Dooms Day Book

by Connie Willis

  “Mrs. Gaddson said they were practicing at all hours, but I’d no idea she meant five in the morning.”

  “The concert’s tonight,” Colin said.

  “Tonight?” Dunworthy said, and realized it was the fifteenth. The sixth on the Julian calendar. Epiphany, the Arrival of the Wise Men.

  Finch hurried toward them with an umbrella. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, holding it over Dunworthy, “but I couldn’t find an umbrella. You’ve no idea how many of the detainees go off and forget them. Especially the Americans—”

  Dunworthy started across the quad. “Is everything ready?”

  “The med support’s not here yet,” Finch said, attempting to keep the umbrella over Dunworthy’s head, “but William Gaddson just telephoned to say it was all arranged and she’d be here shortly.”

  Dunworthy would not have been surprised if he had said the sister had volunteered for the job. “I do hope William never decides to take to a life of crime,” he said.

  “Oh, I don’t think he would, sir. His mother would never allow it.” He ran a few steps, trying to keep up. “Mr. Chaudhuri’s running the preliminary coordinates. And Ms. Montoya’s here.”

  He stopped. “Montoya? What is it?”

  “I don’t know, sir. She said she had information for you.”

  Not now, he thought. Not when we’re this close.

  He went in the laboratory. Badri was at the console, and Montoya, wearing her terrorist shirt and muddy jeans, was leaning over him, watching the screen. Badri said something to her, and she shook her head and looked at her digital. She glanced up and saw Dunworthy, and an expression of compassion came into her face. She stood up and reached in the pocket of her shirt.

  No, Dunworthy thought.

  She walked over to him. “I didn’t know you were planning this,” she said, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. “I want to help.” She handed him the paper. “This is what information Kivrin had to work with when she went through.”

  He looked at the paper in his hand. It was a map.

  “This is the drop.” She pointed to a cross on a black line. “And this is Skendgate. You’ll recognize it by the church. It’s Norman, with murals above the rood screen and a statue of St. Anthony.” She smiled at him. “The patron saint of lost objects. I found it yesterday.”

  She pointed to several other crosses. “If by some chance she didn’t go to Skendgate, the most likely villages are Esthcote, Henefelde, and Shrivendun. I’ve listed their distinguishing landmarks on the back.”

  Badri stood up and came over. He looked even frailer than he had in the ward, if that were possible, and he moved slowly, like the old man he had become. “I’m still getting minimal slippage, no matter what variables I feed in,” he said. He put his hand under his ribs. “I’m running an intermittent, opening for five minutes at two-hour intervals. That way we can hold the net open for up to twenty-four hours, thirty-six if we’re lucky.”

  Dunworthy wondered how many of those two-hour intervals Badri would hold up for. He looked done in already.

  “When you see the shimmer or the beginnings of moisture condensation, move into the rendezvous area,” Badri said.

  “What if it’s dark?” Colin asked. He had taken off the lab coat, and Dunworthy saw that he was in his squire’s costume.

  “You should still be able to see the shimmer, and we’ll call out to you,” Badri said. He grunted softly and put his hand to his side again. “You’ve been immunized?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. All we’re waiting for then is the med support.” He looked hard at Dunworthy. “Are you sure you’re well enough to do this?”

  “Are you?” Dunworthy asked.

  The door opened and William’s nurse came in wearing a slick. She blushed when she saw Dunworthy. “William said you needed med support. Where would you like me to set up?”

  I must remember to warn Kivrin about him, Dunworthy thought. Badri showed her where he wanted her, and Colin ran out after her equipment.

  Montoya led Dunworthy over to a chalked circle under the shields. “Are you going to wear your spectacles?”

  “Yes,” he said. “You can dig them up in your churchyard.”

  “I’m certain they won’t be there,” she said solemnly. “Do you want to sit or lie down?”

  He thought of Kivrin, lying with her arm across her face, helpless and blind. “I’ll stand,” he said.

