Chapter 2
Bad Blood

I woke up to the sound of the screams. I rushed from the makeshift hut I was provided with during my stay in the barrio to the house across the well. Several townsmen have already gathered in front of the house, some shaking their heads sadly. Most of them were outraged. I pushed my way to the front of the crowd and entered the house. Women were gathered to the side of the bed where a pregnant woman lay, drawing torturous breaths. I came to the side of the bed and laid my hand across her forehead. She was feverish. In fact she was probably in the first stages of delirium.

I directed one of the women to get me a basin of water. The barrio had no access to electricity, so water from the well, however lukewarm it was, would have to do. Fortunately, I brought my medicinal supplies with me. Grabbing some paracetamols from my bag, I had to powder the two tablets and forcefeed her. Her eyes were rolling in their sockets. Not a good sign. I asked the women to leave. I gingerly locked the door behind them.

I took off her housedress and sponge bathed her in her bed. While I was washing her legs, I noticed something peculiar. There was an odd wound on her distended stomach. It looked like an insect bite, but the hole was bigger. Upon closer inspection, I had to hold back the vomit as bile suddenly rose to my throat. The hole was big enough to fit an earbud in.

Fearing for the baby in her tummy, I took my stethoscope from my bag and placed it on her tummy. No signs of movement in there. Not even a flutter of a heartbeat. Disdainfully, I placed my hand against her tummy, trying to feel for the usual infantile movements. Nothing. Weird, it felt more watery than the usual pregnant tummies I have had felt in the nine years since medical school.

She’s dying, a voice said from the shadows of her house. I turned around and came face to face with a really old woman. She stepped out of the shadows and I saw her holding something like a whip in her hand. I asked for her name, and what she was doing here. She shrugged and placed her hand on my shoulders. A gentle way of shooing me away. Surprised by the strength in her old hands, I stood a few feet away from the woman on the bed. The old woman placed a hand against her forehead, closed her eyes, and was clearly chanting a series of words that sounded like corrupted Latin. I asked her what she was doing but she either didn’t hear me over her chanting or she chose to ignore me. She continued chanting.

It took me a split second to realize what she was going to do next. Another split second to nearly jump to where she was standing and hold her hand. She was going to whip the woman. What are you doing! She shook me off. She gave me a glance that chilled my marrows and stilled my heart. She raised her hand with the whip and cried, eyes closed, in some language I couldn’t understand. It sounded vaguely familiar.

She shook her head and backed away, very weak she seemed. She stepped into the shadows once again, and sat in a corner. We’re too late, she whispered, more to the shadows convening around her than to me. My daughter is dying, she said with a barely suppressed sob.

In a few days after that incident, I was able to watch the sick woman slowly deteriorate, growing thinner, weaker. And on the seventh day, she finally died.