October, 1936

I knew this was going to be a very miserable illness when I couldn't even have tea the morning after my little adventure to acquire water. Even herbal teas that were supposed to help with nausea seemed to only contribute to it. It meant my mother had to dump several cups of tea down the drain, which made me feel guilty and wasteful. Water was really the only thing I could keep down, but I had to take it slowly and in small sips.

Michael went to his classes that day despite wanting to stay home to help look after me. My mother said it was pointless because there really wasn't much anyone could do. Her care consisted of occasionally coming in, checking if I was asleep, checking my temperature, and asking if I felt like I could eat or drink other than water. Osiris left me in the morning for his own food down in the kitchen, and wouldn't return for some time. It was a cold but sunny day, so I suspected he wanted to find a place within the house that had the most amount of sun coming through a window. My room certainly wasn't it, as the blinds were closed. So, I was completely alone for most of the day.

Indeed, that day was miserable. The same routine occurred the following day, except without the dumping of many unfortunate cups of tea. Everything hurt. Sometimes it was all at once, but more often than not, the pain alternated between my head, my stomach, and my joints. Sleep was really my only relief from anything, but in the throes of fever, sleep wasn't much of a relief at all. Instead, I was treated to visions, and none of them made sense. The ones with snakes were arguably the most bizarre. I had managed to ask Michael to bring me an encyclopedia just so I had something to read, but it was really to see if I could identify what snakes were appearing in my dreams. I learned that the rattlesnake I had seen in my father's study was an eastern diamondback, a very large species native to the southeastern United States. It was quite recognizable with the dark, mask-like pattern over its eyes. The question remained… why?

A great deal of the snakes appearing in my fevered dreams were venomous, but the dreams weren't scary. They just weren't, and I can't find an explanation as to why. The snakes would mill about, crawl over me, lay on me, but made no attempts to bite me. There were often several on me at once, and the weight of them was somewhat comforting. It wasn't too light, nor too heavy. It permitted me to sleep.

My fever dreams weren't all peaceful like that, though. More often than not, they were frantic, indecipherable, rife with horrors I could never have imagined consciously. Occasionally, they would result in me waking up screaming and drenched in sweat.

It was the third day of being ill when my mother made me get out of bed to get the sheets changed, as well as my nightclothes. She propped me up in my desk chair, then began taking the sheets off my bed. I was too lethargic to even keep my head up, and put it on my desk. The wood was cool, and my fever had spiked again. Laying my forehead on it was quite relieving.

That day was also a weekend, which meant Michael was home. He came into the room after my mother had taken the sheets to be washed, a sympathetic expression on his face. "Doesn't look like you've gotten much better, Jack," he said.

"I don't feel like I've gotten much better," I replied.

"Some people at the university have been asking about you. I said there hasn't been much change." Michael looked out in the hallway. "I… um… C-Can I trust you not to say anything to Father?"

"What is it?"

"Well, I… I-I nearly got in a fight yesterday. I'd been talking with some of the others who were trying out for cricket, and… well… one of them said I'd better start preparing for you to die. Bloody hell, Jack, I nearly decked him. I started shouting, coach pulled us apart, and told us to drop the subject."

"Don't worry. I won't say anything."

Michael nodded, but still wore a concerned expression. "I mean… I've been praying every night that… you're not going to die."

"Thanks."

Michael changed the subject rather abruptly. "Um… the lads at the chess club say they miss you, and they're hoping you recover soon."

"Tell them I appreciate their well-wishes. Means a lot."

Michael looked like he was about to say something else when my mother appeared in the doorway. "Go on downstairs, Michael," she said. "Doctor Sutcliffe's here to take a look at Jack."

The next face to appear was that of a man with thinning mouse-brown hair and a dark coat. He gave me a worried look, then turned to my mother. "He's been like this for three days?"

"Three whole days, yes," my mother replied. "He can't eat anything, and can't drink anything other than water."

