“I am Isabel de Beauvrier,” Kivrin said. “My brother lies ill at Evesham.” She could not think of any of the words. Quelle demeure. Perced to the rote. “Where am I?” she said in English.
A face leaned close to hers. “Hau hightes towe?” it said. It was the cutthroat face of the enchanted wood. She pulled back from it, frightened.
“Go away!” she said. “What do you want?”
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti,” he said.
Latin, she thought thankfully. There must be a priest here. She tried to raise her head to see past the cutthroat to the priest, but she could not. It was too smoky in the room. I can speak Latin, she thought. Mr. Dunworthy made me learn it.
“You shouldn’t have let him in here!” she said in Latin. “He’s a cutthroat!” Her throat hurt, and she seemed to have no breath to put behind the words, but from the way the cutthroat drew back in surprise, she knew they had heard her.
“You must not be afraid,” the priest said, and she understood him perfectly. “You do but go home again.”
“To the drop?” Kivrin said. “Are you taking me to the drop?”
“Asperges me, Domine, hyssope et mundabor, ” the priest said. Thou shalt sprinkle me with hyssop, O Lord, and I shall be cleansed. She could understand him perfectly.
“Help me,” she said in Latin. “I must return to the place from which I came.”
“… nominus …” the priest said, so softly she couldn’t hear him. Name. Something about her name. She raised her head. It felt curiously light, as though all her hair had burned away.
“My name?” she said.
“Can you tell me your name?” he said in Latin.
She was supposed to tell them she was Isabel de Beauvrier, daughter of Gilbert de Beauvrier, from the East Riding, but her throat hurt so she didn’t think she could get it out.
“I have to go back,” she said. “They won’t know where I’ve gone.”
“Confiteor deo omnipotenti, ” the priest said from very far away. She couldn’t see him. When she tried to look past the cutthroat, all she could see were flames. They must have lit the fire again. “Beatae Mariae semper Virgini …”
He’s saying the Confiteor Deo, she thought, the prayer of confession. The cutthroat shouldn’t be here. There shouldn’t be anyone else in the room during a confession.
It was her turn. She tried to fold her hands in prayer and couldn’t, but the priest helped her, and when she couldn’t remember the words, he recited them with her. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned, I confess to Almighty God, and to you, Father, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed, and omission, through my fault.”
“Mea culpa, ” she whispered, “mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.” Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, but that wasn’t right, that wasn’t what she was supposed to say.
“How have you sinned?” the priest said.
“Sinned?” she said blankly.
“Yes,” he said gently, leaning so close he was practically whispering in her ear. “That you may confess your sins and have God’s forgiveness, and enter into the kingdom eternal.”
All I wanted to do was go to the Middle Ages, she thought. I worked so hard, learning the languages and the customs and doing everything Mr. Dunworthy told me. All I wanted to do was to be an historian.
She swallowed, a feeling like flame. “I have not sinned.”
The priest drew back then, and she thought he had gone away angry because she wouldn’t confess her sins.
“I should have listened to Mr. Dunworthy,” she said. “I shouldn’t have left the drop.”
“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus sancti. Amen, ” the priest said. His voice was gentle, comforting. She felt his cool, cool touch on her forehead.
“Quid quid deliquisti,” the priest murmured. “Through this holy unction and His own most tender mercy …”He touched her eyes, her ears, her nostrils, so lightly she couldn’t feel his hand at all, but only the cool touch of the oil.
That isn’t part of the sacrament of penance, Kivrin thought. That’s the ritual for extreme unction. He’s saying the last rites.
“Don’t—” Kivrin said.
“Be not afraid,” he said. “May the Lord pardon thee whatever offenses thou has committed by walking,” he said and put out the fire that was burning the soles of her feet.
“Why are you giving me the last rites?” Kivrin said and then remembered they were burning her at the stake. I’m going to die here, she thought, and Mr. Dunworthy will never know what happened to me.
