The Plague Tales

by Ann Benson

  After the pounding storm of the previous day the sky had blued prettily, but nothing good could be said about the condition of the muddy roads. Alejandro’s plan was to ride directly to the Tower, and there seek an immediate audience with the king. Fearing the king’s rejection of his plea for an audience in favor of more pleasing petitioners, Alejandro resolved to do his best to convince him of the importance of his news.

  Evidence of the storm lessened as he neared London. By the look of the improving roads Alejandro assumed that the vicious storm that had delayed his departure had not touched the city. Still, the conditions he found there were shameful, completely offensive to the fastidious Jew. If this is England’s best city, what can be said of the poor ones? he wondered. He stopped to ask the way, and was saddened by the hollow look on the faces of the residents. It would be a formidable task to set things right in London after the plague’s devastation, and Alejandro was sure that recovery would not happen quickly with a diminished and weakened population.

  He persevered through the drab, cluttered streets, but stopped abruptly when a flash of bright color caught his eye. He saw a haggard crone shuffling wearily in the opposite direction, a bright red shawl wrapped tightly about her shoulders; it was the very image of Mother Sarah. How can it be she, so far from her cottage? Still, he turned his mount around. She was nowhere to be seen, and he could see no easy place where she might have hidden herself.

  And why should such a traveler feel compelled to hide? he wondered, confused by her disappearance. He cast his gaze up and down the street again in search of the elusive midwife, but he saw nothing of her. The horse pranced nervously in place, and lacking any further reason to linger, Alejandro resumed his ride toward the Tower, feeling more than slightly unnerved.

  The vile odor of the river and the Tower moat had not improved since his first trip over the drawbridge, now nearly a year ago, and in fact had worsened. The king should be glad, he thought, for that odor is weapon enough to keep all but the most insensitive enemies away from him. Inside, the courtyard was nearly deserted, with only a few sentries in evidence. He recognized one of them as having been in the party that escorted him to Windsor, so he dismounted and approached the man.

  “Fellow!” he hailed. “Good day!”

  The sentry brightened with recognition. “Good Doctor! I rejoice that God has brought you through this long and bitter winter; what purpose brings you to our fair and scented city?”

  “The king’s business,” he answered. “But why so quiet here? Why is no one about?”

  “Ah,” the man said, “the king’s party rode out yesterday! Quite a handsome parade they made, especially with all the ladies. It was perhaps the biggest party I’ve seen in a year. They were heading for the cathedral, on account of the archbishop’s investiture, no doubt. We’ve had little excitement here, save the plague, and the people will be wanting a good show of color from their king to inspire them!”

  “Was the Princess Isabella among them, and her ladies?”

  “Indeed, she was, sir, and a grand parcel of cartons as well!”

  I have missed them, then … I have come too late to catch them here. “I must leave immediately, then,” he said to the sentry. “Where is the gatekeeper? I must see his map.”

  And after committing it to memory, since the gatekeeper would not part with the precious map even for the outrageous price of a gold coin, Alejandro set off on the last leg of his journey to Canterbury.

  Twenty-Four

  Sarin brought the wooden box of ancient items to the bedside. He sat down in a chair and balanced the box carefully in his lap. Mindful of its great age and fragility, he lifted the cover very slowly and set it on the floor next to his chair. There was an odd assortment of items within, a seemingly random group of small things with no obvious relationship to one another. One by one he removed them and placed them on the table by the bed. He muttered the name of each thing as he set it down, reciting his memorized checklist so that the backward order would be precise, for the item last removed would be the item first used. He had practiced it that way many times in the course of preparing for this night. When all the items were set in their proper places, he looked them over until he was satisfied that his reenactment of what he’d practiced was flawless.

  “Now the book,” he said to Caroline’s sleeping form. He got up from the bedside chair—it creaked slightly as he pushed off from the caned seat—and shuffled stiffly into the next room. He found the ancient volume precisely where he’d left it and brought it back into the bedroom with him. He’d marked the proper page with the same feather his mother used to use, and he Was careful not to dislodge it. He placed the book on the edge of the bed and opened it to the correct place.

  He read slowly, for the candlelight was very dim and his eyes had not completely adjusted to it. He needn’t have bothered, for he’d nearly memorized the instructions, and this reading was but one more repetition of what he’d already studied and learned well. He was stalling, he knew, out of fear, for once he started, there could be no stopping. Stop wasting time, he told himself. Get on with it.

  “First, the ribbons,” he muttered, reassuring himself. They were tied together in a bundle with a small piece of twine. He loosened the knot in the twine and the ribbons tumbled free, falling onto the bedcover in matted bunches. They were musty and smelled of mold, but the fabric from which they were fashioned so long ago was still sound and did not fray or ravel as he handled them. He pinned the ribbons all over her nightdress and the bedclothes, then sat back and regarded his own work appreciatively. One step accomplished, he thought. He said aloud to the dog, “Come have a look, chum. The young lady looks quite festive. One day she’ll be a comely lass again, don’t you agree?”