"Getting medicine in him will be a challenge, then." Sutcliffe entered the room. "Are you able to stand, Jack?"

"Not really," I said. "Not unless I'm leaning on something."

"Alright. Have a seat on the edge of the bed." The doctor looked me over more slowly than he usually did, keeping his stethoscope pressed against my chest and back for far longer than in a typical exam. "Lungs are clear. Elevated heartrate, which is to be expected." He took the stethoscope off, and took out a small penlight to look down my throat. "Swollen tonsils, and I can feel—" He palpated my neck, "More swollen lymph nodes. Not a huge surprise here." He turned the light off. "Alright, lay on your back."

Laying on my back was more comfortable than sitting upright, so I gladly obeyed. Sutcliffe was gentle when feeling my abdomen, but the slightest pressure hurt. It was strange considering that in my dreams with the snakes, they applied more pressure to me, but didn't cause discomfort. Perhaps because that was all it was—a dream. I wished this whole thing was a dream.

Sutcliffe couldn't come to a conclusion of what specifically I had, but he theorized it was either a tropical disease I had been carrying since my last trip to North Africa—which was a couple of years ago by this point—that doctors in Britain had no knowledge of, or it was something brought on due to the intense stress of my schooling, especially after my mother described my lifestyle over the last several months. His suggestion was to keep track of my symptoms and how they progressed, and to keep me resting—really resting, no work, period. However, he did suggest lighter, more fun things if I was up to it, like cards or board game or anything similar. Things that weren't stressful.

After Sutcliffe left, my mother entered the room. "I told you to stop staying up so late studying. Did you listen? No, you didn't."

I felt very ashamed. It made me more lethargic than I already was, and I simply sat there, wondering if this was, like most other things, my fault.

I was moved back to my desk when the sheets were done. The bed was made up, and I was promptly moved back into it. There is a good feeling to clean sheets, but I was in too much of a melancholic state to really appreciate it.

About ten minutes after being put back in bed, Michael returned. He closed the door behind him, and sat on the bed. "What'd the doctor say?" he asked.

"He said I'm stressed," I mumbled.

"That can't be it, not with everything that happened."

"Apparently it is, and if it isn't that, it's something I brought back from North Africa. He said it looks like some strain of the flu, but I'm missing some characteristics of it. Frankly, I don't care." I faced away from Michael. "Regardless of what it is, it's my fault it happened anyway."

"That's utter rubbish!" my brother spat. "Everyone gets sick sometimes. That's not your fault."

I felt him staring at me for a little while, but I couldn't decide what I wanted. I was tired, but not in a way that would let me sleep. Perhaps having someone to talk to me would help, but I wasn't in the mood.

"Jack, what can I do to help?"

"Not much anyone can do. I can't take any medicine. I can't eat. I can't even have one bloody cup of tea." I sighed, then turned back over to face him. I felt horrible for snapping at him. He was trying to help, and I was utterly miserable.

"Do you want company?"

"I don't know."

Michael didn't look sure how to respond to that. He looked around the room, while I tried nestling deeper under the blankets as chills set in. Nothing needed to be said—Michael stood and grabbed a blanket that was folded in the closet. He draped it over me, and said quietly, "You'll get better. You don't take care of yourself, so someone else will."

"Are you volunteering?"

"Of course."

"You have your own schoolwork to worry about."

"You're more important. I can retake classes. I can't replace my brother."

We were both persistent in our own ways. Michael was far more headstrong than I could ever hope to be, and far more open and blunt toward people, especially when it came to what he felt they needed. In some cases, it could come across as rude, but it wasn't like his heart was in the wrong place.

He took his role as my "nurse" quite seriously, and tried to find ways to make me comfortable. For example, my pillowcases had been washed, but the pillows themselves could have used a change-out. We had some extra pillows in the linen closet, and Michael kept experimenting to see which pillows and how many were comfortable. Eventually, he found a combination that was perfect, and took the old pillows to fluff them and leave them somewhere to get cool.

