Light from Aphelion 2 - Tears of Winter

by Martine Carlsson

  “What are you doing here?” Josselin asked low to the group as if he addressed an unknown species.

  “We wait,” a woman answered from under a web of greasy hair.

  “In here?” Josselin asked.

  “Death won’t find us here. What is already dead can’t die.” The man who had spoken sat on a stone and caressed a cat on his lap.

  “I don’t understand…”

  “The air here is dead. Our bodies are soiled. We are invisible. The stench will protect us,” the man carried on.

  “Do you mean no one has died here?” Josselin asked. He couldn’t say if it was the filth, but all looked sick.

  “Some did,” the man got up. The cat proved to be half of a cat fur with scraps of membrane still hanging from it. The man dropped it in the basin, half amused. “Whoops.” The fur floated before it disappeared without a sound. To the last second, Josselin expected the floating pointy ears to twitch. “The sick often lose their serenity near the end. So, we make them follow the same way. We can’t draw death’s attention on us by pleas and moans.”

  “You drown them in there? This is a crime.”

  “A crime…? A crime,” the man pondered. “Living is a crime. Death judged us unworthy to live. Now we respect her law. We stop living. She won’t fetch us here if we respect the law, will she?” The man gazed at him. “Good citizens follow the law. We are good corpses.”

  On the other side of the basin, an emaciated man in a robe spat out the lichen he was chewing on, rose, staggered, and stumbled into the brown waters. Bubbles popped on the surface, but the man never emerged.

  “He was a good corpse,” the man by his side said. “He knew when to act to protect the community.” The man’s voice broke in a high-pitched giggle, and he walked back to the stone where he had sat.

  In repulsion, Josselin took a few steps away. His foot stumbled against a leg. A half-conscious woman leaned against a block. Wiggling on her bosom, a child, in an incredible muck, grunted. When he heard Josselin’s steps, the child turned his head. His eyes were wild, and his mouth was smeared with blood. Josselin heard him chew.

  I need out. He nipped into a tunnel. He looked back, but no one ran after him. No, they’re dead. Starved, dehydrated, and dead. A ladder led to a manhole. Josselin climbed it and made his way to the surface. Once outside, he filled his lungs with air. It could be full with the plague’s miasma, but it was fresh and somewhat belonged to the world of the living.

  Josselin looked around. He was behind the temple, not far from the hospital. The grey smoke of the pyres showed him the right way, and he reached his destination. Instead of the priests he had expected to meet in the backyard, several men and women in grey robes took care of the piles of corpses. Josselin went to enter the back door, but one of the men blocked his way.

  “The entrance is on the other side,” the man said. “Move away.”

  Josselin sighed. “I am not sick. I came here to help Brother Benedict.”

  “Brother Benedict doesn’t need more help,” the man insisted, still blocking his path.

  “What do you mean, he doesn’t need help? Of course, he does. Every hand can be useful.” Irritation grew in him. Who were these people anyway? “Listen. I am Minister Josselin, and I am sure Brother Benedict would let me in.”

  “Your title has no importance in the eyes of the gods. We are the only help needed. We…”

  “Let him pass,” a priest in the yard said. “Brother Benedict may be waiting for him.”

  The man in grey made a face and grumbled, but he moved to the side.

  Josselin entered the hospital and put his hand on his nose. Luminosity wasn’t a preoccupation, or maybe the dim light hid the worst from the sight. The crowded halls resounded of the death rattles of the wretched sitting and lying down. An army of grey bees fluttered from one sick to the other, sorted them out, and carried them to adjacent rooms.

  In one of the rooms, Brother Benedict sat by a bed. He didn’t wear his bird outfit anymore. Using a sharp blade, he lanced a bubo with precise moves. Out of it seeped thick blood and pus that the monk collected in a porringer. While Josselin approached him, Brother Benedict mumbled words in ancient Trevaldian.

  “Will he live?” Josselin asked.

