by M A Moore
“Have you given him any of the medication yet?” Sister Gertrude asked.
Amy shook her head. Mike looked even worse than he had that morning. His skin had a pasty pallor and he no longer responded when she said his name.
“His fever must come down. We need to get the medicine inside him.” Sister Gertrude turned to the younger woman. “Get the sick room prepared. We’ll move him there when it’s ready.” The young woman nodded and ran off.
Sister Gertrude seemed to have the situation well in control. Between the two of them Amy and Sister Gertrude removed Mike's shirt. Sister Gertrude got a basin of water and started sponging down his face, neck and chest. After a few minutes Mike seemed to relax a bit and he fell into a troubled and feverish sleep. Sister Gertrude turned to Amy.
“Mash one of his pills and dissolve it in some water. We’ll try to get him to drink it.”
Amy looked around the room for the first time. The paint was white and a couple of cots and a cabinet lined the walls. A few supplies sat on shelves, but this place was not intended to serve any major medical emergency. She found a mortar and pestle and crushed a Primaquin tablet into powder. She went out to the jeep and got a liter of bottled water.
Sister Gertrude nodded in approval as Amy took the cup over to her. Sister Gertrude lifted Mike’s head and shoulders. She definitely had nurse's training. Amy brought it to his lips and tried to get him to drink. Although most of it dribbled down his chin, Amy thought that at least a little got inside him.
Sister Gertrude set him back down. “He is strong, and this is not his first experience with the parasite. When did the cold stage -the shivering and chills- start?”
“I don’t know. He was burning up this morning when I woke up. He seemed fine last night.”
“He is in the fever stage right now, within a few hours he’ll start sweating again and the fever will break. He’ll be exhausted and will need to rest.”
Mike seemed less restless when the younger woman reappeared.
“The room is ready,” she announced in a quiet voice.
The three of them rolled him and the gurney the short distance across the compound. With Sister Gertrude’s skilled hands and instructions, she and Amy got Mike onto the bed. The room was mostly empty. Other than a mattress on a metal frame there was a night table, a stuffed chair, and a wooden dresser. A few pictures hung on the walls.
Sister Gertrude recommended that Amy move the jeep around in back. Amy did so, making sure it would not be visible from the road. When she rejoined Sister Gertrude in the sick room the woman sat her down and told her what to expect.
“An attack lasts six to ten hours,” she explained. “First chills, then fever and finally the sweat stage where the fever breaks and his temperature returns to normal. He will feel weak and exhausted and want to sleep. You need to get him to drink as much water laced with the Primaquin as possible.”
Amy nodded. “So it’s almost over.”
Sister Gertrude shook her head. “He could go through it all again within two days. The drug should prevent another relapse, but it may not. ” Sister Gertrude smiled grimly at her. “I will have Sister Ingrid bring you one of the cots from the infirmary so you can stay near him.”
Amy settled herself down in the cushioned arm chair that seemed so alien in this room. She would have to ride out this latest complication. What other choice did she have?
The sweat stage began in two hours. When it was over Amy helped Sister Gertrude strip the sodden sheets off the bed with amazing skill that showed long practice. They removed Mike’s sweat-soaked clothes and Sister Gertrude took them out to the laundry along with the linens. With dry covers on the bed, Mike seemed to relax, but still didn't respond to his name. At least Amy got him to drink most of the glass of quinine-laced water.
Six hours later, the whole cycle started again.
Chapter 19
About 20 different Anopheles species of mosquitos are locally important around the world. All of the important vector species bite at night. Anopheles mosquitoes breed in water and each species has its own breeding preference; for example some prefer shallow collections of fresh water, such as puddles, rice fields, and hoof prints. Transmission is more intense in places where the mosquito lifespan is longer (so that the parasite has time to complete its development inside the mosquito) and where it prefers to bite humans rather than other animals. For example, the long lifespan and strong human-biting habit of the African vector species is the main reason why about 90% of the world's malaria deaths are in Africa.
-World Health Organization Bulletin No.94
Consciousness started to flood Mike’s fever-ravished brain. He felt worn out, weak. Even opening his eyes seemed like too much effort. He could tell he was on something soft, maybe a bed. He risked lifting his head, but had to let it fall back on the surface beneath it. Definitely a mattress he concluded. As his mind started to clear he realized he was desperately thirsty. He heard someone come up next to him.
“Water, please,” he managed to croak out between dry lips. The effort was exhausting and he still could not get up the energy to open his eyes.
This person lifted his neck and head and brought a cup of water to his mouth. He took a couple of sips. “Not too much,” an unfamiliar woman’s voice said with a slight German accent. She put his head back down on the pillow. He licked his lips. Something is in the water. Quinine? Has my malaria come back?
“More?” the voice asked. He nodded. Again he took a couple of swallows, some spilling over his cheek. He fought to stay awake and failed. His fever broke and he sank into the first restful sleep he had had in the last thirty-six hours.
