to muster her determination.

“Father,” she stated more forcefully, and gave his shoulder a proper smack.

Brunt’s eyes lulled open and partially focused on her. They closed again softly.

“My Veila,” he croaked.

“Drink your tea,” Veila commanded. “The whole thing this time.”

“Ehh,” he protested. “Your mama puts that bone jelly in on purpose.”

“Yes, to help you,” Veila argued. “Now drink it.”

She grabbed the mug and moved it to his lips. He begrudgingly cracked his mouth open. His chapped and bloody lips pulled apart painfully. Veila tipped it a little bit, let him force a swallow, and then poured some more. She carefully repeated this until there was nothing but bits and dregs swirling in the bottom.

“There,” she said sternly. “Now isn’t that better?”

Brunt was quiet and still for a moment before releasing a sudden and violent involuntary cough. He hacked twice before turning his head away into the blankets. Veila grimaced against the wet spray by which her face and chest had just been showered. She discreetly moved her hand to her face and pulled it away to see a constellation of red smears, confirming the mask of bloody mucus that lay across her brow. She quickly but quietly turned, being careful not to breathe too heavily, and marched out past the curtain, through the main hovel, and right out into the cold. As soon as she was outside and alone, she frantically smeared fresh snow on her face, careful to pull it to the edges and away from her nose and mouth. She fought the urge for her gagging to turn into a full dry heave while she breathlessly verbalized her agonized frustration. She kept smearing the snow until the cold burn overcame her ability to bear it. The searing wet and cold cutting across her face suddenly and unexpectedly drove its piercing bite right through her long-standing stoic resolve. She crumpled forward, curling her cracked hands into her forearms, which she pulled meekly against her chest while she swayed listlessly on her knees. The wave of sorrow drove against her, crushing her down into herself. Shallow sobs, as much as she could muster, slowly punctuated the otherwise silent air. How long had they toiled in this wretched place? She had become as dark and cold and unfulfilled as the endless landscape. And her reward for such unshakable perseverance? Brunt lay dying. Not by battle wounds or some savage animal bite, but by some invisible disease they didn’t understand. Veila’s unquenchable rage lay smoldering. In its place was utter defeat. A still sadness she had never met. She slowly transitioned to a fetal position, pulling her knees to her chest, but her meager indoor clothes were no match for the frigid air. Her eyes closed.

***

A sharp burn bit at Veila’s fingers and toes. Her thighs, stomach, and face were all on fire. She opened her eyes to see her mother’s crackling fire. It popped at her, shooting ember and ash toward her feet.

“I’m grateful for ya,” she heard her mother say. “She knows gooder.”

“I was just worryin’, that’s all,” replied a familiar, soft voice.

Veila blinked stupidly and lifted her heavy eyes and face to see Pesh talking with her mother.

Adum was huddled next to his mother. He peered excitedly around her at Pesh but avoided eye contact.

“The men call for a new warden?” Veila’s mother asked abruptly.

Pesh looked down at his feet.

“The answer isn’t down there, boy,” the old woman snapped.

“They says they need someone else till he’s gooder,” Pesh offered weakly.

“He’s not gettin’ gooder!” she replied. “Noone never gets gooder from the blood cough!”

Adum pushed off his mother and ran to throw himself into his bed pile where he wailed softly.

“They’re pulling up the tents for the big move,” Pesh added quietly. “We leave next day.”

With the old woman seething, and young Adum’s crying reaching an awkward crescendo, Pesh backed away quietly toward the exit. Veila caught his eye for just a moment – they were filled with fear and regret.

“Goodbye, Vey,” he whispered before turning to slip out.

Veila labored to prop herself up on her arms and make sense of the exchange that had just taken place. Before she could get up, her mother was suddenly down in her face. She grabbed a handful of Veila’s tunic and jerked her upward.

“Get up and get warm!” she snarled.

Matt Hebert is an engineer and self-published author. His dopamine-fueled creative pursuits have spanned from chicken keeping, sand sculpture, acting, and public speaking, but writing is nearest and dearest to his heart. He lives in Bellevue with his wife and two daughters. You can find him on Instagram at @jerkofalltradeshebert or email him at matt.hebert.books@gmail.com

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