“My name is Kivrin,” she said. “Tell Mr. Dunworthy—”
“May you behold your Redeemer face-to-face,” the priest said, only it was the cutthroat speaking. “And standing before Him may you gaze with blessed eyes on the truth made manifest.”
“I’m dying, aren’t I?” she asked the priest.
“There is naught to fear,” he said, and took her hand.
“Don’t leave me,” she said, and clutched his hand.
“I will not,” he said, but she couldn’t see him for all the smoke. “May Almighty God have mercy upon thee, and forgive thee thy sins, and bring thee unto life everlasting,” he said.
“Please come and get me, Mr. Dunworthy,” she said, and the flames roared up between them.
TRANSCRIPT FROM THE DOMESDAY BOOK
(000806–000882)
Domine, mittere digneris sanctum Angelum tuum de caelis, qui custodiat, foveat, protegat, visitet, atque defendat omnes habitantes in hoc habitaculo.
(Break)
Exaudi orationim meam et clamor meus ad te veniat.*
*Translation: O Lord, vouchsafe to send Thy holy angel from heaven, to guard, cherish, protect, visit, and defend all those that are assembled together in this house.
(Break)
Hear my prayer, and let my cry come unto Thee.
9
“What is it, Badri? What’s wrong?” Dunworthy asked. “Cold,” Badri said. Dunworthy leaned across him and pulled the sheet and blanket up over his shoulders. The blanket seemed pitifully inadequate, as thin as the paper gown Badri was wearing. No wonder he was cold.
“Thank you,” Badri murmured. He pulled his hand out from under the bedclothes and took hold of Dunworthy’s. He closed his eyes.
Dunworthy glanced anxiously at the displays, but they were as inscrutable as ever. The temp still read 39.9. Badri’s hand felt very hot, even through the imperm glove, and the fingernails looked odd, almost a dark blue. Badri’s skin seemed darker, too, and his face looked somehow thinner even than when they had brought him in.
The ward sister, whose outline under her paper robe looked uncomfortably like Mrs. Gaddson’s, came in and said gruffly, “The list of primary contacts is on the chart.” No wonder Badri was afraid of her. “CH1,” she said, pointing to the keyboard under the first display on the left.
A chart divided into hour-long blocks came up on the screen. His own name, Mary’s, and the ward sister’s were at the top of the chart with the letters SPG after them, in parentheses, presumably to indicate that they were wearing protective garments when they came into contact with him.
“Scroll,” Dunworthy said, and the chart moved up over the screen through the arrival at the hospital, the ambulance medics, the net, the last two days. Badri had been in London Monday morning setting up an on-site for Jesus College. He had come up to Oxford on the tube at noon.
He had come to see Dunworthy at half past two and was there until four. Dunworthy entered the times on the chart. Badri had told him he’d gone to London Sunday, though he couldn’t remember what time. He entered, “London—phone Jesus for time of arrival.”
“He drifts in and out a good bit,” the sister said disapprovingly. “It’s the fever.” She checked the drips, gave a yank to the bedclothes, and went out.
The door’s shutting seemed to wake Badri up. His eyes fluttered open.
“I need to ask you some questi
ons, Badri,” Dunworthy said. “We need to find out who you’ve seen and talked to. We don’t want them to come down with this, and we need you to tell us who they are.”
“Kivrin,” he said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, but his hand was holding tightly to Dunworthy’s. “In the laboratory.”
“This morning?” Dunworthy said. “Did you see Kivrin before this morning? Did you see her yesterday?”
“No.”
“What did you do yesterday?”
“I checked the net,” he said weakly, and his hand clung to Dunworthy’s.
“Were you there all day?”
He shook his head, the effort producing a whole series of bleeps and climbs on the displays. “I went to see you.”
Dunworthy nodded. “You left me a note. What did you do after that? Did you see Kivrin?”
“Kivrin,” he said. “I checked Puhalski’s coordinates.”
“Were they correct?”
He frowned. “Yes.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. I verified them twice.” He stopped to catch his breath. “I ran an internal check and a comparator.”
