Chapter Eleven
The heat snap broke the following day, with a heavy rainstorm that lasted two days and chilled the nights to a cold dampness that felt almost wintry after so many sweltering afternoons. Vanessa was kept quite busy in the storm's aftermath; the sudden weather change produced its fair share of chills, aches, sniffles and sore throats among the Abbeydwellers. But, as fate would have it, Vanessa's real work was only just beginning.
For much of that summer, which had begun with such a prolonged stretch of burning heat, the weather see-sawed between two extremes. Days of torrid sunshine would be followed by periods of gray chill and rain, only to be replaced by more furnace temperatures, and then more unseasonable cold. Nobeast at the Abbey could remember anything like it. The rainy spells kept the Abbey pond high and all the crops well-watered, so there was no danger of drought or famine. But the wild variations of climate took their toll on the health of the Redwallers, and there were times during the Summer of the Flying Sparrow that every bed in the Infirmary was filled, and Vanessa spent more than one sleepless night ministering to her patients.
It was during the third round of cold and damp that a rash of more serious fever broke out. Abbot Arlyn had been helping Vanessa all along, and now his wisdom and experience came into play.
"Yes," he said to Vanessa one evening, after they'd finished examining several of their striken friends, "I recognize these symptoms. Greenwood Fever, I believe it's called - had a case of it myself when I was a young novice mouse. Darrow was Infirmary keeper back then, since that was shortly before he became Abbot. I don't think there's been a single case at Redwall since. The disease is seldom fatal, although it can be quite serious unless treated properly, especially in children and the very old. Fortunately ... "
Arlyn went around behind Vanessa's desk and fumbled at the journals on the wall shelves there. "Let's see ... that would have been near the end of Darrow's term in the Infirmary, so it would probably be in the last of his diaries ... let's try this one ... "
Vanessa stood at his side as the Abbot flipped through the pages, running his paw down the columns of Darrow's meticulously neat writing. In very short order, Arlyn found what he was looking for. "Aha!" he declared, tapping the open journal on the desk before them, "here it is! The Autumn of the Silver Moonshadows, I remember it well ... although actually, I seem to recall my own illness as being in the springtime. But here I am, mentioned by name along with many other Redwallers who were suffering from Greenwood Fever at the same time. Funny the way memory can play tricks on you ... "
"Yes, yes," said Vanessa, trying not to be impatient with the older mouse, "but does it describe the proper treatment?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, of course it does, my child. What kind of Infirmary keeper would Darrow have been if he didn't keep track of his remedies?" Arlyn adjusted the spectacles perched on the tip of his snout. "Now then, let's see ... ah, here we are. What we need is a hot broth of cowslip, nettle leaves, lesser liverwort, and .. oh, dear, this will be tricky ... "
"What? What?" Vanessa leaned closer, staring down at the page herself.
"A pinch of deadly nightshade," the Abbot concluded.
"Huh? That can't be right! Deadly nightshade's poisonous!"
"In any quantity, and by itself, it usually is," said Arlyn. "But, in very small amounts, and mixed in with these other ingredients, deadly nightshade is a necessary part of the cure for Greenwood Fever. You see, Vanessa, even the more dangerous fruits of nature's bounty can have a useful purpose, if you know the secret."
"Hmm ... " Vanessa straightened, thoughtfully stroking her chin. "I don't believe we have any nightshade on paw ... or any of those other ingredients, for that matter, except maybe the nettles - "
"It's just as well," Arlyn interrupted, reading on. "According to Darrow's notes, all the ingredients should be freshly collected for the best results. Lucky for us it's the growing season; if this fever had hit us in the winter, we'd have no choice but to cope with our dried supplies."
"Well, if we'd been getting normal summer weather instead of this hot-cold silliness, there probably wouldn't even have been any fever outbreak," Vanessa observed. "Hey, do you suppose it's called Greenwood Fever because it's only around when the woods are all green?"
"I was wondering about the name myself," Arlyn said. "Yes, that would make sense. It certainly goes with Darrow's insistence on fresh ingredients. I suppose only a highly knowledgeable historian would know for sure."
"So," Vanessa shrugged, "what do we do about collecting what we need? You and I are the most skilled herbalists at Redwall, but we're both needed here too badly to be spared for any length of time to go romping about in the woods picking leaves."
"We'll send some of the otters out for that," Arlyn proposed. "They're just about the only ones at Redwall who haven't been struck by the fever yet."
"True. I've yet to have one of them as a patient for this particular malady. Perhaps they're just naturally resistent. But do you think they're knowledgeable enough about plants and herbs?"
"Oh, between the bunch of them they've got enough sense of herb lore to get the job done. And they know the woodlands hereabouts as well as anybeast and better than most; they should be able to locate the necessary plants in good time."
Arlyn scanned a little farther down the page, his brow furrowing as he did so. "Oh yes, I'd almost forgotten about that ... "
"About what?"
