Dunworthy looked at the medic, waiting for her to ask Mary if smallpox had come through the net, but she was looking uninterestedly at her clutch of papers.
“Can I go back to my dig?” Montoya asked.
“Not unless it’s inside the quarantine perimeter,” Mary said.
“Well, great,” she said, jamming her papers angrily into the pockets of her terrorist jacket. “The whole village will have washed away while I’m stuck here.” She stomped out.
“Are there any other questions?” Mary said imperturbably. “Very well, then, I’ll see you all at seven o’clock.”
The medics ambled out, the one who had asked about the virus yawning and stretching as if she were preparing for another nap. Latimer was still sitting down, watching his temp monitor. Gilchrist said something snappish to him, and he got up and put his coat on and collected his umbrella and his stack of papers.
“I expect to be kept informed of every development,” Gilchrist said. “I am contacting Basingame and telling him it’s essential that he return and take charge of this matter.” He swept out and then had to wait, holding the door open, for Latimer to pick up two papers he had dropped.
“Go round in the morning and collect Latimer, won’t you?” Mary said, looking through the contacts lists. “He’ll never remember he’s to be here at seven.”
“I want to see Badri,” Dunworthy said.
“ ‘Laboratory, Brasenose,’ ” she said, reading from the sheets. “ ‘Dean’s office, Brasenose. Laboratory, Brasenose.’ Didn’t anyone see Badri except in the net?”
“In the ambulance on the way here he said, ‘Something wrong,’ ” Dunworthy said. “There could have been slippage. If she’s more than a week off, she’ll have no idea when to rendezvous.”
She didn’t answer. She sorted through the sheets again, frowning.
“I need to make certain there weren’t any problems with the fix,” he said insistently.
She looked up. “Very well,” she said. “These contact sheets are hopeless. There are great gaps in Badri’s whereabouts for the past three days. He’s the only person who can tell us where he was and with whom he came in contact.” She led the way back down the corridor. “I’ve had a nurse with him, asking him questions, but he’s very disoriented and fearful of her. Perhaps he won’t be as frightened of you.”
She led the way down the corridor to the lift and said, “Ground floor, please,” into its ear. “Badri’s only conscious for a few moments at a time,” she said to Dunworthy. “It may be most of the night.”
“That’s all right,” Dunworthy said. “I won’t be able to rest till I’m sure Kivrin is safely through.”
They went up two flights in the lift, down another corridor, and through a door marked “NO ENTRANCE, ISOLATION WARD.” Inside the door, a grim-looking ward sister was sitting at a desk watching a monitor.
“I’m taking Mr. Dunworthy in to see Mr. Chaudhuri,” Mary said. “We’ll need SPG’s. How is he?”
“His fever’s up again—39.8,” the sister said, handing them the SPG’s, which were plastene-sealed bundles of paper clothing gowns that stripped up the back, caps, imperm masks that were impossible to get on over the caps, bootielike snugs that went on over their shoes, and imperm gloves. Dunworthy made the mistake of putting his gloves on first and took what seemed like hours attempting to unfold the gown and affix the mask.
“You’ll need to ask very specific questions,” Mary said. “Ask him what he did when he got up this morning, if he’d stayed the night with anyone, where he ate breakfast, who was there, that sort of thing. His high fever means that he’s very disoriented. You may have to ask your questions several times.” She opened the door to the room.
It wasn’t really a room—there was only space for the bed and a narrow campstool, not even a chair. The wall behind the bed was covered with displays and equipment. The far wall had a curtained window and more equipment. Mary glanced briefly at Badri and then began scanning the displays.
Dunworthy looked at the screens. The one nearest him was full of numbers and letters. The bottom line read “ICU 14320691 22-12-54 1803 200/RPT 1800CRS IMJPCLN 200MG/q6h NHS40-211-7 M AHRENS.” Apparently the doctor’s orders.
The other screens showed spiking lines and columns of figures. None of them made any sense except for a number in the middle of the small display second from the right. It read “Temp: 39.9.” Dear God.