  The dog did not appear at his master’s side as Sarin expected he would do. Sleeping, probably, the old man thought. He’s had a time of it, just as I have. Best to let him rest. He returned to his tasks.

  Tied around a hollowed-out walnut shell was a white ribbon; he’d fastened the bow himself only the day before. Now his stiff fingers struggled clumsily with the small bow and he wondered to himself how he’d ever tied it so tightly. Finally, after a few inept and frustrated tugs, it came loose. Holding the shell just above Caroline’s chest, he separated the two halves and set them down on the bedcover. A hairy black spider scampered out and scurried off in great haste.

  Sarin watched the creature disappear under the bedcovers, and thought about how much harder it had been to get the insect into the shell. He’d been enormously relieved when the two halves of the shell had finally come together, the spider safely captured. “Feisty little bugger, wasn’t he, eh, chum?” he said to the dog.

  He expected a whine of accord from his pet, but instead, there was empty silence. He looked around the room again, hoping to see the animal. Still sleeping, he thought. A very long sleep, indeed.

  Second step done, he thought. He returned the empty shell to the box along with its ribbon. Just in case it’s needed again … He whispered a brief prayer that it would not be. Dear God, let it not be needed, let it come to an end here.…

  He broke a few crumbs off a crust of bread so dry that it almost powdered when he touched it. “Three crumbs from a loaf baked on Good Friday last …” he said, pressing the bits of bread to her lips. It didn’t matter if she swallowed, he knew; it was enough just to make the offering. Third step complete …

  And now the fourth. He took a small copper ring and placed it on one of her fingers. A ring made from pennies begged by lepers.…

  What could be keeping the other one? Had she not received his message? He got up from the chair and went into the main room of the cottage. After pulling aside the curtain on the small window, he looked outside into the depths of the night, wondering when the headlights would finally round the corner and make the slow turn into the drive.

  “I can do it myself, you know,” he said aloud, almost defiantly. “After all, I’ve practiced properly … haven�
�t I, chum?”

  The cottage remained silent. He called aloud to the dog, but the animal did not appear. He went to the door and opened it, thinking perhaps the dog had been left outside. This was not inconceivable, considering the hurry he’d been in, but he simply couldn’t remember. He whistled into the silent night, and waited. Finally he closed the door, confused and worried. He went to the place where the dog usually rested, a worn old blanket that the beast always rearranged with his teeth before settling in. Every night he would ritually turn three circles over the rumpled layers of wool, his tail wagging, then flop down smiling and place his head on his own front paws. But the blanket was unoccupied, empty but for the few stray hairs that clung to it, and the slight doggy aroma that lingered, especially on wet days. He surveyed the rest of the room quickly, but found no trace of his pet.

  “You have to be in here,” he said aloud. And though it was difficult to hide much of anything in the small cottage, Sarin started moving things aside and lifting things up off the floor in his search. It was difficult work, and he was not accustomed to it. In a very few minutes he was quite tired. Exasperated, he headed back into the bedroom. He could not allow his attendance on the young woman to be delayed for too long.

  Protruding from under the end of the bed was the tip of the dog’s tail.

  “There you are!” he said, his fears allayed. “What’s got you so frightened, old chum? Come out, now.”

  The dog did not move. He whistled softly, a signal that he knew would bring the dog out of even the deepest sleep. Sarin waited for the dog’s head to rise and the ears to perk upward, but the animal did not stir.

  The old man knelt down on the floor and put his hand under the bed on the dog’s back. It should rise and fall … why does his back not rise and fall? Panicking, he took hold of the dog’s tail, pulling and dragging him until he was out from under the bed. Small bits of dust clung to the motionless shaggy body, and without thinking that there might be something more important to do, Sarin began to remove them. “Oh, dear God …” he said. “Please, no …” He placed his hand in front of the animal’s half-opened mouth, hoping that a whisper of breath would gently brush the surface of his palm. No breath came.

  Somewhere in the distance he heard the ringing of a telephone. He ignored it completely and stayed with the dog. He knew who it would be on the other end of the line. If he answered, she would demand an explanation for his summons, and would never believe what he would tell her. Better, he thought, that she should just come as he’d asked.

  Anger filled his heart, then terrible pain; This was never supposed to be part of the plan! No one prepared me for this! His mother had never told him this might happen. Why have they taken my dog? He gently stroked the soft fur of the dog’s head, and with his other hand brushed away his own tears. He picked up the animal and cradled him carefully to his chest. Sarin leaned against the foot of the bed and sat there, weeping and rocking his dead companion for a long time, until he fell asleep.

  Several vans with flashing neon-green lights came to a simultaneous halt in the square at the foot of the bridge. People watching from the windows of their apartments pulled their shades down quickly as soon as they gleaned the nature of the commotion. No one wanted to be noticed for paying too much attention to the business of the Biocops.

  They’d arrived within minutes of the call from the field unit on the bridge. Lieutenant Rosow considered it a bit of good luck that he’d gotten a report of a sighting so quickly. These things were always a matter of luck, he knew, and it could just as easily have gone the other way. There might not have been a sighting for several hours, or even days. Must be fate, he thought. Or my good karma.

