Infinite 01 - Infinite Sacrifice

more.”
    The stew is delicious, and the children wake back up in time to have some for supper. I feed Rowan in his bed and make him swallow the contents of one of the vials Hadrian left me. Oliver and I join the two nuns by the fire. They say a prolonged grace and eat in silence.
    At the end, Mother Superior calls, “Emeline, why don’t you take—I’m sorry child, what is your name?”
    “Elizabeth.”
    “Elizabeth up to our quarters. Poor dear looks tired.”
    I walk Oliver back to where Rowan sleeps soundly, and he looks nervous that I will be leaving them.
    “I will only be upstairs with the nuns. You need to stay here to take care of Rowan. If he needs any help, you come find me.”
    Being protective makes him understand why he has to stay, and without a word, he kisses his sleeping brother and lies back down on his rags. I follow Emeline up the narrow stairs to a few small rooms with narrow roped beds and hair mattresses.
    She points to two of the rooms. “You can take your pick. Normally we have four nuns to a room…” She tries to choose her words carefully, and finding none, she finishes, “…Well, we can all have our own rooms, now.”
    I take the room closest to me. It makes me nervous to think so many nuns sacrificed themselves to help others, nuns who slept in this very bed. When I lie down on the lumpy mattress and pull up the wool blanket, I wonder how my life has changed so much in one day. I feel alone for the first time in my life, and cry as I realize that I have no idea what I am doing with two small children.
    I wake up to someone knocking on the door.
    Oliver is there, sniffling, and I whisper, “What it is, Oliver?”
    “Rowan is very hot, and he isn’t waking up.”
    I run down the stairs, getting my shoe caught in the hem of my kirtle, and fall at the base of the stairs. I hurry to Rowan’s bed and see that he is murmuring restlessly between chattering teeth.
    Emeline rushes down behind us. “The child is burning up. We need to get him into cold water.”
    “My husband is a doctor, and he said the only cure for fever is bloodletting. We need to flush out the impurities.”
    She sneers at my idea, grabs Rowan up, and carries the child out back. Emeline pours water straight from the well into the basin and places Rowan into the cold water. She reaches for a rag and keeps wringing it over his head. Baths are known to bring on disease and death. Why would she think submerging the child would save him?
    I go to Mother Superior and find her leaving her room. “Mother, Sister Emeline is killing Rowan!”
    “Calm yourself, dear. Sister Emeline has been taking care of the sick since she first arrived here at fourteen. She may have strange customs, but more people have survived under her care than any other nun. Trust her as I trust her.” She calmly walks down the stairs and out to the chapel, where she kneels with her rosary and puts her hand up to bring me on my knees with her . “The best thing you can do is pray to God to allow him to get better.”
    I kneel with her for some time, and when I open my eyes, I’m surprised to see Oliver by my side in prayer also. I’m not sure if it was the praying or the bathing, but Rowan’s high fever broke that night, and he improves steadily. Rowan begins to get up and run around with Oliver again, and in the midst of great suffering, it’s nice to hear the happy chatter of children playing. I do everything Emeline asks from that point, although she does let me show her how to cauterize the buboes and nods in thanks for the helpful instruction. I also get permission to bring the children up into my bed and looked forward to their little arms and legs draping over me every night.
    Every few days, the monks come from the municipal almshouse to deliver goods they produced from their acres of wheat, barley, and fresh vegetables. One monk stands out to me. He never makes eye contact with me and gravitates toward assisting the neediest victims. He brings soup to the hungry, cradling their heads in his arms and smiling as they manage to swallow. He sweetly and lovingly caresses fevered heads while giving the sickest their last rites. He performs the most difficult acts, such as washing infected feet, changing soiled sheets, and wrapping seeping pustules, with great compassion.
    One day I try to talk to him as he is washing the floors.
    “Brother Simon?”
    His sparkling green eyes dart up to me. “Yes?”
    I grab a rag and get on my hands