He looked at Badri. He was lying with his arms outside the bedclothes, his arms both connected to drips that hung from stanchions. One of the drips had at least five bags feeding into the main tube. His eyes were closed, and his face looked thin and drawn, as if he had lost weight since this morning. His dark skin had a strange purplish cast to it.
“Badri,” Mary said, leaning over him, “can you hear us?”
He opened his eyes and looked at them without recognition, which was probably due less to the virus than to the fact that they were covered from head to foot in paper.
“It’s Mr. Dunworthy,” Mary said helpfully. “He’s come to see you.” Her bleeper started up.
“Mr. Dunworthy?” he said hoarsely and tried to sit up.
Mary pushed him gently down into the pillow. “Mr. Dunworthy has some questions for you,” she said, patting his chest gently the way she had in the laboratory at Brasenose. She straightened up, watching the displays on the wall behind him. “Lie still. I need to leave now, but Mr. Dunworthy will stay with you. Rest and try to answer Mr. Dunworthy’s questions.” She left.
“Mr. Dunworthy?” Badri said again as if he were trying to make sense of the words.
“Yes,” Dunworthy said. He sat down on the campstool. “How are you feeling?”
“When do you expect him back?” Badri said, and his voice sounded weak and strained. He tried to sit up again. Dunworthy put out his hand to stop him.
“Have to find him,” he said. “There’s something wrong.”
8
They were burning her at the stake. She could feel the flames. They must already have tied her to the stake, though she could not remember that. She remembered them lighting the fire. She had fallen off the white horse, and the cutthroat had picked her up and carried her over to it.
“We must go back to the drop,” she had told him.
He had leaned over her, and she could see his cruel face in the flickering firelight.
“Mr. Dunworthy will open the net as soon as he realizes something’s wrong,” she had told him. She shouldn’t have told him that. He had thought she was a witch and had brought her here to be burned.
“I’m not a witch,” she said, and immediately a hand came out of nowhere and rested coolly on her forehead.
“Shh,” a voice said.
“I am not a witch,” she said, trying to speak slowly so they would understand her. The cutthroat hadn’t understood her. She had tried to tell him they shouldn’t leave the drop, but he had paid no attention to her. He had put her on his white horse and led it out of the clearing and through the stand of white-trunked birches, into the thickest part of the forest.
She had tried to pay attention to which way they were going so she could find her way back, but the man’s swinging lantern had lit only a few inches of ground at their feet, and the light had hurt her eyes. She had closed them, and that was a mistake because the horse’s awkward gait made her dizzy, and she had fallen off the horse onto the ground.
“I am not a witch,” she said. “I’m an historian.”
“Hawey fond enyowuh thissla dey?” the woman’s voice said, far away. She must have come forward to put a faggot on the fire and then stepped back again, away from the heat.
“Enwodes fillenun gleydund sore destroyste” a man’s voice said, and the voice sounded like Mr. Dunworthy’s. “Ayeen mynarmehs hoor alle op hider ybar.”
“Sweltes shay dumorte blauen?” the woman said.
“Mr. Dunworthy,” Kivrin said, holding out her arms to him, “I’ve fallen among cutthroats!” but sh
e couldn’t see him through the smothering smoke.
“Shh,” the woman said, and Kivrin knew that it was later, that she had, impossibly, slept. How long does it take to burn, she wondered. The fire was so hot she should be ashes by now, but when she held her hand up, it looked untouched, though little red flames flickered along the edges of the fingers. The light from the flames hurt her eyes. She closed them.
I hope I don’t fall off the horse again, she thought. She had been clinging to the horse, both arms around its neck, though its uneven walk made her head ache even worse, and she had not let go, but she had fallen off, even though Mr. Dunworthy had insisted she learn how to ride, had arranged for her to have lessons at a riding stable near Woodstock. Mr. Dunworthy had told her this would happen. He had told her they would burn her at the stake.
The woman put a cup to her lips. It must be vinegar in a sponge, Kivrin thought, they gave that to martyrs. But it wasn’t. It was a warm, bitter liquid. The woman had to tilt Kivrin’s head forward to drink it, and it came to Kivrin for the first time that she was lying down.