  Colin came back in with a steamer trunk. He set it down by the console and came over to the net. “You’ve no business going by yourself,” he said.

  “I must go by myself, Colin.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s too dangerous. You can’t imagine what it was like during the Black Death.”

  “Yes, I can. I read the book through twice, and I’ve had my—” He stopped. “I know all about the Black Death. Besides, if it’s as bad as all that, you shouldn’t go by yourself. I wouldn’t get in the way, I promise.”

  “Colin,” he said helplessly, “you’re my responsibility. I can’t take the risk.”

  Badri came over to the net, carrying a light measure. “The nurse needs help with the rest of her equipment,” he said.

  “If you don’t come back, I’ll never know what happened to you,” Colin said. He turned and ran out.

  Badri made a slow circuit of Dunworthy, taking measurements. He frowned, took hold of his elbow, took more measurements. The nurse came over with a syringe. Dunworthy rolled up the sleeve of his doublet.

  “I want you to know I don’t approve of this at all,” she said, swabbing Dunworthy’s arm. “Both of you properly belong in hospital.” She plunged the syringe in and walked back to her steamer trunk.

  Badri waited while Dunworthy rolled down his sleeve and then moved his arm, took more measurements, moved it again. Colin carried a scan unit in and went back out without looking at Dunworthy.

  Dunworthy watched the display screens change and change again. He could hear the bellringers, an almost musical sound with the door shut. Colin opened the door, and they clanged wildly for a moment while he maneuvered a second steamer trunk through the door.

  Colin dragged it over to where the nurse was setting up, and then went over to the console and stood beside Montoya, watching the screens generate numbers. He wished he had told them he would go through sitting down. The stiff boots pinched his feet, and he felt tired from the effort of standing still.

  Badri spoke into the ear again, and the shields came down, touched the floor, draped a bit. Colin said something to Montoya, and she glanced up, frowned and then nodded, and turned back to the screen. Colin walked over to the net.

  “What are you doing?” Dunworthy said.

  “One of the curtain things is caught,” he said. He walked to the far side and tugged on the fold.

  “Ready?” Badri said.

  “Yes,” Colin said and backed away toward the prep door. “No, wait.” He came back up to the shields. “Shouldn’t you take your spectacles off? In case somebody sees you come through?”

  Dunworthy removed his spectacles and tucked them inside his doublet.

  “If you don’t come back, I’m coming after you,” Colin said, and backed away. “Ready,” he called.

  Dunworthy looked at the screens. They were nothing but a blur. So was Montoya, who had leaned forward over Badri’s shoulder. She glanced at her digital. Badri spoke into the ear.

  Dunworthy closed his eyes. He could hear the bellringers banging away at “When at Last My Savior Cometh.” He opened them again.

  “Now,” Badri said. He pushed a button, and Colin darted toward the shields and under, straight into Dunworthy’s arms.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  They buried Rosemund in the grave the steward had dug for her. “You will have need of these graves,” the steward had said, and he was right. They would never have managed to dig it themselves. It was all they could do to carry her out to the green.

  They laid her on the ground beside the
grave. She looked impossibly thin lying there in her cloak, wasted almost to nothing. The fingers of her right hand, still half-curved around the apple she had let drop, were nothing but bones.

  “Heard you her confession?” Roche asked.

  “Yes,” Kivrin said, and it seemed to her that she had. Rosemund had confessed to being afraid of the dark and the plague and being alone, to loving her father and to knowing she would never see him again. All the things that she herself could not confess.

  Kivrin unfastened the loveknot pin Sir Bloet had given Rosemund and wrapped the cloak around her, covering her head, and Roche picked her up in his arms like a sleeping child and stepped down into the grave.

  He had trouble climbing out, and Kivrin had to take hold of his huge hands and pull him out. And when he began the prayers for the dead, he said, “Domine, ad adjuvandum me festina.”

  Kivrin looked anxiously at him. We must get away from here before he catches it, too, she thought, and didn’t correct him. We don’t have a moment to lose.

