As I was smearing the salve on his leg, I looked up to find Papa watching me.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“As though I fell on a pitchfork and then was sewn back together by my daughter. And I believe I might be a little drunk,” he slurred gently.
“Nothing unusual, then?” I said, and he smiled blearily.
I rose and kissed him on the forehead and he gripped my hand.
“You’re such a good girl,” he said. “I’m so proud of you.”
I didn’t feel much like a good girl with Lief’s words still ringing in my ears.
The following morning Papa seemed well. He was sitting up in bed complaining of a sore head, of all things, as I checked the wound and smeared more of my salve on it. I left him in the care of Mama while I reluctantly helped Lief with the chores. One of the cows kicked me, and though it left nothing more than an angry bruise, it put me in a foul mood for the rest of the day. Lief and I ate separately, both of us seething because he’d demanded I make the supper and I had refused.
“But it’s your job.”
“Because I’m a girl?”
“Yes.”
I glared at him. “You’d better not let Papa hear you saying that.”
“I’ve never seen Father cook a meal, have you? That’s Mother’s job.”
“Well, today I was a farmer and that’s a man’s job. Which means today I am a man and I’m cooking nothing for you.”
“Fine. Don’t. I’ll eat bread and dripping.”
“I hope it chokes you,” I hissed, and left him to it. As a rule we got on well, aside from the usual brother and sister spats, but the tension of our father’s injury and a hard, thankless day’s work had left us both in foul temper, and neither of us was willing to back down.
We didn’t speak for four solid days, and each one felt like a week as we worked side by side to milk the cows twice daily, clean up after them, turn them out into the fields, and take the milk to the dairy. I had some revenge forcing Lief to turn dairy maid while Mama stayed with Papa, but it wasn’t much consolation. I checked on my father’s wound twice daily and it seemed to be mending well. He complained of some stiffness in his leg, but that was to be expected, and Mama offered to massage it.
The sixth night after it happened, I couldn’t sleep, despite how exhausted I was. I tossed and turned, too warm in the sweltering summer heat. I was lying atop my sheets, spread out like a star, trying to cool down, when the door opened.
“Errin, something’s wrong,” Mama said softly into the darkness.
When I entered their room it smelt bad, sour with sickness, and I gagged. When I laid my hand on my father’s forehead he was burning up. He was moaning lightly in his sleep; his skin looked waxy in the dim light, damp with a sweat that had nothing to do with the summer. Then he shook, suddenly and horribly, his shoulders spasming and jerking, and my mother ran back to him, trying to hold him still.
I knew then what it was, but I didn’t want to believe it because I didn’t want it to be real and I didn’t want it to be too late.
“How long has he been like this?”
“He said he was too hot at dinner. He couldn’t swallow; he said his jaw hurt. Then this started, in his neck. I could feel the muscles shaking.”
Papa jerked again and I closed my eyes. “We need Master Pendie.”
Mama sent Lief at once. And while he was gone, for the first time ever, Mama and I sunk to our knees and prayed to Gods that we’d never believed in.
Master Pendie did what he could, applying willow bark and more lavender, asking for belts and ropes to hold my father down. Each fit became more violent, and the apothecary told us to pour honey down his throat, to keep giving him sugar and cream and butter. We spent all night ferrying food and water back and forth, trying in-between attacks to make him eat to keep his strength up. By dawn he was exhausted but still shaking, his body impossibly thinner than it had been when the sun set.
“He has the lockjaw,” Master Pendie said when he returned.