I’ll have to tell Mr. Dunworthy, she thought, they burned people at the stake lying down. She tried to bring her hands up to her lips in the position of prayer to activate the corder, but the weight of the flames dragged them down again.
I’m ill, Kivrin thought, and knew that the warm liquid had been a medicinal potion of some kind, and that it had brought her fever down a little. She was not lying on the ground after all, but in a bed in a dark room, and the woman who had hushed her and given her the liquid was there beside her. She could hear her breathing. Kivrin tried to move her head to see her, but the effort made it hurt again. The woman must be asleep. Her breathing was even and loud, almost like snoring. It hurt Kivrin’s head to listen to it.
I must be in the village, she thought. The redheaded man must have brought me here.
She had fallen off the horse, and the cutthroat had helped her back on, but when she looked into his face, he hadn’t looked like a cutthroat at all. He was young, with red hair and a kind expression, and he had leaned over her where she was sitting against the wagon wheel, kneeling on one knee beside her, and said, “Who are you?”
She had understood him perfectly.
“Canstawd ranken derwyn?” the woman said and tilted Kivrin’s head forward for more of the bitter liquid. Kivrin could barely swallow. The fire was inside her throat now. She could feel the little orange flames, though the liquid should have put them out. She wondered if he had taken her to some foreign land, Spain or Greece, where the people spoke a language they hadn’t put into the interpreter.
She had understood the redheaded man perfectly. “Who are you?” he had asked, and she had thought that the other man must be a slave he’d brought back from the Crusades, a slave who spoke Turkish or Arabic, and that was why she couldn’t understand him.
“I’m an historian,” she had said, but when she looked up into his kind face it wasn’t him. It was the cutthroat.
She looked wildly around for the redheaded man, but he wasn’t there. The cutthroat picked up sticks and laid them on some stones for a fire.
“Mr. Dunworthy!” Kivrin called out desperately, and the cutthroat came and knelt in front of her, the light from his lantern flickering on his face.
“Fear not,” he said. “He will return soon.”
“Mr. Dunworthy!” she screamed, and the redheaded man came and knelt beside her again.
“I shouldn’t have left the drop,” she told him, watching his face so he wouldn’t turn into the cutthroat. “Something must have gone wrong with the fix. You must take me back there.”
He unfastened the cloak he was wearing, swinging it easily off his shoulders, and laid it over her, and she knew he understood.
“I need to go home,” she said to him as he bent over her. He had a lantern with him, and it lit his kind face and flickered on his red hair like flames.
“Godufadur,” he called out, and she thought, That’s the slave’s name: Gauddefaudre. He will ask the slave to tell him where he found me, and then he’ll take me back to the drop. And Mr. Dunworthy. Mr. Dunworthy would be frantic that she wasn’t there when he opened the net. It’s all right, Mr. Dunworthy, she had said silently. I’m coming.
“Dreede nawmaydde,” the redheaded man had said and lifted her up in his arms. “Fawrthah Galwinnath coam.”
“I’m ill,” Kivrin said to the woman, “so I can’t understand you,” but this time no one leaned forward out of the darkness to quiet her. Maybe they had tired of watching her burn and had gone away. It was certainly taking a long time, though the fire seemed to be growing hotter now.
The redheaded man had set her on the white horse before him and ridden into the woods, and she had thought he must be taking her back to the drop. The horse had a saddle now, and bells, and the bells jangled as they rode, playing a tune. It was “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” and the bells grew louder and louder with each verse, till they sounded like the bells of St. Mary the Virgin’s.
They rode a long way, and she thought they must surely be near the drop by now.
“How far is the drop?” she asked the redheaded man. “Mr. Dunworthy will be so worried,” but he didn’t answer her. He rode out of the woods and down a hill. The moon was up, shining palely in the branches of a stand of narrow, leafless trees, and on the church at the bottom of the hill.
