Marin's Fire

Chapter 2

The one-roomed cottage was small and cozy. Next to the doorway a sturdy wood table was burdened with all sorts of trinkets and odds and ends: bits of yarn, some loose nails, a few heart-shaped rocks. Pots, jars, and baskets crammed the shelves that lined the back wall. A well-loved doll dangled limp legs from the top shelf's corner; a trinket from back when young children lived here, filling the four walls of this home with laughter.

Now, Alice lay under a pile of blankets, weak and moaning. Her husband, Jameson, kept worrying at the fraying edge of the top quilt. His liver-spotted hands were in constant motion.

"How long has she been like this?" Tilly asked, her soothing voice a balm for anxious ears.

"I sent word to The Order last night that she was getting worse, but this morning... she's just been making that noise, can't even speak, the pain's been so bad," Jameson replied, voice heavy. He ran his fingers through his thin graying hair, the lines around his eyes deepening with concern.

As Tilly spoke with Jameson, Marin turned and examined the patient. All thoughts of their previous conversation pushed aside. There was no room for Jocelyn or pennyroyal tea or what that might mean about her fight with Albert. When he was healing he had to clear everything away to allow his powers to work.

He closed his eyes, reaching his mind out, searching for what was at the root of this disease, to sense where there was an imbalance in her humors. Had evil possessed a part of her body? A venom seeped into her blood? He pulled back the covers, causing Alice to shiver, but he placed his hands directly on her shoulders. She was cold, her skin clammy. What he discovered wasn't a surprise, given Alice's age and history with inflammation: she had become phlegmatic. Her brain and lungs were producing too much phlegm, which caused this new and severe pain-induced apathy.

"I need to use your fire," Marin announced while digging into his satchel for supplies.

"Yes, of course," Jameson obliged, gesturing across the cottage, but not leaving his wife's side.

Finding what he needed, Marin carefully removed and then unwrapped four glass cups and placed them on the hearthstones. As he waited for them to heat, he started with the rest of his preparations.

"Tilly, can you help me position Alice?"

"Where did you sense infection?" she asked.

With a quick glance up, he replied, "Too much phlegm. We will need to absorb the excess water from her lungs. I need to access to her back."

Together they rolled the thin, frail woman over. Tilly brushed aside Alice's long white hair with her hand. Jameson watched, helpless. His lips moving in silent prayer.

Marin took metal tongs out from his satchel and picked up the first cup and walked it over to where Alice lay.

"Is it going to hurt?" Jameson asked.

"Maybe a little at first, but her pain will be drawn out along with the phlegm," Tilly answered as Marin placed the first glass cup just below Alice's right shoulder.

Alice flinched and let out a high-pitched yowl, sounding more like a distressed cat than a woman. Tilly reached over to squeeze Jameson's forearm.

By the time Marin had placed the second cup on Alice's left shoulder, the skin under the first cup was already red and puckered. As the cup cooled it created a seal that sucked at the phlegm. Beads of condensation formed on the inside of the glass, showing that the excess liquid was already being removed.

After several minutes, Marin had placed all four cups strategically on Alice's back. Liquid seeped out of her skin, the cups working to restore balance.