sakon76

Scenes From the Life and Death of Jackson Overland Frost
Part 15: My Brother's Keeper
by K. Stonham
first released 10th October, 2020

November, 1709

It took a long moment before Jamie could pry his attention away from Jack... from Jackson Frost, and focus on his hosts again.

Jack's mom was worried and teary-eyed, her hands twisting in her apron. "He can't stay here, Thomas. Not when we'll likely..." Her voice broke.

Thomas Frost sucked in a breath. "He's not improved any?"

"He's gotten worse," she said. "He's not going to--"

Her words faded from his hearing as Jamie felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. Jack wasn't going to make it?

But... but he had to. Jack Frost didn't die of the measles at sixteen. He died in a winter pond, saving his sister, at eighteen.

If Jack died now... he wouldn't... Jamie would never... Pitch would....

"Please," Jamie said, startling both adults. "Please let me help him. I have to help him."

They were both looking at him, two pairs of brown eyes meeting his. And it was strange, how he could suddenly pick out bits of their faces and realize that Jack had his mother's face shape, but his father's eyebrows.

"Take no offense, young Master Bennett, but what can you do?" Thomas asked.

Jamie bit his lip. "I don't know," he confessed. "But I have to do something. I think... I think that might be why I'm here."

"Why you're here? You said brigands--"

Jamie shook his head. "I can't tell you how I got here. But I swear to you, I will do your son no harm." He risked a look at Jackson Frost, too hot and blotchy and his breathing not good. He looked back at Jackson's parents. "I swear to God, and the Moon, and all those who look over children, that I will do everything I can to save him."

Jamie's resolution must have shown on his face, because it was only a few seconds before Anne Frost nodded. "I believe you."

"Anne--"

"Thomas," she said, and by the one word alone Jamie could tell that she had a spine of steel, "let him try." She looked back at Jamie. "I trust him."

How many times had Jack asked Jamie, checked to be sure, that he was trusted?

"I believe in him," she said, and, oh, was this how Jack felt every time Jamie stated his belief?

"Thank you," Jamie breathed, disoriented.

Half an hour later, or something that felt like it, he was seated by Jack's bed, patting a damp cloth across a rashy, fevered forehead, and regretting his promise. Or not regretting the promise, precisely, because he'd meant every single syllable of it, but regretting his lack of ability to do anything about it.

What do I know about the measles? Jamie thought miserably. No one I know has ever even HAD it!

"How long has he been like this?" he asked instead.

"A week," Anne replied, not looking up from the pot she stirred over the open fire. "The itching drove him mad the first few days. Then came the fever, and he's barely roused at all yesterday or today."

"Has he been eating? Drinking?" Jamie asked, concerned.

She shook her head. "It hurt his throat."

"What were you trying to give him?"

"Small ale. Vinegar water. Something with flavor, to tempt him."

"Right. Right," Jamie said, half to himself, thinking back to his mother's care when he'd been sick. Saltines and broth. Orange juice--ha, good luck getting that in the here and now of Colonial Pennsylvania--and Gatorade.

Jamie's eyes widened. Electrolytes.

"Do you have... um, boiled water," he said, thinking about why people had drunk soft beer and ales throughout history rather than the local water. "And salt. And something to sweeten it with?"

"Why salt?" she asked, standing.

"Something to do with replenishing what the body uses up, I think," Jamie replied. "Because sweat's salty, probably?"

In short order, he had a wooden mug filled with hot water, some salt, and a generous helping of honey. Jamie stirred it vigorously, then set it down in order to prop Jack up. "Drink some," he said, pressing the mug to a slack mouth. "Please."

Jack never fully roused, but he did drink, gulping at the cup thirstily. Jamie didn't let him drink more than a third, though. "A little bit at a time," he said, helping Jack back down. God, had Jack always been so thin and light? Even mortal, it almost felt like he'd break in Jamie's hands. "I'll give you some more in a few minutes."

Anne sat down beside him, her eyes on her son. She smoothed a lock of hair out of Jack's face. After a moment, she spoke. "It's good of you to try to save him, Master Bennett, but please know that if you can't, we... we won't blame you."

Jamie bit his lip. "I... have an older brother," he said. "Well, I call him my brother. We're not related, as far as I know. His name's Jack too. He's a couple years older than me. And I know he'd do anything to save me."

Anne nodded. "Good kin is like that."

