XII - Of Drought and Mercy

The shrill crying echoed through the thick stone walls, broken only now and then by a short, choking sob before beginning anew.

“For the love of God, be still at last!” Raymund snapped while desperately trying to press a strip of cloth soaked in goat’s milk to his son’s mouth.

But Renaud turned his head away and only screamed louder, kicking wildly in his basket.

“What ails you, you foolish brat?”

With a faint creak, the door opened, and Raymund spun around.

“Penelope…” he muttered resignedly as she stepped inside and set down a bucket of water.

“Let me see him,” she said softly, taking a step closer.

Raymund flinched instinctively.

“Fear not… I will not touch him,” she murmured after noticing his reaction.

Then she seated herself upon a stool at the far end of the chamber, keeping a careful distance.

Renaud’s crying swelled again, shrill and breathless.

“It has gone on like this for days now. I think he cannot stand the heat…” Raymund muttered.

Penelope did not answer at once.

Instead, she began to hum quietly.

A gentle melody, scarcely more than a rough whisper.

The boy fell still.

His little body tensed once more, then the screaming slowly weakened.

As her humming turned to soft song, Renaud finally tilted his tiny head as though listening to the distant murmur of a river.

A relieved smile crept across Raymund’s face when at last the boy closed his eyes and drifted into peaceful sleep.

“It… it truly worked…,” he whispered in disbelief, so softly it seemed he feared waking the child again.

Penelope smiled.

“My mother once sang that song to me when I was little…” Her voice grew quieter. “As I later sang it to my own son.”

A brief silence followed.

“Before God took him to Himself…”

Raymund looked at her, yet said nothing.

***

When they stepped outside, Raymund had to shield his face against the sunlight.

The heat hung heavy over the village.

Far away, crickets chirped among the dry fields, and even the wind itself seemed to have grown warm.

Penelope let out a quiet sigh.

“If the rains stay away much longer, the fields will wither completely.”

She gestured toward the well before the chapel, where several villagers already drew water.

“The well will not suffice much longer.”

Raymund merely nodded, as his thoughts drifted to Melusine.

To the coolness of her skin. To the ceaseless flowing of her body. To water that never stood still.

I had grown so accustomed to the damp while we were together...

Now it seems I am surrounded by the very opposite.

His gaze wandered over the village.

Over the folk who still went about their work despite their affliction.

The younger ones tended the animals, labored in the fields, or carried water through the settlement.

Yet even the hooded figures whose hunched, feeble movements betrayed their worsening condition still did what little they could.

An old man dragged a water-yoke across the square.

Raymund noticed the man’s knees beginning to tremble and how difficult it was for him even to remain upright.

That is far too heavy for the old fool…

Only moments later, the man stumbled forward with a wheezing gasp, water sloshing from the buckets.

Penelope moved to help him, yet Raymund was faster. He seized the yoke and lifted it from the old man’s shoulders.

“Are you witless?” he grumbled. “Carry no more than your body can bear.”

The man answered only with an exhausted groan.

“Is this meant for the field over there?”

The old man gave a weak nod.

Without another word, Raymund hoisted the yoke upon his own shoulders and carried it onward.

As Penelope helped the old man to his feet, her gaze lingered quietly upon Raymund.

Smiling.

***

By the time Raymund made his final journey to the well that evening, the setting sun had already turned the village red with fading light.

He had spent the rest of the day beneath the burning sky, hauling water for those too weak to carry it themselves, until even his pale skin had grown flushed from the heat.

He hauled one final bucket from the depths of the well and set it down beside the trough with a weary grunt.

“There is little left…,” he muttered, glancing down into the well. Sweat ran across his reddened brow. “If rain does not come soon, things will go poorly for all of you.”

His gaze drifted across the small square.

Children played between the huts with carved wooden figures. Two women sat near the chapel, silently mending torn garments. Even the distant bleating of the goats had grown strangely familiar to him.

How long have I lingered here now?

Unbidden, his thoughts drifted back to the words Penelope had spoken to him some days earlier.

If there is no place for you… then why not remain here with us?

A faint smile crossed his face.

Perhaps… not the worst place for one such as me.

Among Outcasts. Lepers. The damned.

Then he thought of Renaud. And of Melusine’s final plea.

A foolish notion. He cannot stay here…

Penelope stepped beside him.

She carried a basket of herbs in her arms, though her movements seemed heavier than usual.

“When... the well... runs dry, we will have to... abandon this place,” she said out of breath.

Raymund merely snorted.

“And where will you go? People will drive you away the moment you draw near any settlement.”

She smiled weakly, but her eyes betrayed her.

Raymund frowned.

“What is it?”

“Noth... nothing...”

Yet even as she spoke, her hand suddenly began to tremble.

The basket slipped from her fingers, herbs scattering across the dusty ground.

“Penelope? What troubles you?”

She swayed slightly and Raymund caught her instinctively by the arm.

At once he felt the feverish heat of her skin and the damp, rotting flesh beneath the wrappings.

Her breathing came heavily.

“It is only… exhaustion…”

No... It's her disease. It worsens…

An unpleasant tightness spread through his chest, and instinctively he wanted to recoil from her decaying flesh.

Instead he guided her to the wall beside the well.

“Sit down. Quick.”

Penelope pressed a hand against her mouth as though trying to suppress a cough.

Blood appeared between her fingers.

Raymund froze.

And at once the scent of pestilence returned to him.

Blood. Fever. Dying folk.

“We must bring you inside…,” he forced out.

He turned sharply and lifted Renaud from the shade beside the well, where the child had begun whining restlessly.

“Hush now…”

One arm held the boy tightly while the other tried to support Penelope.

Then suddenly, Renaud stretched out both tiny hands.

And touched her bandaged arm.

“Do not touch her, Renaud!”

But before Raymund could pull him away, a soft sound filled the air.

Not loud. Only a gentle trickling. Like water flowing over smooth stone.

Penelope flinched.

“What is…”

Moisture spread beneath the wrappings.

But it was not blood.

Clear water ran across her fingers.

The air around them suddenly grew cooler and Raymund’s eyes widened.

Penelope stared in disbelief at her hands.

Before their eyes, the inflamed wounds began to close, the dark blotches slowly fading away.

A gust of wind seized the wrappings about her face and tore them free. Beneath them appeared wide, astonished eyes framed by dark curls.

For one fleeting moment, moisture shimmered upon her skin like morning dew.

Renaud merely gurgled contentedly before drawing back his tiny hands, a sparkling glow in his eyes.

Penelope touched her cheeks in disbelief.

“What… what has happened to me…?”

But Raymund scarcely heard her.

He remembered the feeling of Melusine’s water upon his skin once more.

The relief. The healing.

His stomach tightened, his heart raced.

So he truly is just like her. Or perhaps even more…

His gaze darted across the square.

The huts. The windows. The well.

Did anyone witness this?

And then he heard it.

At first scarcely more than a whisper.

Like a sound caught somewhere between wind and running water.

A giggle.

“Hee hee hee…”

Raymund went still.

“Inside. Quickly.”

He seized Penelope by the wrist and pulled her along behind him.

Yet for a brief moment, he faltered.

No feverish weakness remained beneath her wrappings.

No trembling.

Her steps had grown firm.

Alive.

Raymund closed his eyes for the briefest instant.

And against his will, something mingled with his fear.

Relief.