  Brother Benedict turned his face towards him. The man was a shadow of himself. He opened his mouth as if to speak but uttered no word. Instead, he looked down and towards the agonizing man again, his yellow eyelids half closed. “What can I do for you?”

  “Who are those people, brother?” Josselin asked, cocking his head towards the nurses. “Where are the priests?”

  “There are no priests anymore,” Brother Benedict said, his voice low. “Those people came a few days ago to offer their help. They call themselves the Community of the Renewal.”

  “I’ve never heard of that religious order,” Josselin said, surprised.

  “It is not one. They believe that they can survive the epidemic by a life of abstinence and abnegation.” Josselin understood by his tone that the monk didn’t believe anyone could survive the epidemic. “As long as they are ready to help, I don’t question their beliefs.”

  Brother Benedict got up and clumped to a small office. The place was a mess of cloths, medical utensils, and jars of water. He rinsed the porringer with a liquid and poured the contents into a large jar. With the same liquid, he rubbed the utensils he had used with a cloth, put them on the side, and tossed the soiled cloth in another jar.

  “What do you do with these?” Josselin asked, pointing at the jars.

  “It’s poison. By the end of the day, we burn all of it on the pyres,” Brother Benedict whispered. “The Community brought cloth, vinegar, and gloves with them. More than we can use.” He flopped into a chair for a short rest. His gaze was lost, grazing on the details of the room. A nerve in his cheek twitched compulsively.

  “Brother?” Josselin called him back to him. The monk switched his head slightly. “I came here to help. What can I do?”

  A weary smile appeared on the monk’s face. “I can’t and won’t force anyone to work here.”

  “I want to be here. I don’t want to hide in my town house. I have nothing to lose, brother,” Josselin said in the same exhausted tone.

  “You can assist me. There are masks and outfits you can use.”

  “You don’t use them anymore.”

  “I’ve seen the battlefields, I’ve taken care of villagers and war victims, but the helplessness of families being torn apart, of mothers mourning their dying children…in such a horrendous state… And all the abandoned ones…” Brother Benedict’s voice broke.

  We are dead, Josselin thought. We are all already dead. Why bother with masks? When the monk made the first move, Josselin rose to follow him. He hesitated, turned around, and picked up a glove from the table.

  Josselin spent the rest of the day assisting Brother Benedict in his tasks. Most of the patients in the hospital were in agony. Unable to take care of themselves or driven out of their homes, they had come to the hospital in hope of some comfort more than in hope to get cured. Their forlorn, wet gazes shone when Josselin skimmed a hand or shared a kind word. Their work consisted mostly of cutting buboes, giving the patients water, or moistening their skins. The grey nurses were as abstinent of words as they were concerning their diet, their bodily needs, or even their smiles. Their grey cloaks were made of hemp. When he had asked, one of the women had explained that they had banned all woolen clothes as those might trap the miasma in their fibers.

  At last, dusk came. Josselin rubbed his forehead with his arm, took the cup and towel from the side of the bed, and swiveled towards Brother Benedict.

  “Should we give them food?” Josselin asked.

  “I would like to, but no,” Brother Benedict answered. He sat next to a patient two rows further. He put down his scalpel in a cup with a ting. “Most of them have survived on poorly cooked or sick cats and dogs. With the degradations inflicted by the diseases, their bodies ca
n’t hold food anymore. They would need a proper diet, but the last gruel we still have we keep for the children.”

  Josselin thought of the stock of food in his town house. How many houses still held provisions? No one here could force the people to share what they preciously kept for their families. Should someone claim to have such possession, he would be ripped apart by looters, and the food would never reach places like this hospital. Yet, Josselin could still smuggle bread or fruits to the sick. None of the living corpses here would denounce him, and it might soothe their suffering, as well as his conscience.

  “If you do not mind, I will take my leave,” Josselin said. Brother Benedict nodded. “I will see you tomorrow.”

  Josselin rose and made to the exit among the lines of faceless bodies. Not all of them would pass the night, and new faces would welcome him in the morning.

