Don't Leave Me Tongue Tied

[Paul Pince]

14 October 1882

It was ironic. Mary Pince had had to beg her son to eat his fruit growing up. She'd keep telling him how they were fortunate to be able to afford fruit, compared to other families. Paul, however, had had a sweet tooth that his father had encouraged. Was he being punished for his gluttony and ungratefulness now? God was punishing him by making berries the best meal he'd had in weeks.

Paul had been napping under a tree, when he woke up choking. He felt as though he had a gag in his mouth.

"Uuuuh!" he made, waking up some other men in the process.

He didn't want to die!

@'J. Alfred Darrow'

  

[J. Alfred Darrow]

J. Alfred Darrow had already been awake for twenty minutes by the time he heard Pince start making noise. The naturalists tended to be the last to rise, because no one bothered to wake them until the last minute. There wasn't much they could do to be helpful in the mornings, and they were sort of an entity unto themselves. The majority of the camp, therefore, had already discovered that the berries last night had not been a good idea. They could still breathe and they could still drink, and there wasn't anything they could do about it in the meantime.

Knowing better than to try and speak, he got Pince's attention by nudging him with his toe, then shot him a weary sort of frown, as if to say yes, we know.

  

[Paul Pince]

Paul was panic ridden and he couldn't really understand what John Darrow was trying to convey to him.

"Ah ee go-ee oh?" he exclaimed. He then realized that he wasn't gagged. His tongue was the problem. He stuck it out and started touching it frantically with his fingers.

  

[J. Alfred Darrow]

Alfred had no idea what Pince was trying to convey, but whatever it was he didn't think it was very important. Pince usually didn't have anything particularly important to say. He did look rather panicked, though, and Alfred didn't want him to do anything stupid like run off into the forest trying to find a cure for his swollen tongue if he suddenly decided he was dying, or something.

With a slight shove to get his attention, Alfred stuck his own tongue out at him. He pointed to it and then gestured widely to the group and hoped Pince would get the idea.

  

[Paul Pince]

Oooooh.

It was somewhat comforting that he wasn't the only one with a swollen tongue. That still wasn't enough to put Paul fully at ease.

"Sss-ck-nsss?" he tried to ask. It wouldn't be the first time in their journey that they'd fall sick.

Paul's heart started beating faster. He didn't want to die!

  

[J. Alfred Darrow]

That, at least, was close enough to speech that Alfred could recognize what Pince was trying to say. He didn't have an answer, though--the best guess he had was that it was due to the berries they'd eaten, but he didn't know. They typically tried to introduce uncertain foods slowly, by only giving them to one or two people at a time and in small amounts to watch the reactions, but they'd all been too hungry last night to bother with such decorum. He also didn't know whether the swollen tongues were the worst of it or only a precursor to further symptoms. Maybe their tongues would swell up even more and they'd all die of thirst, or they'd stay this way too long and they'd starve to death.

If he was going to die, Alfred thought he would much prefer not to starve to death. It was just so dreadfully slow and he'd had quite enough experience starving already, thank you very much.

He shrugged. He didn't have anything encouraging to say. Alfred gingerly tucked his tongue back into his mouth.

  

[Paul Pince]

Paul didn't like this. He didn't like not having an answer, or a possible solution to this problem. He didn't like the possibility of dying. That had been a possibility since the dragon-pox epidemic, really, but it was the first time that Paul felt that he was actually close to dying. He'd liked to think that he wasn't afraid of death, but now that it was such a possibility...

He didn't want to die, damnit!

"Mhmmm!" Paul exclaimed in despair. "Uuuuuhh-mmm!"

  

[J. Alfred Darrow]

Alfred would not have believed it prior to this day, but even having lost the ability to talk, Pince found a way to remain the most talkative member of the expedition. He rolled his eyes and glanced at the rest of the camp, where people were packing things up and getting ready to leave. There wasn't anything else to do, really. For now they weren't dying, and they wouldn't be able to stop themselves from doing so if that became a real possibility. Alfred's attentions could probably be used elsewhere, and Pince's panic attack wasn't really his concern unless it started to affect the rest of the crew. That being said, he didn't want to leave him here making those desperate noises.

Taking his pack off his shoulders, Alfred fished around for a notebook and scribbled down onto the back page, Not dying yet; get a hold of yourself. Thank Merlin for ink-containing quills; he would have run out of ink long ago if he had to keep track of a inkwell or a spare bottle. The quill on its own was at least manageable.

He tore out the sheet and handed it to Pince with a severe look.

  

[Paul Pince]

Paul, staying very much in character with his childish outburst, calmed down when the other man reprimanded him. He tried to steady his breath though he seemed to have forgotten that his nose had the same capability of exhaling oxygen as his mouth, so it was hard with the swollen tongue.

"Ooh-eee!" Paul made sheepishly.

He then noticed that the other men were leaving. He jumped from his spot on the tree and grabbed the other man's shoulder. "Ooh leee meee!"

  

[J. Alfred Darrow]

Alfred didn't know what he'd done to give Pince the impression he was about to be abandoned, but he rolled his eyes at the sudden contact. He made a sort of mumbled noise of agitation and shook the hand off, then started off in the direction of the head of the pack. Pince was no longer his problem.