He couldn't stay all day, as my father eventually came to tell Michael to go make sure his homework was done. Once Michael left, my father's attention turned to me. "I've asked your professors to gather up work for you so you can stay on track."

"Doctor Sutcliffe said I shouldn't be working. Not yet anyway," I said.

"It won't be everything. Just what you need to pass, and you'd best do well on what they give you."

"He said I shouldn't be working, period."

"Just because you're sick doesn't mean you can argue. You've come too far to turn back. I'm not expecting perfection, but I am expecting effort."

Yes, indeed, his sympathy was appreciated. I ended the conversation by turning my back and attempting to sleep, but, as expected, sleep was quite fickle. It would come when it wanted to.

My fever raged worst in the night. I couldn't get comfortable. I felt like my skull would crack open with how intense it was. Occasionally, I would feel the presence of a hallucinated snake slither by me. The feeling of static in my brain suddenly surged, and pain wrapped around my head. Constricting it, more likely.

The coils of pain tightened. The pulsing in my head strengthened. I curled up, holding my head. Visions suddenly burst across my mind's eye. All of them were unclear, but they carried the same themes as a few nights ago. Desert heat, shouting, machine guns, the smell of blood and petrol. My heart was pounding faster and harder. I could hear voices but couldn't understand what they were saying. A hundred things were racing through my mind. People, places, events, and none of it was understandable. I could hear someone calling my name, and I vaguely recognized the voice.

All of a sudden, the static stopped, like someone flipped a switch. The pain was slowly fading, and I heard myself whimpering and Michael saying, "Jack, come out of it. Come on. Fight it, Jack, fight it. Everything's okay. Hey, your fever's breaking. Come on, you'll be alright. Can you hear me?"

I couldn't respond until the pain lifted a little more. Michael was gripping my shoulder, holding me still. He let go once I stopped moving on my own.

"Jack?" he said. "You in there?"

"What… happened?" I asked.

"It looked like you were having the worst fever dream," Michael replied. "You were shaking and thrashing about, holding your head, moaning. I've been trying to help you calm down." He took a dry rag to wipe away the beads of sweat on my head. "Your fever broke. I think that helped."

"It'll just come back," I muttered.

"Don't think like that. You'll be alright. Would you like some water?"

I nodded weakly. I wasn't quite in the mood for another adventure to crawl down the stairs and drink right out of the faucet.

Michael was quick to retrieve a glass of water for me, and he was gentle while propping me up to let me drink at my own pace. I desperately wanted to just drink the whole glass, but my stomach hadn't yet gotten the message that I needed water, along with food, to actually get better. Small sips of water at a time were better than no water at all, though.

When I finished the glass, I turned to face the clock on my nightstand. It was two in the morning, far too early for anyone to be up. My nightclothes were damp with sweat, I was sore and achy everywhere, but at least the stabbing pain in my head was gone. At least for now.

"Do you want anything else?" Michael asked.

"No. You can go back to bed."

"Are you sure?"

In truth, I wasn't sure. Having someone around helped, but my mood was about as volatile as my fever and I feared I would snap at Michael at any moment. I was both too warm and too cold at the same time, which was quite infuriating. I really didn't know what I wanted, or what would help. Everything I felt was either pain, discomfort, or misery, and I was tired of feeling all of those things.

Michael, bless him, was determined to help, no matter how cranky I became. He took a few rags from the linen closet, and brought them downstairs to warm them with steam from the tea kettle. He then brought them back up to me, and wrapped them around my wrists, elbows, and other aching joints. The most helpful were the rags he placed on my back. The heat wouldn't last long, but I enjoyed every second that it did.

The whole house had been quiet apart from the occasional creak of radiators in each room for about a minute or two. I glanced up at Michael, and whispered, "Hey. Thanks. This helps a lot."

I'll never forget the huge grin on his face. He accomplished his goal, though the job he had given himself was far from over.