  Van doors flew open and approximately thirty green giants emerged, each carrying communication equipment and a loaded chemical weapon. Foot traffic in the square came to a standstill. Those people already in the square when the vans arrived left quickly and cautiously, and no one who was not there already dared to enter. In a few minutes the group had been reassembled into several teams, Lieutenant Rosow spoke quickly to each of the team leaders, and shortly thereafter each team moved out in a different direction.

  He led his own team down the slippery embankment and under the bridge, just below the spot where the Marginal had fallen on the sidewalk. The body was gone now, neatly zipped into a green body bag and stowed in a refrigerated van; it was no longer an impediment to anyone’s progress. Under the bridge they found the rough belongings and accoutrements of a very different sort of society from the one Rosow himself moved through daily. How can they live like this? he wondered to himself as he and his team poked through the shabby appointments of the under-bridge world.

  But there were no Marginals to be found. “They must have figured we were coming,” he said to his team. “Just as well—we should roust them more often anyway, then come down here with hoses.” Using the tip of his rifle he pushed aside a few more items, not really sure what he was hoping to find. “There isn’t much of anything here,” he said, and signaled his team to climb back up the embankment to the main square.

  They regrouped and headed in the woman’s last known direction, although the officer who’d reported the sighting to Rosow had said he could not be sure that she hadn’t taken a side street. “She seemed to disappear into the darkness,” he’d said when Rosow questioned him. He’d mentioned a shopping cart. The trail was getting cold, and they would need even more luck to find her and the mysterious redhead in her cart.

  He asked a lot of people before one finally admitted seeing a shopping cart being pushed up the hill. Not a woman, but a very skinny man, the witness reported, probably not even seven stone. But there was definitely someone in the cart, with red hair. Rosow got on the radio to the other searchers and notified them of the probable change in the appearance of their quarry.

  A ninety-eight-pound weakling, he thought to himself sadly. And a beautiful young woman. And we’re just going to pickle them both, no questions asked. When he’d scanned the body of the dead security guard from the Institute, the unfortunate man had come up completely clean, no detectable problems, not even a pimple. Such a tragic waste! From the looks of his stomach, Rosow had surmised, the man might have had a little gas now and then. But then farts aren’t contagious. Or illegal.

  He completed his thought grimly: They’re not illegal yet.

  He led his team up the hill, as the witness had directed him. With their heavy suits and equipment weighing on them, the Biocops were all huffing and puffing by the time they reached the top. “How the devil did someone supposedly so skinny push a shopping cart with a body in it up this bloody hill?” he asked, and got a silent chorus of shrugs in reply from the team.

  When they came to the field, he saw the open gate and was inexplicably drawn to it. What is it? he wondered. There’s nothing here. Tracks in the mud, two widely spaced but narrow ruts, certainly consistent with a shopping cart, led away from the gate toward the center of the field. But they seemed to stop at a small rise and then turn back around again. He looked quickly around the immediate perimeter of the field but saw no dwellings, and decided that the person pushing the cart probably thought better of this bumpy route and turned around to find a better way to cross the field. But why would anyone want to cross this field? he wondered. It leads to nowhere. Baffled, he led his team back outside the gate again, where the tracks disappeared when the path rejoined the paved road.

  The phone rang and rang. Janie finally gave up hope and flipped the small cellular unit closed. Disheartened, she tossed it back to Bruce, who caught it and tucked it in his pocket.

  “There’s no answer,” she said, “but she must have contacted him. There’d be no other reason for him to leave a message like that.”

  “Then what do you want to do?” he asked.

  “I think we should just go there. Either he’s not there or he’s not answering. He might leave a message directing us someplace else. I don’t know. He’s a very odd old man.”


  “All right. You’re finished with the desk clerk.”

  She nodded.

  Bruce made sure the trunk was securely closed and then they got into the car and drove off. The streets were nearly deserted in the wee hours but for a few City of London workers who paid them no notice, and Bruce made very good time, expertly guiding the small fast car over the narrow streets. As he drove, Janie tried to calculate what Caroline’s condition might now be.

  “There’s no reason to think she was any less sick than Ted,” she said as they careened around a corner. She counted backward, and decided Ted had probably died three days earlier. Her voice grew more anxious. “Plague is a lot quicker than many other diseases.”

  “But remember,” Bruce said, “your advisor thinks this is an ancient microbe. What we see around today might not be a good model. We don’t know what we’re going to find. Don’t let yourself get too upset until we do know. She might be in better shape than you think.”

  Her voice was almost frantic. “I don’t believe that,” she said. “Even though I’ve never seen an active case of plague, I just don’t believe that it’s going to be less nasty than we think. Oh, God, Bruce, what a mess. She might even be dead already.” She buried her face in her hands and began to cry. “Everything that’s happened to me since I found that stupid piece of fabric has been bad. Everything but you.”

  He took one hand off the steering wheel and took hold of one of hers. She leaned back in the passenger seat and closed her eyes. He watched the occasional car speed by in the opposite direction as they crossed over the bridge and wondered how Caroline had managed to make the protracted journey, or if in fact she had managed to complete it.