Chapter Seventeen
“It is not death that a man should fear,
but he should fear never beginning to live.
~Marcus Aurelius
The following Wednesday morning, Brian awoke before dawn with a burning fever; his head throbbed, and he found it extremely difficult to swallow. He barely made it to the bathroom before he lost all control, emptying his bowels and vomiting into the sink simultaneously. He’d never felt so miserable in his life. People in his time were always sick with one ailment or another, and they rarely lived to the common ages seen today. He, however, had always been robust and healthy. His mother always said he had an angel on his shoulder because his injuries in battle healed without festering, he rarely contracted an ague, and when he did, he healed before everyone else.
Today, unfortunately, he felt as though overnight he’d aged each one of the three hundred years he’d traversed in a second. Every bone and muscle ached. When he pressed his fingers under his jaw, they contacted hard swollen lumps on either side of his windpipe. Maybe he was dying. Perhaps you could not live a normal life span if you pierced the time barrier. He needed to talk to Alistair or Granny M, but first, he must lie down. Once back in his bed, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow.
A knock at his door brought him out of a foggy nightmare. Light streamed through his windows. He had no idea how long he’d slept, but his body still burned and his muscles and bones ached as though a rampaging herd of cattle had trampled him into the ground.
“Brian, are you in there? May I come in?” Angel called through the door.
He swung his legs off the bed and tried to stand when a throbbing pain nearly blinded him. He raced into the bathroom again, slamming the door behind him. “Do you need assistance, Brian?” Angel called from the other side of the door.
“I’ll be out in a minute.” If I don’t die of this ague, I’ll die of mortification. He splashed cold water on his face and repeatedly rinsed his mouth until relieved of the sour taste. He barely recognized his image in the mirror. Sweaty tendrils of hair clumped about his head, flushed faced, and bloodshot eyes stared back at him.
“Damn it man, yer a warrior, ye cannae succumb to a wee fever!”
“Brian, did you call for me, should I come in to help you?” Angel’s voice rose in concern.
“Lass, ye shouldn’t be here. I’m feverish and cannae hold anything in my stomach. My throat feels like I’ve swallowed razors. I don’t want you to contract this illness.”
“Granny M thought you’d already gone out, but we were supposed to go to the clinic together today. I knew something must be wrong.” She stepped toward him when he reentered the room and placed the back of her blessedly cool hand to his forehead.
“Oh my, you’re burning up. Get back into that bed. Why didn’t you alert someone that you felt ill?”
She pushed his lethargic body back on the bed, tucked the blankets around his neck, “I’ll get Granny and medicine,” and rushed from the room.
He tried to stay focused, but couldn’t keep his eyes open. The bed seemed to shake under his quaking body, and when he tried to focus, everything spun out of control. One minute his teeth chattered from the chills, the next he threw the blanket off because it felt hotter than flame against his skin. Even prayers burned to ash in his head. This new life was slipping away before he’d even had a chance to grab onto it…before he’d had a chance to claim the lovely Angel for his own.
For some while, Brian slipped in and out of consciousness. Occasionally he heard Granny M’s voice, at other times, he woke to Angel mopping his brow with a cool cloth while forcing him to swallow pills or drink a few sips of water. She kept up a steady stream of admonishments, chastising him for being a daft stubborn Highlander with not a dot of common sense.
Next time he opened his eyes, Alistair stood beside the bed, attaching a tube of liquids to a tall pole.
“Don’t fret, lad, we’ll set you right in short order. You gave us quite a scare. Your fever reached a high of 105º F. That’s a very dangerous level. I want to examine you and take a throat culture.” Brian had difficulty comprehending Alistair’s comments and couldn’t sit up without the man’s assistance.
“I’m going to take a few blood samples to identify the problem. In the meantime, this I.V. will help replenish the fluids you’ve lost. The pole is on wheels, so if you feel the need for the bathroom, just roll it behind you, taking care not to dislodge the needle. I’ve added medication into the fluid to help you feel better.”