In the morning, my mother found Michael asleep at my desk. She sighed before gently shaking him. "Michael? Come on, time for breakfast." She turned her attention to me as Michael began to stir. "How are you feeling, Jack? Are those my cleaning rags?"

"Yes," I said. "Heating them with steam has helped with pain."

"That's good."

"It was Michael's idea."

"I see." My mother gently nudged my brother again. "You're going to start making people wonder why you're not studying to be a doctor."

"Not interested." Michael stood and stretched. "I just want Jack to get better."

"Well, you still need to take care of yourself so you're not getting sick as well. Go on downstairs for breakfast and tea." When Michael left, my mother turned back to me. "How about you, Jack? Do you feel like you can handle anything?"

"I'm not sure," I said. The rags, now cold, were taken from my back, and I returned to a sitting position.

"We'll take this slow. I'll make some watered-down tea."

I made a face. Watered-down tea isn't tea in the slightest. It's an affront to tea. An affront to any self-respecting Englishman! Even in the talons of illness, I refused to drink such an abomination.

My mother stated that I must be feeling somewhat better if I was able to complain about tea. She decided to get me an herbal concoction instead of my usual English breakfast tea, and I sat there waiting, hoping that it would help. I hadn't eaten anything solid in three days, and I doubted it was doing me much good.

The smell of the tea was comforting—a blend of ginger, elderberry, lemon, and raspberry. My mother handed me the cup and the small plate it was on. She also had a rubbish bin on standby. I tried the tiniest of sips first, waited, then tried another. Since I was going glacially slow with my tea, my mother left the cup with me, and made sure the rubbish bin was within my reach so she could get back to her daily work around the house. She ran into my father right outside my bedroom door, and I overheard their conversation.

"Any improvement?" my father asked.

"If he doesn't throw up the tea I just gave him, yes, there's improvement," my mother replied. "Give him a few more days, Nick. The poor boy's exhausted, and I told you what Doctor Sutcliffe said."

"He's not a boy anymore, Adi."

"So what? He's still very sick. Give him a break. You've been hounding him since he could understand the idea of going to Cambridge. He was bound to break sooner or later."

"He has this year and next. He can go a little further. The longer he malingers, the more time it will take for him to graduate."

"He's not malingering, Nick. Maybe it's time you accept that Jack's not going to be the perfect little student you've been trying to beat him into."

"I haven't laid a finger on him."

"You know what I mean. At least leave Jack alone until we can get solid food in him. Making him worry about his blasted marks isn't helping."

I sat without touching my tea for a little while, unsure of how to feel. On one hand, I did feel truly awful, but I also didn't want to fall behind. Two things that weren't going to coexist peacefully with each other. I wasn't sure what I could do—or what my body would allow me to do. Maybe simply trying would appease my father? If I tried and couldn't work, would I be able to truly rest without being criticized?

I'm tired of being criticized. It's something to be expected, but sometimes it feels like I can't make anyone happy. I always mess something up. There's always something missing, something I failed to do, something I could have done better, something I could have done without. Always something! I'm never going to reach up to anyone's expectations. Even my own.

I tried taking another sip of tea. It didn't elicit much of a reaction, so I took slightly longer drinks. I wasn't even thinking about how I was feeling physically. All I could think about was how much of a disappointment I was.

I took a nap after finishing the tea, grateful it stayed down. In my sleep, I was welcomed by snakes. They were everywhere, covering just about every inch of my bedroom, crawling over each other, laying atop my desk, wrapped around my furniture. I recognized the big rattlesnake that had been on my father's desk. It wasn't making a sound, and was instead coiled by my left hip like a cat would be.

