Part 25

      My gaze is interrupted by the sound of a loud, hacking cough, followed by a muffled moan. Turning, I see there's a child, lying in a bed - which does indeed have several quilts, though the patterns are very intricate, the colors far more carefully considered than the patchwork family ones I've always had. I can see short brown curls, and two little fists balled up against the face. I can't be positive from a distance, but it looks like the poor thing is shaking... There is a glass of water on a wooden nightstand beside the bed, as well as a brass bell - presumably to call for someone, should he need something. But this poor child... I doubt if he'd have the strength to reach out and lift something even as small as that. Moving closer, I can see that the boy is maybe four years old at most. His face is largely covered by hands and hair, but his skin looks abnormally flushed over an incredibly pale white base. There is sweat on his brow - his curls are absolutely plastered to it.
      ...I still don't feel like I should be able to make contact with anyone here, but Evelyn held my hand, so I'm sure I can touch this child. But will I catch whatever he has, I wonder? I guess I would... wouldn't I? But the boy whimpers, and his breath rasps so loudly in his throat, I can't just stand here...
      “Can... can I get you anything?” I ask gently, kneeling down on the floor by his bedside, looking up at the tightly balled fists.
      The boy whimpers again, shaking his head ever so slightly, pressing his fists harder against his eyes. “It hurts too much... don' wanna move.”
      “Shh, it's okay... you don't have to move...” I look around, and spot a pitcher and basin on a low table a few feet away. I hope the water's cold - though I suppose anything would feel cool against the flushed brow. I get up and walk over to the basin, finding a very soft white towel beside it. I pour a little water into the basin from the pitcher, and dipping my fingers into it, find that it's fairly cool at least. The temperature in the room is comfortably warm, but maybe the porcelain of the pitcher helps it stay cool? I dampen the towel in the water, wring out the excess water, and return to the bedside.
      “Here, sweetheart... move your hands, and I'll put a cool cloth on your head. Here...” I touch a corner of the towel to his forehead. “Does that feel good?”
      “Unh-hunh...” he mutters weakly, his hands moving away from his face and plunging under the heavy quilts. “My head is so hot, but I keep shivering all the time...”
      “Here...” I murmur, using the towel to smooth back the damp curls from his forehead, before gently laying the towel over his brow and eyes. He has such long, dark lashes... and the prettiest little face I've ever seen, though it's contorted by pain and a little wasted by illness. I can tell the child has been sick for a long, long time... There's a weary sort of patience about him, the air of someone who's suffered long, and doesn't expect to ever feel any differently. His skin is blotchy with the fever's flush and something else I think, though I'm not sure what, some kind of rash? “Does that feel any better?”
      “Unh-hunh,” he sighs wearily, his lips parting to ease his labored breathing.
      “Do you want any water to drink?”
      He nods – though the movement is so slight it's barely noticeable. Lifting the glass of water from the bedside table, I start to dip a finger in to check the temperature, thinking of refilling it from the pitcher--- but I stop as soon as I lift the glass, there's the weirdest smell coming from it.
      “What is this??” I gasp – and though I didn't mean to address the boy, he answers me.
      “Med-cin. Mommy bought it for me. Spe... speshul water.”
      I raise an eyebrow skeptically at the glass. It smells absolutely awful – I can smell a bit of alcohol in it, and something sharp and rancid that I can't, and probably wouldn't want to, identify. I look around for a bottle, and though I don't see one, I feel sure it's somebody-or-another's patented elixir to cure all ills. Screw that crap, I'm not feeding it to this child! He doesn't need any alcohol in his system, and the smell makes me almost puke. He's too weak to be puking, and I'm pretty sure it wouldn't help him breathe any easier. I look around, and see another bucket on the floor beside the wash basin – I'm going to assume that's one that should be emptied. I pour out the glass into it, and hold my breath as the fumes rise up toward me. Ick ick ick. I rinse the glass in the basin, then refill it with cool, clear water from the pitcher.
      I bring the glass over to the boy. And realize he's not going to be able to sit up. “I'm going to help you sit up a little, so you can drink some water, okay?”
      He whimpers, and I instantly try to soothe him. “Not the special water, just regular water, okay? I promise it will help you feel better. And I'll hold you up, okay?” I slip an arm gently around the shaking shoulders, my heart breaking to feel this tiny body so weak and helpless to whatever's causing these tremors. I help him sit up just enough to be able to drink, and lift the glass to his lips. “Just drink a little... your body needs water to work right, drinking some will help your body fight off the illness, okay?”
      He takes the tiniest sip, and then gasps for breath.
      “Shh, it's okay, just take it slow... I'll stay right here, you don't need to hurry...”
      He whimpers, and after a minute or so of fighting for breath, takes another sip. I know he must be parched – how long has he lain here, too weak to lift the glass himself? Or too horrified by its contents to even want to drink it!
      I sit there for a long time, cradling the boy in one arm, lifting the glass to his lips to take tiny sips, until the glass is nearly empty. Then he slumps back against my arm, and manages something almost like a smile. “Thank you... Who are you?”
      I ease him gently back against his pillows, and sit a little more comfortably on the floor – or, rather, on the plush rug by the bed, which I suspect is actual animal fur (a thought I try not to dwell on). My feet have totally fallen asleep, and I rub them ruefully, wincing as pins and needles set in. “I'm Kimber... what's your name?”
      “Calvin Marcus Mason.”
      I can't help but grin at the imperiousness that somehow invades the tiny voice. It is an impressive-sounding name... which makes it all the sadder to see it linked with this frail little frame.
      “Are you Ev'lyn's friend, Kimber?”
      I start a bit at this. I'm... it's still so strange, to think of this world as being truly real, and to know that I'm as real in it as it seems to me... “Yes, I met her once, out in the garden.”
      The tiny dry lips purse at this. “No... you met her lotsa times. She told me. But... maybe I jus' dreamed she tol' me...” He trails off, groaning a little, apparently exhausted by such a long statement. “I dream a awful lot now... am I dreaming you?”
      I am honestly clueless as to how to answer this. But somehow, I don't think I'm a dream to him. “No, Calvin, I'm here... I can't stay long, but I'm here now. You want any more water?”
      “C'n I have my elfant?”
      I smile, and stand up, going over to the toy box. “Sure... it's a pink elephant, right?”
      “Mmhmm.”
      I lift the little thing out of the box – noticing as I bend down that there are an awful lot of toys actually in here. All kinds of slightly creepy metal ones, a cast-iron elephant with jointed legs and a key on one side, among several other ones that I can see keys on, birds and tigers and bears. Lots of blocks, several picture books, and I think some marbles way down in the bottom... But the top layer seems to be mostly soft things, though they don't look half as cuddly as the ones I grew up with. Still, the elephant is snuggly enough – he's definitely some kind of felt, stuffed with something soft, and he's a very friendly-looking little guy. Pale pink with a royal blue saddle on his back, bright yellow trim, and the initials “C.M.M.” embroidered in dark thread on the saddle. He's fairly small, maybe four inches tall? But I suppose Calvin's pretty small himself.