The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [189]
Later that summer, as rain fell, such a moment shimmered and paused on the brink, and then began the ancient dance of numbers: two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, and a new life took root and began to grow. And thus the generations past were joined to the unknowable future.
30
VILLAGE OF KASHAN AND CITY OF GAYJUR:
YEAR THREE
"SO, WHAT DO you think? Rain’s probably done for the day. Feel lively enough for a walk?" Anne asked D.W.
"Well, now, I cain’t say as I’m inclined to rush into a decision like that." D.W. took a sip of the meat broth Anne had brought him and then laid his head back against the hammock chair. His gaze traveling down the long meandering ridge of his nasal bones, he fixed her with a look of judicious consideration. "I thought maybe I’d save my strength up so’s I can watch some mud dry later on."
She smiled, and it was gratifying that he could still make people smile.
He kept the mug in his hands for a while, to warm them, but then began to worry that it would slip out of his fingers, so he set it aside on the little table that Sofia and Emilio had once used as a desk out in this hampiy. The shelter was his now, had become pretty close to a permanent residence for him, barring really bad weather. He liked to be out where he could see the southern mountains or look northeast to find the line where the plains merged into sky. Manuzhai or Jimmy carried him down to the apartment if the weather looked to get ugly and then carried him back up to the hampiy when things settled down; he couldn’t climb the cliff anymore on his own. Emilio stayed with him nights, so he wouldn’t be alone. D.W. had worried about being a pain in the ass for everyone but felt better about it when Sofia told him, "It is your duty to let us help. Even your Jesus knew that: taking care of the sick is a commandment. It’s a mitzvah for us."
"Finish that soup," said Anne, breaking into his reverie. "Doctor’s orders."
"’Finish that soup!’ You’re pretty damn brisk," he informed her indignantly, but he picked up the cup with both thin hands and forced himself to continue working on it until he’d drunk it all. He made a face, which was a little redundant given how he looked when he wasn’t making a face. "Everything tastes like metal," he told her.
"I know, but the protein does you good." Anne reached out and put a hand on his wrist for a brief squeeze.
She had tried everything she could think of. Half-killed him with parasiticides. Put him on an all-Earth diet from the lander stores. Boiled the rainwater he drank after passing it through all the filters and chemical treatments. Stopped the chemical treatments, thinking maybe they made it worse. Two or three times she thought they’d gotten the damned thing on the run, whatever the hell it was. He’d start to put on some weight, get some color and energy back, and then he’d slip again.
He was the only one affected. So, of course, they both wondered if he’d brought something with him, was carrying something from home. But all the crew members had been put through a fine-meshed medical sieve before they left, and D. W. Yarbrough had once been abundantly healthy, strong as a lean old racehorse. Maybe something had gone subtly wrong with his physiology: he was sequestering something that was usually excreted or some enzymatic process had gone to hell.
"It’s not that bad, Annie," he’d told her once. "Most of the time, it’s just bein’ tired."
"If you really loved me, you’d get well, dammit. I hate patients who refuse to make their doctors appear omnipotent. It’s very rude."
He knew bluster when he heard it. "People are mortal," he’d told her. "You and I both know there’s lots worse ways to go."
Anne had turned away, blinking rapidly, but snuffled in a breath vigorously and