“This isn’t the drop,” she said, and tried to pull on the horse’s reins to turn it back the way they had come, but she did not dare take her arms from around the redheaded man’s neck for fear she might fall. And then they were at a door, and it opened, and opened again, and there was a fire and light and the sound of bells, and she knew they had brought her back to the drop after all.
“Shay boyen syke nighonn tdeeth,” the woman said. Her hands were wrinkled and rough on Kivrin’s skin. She pulled the bed coverings up around Kivrin. Fur, Kivrin could feel soft fur against her face, or maybe it was her hair.
“Where have you brought me to?” Kivrin asked. The woman leaned forward a little, as if she couldn’t hear her, and Kivrin realized she must have spoken in English. Her interpreter wasn’t working. She was supposed to be able to think her words in English and speak them in Middle English. Perhaps that was why she couldn’t understand them, because her interpreter wasn’t working.
She tried to think how to say it in Middle English. “Where hast thou bringen me to?” The construction was wrong. She must ask, “What is this place?” but she could not remember the Middle English for place.
She could not think. The woman kept piling on blankets, and the more furs she laid over her, the colder Kivrin got, as if the woman were somehow putting out the fire.
They would not understand what she meant if she asked, “What is this place?” She was in a village. The redheaded man had brought her to a village. They had ridden past a church and up to a large house. She must ask, “What is the name of this village?”
The word for “place” was demain, but the construction was still wrong. They would use the French construction, wouldn’t they?
“Quelle demeure avez vous m’apporté?” she said aloud, but the woman had gone away, and that was not right. They had not been French for two hundred years. She must ask the question in English. “Where is the village you have brought me to?” But what was the word for village?
Mr. Dunworthy had told her she might not be able to depend on the interpreter, that she had to take lessons in Middle English and Norman French and German to counterbalance discrepancies in pronunciation. He had made her memorize pages and pages of Chaucer. “Soun ye nought but eyr ybroken And every speche that ye spoken.” No. No. “Where is this village you have brought me to?” What was the word for village?
He had brought her to a village and knocked on a door. A big man had come to the door, carrying an ax. To cut the wood for the fire, of course. A big man and then a woman, and they had both spoken words Kivrin couldn’t understand, and the door ha
d shut, and they had been outside in the darkness.
“Mr. Dunworthy! Dr. Ahrens!” she had cried, and her chest hurt too much to get the words out. “You mustn’t let them close the drop,” she had said to the redheaded man, but he had changed again into a cutthroat, a thief.
“Nay,” he had said. “She is but injured,” and then the door had opened again, and he had carried her in to be burnt.
She was so hot.
“Thawmot goonawt plersoun roshundt prayenum comth ithre,” the woman said, and Kivrin tried to raise her head to drink, but the woman wasn’t holding a cup. She was holding a candle close to Kivrin’s face. Too close. Her hair would catch fire.
“Der maydemot nedes dya, ” the woman said.
The candle flickered close to her cheek. Her hair was on fire. Orange and red flames burned along the edges of her hair, catching stray wisps and twisting them into ash.
“Shh,” the woman said, and tried to capture Kivrin’s hands, but Kivrin struggled against her until her hands were free. She struck at her hair, trying to put the flames out. Her hands caught fire.
“Shh,” the woman said, and held her hands still. It was not the woman. The hands were too strong. Kivrin tossed her head from side to side, trying to escape the flames, but they were holding her head still, too. Her hair blazed up in a cloud of fire.
It was smoky in the room when she woke up. The fire must have gone out while she slept. That had happened to one of the martyrs when they had burned him at the stake. His friends had piled green faggots on the fire so he would die of the smoke before the fire reached him, but it had put the fire nearly out instead, and he had smoldered for hours.
The woman leaned over her. It was so smoky Kivrin couldn’t see whether she was young or old. The redheaded man must have put out the fire. He had spread his cloak over her and then gone over to the fire and put it out, kicking it apart with his boots, and the smoke had come up and blinded her.
The woman dripped water on her, and the drops sizzled on her skin. “Hauccaym anchi towoem denswile?” the woman said.
Doomsday Book Page 12