  “Dormiunt in somno pacis,” Roche said, and picked up the shovel and began filling in the grave.

  It seemed to take forever. Kivrin spelled him, chipping at the mound that had frozen into a solid mass and trying to think how far they could get before nightfall. It wasn’t noon yet. If they left soon, they could get through the Wychwood and across the Oxford-Bath road onto the Midland Plain. They could be in Scotland within the week, near Invercassley or Dornoch, where the plague never came.

  “Father Roche,” she said as soon as he began tamping down the dirt with the flat of the shovel. “We must go to Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” he said, as if he had never heard of it.

  “Yes,” she said. “We must go away from here. We must take the donkey and go to Scotland.”

  He nodded. “We must carry the sacraments with us. And ere we go I must ring the bell for Rosemund, that her soul may pass safely unto heaven.”

  She wanted to tell him no, that there wasn’t time, they must leave now, immediately, but she nodded. “I will fetch Balaam,” she said.

  Roche started for the bell tower, and she took off running for the barn before he had even reached it. She wanted them to be gone now, now, before anything else happened, as if the plague were waiting to leap out at them like the bogeyman from the church or the brewhouse or the barn.

  She ran across the courtyard and into the stable and led the donkey out. She began to strap his panniers on.

  The bell tolled once, and then was silent, and Kivrin stopped, the girth strap in her hand, and listened, waiting for it to ring again. Three strokes for a woman, she thought, and knew why he had stopped. One for a child. Oh, Rosemund.

  She tied the girth strap and began to fill the panniers. They were too small to hold everything. She would have to tie the sacks on. She filled a coarse bag with oats for the donkey, scooping it out of the grain bin with both hands and spilling whole handfuls on the filthy floor, and knotted it with a rough rope that hung on Agnes’s pony’s stall. The rope was tied to the stall with a heavy knot she couldn’t untie. She ended by having to run to the kitchen for a knife and back again, bringing the sacks of food she had gathered up earlier.

  She cut the rope free and sliced it into shorter sections, threw down the knife and went out to the donkey. He was trying to gnaw a hole in the sack of oats. She tied it and the other bags to his back with the pieces of rope and led him out of the courtyard and across the green to the church.

  Roche was nowhere in sight. Kivrin still needed to fetch the blankets and the candles, but she wanted to put the sacraments in the panniers first. Food, oats, blankets, candles. What else had she forgotten?

  Roche appeared at the door. He was not carrying anything.

  “Where are the sacraments?” she called to him.

  He didn’t answer. He leaned for a moment against the church door, staring at her, and the look on his face was the same as when he had come to tell her about the miller. But they’ve all died, she thought, there’s nobody left to die.

  “I must ring the bell,” he said and started across the churchyard toward the belltower.

  “There’s no time to ring the funeral toll,” she said. “We must start for Scotland.” She tied the donkey to the gate, her cold fingers fumbling with the rough rope, and hurried after him, catching him by the sleeve. “What is it?”

  He turned, almost violently, toward her, and the expression on his face frightened her. He looked like a cutthroat, a murderer. “I must ring the bell for vespers,” he said and shook himself violently free of her hand.

  Oh, no, Kivrin thought.

  “It is only midday,” she said. “It isn’t time for vespers yet.” He’s just tired, she thought. We’re both so tired we can’t think straight. She took hold of his sleeve again. “Come, Father. We must go if we’re to get through the woods by nightfall.”

  “It is past time,” he said, “and I have not yet rung them. Lady Imeyne will be angry.”

  Oh, no, she thought, oh no oh no.

  “I will ring it,” she said, stepping in front of him to stop him. “You must go into the house and rest.”

  “It grows dark,” he said angrily. He opened his mouth as if to shout at her, and a great gout of vomit and blood heaved up out of him and onto Kivrin’s jerkin.

  Oh no oh no oh no.

  He looked bewilderedly at her drenched jerkin, the violence gone out of his face.

  “Come, you must lie down,” she said, thinking, we will never make it to the manor house.