A large, black cobra with red ventral scales down its chest appeared at my right side. When I later awoke and checked my encyclopedia, I was able to identify it as a black-necked spitting cobra, a typically aggressive species. Indeed, aggressive outside of my fevered dreams. Here, it was inspecting me with its forked tongue, casually flicking it out in long strokes. I simply let it be. It was quite relaxed. Its hood was lowered, and it seemed far more interested in exploring me than biting. I froze when it slithered up my body and wrapped around my neck, laying still like a scarf. This strange interaction went on for several minutes, and then the cobra looked me in the eye.

My head began aching as a ringing in my ears gradually grew louder and louder. The ringing than turned into the horrible static, searing through my brain with savage force. I grabbed my head, groaning as the pain rapidly intensified. All at once, the snakes scattered, and I was again bombarded with visions. Sand everywhere. I was being carried on something very fast-moving. Pain exploded in my left side. Suddenly the sand was blood, then the blood was no longer mine. It was mixed with the smell of… wine?

What kind of absolute nonsense am I dreaming about?

The next thing I knew, Michael was at my side again, gently shaking me. The static abruptly turned off again, and the pain slowly began fading. I lowered my hands from my head, and saw that instead of an eastern diamondback by my hip, there was Osiris, facing me and purring with his eyes closed.

"Jack? Are you alright?" Michael asked.

"F-Fine. My head… starting hurting, that's all," I said.

"Would you like me to get you anything?" Michael glanced at the empty cup on my nightstand. "Hey, you actually finished a cup of tea without chundering. That's good." He gave me a gentle pat on my shoulder.

It was honestly amusing how proud he was over the fact that I didn't throw up after having tea, and I couldn't help but smile a little. At the same time, I found it quite sad that it took me getting sick for us to have any sort of time together after several long years where I had pushed him—and everyone else—off to the side to stay ahead in my schooling.

"Do you want to try anything else?" Michael asked.

"I don't want to push it. Maybe another cup of this tea," I said. "It was ginger, elderberry, lemon, and raspberry."

"Alright. I'll be right back, then."

I had taken advantage of feeling somewhat better and Michael's temporary disappearance to add a bit more to my journal. Unfortunately, Michael had left the door open, granting my father a chance to look inside and check on me.

I don't think I've ever seen a more sour and frustrated look on his face. It scared me, but it also saddened me. Why did things have to change? Going to North Africa and talking about the storied sands of the Sahara used to be fun. It was what I became passionate about. It was something we had in common, and it made me dread being forced onto the path of going into Cambridge a little bit less. I didn't know what I did wrong, so I sat there and looked down at my lap.

"If you're well enough to write in your journal, you're well enough to do some of the assignments your professors gave you," my father said. He left and returned with an armful of textbooks and manila folders containing papers. He placed them on my lap and around Osiris, who had stopped his purring to see what was going on. "I expect you to be working on this. Under no circumstances are you to fall behind."

I said nothing in response. I felt something change in me that day, and I wasn't sure if it was a good change or not. It was something hot, but it wasn't my fever returning. It was the warming kindling of fire ready to spark at any moment in the pit of my stomach. An anger at my own father at how things had deteriorated over the years. A desire to make things go back to the way they were. An urge to shout and demand he back off. An irrational fantasy of telling him that when I graduated Cambridge, I never wanted to see his face again. Another irrational fantasy of telling him that I would drop out of Cambridge and strike out on my own.

Pain built in my head, though it wasn't nearly as intense as before. My consciousness wavered a little, and during a brief blackout, I saw a snake—a cobra—rise, its hood spread. It gave a single hiss, and I returned to reality.

Michael returned with my cup of tea. His face fell when he saw the expressions on my face and my father's. "I brought… Jack's tea…" he said.

"Oh, good. If he's able to drink tea, that means he's definitely able to work," my father said. "Stay in bed if you want, Jack, but like I said—I want those assignments done. Get to it." He stormed away, leaving Michael standing stunned in the bedroom.

My brother nervously set the cup on my nightstand. He looked unsure of what to do, and stammered, "D-Do you want me to… keep you company?"

I figured having him around was better than brooding, so I nodded. When Michael sat down, I said, "Next time you go out for something, close the door, please."

