Feed the Hungry, Heal the Sick
Feed the Hungry, Heal the Sick by Athalon> A fevered wolf self-snuggled the quilted robe around his sweatered fur, settling in with winter stillness to receiving arms, the padded wingback close before a solitary dying fire. His grandma's ancient rocking chair was sized too narrow for real comfort, but it seemed to hold the ageless warmth of greying coals which dwindled now on cabin hearth and blackened stone. And there was, too, that soothing something in the synchronous undulation, the underlying mechanism's easy sway and rocking motion. Mistress Sleep would be a welcome guest, and he, her willing suitor.
Or perhaps Her older sister, Madame Death. So much more mature by countless lifetimes of experience in Her own perfected Arts of endless peace.
He sought unsteady for a glass of trembling water on the low side table, pawing tissues, medicines, aside. The cool and liquid kiss anticipated on his needy lips would feel so grateful. Hope shattered with the tumbler's wet and graceful fall onto the hardwood floor.
A knock at the window startled him. The wolf prised himself free of the ugly bear-trap holstery, shuffled in hissing slippers to the door. And didn't recognize the face outside, when he nosed the curtains by. His paw on the deadbolt knew he was in no shape handle callers. Nor to chase unwelcome ones away. But in the deeper fibers of aching bones and shivering muscles, the loneliness of mountain isolation made the desperate choice.
"You don't know me," a tall teenaged blue feline began, shuffling anxious paws upon the step. "But I think you know my little friend."
Nofur else was there. An icy wind sizzled through snowbound trees, frozen needles. The sun hung frosty in the morning light. Then glancing down, the wolf took in two paper grocery sacks behind the feline's knees, a poking orange snout between.
"You came," he stated, emotion flat as withered flowers by the press of illness, obvious; a phantom scent of old books, borax, deep inside his head. He felt his thighs embraced. A ferretboy had hugged him close, having set the supermarket bags aside. "Come in," the sick wolf didn't have the voice to say.
The ferret took the load of food into the cabin's kitchen, which was just a corner past the hearth and fire. The blue cat carried in a case, black-laquered metal scratched and scuffed, and set it heavy on the rug beside the chair. It opened with two shiny plated latches and a cheering click. But then the feline paused to gather up the shards of shattered glass that scattered far and wide across the floor.
The wolf resumed his seat in wheezy, whuffling silence, watching what the cat was there to do. A vile smell teased at his nose. Paper ripped and needles squeaked through sterile vial membranes. And the blue fur laid out one by one the instruments prepared, hypodermic healers in a row. The wolf looked on.
The ferret had returned, a tall cold glass of juice held in both tiny paws. The wolf sipped, winced in pain. His throat was just too sore. Then the mustie stroked the back of one weak trembling canid paw, as the cat undid the robe, exposed stiff fur.
A moan and squint as the right arm was stabbed.
"Vitamins," the cat advised.
Then a small eeep when the other side was jabbed, a sinking, helpless, sickening feeling.
The ferret squeezed a paw.
"You'd better go now," said the blue cat to the orange fur. "It's just better that way."
The mustie nodded, padded off in stockinged paws. And dragged a noisy stool up to the sink.
The final shot looked massive, armored, creamy white and thick inside the syringe barrel. When the cat uncapped the needle, the wolf's eyes grew wide with fear.
"Here we go. Now just roll on your side. And jigger down your drawers..."
A yelp of pain; a soapy pan dropped clattering on the kitchen floor.
Then the two young furs stood round the silent, sagging wolf. And he began to cry, a cubbie's healing tears. The ferret stroked the drooping ears, and tried to hug the canid, but the cat reached out a paw to hold him short.
"I'm afraid I've only made it worse," the cat said. "But at least we'll help him sleep." And into his box he reached again, produced a tiny bottle and a small syringe.
The wolf didn't notice: Morpheus, incestuous sibling of the sisters Death and Sleep. But his muzzle opened with a wince, bare fangs; a cry broke from the ferret as the canid vein was found. Then soothing molten pressure, lead and mercury, the tingling fire of ancient nepenthe alchemy flowed into the wafting wolf. He had only seconds left.
"Thank you."
There was the smell of flames, of popping pine and sizzling spruce freshly added to a young and roaring fire. And the smell of food - before he knew it, the canid had drooled onto the quilted comforter into which he was wrapped so tight. He didn't remember how he'd gotten here, unsure for a moment even where he was. A sensation like paralysis there came, a benevolent sort of helplessness. Surrender without struggle, before a foe who seemed no foe at all.
But the wolf was warm, and the fireplace stoked and sufficient. It didn't matter, really, that he couldn't move his limbs. He drifted in and out of disconnected dreams, noticing his axe leaning against the hearth, head blackened and unclean. The wall was lined with stacked wood, newly split and ticklish in his nose. He noticed, too, the darkness through open curtains. Didn't remember noon.
Here was an orange ferret with a glass of juice. Or perhaps the juice was orange, and the ferret only seemingly so. One was cool and bit his tongue; the other stroked him as he sipped. The wolf wondered briefly from where the drink had come, thought he'd been all out. Remembered an empty fridge. And out of ferrets, certainly. He smiled, tried. But perhaps the orange ferret had brought juice with him. Yeah, it must be. Things were beginning to make sense again.