  “Am I ill?” he said, still staring at her blood-drenched jerkin.

  “No,” she said. “You are but tired and must rest.”

  She led him toward the church. He stumbled, and she thought, if he falls, I will never get him up. She helped him inside, bracing the heavy door open with her back, and sat him down against the wall.

  “I fear the work has tired me,” he said, leaning his head against the stones. “I would sleep a little.”

  “Yes, sleep,” Kivrin said. As soon as he had closed his eyes she ran back to the manor house for blankets and a bolster to make him a pallet. When she skidded in with them, he was no longer there.

  “Roche!” she cried, trying to see up the dark nave. “Where are you?”

  There was no answer. She darted out again, still clutching the bedding to her chest, but he wasn’t in the bell tower or the churchyard, and he could not possibly have made it to the house. She ran back in the church and up the nave and he was there, on his knees in front of the statue of St. Catherine.

  “You must lie down,” she said, spreading the blankets on the floor.

  He lay down obediently, and she put the bolster behind his head. “It is the bubonic plague, is it not?” he asked, looking up at her.

  “No,” she said, pulling the coverlet up over him. “You’re tired, that’s all. Try to sleep.”

  He turned on his side, away from her, but in a few minutes he sat up, the murderous expression back, and threw the covers off. “I must ring the vespers bell,” he said accusingly, and it was all Kivrin could to to keep him from standing up. When he dozed again, she tore strips from the frayed bottom of her jerkin and tied his hands to the rood screen.

  “Don’t do this to him,” Kivrin murmured over and over without knowing it. “Please! Please! Don’t do this to him.”

  He opened his eyes. “Surely God must hear such fervent prayers,” he said, and sank into a deeper, quieter sleep.

  Kivrin ran out and unloaded the donkey and untied him, gathered up the sacks of food and the lantern and brought them inside the church. He was still sleeping. She crept out again and ran across to the courtyard and drew a bucket of water from the well.

  He still did not appear to have wakened, but when Kivrin wrung out a strip torn from the altar cloth and bathed his forehead with it, he said, without opening his eyes, “I feared that you had gone.”

  She wiped the crusted blood by his mouth. “I would not go to Scotla
nd without you.”

  “Not Scotland,” he said. “To Heaven.”

  She ate a little of the stale manchet and cheese from the food sack and tried to sleep a little, but it was too cold. When Roche turned and sighed in his sleep, she could see his breath.

  She built a fire, pulling up the stick fence around one of the huts and piling the sticks in front of the rood screen, but it filled the church with smoke, even with the doors propped open. Roche coughed and vomited again. This time it was nearly all blood. She put the fire out and made two more hurried trips for as many furs and blankets as she could find and made a sort of nest of them.

  Roche’s fever went up in the night. He kicked at the covers and raged at Kivrin, mostly in words she couldn’t understand, though once he said, clearly, “Go, curse you!” and over and over, furiously, “It grows dark!”

  Kivrin brought the candles from the altar and the top of the rood screen and set them in front of St. Catherine’s statue. When his ravings about the dark got bad, she lit them all and covered him up again, and it seemed to help a little.

  His fever rose higher, and his teeth chattered in spite of the rugs heaped over him. It seemed to Kivrin that his skin was already darkening, the blood vessels hemorrhaging under the skin. Don’t do this. Please.

  In the morning he was better. His skin had not blackened after all; it was only the uncertain light of the candles that had made it seem mottled. His fever had come down a little and he slept soundly through the morning and most of the afternoon, not vomiting at all. She went out for more water before it got dark.

  Some people recovered spontaneously and some were saved by prayers. Not everyone died who was infected. The death rate for pneumonic plague was only ninety per cent.

  He was awake when she went in, lying in a shaft of smoky light. She knelt and held a cup of water under his mouth, tilting his head up so he could drink.

  “It is the blue sickness,” he said when she let his head back down.

  “You’re not going to die,” she said. Ninety per cent. Ninety per cent.