Stephen Lawhead - The Skin Map

“Xian-Li,” he said, “it is time to go.” He crossed the room and knelt beside the pallet. When she failed to respond, he gave her arm a gentle shake. “Xian-Li? Wake up, my dear.”

She came to with a start. “Oh, forgive me, I must have dozed off. I-” She struggled upright, only to sink back down once more.

He put the back of his hand to her forehead. “Darling, you’re burning up! You have a raging fever.”

“I was in the sun too long,” she insisted, pushing herself up. “I am well enough to travel.”

Arthur frowned doubtfully. “I think you should stay here and rest.”

She scoffed at the idea. “And miss meeting Pharaoh? It is nothing. It will soon pass. I can rest in the cart.”

Arthur helped her to her feet. He steadied her as she swayed. “Still light-headed?”

“A little,” she admitted. “But there-it is gone. I am better now. Let us go, and think no more about it.”

His wife strode briskly out into the sun-filled courtyard, drawing the scarf over her head. The priest Anen, holding the bridle of the lead chariot horse, called a greeting; a small two-person donkey cart stood waiting nearby, as well as a pack mule bearing simple provisions, and four other priests to accompany them. Xian-Li approached Anen and gave him a polite bow, then walked to the cart.

“My wife is determined to go,” Arthur explained, stepping close to his priestly friend.

The two men watched as the dark-haired young woman raised her foot to the step at the back of the cart; she gripped the handrails and made to swing herself up into the open end of the vehicle. But it seemed that either her hand or foot slipped, for the next thing they saw was Xian-Li falling backward onto the stone-paved yard. A quick-thinking brother priest saw what was happening and leapt forward to catch her and broke her fall, easing her to the ground.

Arthur and Anen rushed to her side.

“Xian-Li!” cried Arthur, kneeling by his stricken bride.

Her eyelids fluttered momentarily, and then she seemed to come to herself once more. “Arthur… oh! What has happened?”

“You fell,” said Arthur. “You must have fainted.”

“No,” she said, “I-” She broke off as a spasm passed through her body. “Oh…,” she gasped, and tried to sit up.

“Rest a moment,” Arthur told her. “We’ll get you back inside.” He signalled to the priests to help him, and they lifted her up and carried her back into the guesthouse and laid her on the pallet bed.

“I have sent Tihenk for the physician,” Anen said as he joined them. “He will come at once.”

Arthur thanked him, and Anen ordered his fellow priests to wait outside. “You must go soon or you will not be on time to meet Pharaoh. You dare not keep him waiting.”

“Another will go in my place,” countered Anen. “Pharaoh will understand.”

“Please, I will not have you stay here on our account,” Arthur protested. “The physician will look after her, and we will join you in a day or two when Xian-Li is feeling better.”

“Then, when she is well, we will travel together,” Anen replied. “Until then, I stay here with you.”

Seeing that no amount of persuasion would change the priest’s mind, Arthur thanked him and fetched his wife a drink of water; he dipped the end of her scarf in the basin and used the damp cloth to bathe her forehead. A few minutes later the physician arrived-a stocky senior priest with a smooth bald head and soft hands. Schooled in the healing arts since childhood, he possessed the easy manner of a competent, unflappable soul. He carried a simple woven grass bag on his shoulder and a small, three-legged stool. “I am Khepri,” he said. “I am here to help you.” Anen completed the introductions and, after a brief explanation, the fellow placed the stool next to his patient, sat down, and removed his bag.

Khepri sat for a moment, quietly, studying his patient, then clapped his hands and, raising his face, closed his eyes and uttered a prayer for Isis to attend him and aid in curing the ailment of the woman before him. Then, leaning forward, he placed his hand on Xian-Li’s forehead, nodding to himself. He turned to Arthur to inquire what she had eaten in the last day.

“Very little,” Arthur told him, then went on to list the few items he knew she had consumed. “Do you think it might be something she ate?”

“That is the most likely cause,” replied the physician. “Many people of foreign origin suffer so when sojourning in our land for the first time. There is nothing to worry about. It will pass.”

“Good,” said Arthur. “I am glad to hear it.” He glanced down at his wife, who lay with a hand over her eyes. “What can we do to make her more comfortable while we wait?”

“I will give her some water mixed with honey and the juice of plums,” Khepri told him. “Also, we will keep a damp cloth on her head and feet to draw the heat from the fire in her blood.”

The treatment sounded good to Arthur, so he gave his assent. Anen spoke a word to the doctor, who went to fetch the necessary items, and then said, “I will leave you in his care for a while. I must go and see Shoshenk on his way to meet Pharaoh.”

“I thank you for your care, my friend,” said Arthur. “But you do not have to do this.”

“It is done,” replied the priest.

He departed, and Khepri returned with the honey water and gave some to his patient. Xian-Li drank as much as she could, then said she would like to sleep. Arthur translated her words for the physician, who nodded, saying, “That is for the best.” He rose, taking up his stool. “I must go stay with a man with a broken arm. I will return when I have finished.”

“Yes, go,” Arthur told him. “I will stay with her until you come back.”

Arthur settled down to sit with his sick wife, holding her hand and, every now and then, dipping the cloth in the basin to wet it again before replacing it on her forehead. Xian-Li, for her part, drifted in and out of sleep. When she woke, Arthur offered her some more honey water, which she accepted, taking no more than a sip or two before laying her head back down.

“Do you hurt anywhere?” he asked her once after she had drunk a little.

“My neck is sore,” she said, her voice a dry rasp. “On the inside.”

“Your throat, you mean,” corrected Arthur.

“Yes.”

“When Khepri comes back I will ask him for something to help.”

She offered him a weak smile. “I am sorry, husband. I have disappointed you.”

“Never!” protested Arthur. “I love you, Xian-Li. You could never disappoint me.”

She slept through the rest of the morning. Khepri the physician returned at midday and made up a mixture of honey and spices, thinned with a little almond milk, to ease the pain in her throat and make swallowing more comfortable. He noted that the fever had not eased, nor had it abated by late afternoon when he came back with his father-also a physician-to seek his wisdom and advice.

Arthur stood by as they held close conference with one another; he watched the two men nodding as they whispered back and forth on their stools. The elder man lifted Xian-Li’s unresisting hand and held it for a moment before replacing it on her breast. They talked some more, and then Khepri rose and came outside to where Arthur and Anen were hovering at the door.

“It is our opinion that tainted food is not the cause of this illness,” he said.

“No?” said Anen. “What then-can you tell?”

“My father has seen this before,” replied the physician. “It is a fever which commonly afflicts children.”

“I see,” said Arthur. “What can be done about it?”

“It gives me no pleasure to tell you, my masters, but there is no cure. I am sorry.”