  Two lanterns lit the courtyard of Khorkina House. Josselin passed by a small chariot which had been packed with bags. Ysmay, one of his laundresses, came out of the house carrying folded sheets on her shoulders.

  “What is going on here?” Josselin asked, confused. Yet, the girl passed in front of him without giving an answer. “I asked you a question,” Josselin insisted, taken aback by the girl’s abnormal rudeness. She didn’t turn around but laid the bundle of sheets in the chariot before moving to the front and placing the yoke on her shoulders.

  Pierce and Fendrel, one of his brewers, stepped onto the threshold. The two men argued with each other. Neither hid his irritation, though Pierce’s language was more refined.

  “You’re free to live like a slave until you rot. We are not his lordship’s dogs. We take our chance,” Fendrel said.

  “How dare you? This is a despicable attitude. Do not expect to come back here,” Pierce exclaimed.

  Fendrel snorted. “It’d make me sick,” he mumbled as he passed by Josselin without a glance.

  Josselin stepped towards Pierce. “What’s going on here?”

  “These scoundrels are leaving. They think they have a better chance on their own,” Pierce sneered.

  Josselin watched Fendrel and Ysmay pass under the porch with their chariot. “This doesn’t make sense. This house has all we need and is secured.”

  “We don’t think so, my lord,” Alis said behind him. The cook had her fists on her hips and glowered at him with disapproval.

  “Why?” Josselin asked, puzzled. A glance at Pierce told him that his steward wasn’t in a better mood towards him. “Have I ever wronged any of you?” Josselin asked his folk.

  Pierce and Alis exchanged looks. “Your protégée wounded my Jane with a knife when the maid caught her stealing from our lady’s boxes.”

  The news dismayed Josselin. “I never…” wanted this to happen? He had lied to his household. He didn’t remember if at first he had been motivated by generosity or by the pride brought by his status of hero. When he had become aware of his mistake, he had behaved like a coward. He had shut his eyes and let the rotten fruit in the place. Now, he paid the consequences. It wasn’t only insubordination. This city was lawless, his folk could as well put him to death and claim it was the plague. Yet, they took their function to heart and might not turn against him or desert should he give the right sign. His servants’ eyes didn’t leave him. They wanted justice.

  “Bring the girl here,” Josselin ordered.

  Josselin and his household gathered in the yard. Two servants from the brewery brought forth Linet. In her plain gown and her maid’s coif, nothing distinguished her from a simple girl of the commons. She fought back like a she-cat in the men’s grips before being tossed to the ground. She raised her head and gazed at the crowd. Her eyes landed on him. Josselin felt uneasy. Had the girl told his household about them? Would she threaten to do so? He wondered what a hero would do. A hero wouldn’t have wallowed with a whore, a voice in his head answered him. His first wish was to send her away. Yet, should she survive, the truth would burst forth eventually. He felt forced to take the only decision left to him.

  “You tried to kill one of my folk,” Josselin said with as much aplomb as he could. “I condemn you to death.”

  Considering the whispers in the crowd, many had not expected this sentence. Linet’s face twisted with confusion and fear. She threw herself on him and grabbed his legs. “No, my lord. Please! I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Please, let me go,” she said, her crying eyes riveted on his.

  I can’t. You would betray me. He searched her face for a mark of falsehood. She wasn’t innocent. She had fooled him. He searched but saw nothing. Nothing but a girl with the wish to live. Besides, killing her himself was against the law. Nysa Serin might have fallen into chaos, but if things had to settle down again… Louis was intransigent. And so was Kilda.

  In a trice, Josselin took his dagger and pierced the girl’s chest. As her hands let go of him, Linet stared at him with her sorrowful, wide eyes. Her body fell to the ground at his feet, wrapped in all her innocence as he had seen her the first time. Devastated, Josselin strode towards the house. His folk could well decide themselves for their future. It didn’t matter anymore.

