Alchemy of Glass
Page 29
As he made his way the short distance to the Owl, Gaelan wondered what met Bell this morn in his part of London. There were plenty of physicians up there. What would they do to treat it? Bell at least had a small amount of the salt solution, perhaps enough for five or six patients. Then what? Laudanum and leeches. And watch them all perish.
Gaelan hesitated at the door of the White Owl, steeling himself for it, knowing he would be in there for hours to come. Might he transform it into a proper sick house, separate those with sudor anglicus from those not yet afflicted? It was certainly a large enough establishment.
He gazed up, memorizing the sapphire blue sky, cloudless and perfect, knowing that the hours ahead would be dark. The ceaseless cawing of ravens had grown increasingly loud as he neared the Owl, where they had undoubtedly discovered the rich feeding grounds of Smithfield. He inhaled a deep breath and went inside.
Not even plague had prepared Gaelan for what greeted him in the White Owl. He’d expected death, the beginnings of decay, the stiffened bodies of the fever’s victims.
Perhaps it was the place, teeming with disease already. Add to that the crowded quarters, the offal and waste of animal, their carcasses rotting in the market stalls after slaughter. He’d known the place was overrun with vermin of all sorts: rats, cats, feral dogs that roamed at night to clean up the day’s leavings.
The White Owl would need to be stripped bare to the walls, scrubbed and painted once this had passed, but for now there was naught to do but leave the rodents, beetles, and birds to their job. Half the corpses themselves had been stripped of their faces, leaving little but skeletal masks in eternal grins as if to mock the yet living.
Reaching for a thick tallow candle, Gaelan nearly toppled into a mass of gore and innards that had, only hours before, been a human being. A man, he thought absently after lighting the candle. Was there a soul yet alive in this . . . mass grave? He had to look.
Behind the bar, a mangy gray dog of no discernable breed sniffed at a possible bit of dinner. Gaelan watched it lick at the face as if to find a bit of life beneath the grime and dried sweat—a reason not to devour it. A small pack of rats approached, and dog backed off to growl at them, unafraid of the razor teeth. The rats, equally unafraid, continued toward their prize. The dog wheeled in an aggressive stance and snarled viciously, sending the rats scattering away toward another victim.
The dog resumed his sniffing and licking at the prone body, and then sat still at its side, unmoving. Waiting, watching in all directions for the rats to return, tense, its tail swiping at the floor behind it.
Suddenly, the dog moved and again licked at the face and neck, the arms, hands, now with obvious purpose. The body moved.
Gaelan approached cautiously, hoping without hope that the frightened dog would refrain from attacking him. He would never get near enough to examine the man, not with the animal standing guard. Saving even one life in this terrible place would be worth the wait.
A groan, and then another as the person tried to speak. “Help!” A harsh whisper croaked in Gaelan’s direction. “It’s all right. He won’t bite you,” he continued with difficulty. “I don’t think so anyway. Never bit anyone before.” The words were slurred and only barely coherent.
Gaelan approached, observing the man’s pallor and the sweating, though it was very hot and stuffy in the Owl, and it could be anything. Could be the fever or not.
“Can you walk?”
The man nodded. “Yeah, I think so.” Pushing himself up on his arms, the man sat, and then wobbled to his feet hesitantly before looking about him. “What happened here?”
“All dead. More in the street. Yet, you’re alive, aren’t you?”
“If y’call it that. I feel like . . .” He began to keel over, nearly falling on the dog, who growled at Gaelan as he caught the man before he hit the floor.
“Let’s get you out of here. That your dog?”
“Yeah.”
“Good dog. Kept the rats from eating you alive.” Gaelan looped an arm around the man’s back and dragged him from the Owl as the dog watched him warily. “What’s your name?”
“James Wiley. Is it plague, sir?”
“I don’t think so. Look, I’m the apothecary here. I’ve a medicine for the illness, but I must inject it into you. A sharp syringe. Has to go right into your body.”
