The Plague Tales

by Ann Benson

  He heard the terrifying click-click of the wooden arrows, which still protruded from Matthews’ chest, in weird concert with the heavy percussion of Alderón’s thudding steps. Surely this path was not so damnably long when I last traveled its length! By now the oaks should have appeared in the distance ahead.… But still ahead of him was a long stretch of the path, with no sight of the familiar oaken gate. The terrain grew more treacherous. Roots and twigs seemed to reach up with gnarled wooden fingers and tug at his feet as he leapt ever higher to avoid them, until finally he caught his toe in a protruding root and went crashing down.

  He landed with a hard thud on the floor of the forest, and the shock of the fall sent a bolt of pain deep into his joints and bones. He landed on his face, and his mouth became filled with grit and small leaves. I must spit this out; my teeth grind against small bits of rock and I only want to retch; dearest God, please grant me just one drink of water.…

  He struggled with the mouthful but could not seem to force himself to spit, for some smothering wall was across his face and he could not get by it. He gagged, and could not draw in a breath. Finally, desperate to clear his tongue, he swallowed, for there was no other choice, save to suffocate on the mouthful of debris.

  He could not move, not a muscle, not an inch; he was stuck to the earth like some ancient headstone. Matthews and Alderón sat themselves down beside him, grinning triumphantly, and began their macabre interview while relaxing by his side.

  “So, Physician,” Alderón began, “I should have listened to my family. Had I done so, I would have been saved the trouble of wasting my time with a charlatan Jew. A lot of good it did me, to spend the last days of my life in your care! I thought the barber a fool, but he had the decency to tell me there was naught to be done. Tis I who was the fool to place my trust in you! He didn’t bleed me, or give me horrible emetics, or purge me of foul humors, but I suffered all those things in your care, and I got no benefit for my pain.” He turned to his companion shade. “Isn’t that so, Matthews?” he said.

  “Aye,” said the soldier, then Alderón continued.

  “And then you have the brazen gall to uproot me from my resting place, and force me to chase you through the whole of Europa before I can finally speak with you face to face.”

  “But do you not see, señor? Can you not understand?” pleaded the terrified physician. “I tried to speak for you. There was nothing I could do to save you, I admit it. I am sorry if my treatments caused you pain. But I saw your disease inside your chest! I felt it in my hands! And someday I will tell the world about the hard, cruel thing I found inside you, and some wise man will know what to do! Others will live because I saw the disease in your chest—”

  “Physician,” the grave ghost of Alderón said, “my last living thought was a wish for more life. You did not obtain it for me, and God did not grant it. My first thought on the other side was a wish for eternal rest. God gave it to me, for I was a good and decent man. But you disturbed it.”

  Exhausted, the physician lay motionless, hearing the accusations of those whose blame he feared most. “Señor,” he pleaded, “I beg you to forgive me—”

  “And I, too, will have my say,” said the soldier at Alderón’s side. “What fool will trust a Spaniard, even an educated gentleman in the service of my king? Did you know, Physician, that I myself carried no contagion, and that only Reed was so cruelly touched? And despite your certainty to the contrary, I am here to tell you that had you let me live, I would now be bouncing my young son on my knee.”

  The specter of Matthews raised itself up and stared down at Alejandro, who remained paralyzed by his terror.

  “Your skills are a mockery. You are no better than a witch! You would serve the king far better as jester than physician, so all could laugh at your piddling efforts! But what you have done is not a matter for laughter. I am dead, and yet you live.”

  Alejandro found his voice and cried out, “What would you have me say, soldier? I curse my own ignorance daily, I weep for the tortured souls of those for whom my cures have been worthless. What would you have me do?”

  The gray shades of those who had died on his journey began to surround them. Five brave soldiers who served the pope and died by their captain’s sword in France, the Jews who suffered at the hands of the flagellants, and finally, his dear companion Hernandez.

  “And what of the lady, Physician? What will you say to her?” Matthews said.

  In the distance Alejandro saw the gossamer shape of Adele floating toward him. He called out to her, and she drew closer, but did not respond to his voice. She continued to float, nearing him but never reaching him. He could not get hold of her, his arm would not stretch far enough, and he could not move to bridge the gap between them.

  Oh, dear God, Adele, please come back, do not desert me! I am in the clutches of these two specters and I owe them a life; they mean to collect the debt right now, and mine is the only life I have left.… Oh, Beloved, please stop; I would have gladly given my own life then for yours, and Mother Sarah said to me that God decreed you should live … it is beyond me to know why you did not!

  But the pale vision would not slow its movement, and passed away from him like an evaporating mist. Soon her image was completely gone.

  The voice of a woman called out to him, and he turned his head toward its source, desperately hoping it would be Adele. Instead, he saw the bent figure of Mother Sarah. The old woman smiled, which brought forth hisses of defiance and fear from the specters surrounding him.