Michael didn't have to ask why. He nodded, and sat at my desk, waiting patiently for me to ask for anything.

Present Day, 1966

A dull ache accompanied the slowly building sensation of squeezing in Moffitt's chest. He tried drawing in a breath, and his eyes stung with tears. "I had forgotten… Michael did all that for me."

Anah moved until part of her body was wrapped around Moffitt's right arm. She slid her tail in his hand.

"Funny, isn't it? He was afraid of me dying, and in the end…" Moffitt took Anah's tail, doing his best not to squeeze it too hard. Tears rolled down his face, and both hands were shaky. So much time had passed, yet Moffitt still felt as though his brother had only just died the day before instead of over two decades ago.

Anah wrapped her tail around Moffitt's hand. "You have not let yourself truly grieve, have you, dear?"

"I thought you said there's no right or wrong way to grieve."

"I did, but you have not really let yourself go through that process."

"I thought I did, but I don't… I don't really know."

"It was overshadowed by your actions immediately after you found out."

Moffitt nodded. "I haven't… haven't been able to just… remember him without thinking about what I did when I got that letter. All of this—" he held up his journal, "I-I suppressed those memories because I knew I wouldn't be able to handle them."

"I know you have, dear. I also know a lot has changed over the last few months, especially how you view yourself. Confronting your past is no easy feat, and I would not suggest doing it alone." Anah glanced at the journal, then back at Moffitt. "What is on your mind right now?"

"I feel like I shouldn't be so upset anymore."

Anah shook her head. "You have only just recently allowed yourself to remember your brother without the memories of your actions afterward flooding you. It has been twenty-three years, yes, but grief has no expiration date. No one will or should think less of you for still being upset. I certainly will not. Let yourself feel what you feel, dear."

Moffitt had pondered keeping his emotions restrained. If he let go, he thought it would be like a spring he had been keeping pressed down, ready to shoot up and strike him in the face. The rapidly tightening sensation in Moffitt's chest culminated in a sudden rupture of tears. The release was sudden, but offered relief. He sobbed heavily when he stopped holding back. He had started squeezing Anah's tail without realizing it, but she said nothing about it. She spoke softly, telling him everything would be alright. Eventually, she stopped talking, and pressed the top of her head against his forehead.

The sound of Jules's voice interrupted his crying. "Dad, where's the—Dad? Are you okay? What happened?"

"Everything is alright, dear. He just needs a moment," Anah said.

Jules knelt by his father. He was mindful of Anah while giving Moffitt a hug, trying not to crowd the cobra. He said nothing apart from a grunt when Moffitt turned to hug him back. He didn't know why his father was upset, but that didn't stop him from trying to offer comfort.

The single outpouring of grief likely wouldn't be the last, but it was a starting point. Moffitt slowly let go of Jules, and looked him in the eye. Jules had his mother's eyes for sure, but there was something in them that reminded Moffitt so much of his brother, especially as Jules grew up.

"Blimey, Dad, I haven't seen you cry this hard since we defeated the magpies a few months ago," Jules said. "Are you alright?"

"For the most part." Moffitt let go of Jules. "I've been… going through some old things, and… revisiting memories with my brother."

"Ah. Do you… want me to leave you and Anah alone?"

"You can stay if you want. I found the journal I kept when I was sick during my time at the university, and was reading through it. You can read any of these if you want—well, except the one I had about some of the young women I dated. I want to burn that one. Your mother's the only one for me now, and it's not worth remembering… all those who came before and broke my heart."

"Well, it'll be a cold one tonight. A roaring fire in the hearth will take care of it." Jules drew his knees up. "You're alright I listen to this?"

"Like I said to Anah, I need to confront this. Be warned, though, your grandfather was a different man back then. Not nearly as wonderful as he is now."

"You did mention that a few months ago."

"Right." Moffitt opened his journal again, turning pages until he found where he left off.