Chapter 59: Peste Catarral

As they walked through the streets of Medellín, the group reached a place called Guayabal—a modest neighborhood, not poor but far from the elegance of the plaza’s houses.

“It seems his father was an ordinary soldier,” Francisco whispered to Catalina.

Catalina nodded. “So it seems.” After a moment, as if remembering something, she asked, “What about your guardian, Juan?”

The boy hesitated before answering. “Grandpa Manuel is our legal guardian—the judge chose him. But he’s very old and can’t move much anymore. He spends most of his time in bed,” he said sadly.

Francisco frowned. “Why would they pick someone so old? Wouldn’t it be better to choose someone younger—someone with patience to care for you?”

Juan lowered his head. “My uncles and aunts don’t live in Antioquia, and most people around here already have children of their own. Nobody wanted to take responsibility. Only Grandpa Miguel—his children live in Bogotá—offered to help.”

Francisco understood. Under normal circumstances, a judge would choose someone capable of raising the children, but few were willing to take in four orphans when they could barely feed their own. “Then this Grandpa Miguel must have a good reputation,” Francisco said softly. “It’s just unfortunate that age limits what he can do.”

Catalina nodded while Isabella, clearly lost in their talk, tugged at Francisco’s sleeve. “Big brother, what does that mean?” she asked with her bright, curious tone.

Carlos explained gently, “In small towns like this, where everyone knows each other, the judge can only assign guardians who are respected and understand how to manage the children’s inheritance. So Grandpa Miguel must be a trustworthy man.”

Isabella blinked, still confused.

Catalina chuckled. “It means Grandpa Miguel is a good person.”

Juan’s face softened. “He is,” he said. “After my father died, my mother told us he always helped—brought us food and a little money when we had nothing.” His voice trembled. “But after some time, he couldn’t work anymore. My mother felt guilty depending on him, so she went to the mountains to gather herbs and food for us and Grandpa Miguel. But… she never came back.”

A heavy silence fell. The air itself seemed to weigh down, filled with the scent of dust and wet wood from the nearby hills. They could all feel the tangle of grief and guilt the children must carry—losing a mother who’d died trying to repay her benefactor.

They soon reached the house. The walls were cracked, and the roof sagged slightly—signs that neither the old man nor the children could keep up repairs.

Juan called softly, “I’m home!”

A smaller boy, perhaps two or three years younger, rushed out of a room. “Big brother! Sister’s burning up—I don’t know what to do!”

Juan’s face drained of color. He ran toward a small bedroom. “Where’s our older brother?” he called.

“He went to the plaza to lift cargo,” the boy answered. “He wants to earn enough for a doctor.”

Francisco turned to one of the servants. “Go to the nearest doctor. Tell him we’ll pay for his visit—quickly!”

Then he and Catalina stepped into the room. A little girl, no more than five, lay sweating on the bed, her small body trembling with each cough. Her skin glistened with fever, her breath ragged.

Juan knelt beside her, voice breaking. “Sister, please… it’s me. Say something.” Tears rolled down his cheeks.

rancisco placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder and looked toward Catalina, who nodded and began examining the child with the calm precision she had learned from her grandmother, María.

Catalina frowned. “It looks like peste catarral,” she said gravely.

Juan’s face went white. “Is she going to die?”

Catalina sighed. “I don’t know. It’s serious. Bring me these herbs.” She quickly listed several names.

Francisco took the list and handed it to a servant. “Fetch everything she mentioned.”

The servant bowed. “Yes, young master,” and hurried out.

Catalina said, “Bring warm water—not cold—and clean cloths. We bought new fabric earlier; use some of that. Men, wait outside while I clean the girl.”

Francisco nodded and motioned for the servants to leave. Isabella stayed behind, her small hands clenched.

“Big sis, what can I do? I want to help,” Isabella said firmly.

Catalina smiled faintly at her determination. “Then make face cloths for everyone. It’ll help stop the miasma from spreading. Give some to Francisco and the servants. Then come help me.”

Francisco heard and added, “Isa, handle the masks. We’ll prepare the rest.”

“Yes, big brother!” Isabella replied, quickly cutting and tying the cloth into makeshift masks.

Moments later, a man arrived at the door, panting. “I’m the doctor—heard there’s a case of peste catarral?”

Francisco nodded. “Yes. My fiancée is cleaning the girl now. She’ll call when it’s safe to enter.”

The doctor frowned. “Your fiancée knows medicine? With this illness, it’s dangerous to get close—the infection spreads easily.”

Francisco’s tone was calm. “She studied under a Pijao doctor. She knows more than most about this kind of sickness.”

The servant returned with the cloth masks. Francisco handed one to the doctor, who raised an eyebrow. “So you’re covering your faces—good. Soak the cloths in aguardiente or vinegar; it’ll help.”

Francisco nodded and called toward the room, “Isa, use some aguardiente to wet the cloths—yours and Catalina’s.”

“Okay!” Isabella shouted back, taking the bottle and passing it inside.

A few minutes later, the servant returned with the herbs. The doctor examined them, impressed. “Guayusa, eucalipto, toronjil…” he murmured. “Good choices. These help reduce fever. Seems your fiancée truly knows her craft.”

Inside, Catalina and Isabella worked carefully—washing the girl’s body, changing her into one of the dresses Isabella had bought earlier. It was too big, but far cleaner than the rags she’d been wearing. When they finished, Catalina called out, “You can come in now. Prepare an infusion of guayusa for her. Only Francisco and the doctor should enter; too many people will make the air worse.”

Francisco and the doctor stepped inside. The doctor gave Catalina a quick, approving nod before tending to the child. Francisco stayed nearby, ready to help.

Suddenly, angry shouts came from outside. An old man’s voice rang out: “Who are you? Why are you in these children’s house?” He appeared at the door, leaning on a stick, his face red with fury.

Juan ran out, tears streaming down his face, but before he could explain, the old man shouted, “You’re bullying these children, aren’t you? I might be old, but I can still deal with some thugs!” His cries drew several neighbors carrying sticks and tools, closing in on the house.

Francisco frowned and turned to Catalina. “Stay here—I’ll handle this.”

He stepped outside. The crowd’s noise swelled—people yelling, ready to defend their neighbor. The servants looked frightened, unsure what to do. The tension thickened like a rope about to snap.

“Quiet!” Francisco’s voice cut through the air. “There’s a sick child inside! Your shouting could harm her!”

The sudden authority in his tone silenced them. The old man froze. “Little María is sick? Move—I must see her!”

Francisco raised a hand. “A doctor’s already attending her. If you go in now and catch the miasma, it’ll only make things worse.”

The old man’s anger melted into worry. “Who are you, and why are you here?”

“I’m Francisco Gómez,” he said evenly. “We met this boy earlier—he was hungry. We brought food and discovered his sister’s condition. We’re helping.”

The old man looked at Juan, who nodded tearfully. “They’re helping María,” he confirmed.

The old man’s eyes glistened. “Is she going to be all right? What does she have?”

Francisco lowered his voice. “Peste catarral. Don’t tell the neighbors. If they hear, they’ll demand she be taken away.”

The man’s face went pale, but he nodded quickly. Turning to the crowd, he said firmly, “It’s all a misunderstanding! These kind people brought food and are saving little María!”

“Are you sure, Grandpa?” a young man asked suspiciously. “They’re not threatening you?”

“Threaten me?” The old man’s voice was strong again. “No one here would dare. It’s truly a misunderstanding.”

The neighbors hesitated, but seeing the conviction in his eyes, they slowly backed away.”Call us if something happens,” one said. They dispersed reluctantly, though many stayed by their windows, watching for any sign of trouble.

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