  “Ah, fool,” she said to Alejandro, “do you think you know the will of God? In God’s service no untruth can be told. I did not lie when I told you a life was to be saved, but think carefully: Did I say whose life it would be? Did you think that it would be of your choosing? Had I told you what I feared to be true, you would have lost all hope, and you would never have returned here to preserve your own life. You wished it to be she whose love you cherished, but yours was the life you were meant to save, and by living you will pay the debt you owe. There is much yet for you to do. God is not finished with you.”

  She reached out her wrinkled hands, and said, “Come. I will show you the way, one last time.” He gave her both of his; he could not tell if he was feeling her skin or only the idea of it, but he cared not, for either was a comfort. He could hear the beating of her heart as if her blood flowed through him, and he began to rise, slowly and painfully.

  And suddenly she pulled him to full standing with great strength, forcing his legs to do her bidding. The old woman flew before him, and he followed closely, still holding on to her gnarled hand. He could not feel his feet touch the earth, but he knew that he was running, using all that was within him to press forward.

  The specters rose up in unison, shouting their protests at his escape. Matthews and Alderón hurled themselves into the chase, struggling to keep up as the old woman with inexplicably swift feet made off with their prize. Alejandro looked back at the pair as they all sped toward the oaken gate, and saw that all five soldiers and the burned Jews had joined in and were closing fast. Only Hernandez hung back, and sadly watched the macabre parade as it sped away from him.

  The clicking of the arrows grew nearer, and Alderón’s foul breath was hot on Alejandro’s neck. “Do not look back!” she cried. “The past will not serve you!”

  Just as the ghosts of his failures were about to consume him, he heard Mother Sarah cry, “Farewell, and may God protect you!” and he was propelled violently through the oaks, as if ejected from the very womb of the earth. The fresh wind hit his face like a splash of cool water, and he knew he was on the other side.

  Kate stood over the wet spot on the floor of the cottage and stared at it in dismay as the yellow liquid was absorbed into the dirt. The physician had flailed about in his delirium, and knocked the bowl from her small hands, and she watched in horror as half of the remaining supply of medicine drained into the dirt.

  He would know what to do, but she could not rouse
him; he was beyond consciousness and would not be called back. She would simply have to do her best without his help. So she bent down and scooped the wet dirt into the bowl. After whispering a prayer for success, she squeezed his nostrils together as she had seen Nurse do with babies who required some distasteful medicine, forcing him to open his mouth wide enough to breathe. With the other hand she grabbed the entire glob of mud and plopped it into his open mouth.

  He gagged and sputtered and tried to force the gritty mess out of his mouth, but she pressed down on his face as he had told her to do, covering his nose as well. He would have to swallow or suffocate.

  He held out for nearly too long, for her strength was about to fail, but she persevered, pressing with all her might, and whispered through her frightened tears, “Physician, I owe you a life.…”

  Finally, he swallowed, and she collapsed across his heaving chest, crying with relief.

  Dressed in her dead mistress’ finery, the servant girl who had cared for Kate’s mother in her last days was an odd sight. The delicate garments once worn by the petite woman she had served were far too small for the substantial serving wench, but she had forced her ample body into them. With an unpracticed hand she had applied the lady’s cosmetics to her own worn face, with predictably laughable and clownlike results.

  Now as she paraded through the streets of London, unsteady on the lady’s small horse, she was a bizarre sight indeed. But from a distance she appeared to be a respectable woman going about her business, perhaps out on an errand or a visit, so Sir John Chandos stopped his party as they approached her, and greeted her with respect.

  “Good day to you, lady; we are on the king’s business and require assistance.”

  She nodded politely, knowing that the moment she opened her mouth, she would give herself away.

  “We seek a fugitive from the king’s justice. A physician. He travels with a small child.” When he gave a detailed description of Alejandro and Kate, the serving girl knew immediately whom they were seeking.

  “Have you seen such a pair, or heard of them?”

  Blessed Virgin, what to do? The wench knew there was no love lost between the child and her neglectful father, and it was certain that the physician would do her no harm. Even with her dim intelligence she knew there was more to this story than she was being told.

  She shook her head no, then nodded politely to Sir John, who regarded her quizzically as she turned her horse clumsily and rode away. Puzzled by the woman’s strange behavior, he remounted his horse and resumed his quest, thinking to himself, Poor soul—another one gone mad.

  As soon as she had put a safe distance between herself and the riding party, the serving girl turned the lady’s horse again. She would go immediately to the cottage. Mother Sarah would know what to do.

  A full day passed before Alejandro opened his eyes and saw the head of the sleeping child resting on his chest. He moved his stiff arm slowly, for both disease and lack of motion had rendered it nearly useless. When it was once again functional, he placed his hand carefully upon her golden curls, and rested it there. Feeling the weight of his hand, she opened her own eyes and came back to consciousness. When she saw that he was awake, she sat upright immediately, and rubbed her eyes, then moved forward to touch his forehead.

  “You are once again cool, Physician. For a full day you have burned with fever.”

  “Please, Kate, I would have some fresh air.… Can you open the door?”

