Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

abandoned them.”
    “We have heard that story before.” She doesn’t make eye contact, only goes back to her chores.
    “The little one is sick with a fever and a bubo under his arm.” She now looks sympathetically upon Rowan’s sleeping face and holds her hand to his forehead. She traces her finger down the faint scar and smiles.
    “I will make a small bed for him.” She goes out the back door and returns quickly with a handful of rags. They are torn scraps from discarded clothing but are crisp and clean.
    I go to put Rowan down when she stops me. “No, the child needs to be cleaned first.”
    She beckons me to follow, and Oliver tags behind. She has a wide basin in the back beside an open fire. She fills the basin with hot water from the cauldron and pours cold water in to make it an acceptable temperature. I wake Rowan while pulling his nightshirt over his head, and he cries groggily at the disturbance. All sorts of vermin go hopping off his body when the shirt is removed. The burlap shirt is stiff and scratchy; the roughness causes Rowan’s delicate skin to chafe. Seeing this, the nun takes his shirt as far away from her body as possible and pitches it into the fire.
    I put Rowan in the warm bath, and judging by the layers of dirt on the child, I’m sure it is the first bath of his life. Oliver looks on with interest. The nun takes up a rough brush and begins scrubbing the filth off; her mouth pinches in hard labor, and the freckles disappear in the red flush of heat to her face. Rowan enjoys it until she pours water over his head and scrubs his scalp. He screams in protest.
    Oliver tries to run away at this point, but I tell him to remove his shirt. I wrap Rowan up in a clean woolen shirt the nun has found for him and bring him inside to his bed. The nun orders Oliver to get in the tub in the background. Rowan settles immediately into the heap as the curls start to return with the warmth of his fever. As I walk back outside, I can hear Oliver hollering, “Quit it!” as she scrubs the lice off him. I help dry him off and hand him his shirt, knowing he thinks he is old enough to dress himself. I find his heap of rags and a large piece of wool for a blanket, and he looks relaxed for the first time.
    After they are both asleep, I go out back to find the nun again, since she seems to be purposely avoiding me.
    I walk up and say, “I am not ill but have some experience with caring for plague victims.” She still doesn’t stop her chores and keeps her back turned. “I was hoping that in return for shelter and some food, I could help care for the sick.”
    Still with her back turned, she says, “You will need to talk to the Mother Superior about such matters.”
    “Where can I find her?”
    She points to a small thatched barn up the hill. I lift my dress off the ground and trudge up the hill. Reaching the fenced-in area behind the barn, I hear a great commotion of clucking and wings flapping. Peering around the large hexagonal chicken coop, I feel instantly intrusive upon spying an older nun with her habit tucked up into her undergarments, lunging wildly around after the scattering hens. After one awkward dive into the corner, she comes up with a flapping, fat hen upside down.
    Seeing me, she laughs and says, “God’s work is not always pretty!” She walks around the coop to a broad stump, swiftly lifts a short axe, and with a clean chop, the life leaves the golden hen.
    She walks up with the hen’s feet still kicking and asks, “How can I help you, child?”
    “I have brought some plague orphans here for your care and was hoping I could stay to assist you with the stricken.”
    She glances up to the sky. “Oh! The Lord is miraculous! We are in need of more assistance.” She looks back down at me. “God bless you, child, but you know you put yourself at great risk?”
    Wishing I could somehow change my mind, I answer, “I have no choice, Mother. My husband deserted me when I tried to care for the children.”
    She shakes her head. “We cannot all see the grace of God in such perilous times. Only the most devout can see the humanity behind the fear.”
    Her eyes are small and so dark they reflect all light. She has a mole to the side of her right eye that gives her a painted look, and her smile is comforting.
    She thrusts the dead chicken into my hands, tucks her dress farther into her breeches, and says, “Get busy plucking that one for our stew tonight. I have to go chop three