The Wanderer
The sound of the rain pattering on the roof strengthened and became a roar. The day itself had been clear and cloudless, but the wind picked up at sunset and it seemed likely that it would rain all night.
"We're in for a storm."
The doctor was just about to go home when the rain started. He looked out the window of the tavern's attic, frowning slightly in concern.
The window he looked through was an empty hole: no glass covered it. The shutters were partway open, allowing wind and a few scattered water droplets into the room.
Jiguro was lying down on a bed close to the window and felt the rain fall on his arm. Instead of a blanket, he was covered by a length of oiled paper that he and Balsa used to keep warm when they were traveling.
The aged doctor sighed heavily, then stopped taking Jiguro's pulse.
Balsa was on another bed, underneath a real blanket. Jiguro's overshirt was pulled open, revealing a wound on his right arm. He was shaking all over and soaked with fever sweat. His eyes were closed. It was hard to tell if he was asleep or unconscious.
The doctor put pressure on Jiguro's chest and stomach, gauging reactions. He wiped his hands on a clean rag that lay folded at his side, then handed it to Balsa.
"Wipe away the sweat," he said.
Balsa concentrated hard on getting every last drop of sweat onto the rag. "What is he sick with?" she asked. "Do you know?"
The doctor began packing up his supplies, preparing to return home. "His eyes are yellow; that's jaundice. The problem is with his liver. I see it a lot with men in his line of work." The doctor looked down.
Balsa glared at the doctor.
"Dad almost never drinks," she said. "I thought drinking was how you get jaundice. Before he got sick, he complained to me that his right arm hurt. It must have hurt really bad. Dad almost never complains, either...could this sickness have something to do with his wound? Maybe it was poisoned."
The doctor glanced over at Jiguro. There was nothing obviously wrong with his arm, and the wound there was stitched neatly closed. "I don't think the wound is related to his current sickness," the doctor said. He rifled around in his leather bag and pulled out a small paper sack.
"You could give him this if it's poison," he said. "He should get better in ten days."
Balsa looked like she wanted to ask more questions. She frowned.
"Thing is, I can't give it to you for free," the doctor said. "It's very expensive. I don't think you and your dad can afford it." Jiguro was a traveling bodyguard, and he had a child in tow. The doctor could tell at a glance that they were far from wealthy.
Rage flashed in Balsa's eyes. "How much is it?"
The doctor named the price.
Balsa felt overheated, then numb all over. It should be illegal to charge that much. She and Jiguro couldn't earn that kind of money working in a tavern for half a year, and taverns were where they made the most. They typically lodged in places that were a bit higher-end thanks to Jiguro's stellar reputation—and his caution: staying in cheaper places was riskier. Jiguro's reputation meant that they could afford to stay, since he received discounted rates, especially from former clients.
The tavern keeper had come to collect payment for their lodging yesterday morning. Balsa and Jiguro usually lived on the road, not at inns or taverns; staying anywhere was expensive, even at a discount. And traveling also had associated expenses. Balsa knew that they had no money to spare for almost anything—even medicine.
But Balsa wasn't about to let something as trivial as money prevent her from saving her father's life. She opened Jiguro's bag with trembling hands and located his money pouch.
Please let there be enough.
"Give me the medicine," Balsa said, counting out coins. Her hands wouldn't stop shaking.
The doctor returned home after receiving Balsa's payment, leaving the paper sack of medicine behind. The only sounds in the room were the rain beating against the shutters and Jiguro’s harsh, painful breathing.
Balsa opened the medicine bag and counted twenty pills.
"Dad, you need to get up now. I have medicine." She spoke quietly and shook his shoulder.
Jiguro opened his eyes halfway. Balsa put her arm around his back and helped him into a sitting position. The skin at the nape of his neck was hot and sweaty from his fever. Balsa gave him a pill and some water to help him swallow it. Jiguro lay down again and closed his eyes. He fell asleep quickly, breathing still labored.
Balsa stayed up late listening to the wind outside, watching her foster father’s face in the light of flickering candles.
Jiguro had collapsed suddenly the night before Balsa called the doctor. It happened just after Jiguro’s work shift at the tavern. He was walking back up to their room in the attic when he clawed desperately for the wall, very close to losing his balance. Balsa rushed up to him, alarmed. He was drenched in sweat and his lips were trembling slightly. She'd never seen him looking so sick before.
"Don't worry about me," Jiguro said. "It's just a fever. It'll pass. Help me upstairs."
Balsa placed Jiguro’s heavy arm over her own shoulders and climbed up the stairs slowly and carefully. She lowered him onto his bed. He tried to get comfortable; eventually he sat up and removed his shirt. He sweated and coughed as he slept, dead to the world. Balsa watched over him all night, fetching cold water for rags to keep his forehead cool. She didn’t even consider fetching a doctor. She and Jiguro had some medicine on hand that helped with fevers. She fed some to Jiguro overnight, but nothing she gave him brought down the fever at all.
Balsa remained awake long after the tavern owner and workers went to bed, taking care of Jiguro. He got up a few times during the night to pee—and throw up. He was usually so healthy that the contrast was terrifying.
In the morning, Jiguro was still far too ill to work. Balsa told the waiters about the situation, and they told the tavern keeper, who gave Jiguro the day off.
One of the waitresses, Mana, had been good friends with Balsa since she'd saved Mana's boyfriend, Arl, from some serious gambling trouble. She knew of a good doctor that lived in the area. Balsa asked Mana to call the doctor, and he arrived at the tavern that evening.
It had been seven years since Jiguro took six-year-old Balsa by the hand and fled their homeland of Kanbal. Jiguro and Balsa had gotten sick plenty of times before, but usually, it was just a cold or a stomachache caused by something they'd eaten. Jiguro was prone to colds in the early days after their flight, since he had no reputation as a bodyguard and had to take the worst, lowest-paying jobs. He and Balsa trudged through rain and mud and snow all day long and rarely got the opportunity to rest.
But serious illness was rare. It didn't take Jiguro too long to make a name for himself, and after that, their lives were easier—though not easy. Higher-profile, better-paying jobs meant more danger. He took wounds in battle that festered and caused terrible fevers like the one he was suffering from now—but no fever had ever lasted quite this long without breaking.
As Balsa sat next to him, sleepless, during the long night, she started to feel genuine worry. Jiguro had taught her how to treat cuts and injuries so that they wouldn’t get infected; he probably knew better how to treat himself than the doctor did. And his constitution was such that he was never sick for extended periods of time.
But tonight was different. There was no obvious, serious injury that could have caused a fever this high. Her eyes dropped to the wound on his arm. Could it really be that? But I thought it was almost healed…
The doctor was dismissive of the wound, but Balsa couldn’t think of any other cause of this terrible sickness. She had to assume that the blade that had dealt it to him was poisoned—or that the wound was contaminated in some other way.
If that was the case and the medicine didn’t work, Jiguro might die.
Balsa hugged herself to prevent her hands from shaking.
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