Descending Road - FUN WITH FEVER by Dana W. Paxson

FUN WITH FEVER

1542 4D

Marra tottered and rummaged through her farmhouse kitchen, muttering, making tea. Sweat ran down her temples; the fever gripped her harder now. She blinked in confusion. Her aged hands fumbled with the strainer.

Three little blue-skinned men stood in a line, inside the rear door to the house, grinning; they wore baggy shorts, and gnarled, tiny black horns on their heads. Their feet shuffled in a blurred, peculiar dance.

The nearest one shoved his nose between his black-nailed fingers and smirked at her through a long scraggly mustache. She tried to ignore him, turning and smoothing gray wisps of hair back from her soaked forehead.

She coughed and called, “Deen, where’s the triffel husks I saved for tea?” The kitchen counters were piled with pots and dishes; the usually-spotless beige plast walls carried greasy smudges that smiled at her.

“I don’t know.” Her friend Deen coughed in response from her bedroom. Today, Deen was the sicker one.

“Did you let these little men in here?” One of the men began releasing a stream of urine into the dog dish.

“Little men? What are you talking about?” Deen‘s footsteps shuffled nearer.

“They’re standing by the back door making faces, and they’re wearing horns. Oh, no. Put that back! Deen, he’s got the bucket and he’s growing hair on it.”

A hand on her arm. “Marra. It’s the fever. You’ve got a high fever. Come to bed.”

“But they’re making such a mess. The rug on the ceiling is full of compost. You’re taller, Deen, could you get a chair and—" She pointed to the multicolored rug she and Marra used in the front room, now bulging down from the kitchen ceiling with rotting soil.

“Marra. Bed. Now. You’re hallucinating. We should have known that fifty was the limit. We’re too old for this. Come on.” Deen‘s long thin arm, draped easily over Marra‘s sloping shoulders, steered her toward her bedroom.

“There’s early snow this fall,” sniffled Marra. “They tracked it all over the kitchen. In shorts.”

“Yes, Marra. Lie down, that’s good. Now pull up the covers. I’ll be right in the next room.”

The growing season had recently ended; their hired farm workers had gone to homes down in the outliers of the City. The two women stayed in their farmhouse together for the mountain winter as they had often done before; but now they both burned with infection. Marra‘s head swam with hallucinations; after a week of battle, in spite of their best herbal treatments, the fever was winning.

Story List	SURPRISE ME	Author Page
USER SURVEY	PUZZLE ME	MAKE ELM MARK

HOVER Lucida Bright BARE	HOVER Lucida Bright FULL	HOVER Palatino Linotype BARE
HOVER Palatino Linotype FULL	HOVER Times New Roman BARE	HOVER Times New Roman FULL
PAD Arial BARE	PAD Arial FULL	PAD Lucida Bright BARE
PAD Lucida Bright FULL	PAD Times New Roman BARE	PAD Times New Roman FULL


	FUN WITH FEVER 1542 4D Marra tottered and rummaged through her farmhouse kitchen, muttering, making tea. Sweat ran down her temples; the fever gripped her harder now. She blinked in confusion. Her aged hands fumbled with the strainer. Three little blue-skinned men stood in a line, inside the rear door to the house, grinning; they wore baggy shorts, and gnarled, tiny black horns on their heads. Their feet shuffled in a blurred, peculiar dance. The nearest one shoved his nose between his black-nailed fingers and smirked at her through a long scraggly mustache. She tried to ignore him, turning and smoothing gray wisps of hair back from her soaked forehead. She coughed and called, “Deen, where’s the triffel husks I saved for tea?” The kitchen counters were piled with pots and dishes; the usually-spotless beige plast walls carried greasy smudges that smiled at her. “I don’t know.” Her friend Deen coughed in response from her bedroom. Today, Deen was the sicker one. “Did you let these little men in here?” One of the men began releasing a stream of urine into the dog dish. “Little men? What are you talking about?” Deen‘s footsteps shuffled nearer. “They’re standing by the back door making faces, and they’re wearing horns. Oh, no. Put that back! Deen, he’s got the bucket and he’s growing hair on it.” A hand on her arm. “Marra. It’s the fever. You’ve got a high fever. Come to bed.” “But they’re making such a mess. The rug on the ceiling is full of compost. You’re taller, Deen, could you get a chair and—" She pointed to the multicolored rug she and Marra used in the front room, now bulging down from the kitchen ceiling with rotting soil. “Marra. Bed. Now. You’re hallucinating. We should have known that fifty was the limit. We’re too old for this. Come on.” Deen‘s long thin arm, draped easily over Marra‘s sloping shoulders, steered her toward her bedroom. “There’s early snow this fall,” sniffled Marra. “They tracked it all over the kitchen. In shorts.” “Yes, Marra. Lie down, that’s good. Now pull up the covers. I’ll be right in the next room.” The growing season had recently ended; their hired farm workers had gone to homes down in the outliers of the City. The two women stayed in their farmhouse together for the mountain winter as they had often done before; but now they both burned with infection. Marra‘s head swam with hallucinations; after a week of battle, in spite of their best herbal treatments, the fever was winning.