Dunworthy felt a rush of relief. There hadn’t been a mistake in the coordinates. “What about the slippage? How much slippage was there?”
“Headache,” he murmured. “This morning. Must have drunk too much at the dance.”
“What dance?”
“Tired,” he murmured.
“What dance did you go to?” Dunworthy persisted, feeling like an Inquisition torturer. “When was it? Monday?”
“Tuesday,” Badri said. “Drank too much.” He turned his head away on the pillow.
“You rest now,” Dunworthy said. He gently disengaged his hand from Badri’s. “Try to get some sleep.”
“Glad you came,” Badri said, and reached for it again.
Dunworthy held it, watching Badri and the displays by turns as he slept. It was raining. He could hear the patter of drops behind the closed curtains.
He had not realized how ill Badri really was. He had been too worried about Kivrin to even think about him. Perhaps he shouldn’t be so angry with Montoya and the rest of them. They had their preoccupations, too, and none of them had stopped to think what Badri’s illness meant except in terms of the difficulties and inconvenience it caused. Even Mary, talking about needing Bulkeley-Johnson for an infirmary and the possibilities of an epidemic, hadn’t brought home the reality of Badri’s illness and what it meant. He had had his antivirals, and yet he lay here with a fever of 39.9.
The evening passed. Dunworthy listened to the rain and the chiming of the quarter hours at St. Hilda’s and, more distantly, Christ Church. The ward sister informed Dunworthy grimly that she was going off-duty, and a much smaller and more cheerful blond nurse, wearing the insignia of a student, came in to check the drips and look at the displays.
Badri struggled in and out of consciousness with an effort Dunworthy would hardly have described as “drifting.” He seemed more and more exhausted each time he fought his way back to consciousness, and less and less able to answer Dunworthy’s questions.
Dunworthy kept at it mercilessly. The Christmas dance had been in Headington. Badri had gone to a pub afterward. He couldn’t remember the name of it. Monday night he had worked alone in the laboratory, checking Puhalski’s coordinates. He had come up at noon from London. On the tube. This was impossible. Tube passengers and partygoers, and everyone he’d had contact with in London. They would never be able to trace and test all of them, even if Badri knew who they were.
“How did you get to Brasenose this morning?” Dunworthy asked the next time Badri “drifted” awake again.
“Morning?” Badri said, looking at the curtained window as if he thought it were morning already. “How long have I been asleep?”
Dunworthy didn’t know how to answer that. He’d been asleep off and on all evening. “It’s ten,” he said, looking at his digital. “We brought you in to hospital at half past one. You ran the net this morning. You sent Kivrin through. Do you remember when you began feeling ill?”
“What’s the date?” Badri said suddenly.
“December the twenty-second. You’ve only been here part of one day.”
“The year,” Badri said, attempting to sit up. “What’s the year?”
Dunworthy glanced anxiously at the displays. His temp was nearly 40.0. “The year is 2054,” he said, bending over him to calm him. “It’s December the twenty-second.”
“Back up,” Badri said.
Dunworthy straightened and stepped back from the bed.
“Back up,” he said again. He pushed himself up farther and looked around the room. “Where’s Mr. Dunworthy? I need to speak to him.”
“I’m right here, Badri.” Dunworthy took a step toward the bed and then stopped, afraid of upsetting him. “What did you want to tell me?”
“Do you know where he might be then?” Badri said. “Would you give him this note?”
He handed him an imaginary sheet of paper, and Dunworthy realized he must be reliving Tuesday afternoon when he had come to Balliol.
“I have to get back to the net.” He looked at an imaginary digital. “Is the laboratory open?”
“What did you want to talk to Mr. Dunworthy about?” Dunworthy asked. “Was it the slippage?”
“No. Back up! You’re going to drop it. The lid!” He looked straight at Dunworthy, his eyes bright with fever. “What are you waiting for? Go and fetch him.”
The student nurse came in.
“He’s delirious,” Dunworthy said.