“I don’t—”
“I won’t do a thing yet. I need to know if what you’ve got is what . . .” Gaelan pointed toward the door with his thumb. “Is what took all them.”
Wiley was weak, but not nearly as bad off as some. And he’d survived the night when all those others in there had not. He was still sweating, though it was cool. And shivering. “Give me your hand.” It was ablaze. Perhaps it was just at the beginning of its course, but the man seemed to be suffering the ailment. He seemed strong enough to wait the few moments to extricate him from the mass carnage of the White Owl and get him back to the shop.
“Walk back with me to the apothecary. I’ve a small infirmary, and there I can better care for you. It is certainly cleaner.”
“I don’t know if I can . . .” Wiley’s breathing began to come in shorter bursts, as if he’d run a great distance. His lips had taken on a blue tinge.
“Let me see you fingers.” The nail beds were blue. “I shall need to carry you.” There appeared to be no one else alive, as Mrs. Mills had said.
Wiley stood shakily, leaning against Gaelan’s shoulder. His scream pierced through Gaelan’s ear and through his head as Wiley froze before swooning, taking Gaelan with him, tangling them together with several corpses. The contents of his leather pouch lay scattered amongst the stiffened limbs of the dead.
Damnation! He lunged for the vials, collecting them back into the pouch. He retrieved the inoculation device, quickly examining it for damage before placing it carefully back into the pouch.
Gaelan cursed as he saw the other vial, its ground glass bung sitting next to the bottle, the liquid spilled. He collected the nearly empty bottle and stopper, carefully putting them back together and replacing them in the pouch. Three vials would have to do, or he would need to ride five days to Dernwode and retrieve more of the needed herb, found only there, according to his grandfather’s writings.
“Mr. Wiley! Are you . . . ?” The man was not conscious; Gaelan dragged him out into the street, his hands slippery from the oily medication. He wiped them on his trousers.
He was too late. Wiley was dead. The lone survivor of the White Owl was gone. The dog sat beside the dead man, licking away, a useless effort to revive his owner. Gaelan coaxed the animal to follow, knew it would be futile. Best to leave him to find out for himself.
He’d been too late. Would it have made a difference had he treated Wiley then and there in the pub? He’d no way of knowing. One survivor—Gaelan couldn’t manage even that. How could he face Sally? Still, there were others—too many others in all of Smithfield, and beyond, who might yet be helped.
Sally was awaiting him in the shop. “Ah, there you are, Mr. Erceldoune. I’ve done as you asked. The . . . lady is resting. I’ve cleaned her up best I could. Wrapped her up in a sheet. Didn’t know what else—”
“The men in the examining room . . . are they—?”
“Oh, they’re just fine. As if they’d not been sick at all. Like magic, I suppose you’d say. Ready to go on home. Least that’s what they say.”
She hadn’t asked about the White Owl. She didn’t need to. She’d seen it.
“Mr. Erceldoune. Mind if I go back home now?”
“In a few minutes. There is something . . .” Gaelan pulled back the curtain to the exam room, entering with Sally close behind.
The younger of the men was standing, the sweating subsided; his color seemed good. “Let’s just have a look at you, eh? Have a seat.”
The fever was gone; it was as if he’d not been ill in the first place. He wanted to leave, but where to? Home, where their families likely had perished by now?
Betts was next. Suddenly, the room spun, sending Gaelan reeling. He reached out for something to support him as he fell, and instead slipped to the ground, back up against the counter, head in his hands as the full impact of this epidemic stuck its blow like a barbed club. Who did he think he was that he might manage such a thing? One man. And where to put the sick? Not the Owl. Not now. Perhaps a week, but by then . . . mass graves. They’d need mass graves. And quicklime. He opened his eyes, shutting them immediately, unable to fight through a new wave of dizziness.
“Mr. Erceldoune?”
Sally Mills stood above him, her brows drawn together in concern.
Gaelan sucked in a breath before moving, shooing her away as he stood, as he took a moment to regain his bearings.
“You all right, Mr. Erceldoune?”
“Fine. I . . . we need to speak. Come with me.”
