Free Fever Moon by Carolyn Haines Page B

There was an inner tension in Adele’s body that Chula had never experienced.
    “She fights herself,” she said, not intending to speak aloud.
    “What else?”
    Chula let her hands wander to Adele’s chest. The drum of her heart reminded Chula of a trapped bird, wings beating in the effort to escape. Panic, fear, the consuming need to be free. “She’s afraid. If she continues, the fear will kill her. Her heart will burst.”
    “Which is why she bled from the nose. The pressure of her beating heart.”
    Chula stepped back. “The fever has no physical cause, does it?”
    Madame took her arm and led her into the kitchen. She closed the door and went to the open window for a breath of cool air. “I’ll make some tea.”
    Chula took a seat at the table while Madame put a kettle on and prepared the teapot. The room was painted aquamarine, a color that Madame said soothed her mind when she was troubled. Chula loved the color and the bright glass jars of preserved tomatoes, beans, potatoes, jams, and fruits that lined the shelves. Often Madame took payment for her services in meat or vegetables. She canned what she couldn’t eat, supplies that would last her during the winter or a long flood.
    Herbs and different marsh grasses hung in the windows, drying. Madame’s gift of healing was her use of the native plants to concoct medicines. Those who couldn’t afford, or didn’t trust, Doc Fletcher came to her.
    “Have you given Adele anything?”
    “She holds nothing down.”
    “Not even water?”
    Madame shook her head as she placed tea in a pot. “She acts as if she can’t swallow, but I’ve checked her mouth and throat. There’s nothing wrong. She drools constantly.”
    Hydrophobia. Chula thought about the infection spread by the bite of a rabid animal. “Could it be rabies?”
    “I thought it might, but no.”
    She had a terrible thought, one that would devastate a parish already overwhelmed with disaster. “Polio?”
    “No, not that.” Madame poured the hot water over the tea. “It’s a fever in the brain. It comes and goes. Raymond said she was sensible this morning.”
    Chula accepted the cup of tea Madame handed her. “Could it be that someone is giving her something to cause the fever?”
    Madame’s smile was proud. “That thought has crossed my mind.”
    Chula frowned. “Or is it possible Adele seeks the fever because of something she’s done? Maybe the illness is mental.”
    Madame took a seat opposite Chula. “You are gifted, Chula Baker. You tease out the seed that others can’t find. With time you’ll ferret out the truth.”
    “Adele doesn’t have much time.” She spoke with certainty. There had been the finger of death on Adele’s face. “If that fever doesn’t break, she’ll die before anyone can help her.”
    “Do you believe she has the right to choose death?” Madame’s ringless hand touched Chula’s arm.
    “Father Finley says that we must live according to God’s plan for us. That it’s a mortal sin to commit suicide.” She spoke slowly, remembering Rosa. “I’m not so sure. There are other questions. These men who go off to war know they’ll die. Isn’t that suicide, too? To rush a hill into gunfire?” She shook her head. “They’re called heroes and given medals. Poor Rosa Hebert was called a sinner and excommunicated.”
    Madame’s chuckle was soft. “The laws of the church, which are man’s laws, are often woven to a purpose,
cher
. Not God’s purpose, but man’s. The question I asked you is one only you can answer. It must come from your heart, not your mind. Law and logic are of no use.”
    “If I put myself in Rosa’s place, I understand. I saw her hands, the awful wound that opened every Friday. I can imagine that all week long she dreaded Friday, when her flesh would rupture in those painful wounds.”
    “Imagination is an important part of healing. To feel another’s illness is to understand it.” She patted Chula’s arm. “It’s also a