She gave Badri a cursory glance and then looked up at the displays. They seemed ominous to Dunworthy, feeding numbers frantically across the screens and zigzagging in three dimensions, but the student nurse didn’t seem particularly concerned. She looked at each of the displays in turn and calmly began adjusting the flow on the drips.
“Let’s lie down, all right?” she said, still without looking at Badri, and amazingly he did.
“I thought you’d gone,” he said to her, lying back against the pillow. “Thank goodness you’re here,” he said, and seemed to collapse all over again, though this time there was nowhere to fall.
The student nurse hadn’t noticed. She was still adjusting the drips.
“He’s fainted,” Dunworthy said.
She nodded and began calling reads onto the display. She didn’t so much as glance at Badri, who looked deathly pale under his dark skin.
“Don’t you think you should call a doctor?” Dunworthy said, and the door opened and a tall woman in SPG’s came in.
She didn’t look at Badri either. She read the monitors one by one, and then asked, “Indications of pleural involvement?”
“Cyanosis and chills,” the nurse said.
“What’s he getting?”
“Myxabravine,” she said.
The doctor took a stethoscope down from the wall, untangling the chestpiece from the connecting cord. “Any hemoptysis?”
She shook her head.
“Cold,” Badri said from the bed. Neither of them paid the slightest attention. Badri began to shiver. “Don’t drop it. It was china, wasn’t it?”
“I want fifty cc’s of acqueous penicillin and an ASA pack,” the doctor said. She sat Badri, shivering harder than ever, up in bed and peeled the velcro strips of his paper nightgown open. She pressed the stethoscope’s chestpiece against Badri’s back in what seemed to Dunworthy to be a cruel and unusual punishment.
“Take a deep breath,” the doctor said, her eyes on the display. Badri did, his teeth chattering.
“Minor pleural consolidation lower left,” the doctor said cryptically and moved the chestpiece over a centimeter. “Another.” She moved the chestpiece several more times and then said, “Do we have an ident yet?”
“Myxovirus,” the nurse said, filling a syringe. “Type A.”
“Sequencing?”
“Not yet.” She fit the syringe into the cannula and
pushed the plunger down. Somewhere outside a telephone rang.
The doctor velcroed the top of Badri’s nightgown together, lowered him back to the bed again, and flipped the sheet carelessly over his legs.
“Give me a gram stain,” she said, and left. The phone was still ringing.
Dunworthy longed to pull the blanket up over Badri properly, but the student nurse was hooking another drip onto the stanchion. He waited till she had finished with the drip and gone out, and then straightened the sheet and pulled the blanket carefully up over Badri’s shoulders and tucked it in at the side of the bed.
“Is that better?” he said, but Badri had already stopped shivering and gone to sleep. Dunworthy looked at the displays. His temp was already down to 39.2, and the previously frantic lines on the other screens were steady and strong.
“Mr. Dunworthy,” the student nurse’s voice came from somewhere on the wall, “there’s a telephone call for you. It’s a Mr. Finch.”
Dunworthy opened the door. The student nurse, out of her SPG’s, motioned to him to take off his gown. He did, dumping the garments in the large cloth hamper she indicated. “Your spectacles, please,” she said. He handed them to her and she began spritzing disinfectant on them. He picked up the phone, squinting at the screen.
“Mr. Dunworthy, I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” Finch said. “The most dreadful thing’s happened.”
“What is it?” Dunworthy said. He glanced at his digital. It was ten o’clock. Too early for someone to have come down with the virus if the incubation period was twelve hours. “Is someone ill?”
“No, sir. It’s worse than that. It’s Mrs. Gaddson. She’s in Oxford. She got through the quarantine perimeter somehow.”
“I know. The last train. She made them hold the doors.”
“Yes, well, she called from hospital. She insists on staying at Balliol, and she accused me of not taking proper care of William because I was the one who typed out the tutor assignments, and apparently his tutor’s made him stay up over vac to read Petrarch.”
“Tell her we haven’t any room. Tell her the dormitories are being sterilized.”
The Doomsday Book Page 13