Jamie breathed a sigh. "I have a little sister too. Who is actually my sister," he felt the need to point out. "And sometimes Sophie's just a pain. But sometimes I realize I feel that way about her too. And right now I'd do anything to save your son. But I don't know what I'm doing, what I'm supposed to do. I'm not a doctor. All I can do is guess."

"That's all any of us do, most of the time," she told him. She gave him a wavery smile. "Even when you become an adult, Master Bennett... sometimes, all you can do is believe, and hope that belief is enough."

"Yeah." Jamie looked at his hands, at fingers laced together. "Belief."

"What do you believe?"

Jamie thought about her question, really thought. "I don't know enough to know if there is a higher plan for me," he said after a minute. "But I do know that there are higher powers, some good, some dark. And I know I believe in them, even when everything seems lost. I know that standing beside them, fighting the good fight, is important. I know it's what I have to do."

"Then have faith," she said. "Even if Jack... even if he dies, all is not lost."

"Mmm." Jamie couldn't commit to that.

A few minutes later she helped him get a little more water into Jack, then went back to the hearth to check on her cooking. Jamie took the opportunity to pull the hourglass out of his bag and look at it. Sand poured from one side to the other. When he turned it over, the flow didn't alter, the sand now pouring upward. "What are you counting down to?" Jamie murmured.

Getting no answer from the object, he leaned over to stash it away in his bookbag again.

His fingers brushed against a plastic cylinder.

Eyes widening, he pulled out the bottle of Tylenol. He remembered now, he'd put in the bag weeks ago when the flickering fluorescent bulbs in his chemistry classroom had kept giving him headaches until the school had replaced them. He just hadn't taken the bottle out since. Now, though....

"Relieves fevers," he read to himself off the label, mind jumping from fact to idea. "I can't kill the virus, but maybe treating the symptoms will be enough?"

Looking down at Jack's flushed, rashy face, Jamie knew he had to try.

But gazing around the small, dark room that was the Frost family home... he also knew he couldn't do it without permission. Consent was important. You didn't ever give medication to people without asking first. He couldn't do that, not even for Jack. But how could he possibly explain what he had? A plastic bottle, centuries before plastic? A (hopefully) miracle medicine, unable to be replicated in this time?

Jamie closed his eyes and breathed out. He could do this. He had to do this.

For Jack, he told himself.

The cabin's door opened and closed, letting in a swirl of cold air along with Thomas Frost, who paused, his eyes flickering to Jack and Jamie before he took off his coat and hat, hanging them on a peg near the door. He came over to the bed, pulling one of the other chairs with him. "Any improvement?" he asked.

Jamie shook his head. It was now or never.

He opened his hand and gave the bottle of medicine to Jack's father. "I'd like to give him this."

Thomas Frost took it, brow furrowing as he looked at the strange bottle, at the fine printing on its label.

"I think," Jamie said, "that if we could bring his fever down, maybe he can fight off the rest of the sickness himself."

"What is this?" Thomas asked lowly, his tone caught between troubled and astonished. "This is not glass...."

"It's not," Jamie confirmed. "The medicine inside... I think it works a little like willow bark, just a lot stronger? But I won't give it to Jack unless you and your wife let me."

Brown eyes met Jamie's. "You're not from Boston, are you?"

Jamie shook his head. "I can't tell you where I'm from," he said. By now Mrs. Frost had heard their conversation, and had come to stand behind her husband, hand on his shoulder. "But this," Jamie said, nodding toward Jack, "is why I'm here. Why I was sent."

Anne Frost sucked in a breath. "Who sent you?"

"I can't tell you that either," Jamie answered, knowing what she was probably thinking. But he couldn't tell her he had possibly been sent back here by a maybe-insane possible-Father Time. But what could he say that wouldn't have them believing God had sent him?

Jamie was no angel. And there was no winning in this situation. But Jamie was damned if he'd lie to Jack's parents. Not when Jack's life was at stake.

Thomas Frost examined Jamie's face, then examined the bottle again. He looked at his son, lying sick in bed. His mouth set in a line.

"Heal him," Thomas Frost said, handing the bottle back to Jamie. His face softened. "Please."

Jamie nodded. "I'll try."

Author's Note: Um. I haven't updated this story in... seven years... two months... and ten days. I'm sorry? But I do have the rest of this arc completed and edited and will be posting it over the next few weeks. Thanks to my incomparable editor N-chan for her fine work nitpicking my prose! And thank you to anyone who still remembers this story and has been waiting, however long, for some more of it.