Fever Healer

Contest entry For The Writer's Cramp

About 680 Words

Fever Healer

Murfree Village believed in order. The bell rang when it should, doors were barred at night, and illness was spoken of carefully, as if naming it too loudly might invite more.

I grew up learning those silences beside my mother, Jasmine Crocket, measuring herbs and washing cloths while the world outside pretended it could be kept from unraveling.

My mother’s hair had gone silver before its time. People noticed. They always did. She never explained it.

When the fevers came, Murfree told itself it had seen worse. Some recovered. Some did not. People prayed longer and came to our door all the same.

The minister was taken just after dawn. By the time we reached his house, his skin burned beneath my mother’s fingers and his eyes moved beneath their lids, restless and unseeing.

“There is a root,” my mother said. “It has helped before.”

The elders asked about the cost.

“The fever may rise before it breaks,” she said. “He may see things. That does not mean they are sent.”

She gave him Aspirin Root. We used it rarely, when waiting felt more dangerous than acting.

His breathing faltered. Words spilled from his mouth, prayers tangled with fear. Then, slowly, the heat eased.

“He will live,” my mother said.

Mercy was accepted easily when it announced itself so plainly.

We returned home before nightfall. My mother said the mind healed more slowly than the body, and it was best not to linger.

Near midnight, we were summoned again.

The minister was awake now, his gaze fixed on corners of the room that held nothing. Sweat dampened his hair.

“She stands between the trees,” he murmured.

My mother approached the bed. “Who stands there?”

He turned his head, his eyes settling past her and finding me.

“She does not age,” he said. “Her hair is silver before its time.”

My breath caught. My mother did not move.

“Fever borrows faces,” she said gently.

“No,” he whispered. “I know her.”

His hand lifted weakly, not quite pointing at my mother, but close enough.

“She carries bitterness in her hands,” he said. “And mercy.”

My mother pressed two fingers to his wrist until his arm fell.

When we left, the night was sharp with cold.

“He believes what he saw,” I said.

“He believes what the fever showed him,” my mother replied.

I knew then the difference might not matter.

The minister recovered. Murfree gave thanks. But by the time he could walk again, the village had already stepped away from us.

He spoke of vigilance at meeting. Of discernment. He fasted. He prayed. He spoke privately with the elders.

No one accused my mother outright. They asked questions instead.

Where had she learned the root? Had she known visions might come? Had she always lived in Murfree?

She answered plainly.

The hearing was called a gathering for clarity. The benches were arranged as they always were when judgment followed.

My mother stood where she was told. I sat behind her.

They asked about her remedies. She explained them. They asked about the woman who taught her.

“She is gone,” my mother said. “Not by her choosing.”

The minister rose last, his shoulders bent beneath a weight no one else could see.

“I would give anything,” he said, “to believe what I saw was only fever.”

Silence followed.

The elders decided there would be no punishment. Punishment required certainty, and certainty had eluded them. But my mother was asked to cease her work, until fear settled, until trust could be restored.

She nodded. “I understand.”

That night, the bell rang as it always did.

No one came.

Weeks later, when the fever returned, it moved faster than before. A child was buried at dawn.

My mother stood at the edge of the grave, her hands empty.

Across the earth piled between them, the minister met her eyes. There was no accusation there. Only grief.

I understood then that no one in Murfree Village had chosen cruelty.

They had chosen certainty over doubt.

And fear had done the rest.


(the art work included it assisted ai digital art)