A blue cat appeared, resplendent in flannel and equally improbable. The feline poked something cold into his ear. But gently. He still felt a little afraid as it happened, though. As if a memory from a past life he was sure he hadn't liked. But the cat didn't seem aware. The wolf even liked him, though he was sure they hadn't met. The blue cat seemed to be taking care of him, he sensed. But why, he didn't know.
The azure feline drew close, caught him unresisting in strong paws. Hoisted him erect. The wolf's knees felt like so much sweet red and black licorice taffy. He swayed. Was caught. Swayed again. Moaned as the room spun around. Grabbed himself between the legs as he was seized securely by the cat.
"I hafta..." And knew he wouldn't make it in time.
"Gotcha covered there."
The wolf slumped unsoundly against the feline chest as his robe was unfastened, his pajamas. Something was pressed against him, and he rested over the cat's relaxing shoulder, releasing himself in an embarrassing sort of trust he hadn't known since cubhood. His robe hung free.
The canid closed his eyes. I could like this cat, he thought.
The blue feline said, "We couldn't move you once you'd fallen asleep. I hope your back isn't too sore."
Until then the wolf hadn't noticed. His back was rather uncomfortable. But at least standing, he felt his uncertain strength grow back like a severed limb. And looked behind him, unsteady and unable to see or chase the sight. His tail felt squashed, probably looked a matted, tattered mess.
"Ok, let's get you over to the table. I bet you're hollow by now."
The wolf looked about, eyes still rather innocent and unfocused. There was a table here, somewhere, he recalled. Had seen it once. The cat led him there, helped him lower into an ample seat. And arranged the coverlet about him once again.
The chair felt diamond-hard. Sitting up was a new thing, too. He wondered if furs did stuff like this each day. The wolf longed to lay arms on the cool surface of the polished wood, decline his head to pillow soft upon them. But the presence of the cat made that choice seem remote. Not rude or impolite. Just remote.
A placemat appeared. More juice. Then a rattley, chiming stack of plates and forks. Linen. Must be the orange ferret, he thought. Though how ferrets get invisible, no one ever said. He did catch a glimpse, though, as a furry muzzle and mittened paws accompanied a large and steaming roasting pan, slid it deftly onto the high oak board.
A golden crust like Sunday-afternoon peeked from the large flat pan. The wolf drooled, fixed and staring. Checked himself, shyly, against the back of a paw. Things wavered, and the muzzle dropped again. His stomach made a terrifying noise that frightened the canid to look around, in fear for predators hidden in some dark spot.
And then a plate was before him. Stew. An acre of that toasty goodness. Apples. Well, something that reminded him of pie. It all looked like pie, in fact. And he remembered his grandmother, the white-muzzled comrade of holidays and treats, and joy and stories and belonging. Somefur was taking his paw. He wondered if it could be her.
"Ok now," the cat at his left said. "Do you think you can manage?"
In the wolf's grasp there was a fork. It felt flaccid. He knew it was for something, but it took a moment to discover what. He got a bite of apple to his muzzle. Bit double to keep it in. Cinnamon, sweet allspice. And began to tremble with his hunger.
The cat sat back in his own age-darkened chair, letting the starving wolf ravage a weak and unresisting dinner. The strange and ephemeral ferret appeared again, a little less invisible this time. In fact, the ferret and the feline seemed to be eating too. Or at least the cat - until the feline pointed the ferret, who had been hanging at the wolf's pajama sleeve, back to his own plate. That ferret seemed to be in obedience to the cat, the canid then decided.
He was just too famished to notice more. And his plate seemed to refill, almost by itself. Perhaps there were more invisible ferrets about. But the wolf never saw any more. Then something warm and steaming had taken the place of juice. He'd broken the juice glass: now he remembered. And held his tail close, fearing a blow.
The warm drink was in his paws. He bowed his head, immersed his muzzle. Lapped. It felt like a kiss. He wanted to nibble at it, rub it against his cheekruffs and throat, plunge himself with deep abandonment into its hot and liquid depths. Then brushed guilt, uncomprehended, with drugged and bleary eyes.
He drank tea.
The cat helped him up again, led. The wolf knew he needed to be led somewhere, but the details seemed obscure. Then he was standing in the bathroom, teetering quite remarkably on his own as the cat drew steaming water into the basin. There was a feeling here, a need for privacy. But the gauzy, muddled, rainy windshield that seemed to have drifted between himself and the fortunate world made things seem strange and so unreal.
He was washed: ears, paws, tail and muzzle. And places unused to others' paws, at least since kithood days. Then there were fresh pajamas, clean like spring lace at a cottage window, tablecloths for summer tea.
And then a bed. Oh, blessed bed! He wondered where the bed had come from. It was too wonderful to be his. So crisp and cool and delightful. Perhaps it was the ferrets again. But he thought the bed too large to be carried in by such as those.
Yet one of them was here! An orange one, who brought a plush. The ferret tucked the toy wolf under the resting canid's arm, slid beneath his other paw. That small furry head on the wolf's breast was light, a dream of intelligence and of masterful comprehension, fables all unseen. And a big book, heavy and sharp against the canid's thigh.
And then the ferret was reading him a story.
"Do you think he'll be ok?" the orange fur whispered, later.
The blue cat nodded. "Yeah. We'll come back tomorrow and see him. Bring more stuff. But, yeah... I think he'll be just fine."
Eyes met, centers of being, from behind orange fur and blue. A nod. And the ferret kissed the sleeping wolf, got down from the high cabin bed.