Chapter 14: The Mysterious Whispers

Sleep did not come easy that night; it was no gentle reprieve, but a shallow, feverish pit I kept falling into. A strange sound slithered into my dreams, a persistent, sibilant whisper that coiled at the edge of my hearing. It felt like a voice, ancient and dry as dust, trying to coax me into some unknown action, or perhaps pass on some cryptic, terrible message. But whenever I tried to focus on it, to decipher the words, it would dissolve into a meaningless, indistinct murmur, like the scraping of stone on stone from a million miles away. As I strained to listen, the hairs on my arms suddenly stood on end. I felt a sudden, crushing pressure, the distinct and chilling certainty of being seen. Not by human eyes, but by something vast and ancient, a single, all-encompassing gaze from the void that pinned me to my squalid mattress. Fear, cold and absolute, began to fill my heart, threatening to overflow and drown what little sanity I had left.

“Parula! Parula!” A voice, sharp and urgent, cut through the darkness, pulling me back from the abyss like a rope thrown to a drowning woman. I jolted awake, my heart hammering, and the insidious whispering vanished in an instant. But the feeling of being watched lingered, a cold pressure on my soul that took a long, agonizing time to fade. I couldn't tell where the gaze had come from. My head was a chaotic mess, dizzy and heavy as lead. A deep, bone-chilling cold had settled in me, leaving me utterly drained of strength. My mouth was parched, my tongue thick and dry. The sickness, I realized with a sinking heart, had tightened its grip.

“Parula, are you alright?” Jared was by my side, his voice laced with concern. “You were moaning in your sleep… Hss! You’re burning up!” As he touched my forehead, he recoiled from the unnatural, ferocious heat. He didn't know what a fever was, not in any scientific sense. But I knew. It was my immune system, my body’s last desperate, scorched-earth defense, waging war against the invading sickness. I was making a gamble, a desperate one: either the fever would break, or I would. One of us had to die tonight.

“Water… water…” The word was a hoarse croak, a primal need uttered from the depths of my delirium. Jared heard me and immediately scrambled to the canal, returning with a pot of water. With no cup or spoon, he held the pot itself to my lips. He gently lifted my head, tilting the rusty rim of the pot to my mouth, careful not to spill the precious liquid. Though my mind was a fog, the instinct to drink, to survive, was still strong. But the moment the water touched my tongue, my whole body revolted. It wasn't water. It was a vile, chemical brew that tasted of rust, brine, and decay, with a foul, sweetish undertone that spoke of things best left unnamed. I choked, a violent, hacking cough racking my frail body.

“Cough, cough, cough!” I spat out some of the poison, but not before a larger amount had already gone down, my body instinctively gulping it down to quench its desperate thirst. “Parula, are you okay?” Jared used a scrap of rag to wipe my face, his own face a mask of worry. “Where did this water come from?” I demanded, the foul taste clinging to my tongue like a shroud. It was like the river water I remembered, but a hundred times worse, more concentrated, more malevolent. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking ashamed. “I drank the boiled water we had left. This… this is fresh from the canal.”

So, it was raw, untreated, polluted water, even fouler than I had imagined. I glanced into the pot; the water wasn’t even clear. An oily, rainbow-colored film floated on its surface, shifting and swirling like a dying galaxy. And yet, even after drinking this poison, I felt a little better. A little clearer. The delirium receded enough for me to think, to form a coherent thought beyond "water." I glanced towards the entrance of the alcove. The fire in the brazier was still glowing, a single point of warmth in our cold, damp tomb. To keep the space from freezing, Jared had been adding scraps of wood to it throughout the night. I needed more water, that much was certain. But the night was darker now, more threatening. It would be selfish to send him out again, to risk the unseen dangers of the city. And that feeling of being watched… it still lingered. I didn't want to be alone. I would have to compromise. I had already drunk some of the foul water. What difference would a little more make, once it was boiled?

“Boil another pot of water,” I said, my voice still weak. “I’ll need it later. And… and fetch another pail of it.” Thankfully, the previous occupant had left behind more than just one pot. Jared, ever obedient, placed the pot on the fire and went to fetch more water. He returned and looked at me, a question in his eyes. He knew how much I despised the river water. So why was he boiling one pot, and fetching another?

“The rag…” I said, gesturing to the cloth he’d used to wipe my face. I hesitated. It was hardly a proper towel. “…soak it in the cold water, wring it out, and put it on my forehead.” He looked at me strangely, a flicker of confusion in his eyes, but did as I asked without a word. The icy shock of the cold, damp cloth on my burning forehead was immense, a welcome jolt of pain that cleared my head a little more. At least if I wasn't drinking it, the water's pollution mattered less.

As we waited for the water to boil, we sat in silence, me lying down, him sitting cross-legged on the floor, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the distant, rhythmic thunder of the factories. Finally, he broke the awkward silence. “You know,” he said, his voice hesitant, “since you got sick, Parula… you’ve changed. A lot.” I knew this was coming. He must have suspected something for a while. My personality, my reactions, my very way of being was different from the little sister he knew. I hadn’t even tried to hide it, hadn’t had the energy to pretend to be a simple, frightened girl. I remained silent, offering no confirmation or denial. “It’s like…” he continued, choosing his words carefully, “it’s like you know things now. Things you shouldn't.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, turning to look at him, my curiosity piqued. This was not the line of questioning I had expected. “You knew not to light the fire inside. You knew the river water was bad. You knew to put a cold cloth on your head for a fever,” he listed, his eyes wide with a strange sort of wonder. “Did… did one of the physicians from the old days tell you these things before you came here?”

I was floored. My blood ran cold. The boy was so innocent, so pure in his own way. It hadn't even occurred to him that I might not be his little sister. He just assumed I’d been given some secret knowledge, some mysterious wisdom from a forgotten healer. The very thing I was terrified of, the whispers in my head, the feeling of being watched, this thing that felt like a prelude to madness… he saw it as a gift. A miracle.

“When I was sick,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, offering a half-truth that felt more real and more dangerous than any lie, “it was like… like I heard whispers in my head. And when I woke up, I just… I just knew these things.”

To my utter astonishment, Jared’s face lit up with excitement, not suspicion. “Really?” he leaned forward, his eyes shining with a fierce, desperate hope. “You can really hear these things? The whispers? That’s wonderful, Parula! Maybe… maybe you can become a physician someday!”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “You… you believe me?” I asked, incredulous. “You don’t think I’m just making it up? That I'm mad?”

 “Of course I believe you!” he said with absolute conviction. “I’ve heard the old tales! The clever folk, the physicians, they can all hear things others can't! It's the whispers from beyond that teach them the secret arts of healing!”

What? Had I just stumbled, blindly, into some local superstition that perfectly explained my predicament? But what kind of doctors heard voices? And the whispers I’d heard… they were nothing but incoherent, menacing murmurs. “That’s amazing!” Jared continued, his mind already racing ahead, painting a future far brighter than their grim, subterranean reality. “If you become a physician, Parula, we’ll never have to worry about money again! They say physicians are rich as kings, that they can even cheat death!” He was already planning our future, a future built on a lie I had told, and a terrifying truth he could never possibly comprehend.