Holes in The History of The Universe

13: Samual's Patient

Even in Alastair's state of grief, there was work to be done, so the next day, they did all their rounds as usual, not daring to mention the events of the previous evening. Still, it felt unfair to Samual that they had to work the day after losing a family member, so during lunch, he took notice of the half rotten carrying basket of herbs sitting on the work table, and made sure to bring it up in the conversation. "Hey, those plants look kind of gross, don't you think?"

Alastair turned to the table and stood up, "Yes, I suppose they do, no matter, we'll just go to the apothecary a bit earlier this week."

Samual grinned at his working plan and looked down to hide it, his face would no question make him suspicious. He then realized the lovely prospect of being home alone for a few hours, and acted on it, "is it okay if I stay here this time? I promise that I won't leave the house."

Alastair nodded slowly, "yes, I think that would be alright, just be nice to the pig," and at that, he took the basket, and left.

He quickly grew to wish that he had come along, as spending that much time in a medieval peasant's home with nothing to entertain yourself with is actually quite boring, and he quickly realized that he had no good ideas on how to cause mischief or even entertain himself, at least, none that didn't require modern materials. There were no other children around that he knew of, and he didn't even know if a boy in his position would be allowed around them, lest risk infection. He spent it doing the typical things a bored child would do, singing at the top of his lungs, making shapes in the dirt, making odd noises whilst lying upside-down on the bed, his head dangling off the side, the usual. Thankfully, there was eventually a knock at the door.

It caught him quite off guard, and he found himself wondering if it was necessary to put his mask on for such a simple interaction. He eventually decided in favour of it, as Alastair had done the same when the ex-patient had come to thank them, and quickly pulled the muffling fabric over his head as he answered it, revealing the figure of a middle aged man standing practically beside himself with fear.

"Are you Dr. Alastair Leigh?" Asked he, gasping as though he had just halted to a stop from a difficult run.

"No actually," Samual said, "but don't worry, he should be back a little later." He began to close the door, but the man stopped him.

"Please, we can't wait that long," his voice was shrill, almost resembling a screech.

Samual sighed and glanced at Alastair's toolkit. He really didn't have a choice, did he? So he reclined himself back into the house and gathered up the cubular box in his arms the way one would carry a feisty rooster. "Alright," he said upon returning, bouncing his arms a bit to hold it in a more stable manner, "where's the patient? Actually, hold on a second, I just need to write Alastair a quick note."

He went back inside for the second time, jotted something quickly down on the back of the body count journal, and stepped back outside, "okay, I'm good this time, now where are they?"

The patient in question may have just had the most mild case of the plague Samual had ever seen, in fact, he was hesitant to even use such a bleak diagnosis. While most victims looked as though they would die any minute by the time they got to them, even in the less severe cases, this woman looked like she had little more than a fever. Though he admittedly wanted to laugh, he instead decided to blame it on poor education and leave it at that.

"Okay," he thought aloud, "I'd recommend keeping her warm so so she can sweat, and, hold on," he opened the medical kit on a nearby stool, and began moving his hands through the various jars and bottles, "I think I have some herbs that we can use for this somewhere," he squinting at Alastair's odd handwriting that most likely couldn't be read by the average, modern day, Gaelic speaking adult, let alone a twelve year old child. It was strange, because everyone always said that his handwriting was so beautiful considering his social class.

"Oh, here it is," he shouted with a smile, "I was worried there for a second, we've been running quite low lately," he was surprised by the way the sentence came out, it sounded so much like how Alastair would speak, even the accent vaguely resembled his overly pronounced drawl.

As he began to close the kit, he found himself staring at the knife used to draw blood. He recalled that the treatment, to his surprise, often worked in treating fevers, and he had to admit, a part of him felt inclined to use it. He turned his head away, there was no possible way he was going there, at least not on that day, without his mentor's assistance, and he snapped the box closed long before the thought could become too ingrained in his head.

Again quoting Alastair, he stood up and continued, "well, if you need anything else, don't hesitate to come back over."

The patient's husband nodded, gave the usual thanks, and then, as though he had triggered it, an angry shout soured in from the outside, "Samual? Where in Heaven's name are you?"

He ran out of the house, tossing a quick good-bye, "out here, I'm coming," they both then spent several minutes running about the village until they found each other, feeling like complete fools when they saw the other flinging around like an overly excited foal, and realizing they were doing the same.

Alastair glanced down at the kit at Samual's side and groaned, "don't tell me you went to treat a patient by yourself."

He stopped in his tracks, "yes?" Honestly, what did he expect him to say?

Another sigh, "well, I suppose the damage is done. Come along, let's make sure you haven't killed our poor patient."

After rushing back into the home, however, and re-examining her, Alastair actually looked impressed, "she's perfectly stable," he said to the husband, "I must confess though, this really isn't our expertise, a more general doctor lives down the road at the other end of the village from me, he has a garden in front of his home, come back to us if that's not specific enough."

"I'm sure it is," the husband told him, and they quietly stepped back outside.

Without warning, Alastair gripped Samual's shoulders, forcing his pale blue eyes into his skull, "do you really want to be a plague doctor? For the rest of your life?"

He stared confidently back, "I do."

"Are you sure?" Alastair's voice was sharp enough to make a far more cowardly boy shrink and redact his statement.

"Yes, I am sure, I have to deal with the burden anyway, so I might as well learn how to help."

Alastair's expression broke into a soft, yet proud smile and he gave Samual's hair a stroke, "I suppose there was never any stopping you, come to think of it. Don't worry, my boy, I will guide you every step of the way," they pulled each other into a hug, "it will be alright, child, someday this plague will end, just like it did when I was your age."

"Thanks," murmured Samual through his mask. Wondering about Alastair's story.