The Abbot finished what he was reading, then gazed back up at Vanessa. "You ought to know, I suppose, that Greenwood Fever hits the Sparrafolk much harder than it does us ground creatures. It's quite often fatal for them, in fact. Darrow makes mention of it right here, but I remember it well myself. That same season that I was sick, the fever took a terrible toll on the sparrows of Warbeak Loft. They lacked our healing skills, and without our help, the disease swept through them like a plague. Every few days, they'd push another carcass out the eaves down onto the lawns, since that was the only way they had to dispose of their dead. How many might have flown away to the depths of Mossflower to die alone there, we'll never know. For awhile it seemed as if they might be completely wiped out, but a few of the strongest survived the epidemic, and eventually more flew in from the farther reaches of Mossflower to settle here and join them."
Vanessa's face grew dire. "Oh, my ... what shall we do if Highwing comes down with this?"
"Why, then we'll treat him as we would any other patient," Arlyn answered. "Remember, it was their lack of healing skills and their refusal to accept our help that caused the Sparra to pay such a heavy cost during that last outbreak. If Highwing catches this fever, he will have what they didn't: the full benefit of our medical knowledge."
"Yes," Vanessa fretted, "but will that be enough? What if the remedy for birds isn't the same as it is for us?"
"Then we'll just have to find the right cure," the Abbot said, patting Vanessa's paw to comfort her. "I'll say this, though: I'd favor Highwing's chances with us over those of his fellow Sparra, if the Greenwood Fever breaks out in Warbeak Loft again."
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By summer's end, over half the mice at Redwall would have their turn in the Infirmary with Greenwood Fever, along with nearly every mole and many of the Abbey's other creatures as well. It was less of a crisis than it could have been, as things turned out; the day after Arlyn made his diagnosis, the otters successfully gathered from Mossflower all the ingredients needed for the cure, and that very evening saw Vanessa preparing the first batches of the medicinal broth and administering it to her patients.
While she and the Abbot were seeing to that, the otter crew who'd supplied the herbs for the medicine rewarded themselves with an impromptu meal of their famous hotroot and watershrimp stew. Highwing joined them around a large plain table in the kitchens, where the warmth of the ovens helped dispel the pallor of the unseasonably cold summer evening; the young Sparra had developed an affinity for the stew, no doubt a result of all the time spent in the otters' company.
The boisterous group had the kitchens to themselves, since Friar Hugh and his staff had cleared out to give the otters room to work. It was a well-known fact that no other cooking would get done when the otters were making their shrimp stew. As the price for being driven from his own domain, Hugh made the otters promise to make enough for everybeast in the Abbey, and spare him the task of preparing a full evening meal.
Highwing sucked and slurped his stew as loudly as any otter, sticking his beak into his bowl to pick out any of the chewy crustaceans he could find, or just to inhale the spicy broth. When his bowl ran low, he tipped it up with one talon, draining it as he craned his head back as far as it would go. Slamming the empty bowl on the tabletop, he clacked his beak approvingly. "Mmmm, scrumptious! A refill here, my good mates, if you'd be so kind!"
Montybank cheerfully ladeled out another brimful serving for his sparrow friend. "Here y'go, featherchops! 'ave yore fill, there's aplenty fer all!"
"That's right enuff," Stroker put in. "This weather may be bad news fer our sick friends up in th' 'firmary, but it's had a stimulatin' effect on everything from our garden crops to th' shrimp in our good ol' pond. I swear, them randy li'l critters are reproducin' faster'n we can et 'em up!"
Highwing put on a look of disbelief. "Impossible! No profusion of shrimp stocks could ever keep up with your appetite, Stroker!"
The otter grinned and tapped at Highwing's own bowl. "Look t'yerself, ye scallywag featherduster! Wot's that, yore fourth 'elping, or is it number five?"
"Only my third, alas." Highwing ducked his head for another loud slurp. "But what else is there for a solitary Sparra to do around here? Vanessa and the Abbot have forbidden me from being around anybeast who's got the fever. Apparently, they're afraid it would be worse for me, and they might not be able to cure me easily. So, since you thicktailed lugs are about the only ones at Redwall who haven't gotten sick yet, I guess I'm stuck with you!"
"You c'd do lots worse'n us, that's fer shore," Monty joked, then grew serious. "So, d'you think those leaves 'n' twigs we fetched from the woods t'day'll be enuff t'cope with this sickness?"
"Course it will!" Stroker declared with the utmost confidence. "'tween Nessie an' th' Abbot, no disease stands a chance at Redwall. Those two'll have every sickbeast up in the 'firmary on the road t' recovery by morn's first light, you can betcher rudders on it!"
"That leaves me out, since I'm rudderless," said Highwing. "Just as well, I suppose, since I never was a betting bird; besides, all I'd have to wager is this shrimp stew that sits before me, and I'd not be able to stomach losing that!"