Gaelan led her to his office, sitting her down on a settee, crouching low, taking her red, puffy hands in his. “I must talk to you about the Owl. It is a disaster in there, I’m afraid. You can’t go back until . . .” Until when? There had been many a contagious pestilence he’d been through: typhus, malaria, smallpox . . . plague. “Do you know your Bible, Mrs. Mills?”
“Indeed, sir, though not as well as I might. My grandfather was a vicar.”
“There is a passage in it concerning leprosy—”
“But, sir . . . this is not—”
“No, it is not, but I believe there might be something useful to be found there for our circumstances. The pestilence must be eradicated, even from the very walls where it might lurk unseen, from the floorboards, the pottery. Everything must be scrubbed clean. Clothing as well, bedding, everything.”
“It is a task to behold, then.”
“I am afraid so. An arduous one. I’ve a good cleaner—a strong one that would serve well to eradicate the contagion from the Owl. From everywhere, in fact.”
If only people might employ it, and not scoff at it as yet another apothecary’s trick. It was an old formula: soap made of quicklime and mercury salts and washed sand for scrubbing. And with some good fortune and the hard work of volunteers, the White Owl might be suitable for a pest house in hours—once the bodies had been cleared away.
“Mrs. Mills, I shall arrange for the dead to be removed forthwith, and if I might impose upon you to set up in your establishment a sick house once the Owl is cleaned. Temporarily, of course, until this disease has . . . moved on, as it surely will.”
“I do not know, sir, if—”
“I must have . . . we must have a place to separate the sick from the well to cut off the killer at its knees. I must know who needs the medicine, and who not.” He would treat as many as he could, and make up a batch of the preventative medicine, perhaps this night. Offer it free of charge. Until his supplies ran out entirely. It would have to do.
“I believe you, Mr. Erceldoune, but the Owl—”
“You will have few customers whilst this disease haunts Smith-field, I suspect; this will be a town of ghosts and little else until it is eradicated from our midst.”
CHAPTER 35
Gaelan had gone through the three vials within two hours. There was nothing to do now but treat the symptoms best he might. The notes suggested that breathing and the sweating itself were the worst of it. If only he might successfully treat those alone, he might save at least a few.
If only there was a way for him to leave the shop. Get to the Borders and Dernwode House. And its herb garden. Until then, best he could do was treat the symptoms, a small measure, and not reliable.
Mrs. Mills entered the shop, startling Gaelan from his thoughts.
“Mr. Erceldoune. The undertakers have removed the corpses from the Owl, and already the goodly folk have begun the cleaning up. It will be ready for you in an hour; perhaps less.”
Gaelan could manage only a tight nod, his eyes closed against the raging pain lancing through his head. “Very good, Mrs. Mills. Let me know when it is read—”
“Mr. Erceldoune.” A new voice. Bell. Gaelan ran a shaky hand through his hair, endeavoring to comport himself. He was in no mood for an argument.
“Dr. Bell. I was only just this minute wondering about how you were faring on your end of London with this terrible scourge.” Gaelan had read the broadsheet reports of deaths in all parts of London, but he was anxious to hear it from a doctor.
“Not at all well. I’ve lost at least twenty patients this past day alone. And you with your ancient treatment for what you believe is an ancient disease?”
Bell’s tone seemed almost conciliatory, no sign of provocation.
“There are many dead; it is impossible to keep apace. Yet, I’ve had some success with my treatment. Twenty-five treated, and in each case, within minutes all signs of the illness are vanished. It is, I admit, quite something to behold. My only regret is that so many died ‘ere I’d been able to create the treatment. And that I lack sufficient quantities to . . . treat more than I’ve done. However, I am preparing a tonic in my laboratory to treat the sweating itself and the breathing difficulties, which seems on its own to hasten death. A slight alteration to the salt tonic you used with some success the other day . . . My hope—”
“Can you not make more of the medicine that—”
“A rare herb is needed, available only in a place too far off to be practical. Once I’ve finished with the new tonic, I might risk the long ride to the Scottish Borders, where I might obtain—”
“And this you also learned from those ancient texts?” Once again, there was no antagonism in his voice.