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He woke up to the sound of a rooster crowing nearby. He felt less exhausted, but kept his eyes closed. He was sure they would open on command, but he wanted to have a better grasp of the situation before he committed himself to full consciousness. He remembered riding in a jeep with Amy. They were heading… somewhere, to meet… someone. The exact details escaped him. The chills began shortly after they started their drive out of Vic Falls.
Definitely a return visit of the malaria he had picked up in Namibia several years ago. He should have begun a round of Premaquin as soon as the ague started. But he admitted to himself that he had been a bit distracted at the time, and not thinking straight. He hadn’t had a recurrence for a couple of years, but the parasite living dormant in his liver would haunt him for the rest of his life. They just waited for an opportunity to flood his system. They would pass themselves on to some other poor soul who was unfortunate enough to get bitten by the same infected mosquito that bit him first.
He decided to risk opening one eye. The scene was blurry through his lashes, but he saw someone sitting in a chair on the far side of the room. The shape was human and female, and this entity held something in her hands. He risked opening the other eye to get a clearer view. There sat Amy, and she was holding a gun -his gun- pointing it straight at him.
He closed his eyes, and let out an exhausted sigh. He pushed himself up to sitting, leaning against the wall behind the bed. The effort wore him out. When he re-opened his eyes, she was in better focus, and she was still pointing the gun in his general direction.
“There’s water on the table next to you with some Primaquin in it. Please drink it.” she said plainly.
He looked at the glass. He was too thirsty to refuse. Reaching for it took all the energy he could muster. The bitter taste was not pleasant, but he knew he needed the medication. He drank the entire contents. Setting the cup down he tried to speak.
“Is the gun necessary?” His voice came out in a hoarse whisper. “I really am too weak to be much of a physical threat to anyone.”
“That may be so, but I consider it a bit of incentive,” she stated coolly.
“Incentive for what?” he asked, more than a bit confused.
“A little honesty,” she replied. She hesitated for o
nly a moment then asked, “Exactly who are you and who do you represent?”
He closed his eyes hoping to gather enough strength to answer her. He reopened them and said “You know very well who I am. My name is Michael Stone and I am a program manager for Safari Adventures.”
Amy lifted the barrel of the gun, redirected its aim, and fired. The bullet hit the outdated calendar with a stylized portrait of Jesus with a crown of thorns hanging on the wall next to the bed.
“Wrong answer. Try again.”
The adrenalin rush helped him focus. He was fully awake now and considered how to rephrase his answer.
“My name is Michael Stone, and I do work for Safari Adventures along with several other tour companies in southern Africa.” Amy lifted the gun again. He put up his right hand in a wait-a -moment, I- am–not- finished gesture, and continued, “However, in a former life I was an intelligence officer in the South African Air Force.”
“Former?” Amy replied her voice dripping with incredulity.
“Military service is compulsory for every white male reaching eighteen years of age in South Africa. I served my first two years loading and unloading cargo planes, and holding an automatic weapon in Soweto during the dark times in the eighties when apartheid was still in place.”
Amy lowered the gun.
Mike exhaled slowly before continuing. Taking another breath he went on. “During this time the South African Bush Wars were still going on. The ground war started when I was just a babe in nappies, but it didn't end until 1989 while I was completing my military service.”
Mike risked a glance at Amy. She was listening, so he continued, “The conflict had its roots in World War I when South Africa invaded and took over what was to become Namibia and Angola almost seventy years later. We fought the government of Angola and its main ally, Cuba. Our side considered the war a stand against communism on the continent, and we got lots of help -most of it financial from the West.”
Mike paused again. His throat was dry and he wished he had some more water. “While I was loading and unloading planes South African Intelligence asked me to do a little scouting for the troops. I was quite good at it, and kept it up for a few years. That’s how I made a lot of my contacts that I still use in the tourist business.”
Amy continued to point the gun in his general direction, but she didn't seem ready to fire again.
“I gave it all up when the bush wars ended in ’89. I didn’t have the stomach to carry a gun into the townships like Soweto. Apartheid was soon to be a thing of the past, and it looked as though Mandela and associates would make it a peaceful transition. I contracted malaria while on a mission in what is now Namibia. It laid me up for a long time, and I was no longer deemed fit for undercover work. I needed a job, so I became a tour guide.” Mike looked over at Amy, his eyes asking if she understood.
“So what’s your connection now?” She was still wary, but her tone was much less hostile than before.
“SA Intelligence contacted me through a former associate and asked me to look out for you. Both you and my government want to know what happened to your cousin. You report to your superiors, I report to mine.”
Amy considered what he said. Out of habit, she put on the safety, and placed the handgun on the floor next to her chair. She pulled her knees up and hugged them with her arms. She spoke slowly and carefully.
“I cannot do this without help. I do not have traditional military training. I also do not know the territory or the rules of the game. I am a retired physics professor whose main qualification is that I have a brain and I can use it. My goal is to find out what happened to my cousin, and I am doing it for his mother, my Aunt Martha. I know that the organization that sent me had another agenda that they did not include in my briefing. If in addition to finding out the whereabouts of my cousin, we pick up information of interest to either of our governments, I have no objections to passing it on.”
