She stepped into the living room and found her father still in the same spot, staring at the folded, withered hands resting in his lap. She approached him cautiously. “Pada, is Nida alright?”
Jahrra was afraid to ask, but she had to know. Her father kept on staring glumly at his gently folded hands.
“Pa?” Jahrra urged, her voice shrinking.
“Oh, I’m sorry dear. I didn’t hear you come back in.” The gruff answer was forced.
“What’s wrong with you and Nida?”
He didn’t seem to hear her question; he just kept staring downward with the same faded expression on his face.
“Everything is going to be fine, don’t you worry. Everything will turn out right,” he whispered sadly, not seeming to address anyone but himself.
Jahrra was confused. Of course everything was going to be all right, she had only had a small fight with her friends at school, that would pass, and winter was almost over and soon the weather would be cheerful again. The flowers would come up and the apple trees would begin to blossom. They had enough food left for the rest of winter, at least that’s what she thought, and they had plenty of firewood. All they had to do was wait a little bit longer, so why was her father so worried?
Abdhe looked down at Jahrra crouched beside the rocking chair like a timid puppy. What am I to do? he thought, brokenhearted and vulnerable. Lynhi had contracted the horrible fever, the one responsible for so many deaths. The doctor had told him she had at the most a week left to live, and that he was already showing signs of the fever as well. What will happen to our Jahrra? he thought mournfully, who’ll make sure she grows up safe? Abdhe could no longer hold back his tears.
The sight of her father’s pain caused Jahrra to crumble. “Oh, Pada!” she cried, “What’s wrong?”
Abdhe looked at his young daughter through glistening eyes and saw the future of Ethoes in her face. He smiled quietly, the smile of one who’d been defeated but still had so much left to give. He and Lynhi had lived a good life, many years long. He didn’t fear this fate, but he did fear for Jahrra.
Oh little one, my daughter. What trials and tribulations you will someday face. If only I could be there with you. At least this disease can’t hurt you. You don’t know it, but you are immune; your pure human blood resists this plague . . . he thought sadly as Jahrra cried freely against his shoulder. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, cherishing every second he could still hold her close.
Two days later, Lynhi died from the fever. She’d lost consciousness the day Jahrra had come home to find her father in his wife’s rocking chair, her patchwork quilt wrapped around him. Abdhe himself lasted a little while longer, but Jahrra watched him deteriorate over the next week. Abdhe knew he was doomed the day the doctor arrived and told him of the fever, but he couldn’t worry about that, he had to find Jahrra a new family to live with. The obvious choice was Kaihmen and Nuhra, but before they could be consulted, Hroombra stepped forward insisting that Jahrra become his ward.
The doctor, not surprisingly, didn’t approve. “A dragon raising a little girl? It’s unheard of!” he had puffed.
But he was in no place to challenge a full-grown dragon.
As soon as Hroombra had heard about Abdhe’s and Lynhi’s condition, he’d immediately sent word to Jaax informing him of the tragic events, begging the younger dragon to bring the anecdote. By the time Jaax received Hroombra’s frantic message and found the medicine, it was too late.
Jahrra was never supposed to know of this, but sometimes adults are not as careful as they think. She’d taken to sleeping in the living room after her mother’s death, but most of the time she spent the night awake, crying into her pillow. The doctor had turned the room into a makeshift hospital, and although he tried in vain to keep the girl away from his contagious patient, she refused to leave her father’s side.
It was during one of these restless nights that Jahrra overheard a conversation between Hroombra and the doctor, informing him that Jaax was being summoned to bring the cure for the sickness. Jahrra pretended to be asleep and listened quietly to the two adults whispering to each other through the window.
“Raejaaxorix knows where the medicine can be found. If only this province hadn’t run out of it!”
Hroombra sounded very angry and frustrated, a frightening combination in one usually so calm. Jahrra quietly wondered if Hroombra felt this way often, but only revealed it when she wasn’t around.
“Will he get it here on time?” the doctor asked nervously.
“We can only hope,” Hroombra replied solemnly.
Jahrra’s hopes rose a little despite her sorrow. Jaax will save my Pada! she thought fervently. She was still rather numb from her mother’s death, but losing her father as well would be unbearable. As she snuggled under her thick quilt she hoped beyond all hope that Jaax would come with the medicine in time.
When the remedy finally did arrive, Jaax himself did not bring it. Rather, it was delivered by a man whose face and name Jahrra never learned. He rode up in the dead of night, speaking to Hroombra in what sounded like a strange language. Jahrra slept more easily that night, believing that her father would be saved, saved by the dragon she’d always thought of as a hero. But it had been too late; the fever was too far gone.
On the day that Abdhe died, Jahrra was brought to sit next to him. “She must be allowed to be near him or she’ll regret it for the rest of her life.” Hroombra told the doctor who still feared the young girl might contract the disease.
Jahrra sat down beside her father’s bed and set her face obstinately against the tears forming behind her eyes. You’ll be alright Pada, I know it. Jaax brought you the medicine. I heard them talking, you’ll be alright, she thought stubbornly.
The final hours were hard, with Abdhe falling in and out of consciousness and finally passing into some kind of delirium where he no longer recognized his daughter. Jahrra kept clinging to her small shred of hope, believing he would survive because Jaax couldn’t have failed him, couldn’t have failed her.
But Abdhe kept calling for his daughter and his wife, and Jahrra kept saying, “I’m here Pada, I’m here!” through angry and desperate tears.
When her father finally passed, Jahrra lost all faith in hoping, and she began to hate Jaax more than she hated anyone or anything in the world. It was a resentment he didn’t deserve, but it was the only way for such a small girl to deal with her sorrow. Her grief and anger distorted her thinking and although she should have realized that her father’s death was no more Jaax’s fault than it was her own, her young mind equated the two.
Jaax, the hero of all those stories, the one who’d brought her Phrym, had failed her when she needed him most. The great dragon she once admired now became a vessel to deliver all of her pain; all of the sorrow she felt for losing her parents, all of the anger she felt towards those who taunted her at school, and all of the fear she felt towards being suddenly alone in this world.
The weeks that followed became a black, empty space in Jahrra’s mind. She walked around as if in a fog, unaware of the world and people around her. Kaihmen, Nuhra, Gieaun, Scede and Hroombra watched her carefully and often had to say her name several times before she heard them. Jahrra was drowning in her grief and even avoided Phrym while she stayed at Wood’s End Ranch.