Blenchy's Fever – Part Two

The following morning, the thermometer delivered disappointing news. Blenchy's fever had not quite packed its bags and left. It lingered stubbornly, as though it had discovered how pleasant life was inside a house overflowing with flowers, pastries, friendship and hot malt beverages. Blenchy himself was in surprisingly good spirits. Sitting comfortably under a mountain of blankets, he spent the morning unpacking gifts and reading every single get well card. Some made him smile. Some made him laugh. One card from the ants contained seventeen signatures and required a magnifying glass as well as considerable patience. The flowers had multiplied overnight. Nobody understood how. Every available table, shelf, windowsill and chair now hosted at least one bouquet. The house smelled like a botanical garden that had won an award for excellence. Blenchy carefully arranged some of the flowers into new positions, admiring the colors. He looked less like a patient and more like the manager of a very successful flower exhibition. Visitors continued arriving throughout the day. The front door barely had time to close before another knock followed. Some brought fruit. Some brought soup. Others brought magazines, puzzles and books. Yet somehow, despite the variety of gifts, every single visitor also seemed to arrive carrying hot malt beverages. By midday, there were enough mugs in the house to serve refreshments to a medium sized conference. Nobody wanted to be the person who failed to bring malt. Mama Woolybay observed the situation carefully. After placing a fresh tray of biscuits beside the bed and adjusting a blanket that did not actually need adjusting, she put on her serious expression. The room immediately became quiet. "If this fever plans to stay another day, perhaps a blood test would be sensible," she said gently. The suggestion was received with great respect. Even Mr Swanse nodded thoughtfully, which was unusual because he normally nodded before people had finished speaking. Mr Swanse arrived shortly afterward carrying what could only be described as an alarming quantity of goodies. There were pastries, comic books, fruit baskets, puzzles, novelty socks, herbal teas, biscuits and something he claimed was a limited edition recovery cushion. Nobody knew where he found these things. Nobody asked. Experience had taught the citizens of ZANABIA that questions directed at Mr Swanse often produced answers that raised even more questions. Meanwhile, the alligator heads arrived carrying blankets. Not one or two blankets but an entire collection. Thick blankets. Soft blankets. Patterned blankets. Blankets with stars. Blankets with flowers. One blanket was so enormous that three Woolybays briefly got lost inside it. Soon Blenchy's room looked less like a bedroom and more like the blanket department of a particularly enthusiastic department store. As evening settled over ZANABIA, the fever still remained, though it seemed a little weaker than before. The flowers glowed softly in the fading light. Friends chatted quietly. Visitors came and went with warm smiles. The scent of soup drifted through the house. Blenchy looked around at the gifts, the cards, the blankets and the faces that had gathered around him. His fever had not yet gone away, but something else had arrived in overwhelming abundance. Care. In ZANABIA, nobody faced discomfort alone. A single sick friend could turn an ordinary house into the warmest place in the entire town.