She paused for a few seconds before asking, “Will you help me?” Amy readjusted her position so that she sat cross-legged in the chair, folded her hands in her lap, and waited for Mike’s reply with the calm aura of a swami sitting on his mountain top.
He considered carefully for a few minutes. He had promised himself before he and Francoise started living together that he was done with cloak and dagger work. It was too hard on the body, and he had a daughter to think about now. But he liked the suspense -the not knowing what was going to happen from day to day, and even the danger. It added a certain spice to life that had been in short supply of late. Maybe just one last mission before I retire for good, he thought.
He squared his shoulders and looked at her with new found appreciation. “You may be more qualified than you think. You can use a gun rather effectively.” Mike glanced at the bullet pierced calendar over the small table next to him. “You got away from at least one undesirable set of characters. I assume your abduction in Chobe was not actually a case of misidentification.”
Amy nodded.
“You took care of me when I was unable to help myself. You are a woman and those we may have to deal with will probably underestimate you because of that -and the blond hair.”
A trace of a smile graced Amy’s lips so he continued, “I need at least another day of rest if I'm not to have another relapse. I assume you found the Primaquin in my backpack?”
“Yes, and the hand gun too,” Amy answered. “I have removed the ammunition from your bag, and hidden it. I left only one bullet in the chamber, the rest of the clip is empty.”
“Are you planning on telling me where you hid them?” he asked.
“Eventually,” she replied. “So, are we partners in this venture?”
He hesitated for only a few moments. “Yes. I just have one question.”
“Only one?”
“Only one for now. Where are we exactly?”
“Good question. I wish I had a better answer.”
Mike looked at Amy with a pained expression on his face. “You don’t know?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” she replied. “I remember a sign for Bulawayo with an arrow pointing in the direction I drove. I don't know how close we are to it. You were in the backseat burning up and I knew you needed medical attention as soon as possible. My sense of direction has never been good. I stopped at the first hint of civilization we came to and found this place. A couple of missionary sisters run it. They think you are my brother. At least I hope they do.”
“You’re not sure of that either.”
“My acting abilities are often called into question.”
Mike pursed his lips, “One last thing.” Amy nodded. “Where are my clothes?”
It was Amy’s turn to feel uncomfortable. “You were in pretty bad shape when we arrived. You were delirious and drenched in sweat. Sister Gertrude got them off of you with help from me. We’ve changed the sheets twice. Your clothes are in the laundry along with the soaked linens. If it doesn't rain you should have them back by tomorrow.”
Mike shook his head.
Did he smile at some internal revelation, or was it more of a grimace? Amy wasn’t sure.
“We brought your fever down with sponge baths.” Amy started enjoying Mike’s discomfort.
Mike closed his eyes. “You and Sister Gertrude, I presume.”
“Yes. She thought Sister Ingrid too inexperienced for the job.”
Amy opened the door and prepared to slip out of the room. She turned back to face him. “Bathroom is out here on the right. Running water of sorts, at least in the shower. You could use one.” She closed the door behind her this time.
Mike put his hands behind his head and leaned back on the wall. She had left the gun next to the chair, but there was no ammunition in it if he could believe what she said. He had no reason to doubt her. He had no clothes, and a man felt just a bit more vulnerable without his pants. Mike laughed out loud. She was blond and she had brains. This partnership might work after all.
Chapter 20
M
alaria is an acute febrile illness. In a non-immune individual, symptoms appear seven days or more (usually 10–15 days) after the infective mosquito bite. The first symptoms – fever, headache, chills and vomiting – may be mild and difficult to recognize as malaria. If not treated within 24 hours, P. falciparum malaria can progress to severe illness often leading to death .- World Health Organization Bulletin No.94
A knock at the door awakened Mike after another brief nap. He opened his eyes at once. “Come in,” he said a little louder than necessary pulling the sheet up over his bare chest.
A stern looking woman dressed in a sleeveless gray cotton shift buttoned down the front entered the room carrying a tray with a large mug and a pitcher. A well-worn white scarf covered her head and tied at the nape beneath her silver streaked hair. The ensemble gave the impression that she was a nun of sorts.
“Are you Sister Gertrude?” Her smile softened the harshness of her face, and Mike realized she was not as old as he first assumed. Years in the sun had aged her white skin prematurely.
“You must eat something and get your strength back. I have made you some chicken soup from one of my hens that does not lay eggs anymore. Do you need me to feed you?”
Direct and to the point, Mike thought. He pushed himself up to sitting. He was a bit self-conscious about his nakedness under the sheets in front of this stranger. “I can handle it.”
She set the tray down on the table next to the bed and handed him the large mug of soup and a spoon. She waited until he had taken a couple of mouthfuls.
“Ist gut?” she asked. Mike nodded taking another spoonful of the thin broth with nondescript vegetables floating in it.
“You need to get strong so that your ‘sister’ will finally let herself sleep. She has hardly left your side since you arrived two days ago. You also need a shower.”
Mike could have sworn the woman was laughing at him.
“Unless, of course, you would prefer a sponge bath?“ She smiled at a recollection that Mike could not share, but soon returned to her stern demeanor. “I have brought you a towel.”