  34

  They had broken camp at dawn. The darkness had evolved in shades of grey until the sky took a depressing ash color. At least, it didn’t snow anymore. Lissandro had to think long before he could remember a worse night than last one. The shelter had been as comfortable as a crypt and as moist as a river bed. Still, nothing had matched the horrendous smell. The odor of wet dog mixed with the sweat of his companions had violated his sinuses. Besides, now he knew that, to protect his skin from the cold, Ahanu spread over his face a kind of butter made of sour milk that made shea butter smell like Damascus rose.

  While his companions went apace, Lissandro shuffled along. To walk in this desolation of never-ending grey, white, and dark green polychromy made him feel like a prospector on his way to the Klondike. His chances of survival were similar as would be his deception and horror once he would reach his destination. Besides, he was not in a hurry to face the Chilkoot Pass that those teeth of the legend promised to be.

  He stared at the forest on their side with infinite boredom. A strong odor of sap reached his nostrils. In the distance, he heard a beaver gnaw at a tree’s bark. Somewhere else, a fox scratched the snow in search of a frightened mouse. Lissandro couldn’t tell which species it was only by the squeaks. I can hear the damn squeaks. With the storm, snowdrifts had been built along the way. He removed one of his gloves and trailed his hand and fingers across the powder. He felt a light sensation of cold and wetness, but his hand kept its color. Before he removed it, the dog jumped at his side and licked his hand. Lissandro smiled and caressed the animal behind the ears. The dog wagged its tail in return. Lissandro thought that it was good to see someone joyful.

  “You have no idea of what’s going on, do you? I should call you Poppy,” Lissandro said, joking.

  “You want to give a name to a dog?” Folc asked, twisting back.

  “Why not? At least when I talk to him, he keeps smiling back,” Lissandro said, mimicking a friendly face to the dog.

  Folc shrugged and turned around again.

  “See,” Lissandro said to the dog. “Exactly what I said. All more boring as hell than the other.”

  The dog following close on his heels, Lissandro trudged at the tail of the file. The col opened on a prairie with forests on both sides. Further ahead, the slopes narrowed in a corrie. He looked up and understood the description in the legend. The only access between the razor-sharp peaks was a pass shaped in a V. The incline to get there was vertiginous. It was not entirely impossible to make it…for an ibex. In front of him, Ahanu and Eliot bifurcated towards the trees.

  “I need to collect pine sap,” Ahanu said. “We may need glue if we hurt ourselves.”

  Glue? It’s a damn medical kit and a helicopter ambulance we will need if we climb up there, Lissandro thought.

  Kilda and Folc followed the Child into the forest. Selen walked back toward
s Lissandro. “Do you see what’s ahead?”

  “I’m not blind,” Lissandro said, still staring at the mountains.

  “None of us has the training to climb such a thing,” Selen whispered.

  Lissandro agreed with his friend. They had taken basic material with them, but that required more than some rope and a few ice picks. He gazed at Louis, who still moved forth, his head raised, as hypnotized by the obstacle in front of him.

  “We need to find another way,” Selen said loudly. “We can’t take the risk to lose one or all of us in there.”

  “I would agree, but we have no time,” Lissandro heard Louis whisper.

  Another sound came to Lissandro’s ears, like the vibrations of a rubber band. Could it be an insect? The sound turned into something similar to mashed polystyrene foam. He turned to Selen. “Do you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Selen asked, looking around.

  No. His friends couldn’t hear. It was too low. Yet, it persisted. Now, the sound of scraped glass added over it. It’s ice, Lissandro thought. He looked around but found no stream. Slowly, with a terrible feeling, he lowered his head, then looked at the firs on both sides. A lake. They were walking on a lake. He concentrated on the sound. Now, the cracking was deafening. Yet, it didn’t come from under him. He looked ahead. Louis still wandered towards the peaks.

  “Stop moving,” Lissandro murmured. “Louis, stop moving!”

  His friend swiveled, startled. “What’s wrong?”

  “Throw your bag away,” Lissandro said.

  Louis made a face as if Lissandro had said something silly. “Why?” he sighed.