  She opened it wide, and Alejandro could see the horse at the post, grazing peacefully, and he heard the buzz of lazy insects as they flew around in the hot sun. He thought that the blue of the sky had never seemed so beautiful.

  “A drink, if you could bring the bowl; my mouth is filled with grit.”

  So she told him the details of what had happened during his delirium, and he marveled at how his dream had reflected the truth of what had occurred, only dressed it in the robes of his past.

  “Are you cured, Physician?” asked the child.

  “Aye, child, it would seem that I am, and of far more than the plague.”

  Thirty-Four

  It was a week before Caroline could rise from the bed in Bruce’s apartment. During that time, while her ravaged patient could do little more than sleep, Janie enclosed Caroline’s hands and feet in plastic bags with maggots gathered from a nearby garbage can. After a few days she removed the bags and swarms of flies flew off, having nourished their metamorphosis with Caroline’s infected flesh, such cleanup being their naturally assigned task. Then Janie applied her human surgical skills and repaired what was left. Using razor blades, sewing needles, dental floss, and tweezers, she worked near miracles on Caroline’s nearly ruined appendages, saving everything but the tip of one toe.

  Bruce was questioned about the incident at the lab, but because he could prove he’d been in Leeds at the time when it was finally determined that Ted had died, his true involvement was never discovered. The Board of Overseers at the Institute asked him to assume Ted’s position until a replacement could be found, but he declined their request, citing his unwillingness to set aside his hands-on work, even temporarily. Disappointed by Bruce’s refusal, the board had reluctantly brought in an outside consultant, one who would run things as crisply as Ted had.

  Both Janie and Bruce were amazed by how well and quickly Caroline healed, considering the near-death state to which she had sunk. They agreed that a short convalescence would be in order. Janie delayed their return for a week and the three of them went to a seaside hotel in the resort town of Brighton. There the clean sea air worked its own miracles; soon Caroline’s lungs were clear again, and she began to walk on her damaged feet. Janie began to hope that Caroline might return to being the person she had once been.

  But in her heart Janie knew that some part of Caroline had died in that cottage, some small but vital piece of her essential spirit. Sometimes Janie caught her with a look of indefinable sadness on her face, as if she was missing something terribly.

  Michael Rosow spent the time of Caroline’s hidden convalescence rousting Marginals, checking customs records, and reviewing flight reservations. Through solid, plodding, and often frustrating investigation he had finally narrowed the identity of the mystery redhead to only three possibilities. The first one he had already checked, but it had simply been a dead end. Upon meeting the second he’d discovered that the passport photo shown in his computer system was several years and a few dozen pounds out of date.

  But the third, as yet unprinted, candidate could not be located at the hotel she’d listed as her place of temporary residence in London. The desk clerk didn’t recall seeing her for many days, and her companion had checked them both out, citing unexpected travel plans, none of which could be substantiated in computer records. Her original reason for visiting England had been listed as “scientific research,” and a security guard from the Institute, scene of “the phantom hand,” had identified her as having been a recent visitor. The fit was neat, almost too neat, and he knew this one would pan out. All he had to do was figure out which plane she’d be on when she left to go home, and meet her at the airport.

  Janie pulled the collar on Caroline’s jacket closed and buttoned it, mindful of her companion’s healing fingers. “Are you warm enough?” she asked.

  “Yeah. But this collar is itchy.”

  Their bags were already on the plane, or so they’d been told, minus, of course, the garment bag that had served as Ted’s shroud.

  A handsome and extremely well-built young steward with a beautiful smile had just reviewed their boarding documents and was about to let them pass through the laser security gate. They were nearing the security checkpoint when Janie heard a commotion in the distance.

  She turned around and saw a man approaching at a fast pace. He was holding up an ID card and people were moving out of the way quickly.

  Janie panicked. After all they’d been through, this was the last step in their safe return to the U.S. Hoping that ever
ything Bruce had done would work, she held her breath and guided Caroline through the scanner, dreading the siren that would sound if their passport numbers registered as unprinted. But the siren remained silent for Caroline, so Janie whispered a little prayer and followed her through.

  The alarm did not sound. Thanks, Ethel … and Betsy, she thought as they headed down the ramp.

  Rosow arrived at the gate not thirty seconds after Caroline had passed through with Janie behind her. He held up his Biocop badge and showed the gate attendant the now tattered image of Caroline’s face. The attendant recognized the image and said, “She just boarded.”

  “How could she get cleared through? She’s not printed.”

  The attendant checked the computer records quickly and looked up at Rosow. “I show that she is.”

  “That’s not possible,” Rosow said. “I must speak with her. Please bring her out right now.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” the attendant said. He stepped aside politely to allow a tall woman with dark hair to pass back out again, then returned to his discussion with Rosow. “That plane is considered U.S. soil. I have no jurisdiction there.” He grinned slyly, for it was a rare treat to be able to thwart an English Biocop. “And neither do you. You’ll have to get an order from the U.S. Embassy if you want to board, unless you’re a ticketed passenger or a member of the flight crew.”