Mason Beck Fiction

I’m starting to think maybe I should have put this in the “Long Stories” section…
But I am hoping to reserve that for the stylized campaign stories and for larger projects.

If you’re just joining here, you can check out parts One through Six linked on the Home page or in the “Short Stories” section.

Thanks for reading and I hope you enjoy.

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The doctor and the reverend had gone, leaving behind only their apologies and condolences. There was nothing more they could do.

Eliza knelt beside the bed, dipping a cloth in cold water and dabbing gently at his brow. His skin all but steamed in the chill air, red and burning with fever. She checked each bandage and poultice, tracing the angry lesions and the pocked, weeping skin beneath. These marks had not been there before the sermon.

“Father in Heaven, I beg of you… do not take my son. Please. Cast out whatever clings to him from those woods. I just got him back… Please… God, please,” she whispered, breath ragged, tears sliding down her cheeks.

Still he had not opened his eyes, nor made a sound save for the low moans of fevered sleep. She clutched his hand in both of hers and rocked on her knees, the prayers pouring from her lips like water from a broken vessel.

She drew his hand to her lips, as though a mother’s kiss might yet cure what plagued him. But the moment her mouth touched his skin, she gasped and recoiled, tumbling back from her knees with a startled cry.

Something had moved beneath the flesh.

She stared, wide-eyed, her palm pressed over her mouth, breath caught in her throat. With trembling fingers, she reached up and felt her own brow, praying she had taken fever, that her mind had turned against her.

Slowly, she crept forward on hands and knees, inching toward the bedside. She rose just high enough to peer over the edge, her gaze fixed upon his hand.

Minutes passed.

And still she watched, but saw no movement, only the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest.

She summoned her courage and reached for his hand once more, clutching it firmly, willing herself to hold fast. If there was something beneath the skin, let it show itself now.

But the hand remained still. His breath was shallow, his body slack.

Satisfied, or at least too weary to fight her dread, she set the fear aside. Perhaps it had only been the strain and the shadows playing tricks upon her. She took up the rag again, dipped it in cool water, and resumed her work, dabbing his brow and chest, refreshing the poultices, and inspecting the bandages that wrapped his broken skin.

By the time morning came, it felt less like a night’s passing and more like days lost to prayer. At some point, Eliza had succumbed to sleep where she knelt, cloth in one hand, his hand in the other. She stirred only when she felt him shift, a deep breath followed by a faint cough.

She raised her head slowly, heart braced against what she might find.

But when her eyes opened, they met his. He offered a weak smile.

“Hello, Mother,” he rasped, voice hoarse and dry, then coughed again.

She gathered him into her arms, tears rising once more. She did not know how there were any left in her, but still they came.

He coughed harder in her embrace but tried to return it, his arms barely lifting.

“Sorry! Here, drink,” she said, fumbling to offer him the cup of water.

He drank greedily and asked for more.

“How do you feel?” she asked, pressing her palm to his brow.

Still far too hot. Hotter than the day before.

“Some better,” he said. “But I’ll be well enough for tonight.”

Eliza’s jaw set.

“No. There will be no sermon tonight.”

His lips parted, but she spoke before he could.

“I will not allow it. You will not leave this bed until you are truly well. I loved your father, and I will honor him all my days, but I will not see his son, my son, burn himself up trying to carry what is not yet yours to bear. Not until you’ve healed. And not before we talk.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but she lifted the cup again and pressed it gently to his lips.

He drank in silence. When it was empty, he simply nodded and laid his head back upon the pillow. Within moments, he was asleep once more.

As his condition showed signs of easing, Eliza allowed herself a breath of relief. A slender thread of hope wove its way through her weariness.

She sat on the edge of her own bed, watching him breathe.

In. Then out.

In. Then out.

And before she knew it, her head had found the pillow, and she had drifted into sleep.

She began to dream.