“Yes, I—”
“Easy now, Mr. Erceldoune. I came only to apologize. Something I must tell you about our Mr. Barlow, and you will find it remarkably interesting, I am certain, if a bit unnerving.”
Barlow. The first to cross Gaelan’s threshold, and quickly succumbing to the illness. “What of him?”
“I heard it being said at the club, word of a Mr. Barlow of Smith-field. Worked at the Man O’War. You’ve heard of the place?”
“Of course—”
“An incident less than a fortnight ago. A simple grave robbing. Barlow and his . . . colleagues . . . thought it a paupers’ grave, not far from here. Bodies ripe for their trade. Proximity to the Man O’War, you see. But it was no paupers’ grave.”
“Then what is it?”
“Come. I shall show you where I was told it may be found.”
“But I don’t—”
“Just come. Now.”
Gaelan did not budge.
“Please, Mr. Erceldoune. I promise you will not be sorry.”
A short walk half a mile outside Smithfield. A field overgrown with lavender but for a gaping hole at its center. A mass grave.
“You see, Mr. Erceldoune. The attire. An incredibly old grave.”
Indeed, Gaelan recognized the clothing. “Sixteenth century?”
“So it would seem. Apparently, Barlow and his fellow . . . procurers . . . of corpses opened the grave and found not one body, but hundreds. Rather, the remains.”
“The sweating sickness.”
“It is impossible to say for certain, but could not the sickness have spread from here into the ether and—”
Indeed. “The remains must be burned. Hot fire, then the covered over with quicklime.” Only bones and desiccated clothing remained, but if uncovering even that released sudor anglicus into the air about Smithfield and carried it throughout London, there was no telling . . .
Now there was no choice—Gaelan had to get to Dernwode forthwith. It would do little to destroy the source—the point of origin, while those already affected continued to spread it. Until the dragon was slayed.
“I apologize, Mr. Erceldoune, for you know your trade, and your guess about the sweating sickness is extraordinary. I confess
I am quite curious about this cure of yours. Would not mind trying it myself, if—”
“As I recall, you rebuffed such an offer only days ago. You called my ways ridiculous—alchemy conjured with ill-conceived magic tricks.” No, Gaelan would not exact more of a price to see Bell grovel. It was enough to hear him admit he was wrong.
“My dear sir—”
“As for the medicine, as I said, I’ve no more of it, even for my own patients, until such time as I might ride to the Borders. Three days there and three back—and that is only if the roads are good and the weather holds.”
“Three days seems a long journey to gather herbs.”
“It is a unique place. Gardens unlike anywhere else. In any event, upon my return, I would be happy to provide you a vial or two, if you are inclined to put it to use, but I must tell you, the medicine must be inserted beneath the skin. Injected with a device for such purpose.”
“A device?”
“Forged of glass with a silver-nickel frame to facilitate the insertion of a fine hollow tube, a syringe. Pierced through the skin. I would be . . . honored . . . to create for you such a device.”
“Perhaps when the crisis has passed, I should like the opportunity to beat you, sir. A rematch in chess. But that is for another day, assuming we survive this plague. For now, I must get back to the pest-house outside Hay Hill and my patients.”
“Good day, then.” Gaelan bowed slightly and ushered Bell from the shop.
“Is he gone?”
Caitrin Kinston whispered from behind the examining room curtain. In all the chaos, he’d much forgotten about her. “Perhaps you’d best wait until he’s down the street a bit more. Should he return—”
“Mr. Erceldoune, I hope I’ve proved my value to you. I would hope . . . after a while you might reconsider and take me on as your apprentice.”
Indeed, the girl had proved herself as good an apprentice as he’d employed in many years. Yet, how could he hire—a woman? It was not possible. Even if she was serious, which was unlikely, as she would eventually grow bored and wish to return to the finery of her father’s home. And that was the least of the problems ahead should he . . .