Brain watched the workings around him through bleary vision. “Am I dying, sir? I cannae ever remember feeling so wretched in my life.” the harsh croak of his voice stabbed with the sharp pinch of a razor's edge when he spoke.
“No son, you’ll not die on my watch. I suspect you’ve contracted a fierce case of strep throat. Unfortunately, your body has not built up antibodies to the germs and virus’s you’ll encounter in this era.”
He pierced Brian’s arm with a needle and Angel helped tape it down. He noted she now wore a mask over her nose and mouth, suggesting he might be in far worse condition than Alistair indicated.
“Rest now lad, we’ll take turns checking your progress over the next several hours. Don’t worry, you’ll be feeling better within a day or two.”
* * *
Faced with the possibility that Brian might have something far more serious than a simple flu or strep throat, Angel followed her father into his study.
Yanking the mask from her face, a worried whine escaped. “You’re making me wear this stupid mask, so you obviously suspect it’s serious. Should we take him to the hospital?”
“Angel, you understand the high contagion of strep, both from your nursing studies and because you’ve contracted it previously. I’m simply taking appropriate precautions. For now, though, I believe moving him would not benefit his recovery. His lack of exposure to modern strains of viruses and bacteria means he’ll have inadequate antibodies built up in his system to fight them. I’ve administered fluids and antibiotics. I’ll deliver these blood samples to the hospital lab and request an urgent analysis. As soon as we know more, or if he fails to respond to treatment, then we’ll take him to the hospital. Meanwhile, it’s best to keep him as comfortable as possible. He needs rest. However, I urge you to wear the mask when you tend him. Let’s not have you come down with whatever this is as well.”
How could a case of strep throat completely diminish the power and strength Brian always exuded? He’d barely woken in the past five hours, and when he did, he didn’t seem to recognize her or his surroundings. He uttered incoherent Scottish Gaelic that she didn’t understand and thrashed around as though fighting a battlefield of foes. He’d fall silent for a while, then start thrashing again. For the last hour, his rest had been much quieter, deeper, as though he’d passed a dangerous threshold. A thin sheen of sweat covered his forehead suggesting the fever might be breaking at last. She could only hope. His fever had dropped to a safer level of just under 101 but still lingered despite the I.V.
She reached across the rumpled covers and pulled his big hand into hers. He stirred at her touch, then opened his eyes. His gaze drifted around the room as he blinked to consciousness until his bloodshot gaze focused on her face.
“Angel?” He rasped and squeezed her hand. “’Tis you? I’m not in a fevered dream?”
With her other hand, she pulled down her mask. “Yes, it’s me, who else would be pestering you when you should be resting. You gave us quite a scare. How do you feel?”
“Throat…sore. Need to use the privy.” He noted the I.V. strapped to his arm still had a partially filled bag. “How long will I be strapped to this contraption?”
She smacked his thigh lightly. “Stop complaining, that contraption is helping you. Let me assist you to your feet.”
“Ach! No self-respecting Highlander cannae lift himself from his own bed, lass. Mayhap ye should step outside.” His brogue and vernacular slipped to heavily rolled burrs and rumbles roughened further by the gruff croak of his throat.
“I’ve been tending you all afternoon. Helping you up after such a high fever does not reduce your manly status, my daft Highlander.” She slipped an arm behind his shoulders and helped him despite his protests.
“I’ve left a glass of salt water on the counter. Don’t swallow it. Gargling with the solution will help ease the soreness in your throat. I’ll bring you some hot tea with honey and lemon and a cup of broth while you freshen up.”
He slipped his arm around her waist and kissed her temple. His touch shouldn’t elicit deep desire while he struggled with a fever, but it did.
“My sweet Angel. Now that I’m standing, I think I am feeling much better.” The sound of rational speech as well as the sheer mass of his body pressed against her side eased her concerns.
“Good, but your fever isn’t gone yet. You’ll need at least another two or three days of rest, and medicine for a week or more before you’re back to normal.”