The Plague Charmer

by Karen Maitland

  Naturally, I rallied to Sara’s defence. ‘She’s lost her home,’ I said. ‘Isn’t that punishment enough for her carelessness?’

  ‘But I did damp it. I know I did. It was safe,’ Sara protested feebly, though it was plain to hear from the muttering and whispering that no one believed her.

  ‘Any of you taken a look at that thatch?’ the dwarf asked.

  Several people muttered furiously that of course they had looked – they’d been the ones to beat it out.

  ‘Look again. The worst of the burning is down in this corner, and it’s on the top of the thatch, not underneath. I reckon whatever spark set it alight came from outside the cottage, not from her hearth.’

  Isobel gestured towards the mass of houses down in the darkness by the shore. ‘Do you see the glow of a single fire burning there? Where would the spark have come from, if not from Sara’s own hearth?’

  The dwarf pointed through the doorway, which now stood black and empty, like the mouth of a cave. ‘But see for yourselves, her fire’s covered.’

  ‘Naturally it is now,’ I snapped. ‘We’ve all been throwing earth inside for hours to keep it from smouldering. And we’re all too tired to be standing around in the middle of the night listening to the babbling of a fool. I, for one, would like to return to my bed where I was so abruptly woken.’

  I patted Sara firmly on the arm. ‘My dear, you were exhausted after that ridiculous journey to Kitnor and you fell asleep with the fire still burning. We all understand that. If only you’d allowed yourself to be guided by older and wiser heads . . . but what’s done is done. The walls still stand. Your cottage could be rethatched in time. At least it will give you something to work at, instead of wasting your time chasing after bones.’

  Sara slowly turned her head and stared at me, her eyes glittering in her soot-blackened face. ‘Bones? You know which bones that diviner meant, I know you do. I saw it in your face at Kitnor. But I’ll find them and I’ll find Janiveer. My boys may be dead, like that hermit said, but Janiveer can tell me where they lie. I’ll see them buried properly, not like their father. I’m their mam. I brought them into this world and I’ll find a way to protect my sons’ bodies and souls from every demon in this realm and the next, even if it costs me my life. I’ll not give up, Matilda. I’ll find Janiveer. Whatever you do to try to stop me, I’ll bring my chillern home.’

  Sara allowed herself to be guided away by Aldith, who said she would take her into her own house, and that poor, simple woman, Goda, trailed after them. Everyone seemed to have forgotten that she and her child were now homeless too. But I lifted the baby from her weary arms and insisted she come to my own cottage, where she could rest comfortably.

  ‘Aldith can’t care for her own daughter,’ I told her. ‘She’s never even troubled to clean the sand and slime from her cottage after the night of the storm. She just squats among the filth with that poor child of hers, like beasts in a stable. She’s not blankets or bedding enough for herself, much less you, Goda. Your baby will die within days if you take her into that chill, damp place.’

  I turned and began to walk back to my cottage, Goda’s child cradled in my arms. I glanced back, expecting to see Goda following me. But she hadn’t moved. She was just standing in her shift, staring at the backs of Aldith and Sara as they edged down the path in the darkness, as if she couldn’t make up her mind who to follow. Then her child began to wail and, like a dog pulled back on its leash, she ran after me.

  Chapter 41

  And I heard a voice from Heaven, as the noise of many waters and as the voice of great thunder.

  The Apocalypse of St John

  The demons are clawing up out of the boiling pool below him, clambering up the bare rock face towards him. It is so dark that, at first, Luke thought his eyeballs would burst straining to peer through it, but now he sees shapes in the blackness, sees the creatures who are born of hell. Bright white sparks flash across the shaft, so fast he cannot mark their progress. They spin across his vision and are gone. Red streaks dart below him. Faces, with no bodies, float up towards him, their mouths twisted open as if they are screaming, but their lips make no sound. He knows them, he knows them all, but he cannot remember their names.

  The waterfall roars in his ears, but he can still hear the creatures slithering towards him over the rocks. He can hear their hearts beating, a single beat, growing faster and louder, like the pulse of a drum. He hears the rasp of their breathing, their wet bodies, their leathery wings and long claws scraping over the stone.

  Something touches his toe. He jerks his foot back, draws his knees up under his chin, wrapping his fish-cold arms around his legs. He whimpers in fear as something wet and rough brushes his skin. A mouth! It is creeping across his leg, trying to find a place to bite, to suck, to drag him down into the boiling maelstrom below. He slams his fist into it, but feels only the wet cloth of his sleeve. Is it gone? Was it ever there?

  In his terror, he clambers to his feet, cringing against the wet rock. His feet are so numb, his legs so stiff from cramp and cold, he can barely stand. He shrinks as far back from the edge of the ledge as he can, covering his head with his arms as the phantasms ooze towards him, closer, closer.

  Something moves above his head. He sees them now. They are hanging from the walls, like giant bats, staring down at him with their bulging eyes, skinless, bloody, waiting till he falls asleep. Then they will drop on him.

  ‘Let me out! Don’t let them take me!’

  But he cannot make himself heard above the rushing water. Maybe there is no one out there to hear him. What if the demons have taken the others, drowned them, devoured them, and he is the only one left . . . left alone on this ledge, trapped in the darkness?

  A voice roars out of the water, a torrent of words crash down on him: ‘“The beast which thou sawest was, and is not, and shall come up out of the bottomless pit and go into hell.” Do you want to be saved from that beast, Luke? Do you want to be saved?’

  Luke’s jaw is rigid from fear and cold. He cannot open his mouth, and that sudden realisation frightens him more than the creatures that are slithering towards him. He can’t breathe. He is choking.

  The voice throbs in the air. ‘Do you want to be saved, Luke?’

  Yes, YES! He tries to force out the words, but his teeth are locked together. He cannot make himself heard.

  ‘And who will save you?’

  Luke tries to prise his jaws apart with his fingers, but they will not move. He cannot feel them. Maybe he has no fingers, no hands. The beast has swallowed them.

  ‘Who will save you? Say it, Luke, only say the word and you will be saved.’

  But the word will not be spoken. He falls to his knees, crashing on to the hard rock. He is crouching on all fours, whimpering like an animal. Then he is falling, falling down into darkness that is blacker even than death.

  Chapter 42

  Matilda

  St Sebastian was shot full of arrows, but they did not kill him. The widow Irene nursed him back to health, and the saint upbraided the emperor Diocletian for his cruelties. The emperor ordered Sebastian to be beaten to death with cudgels and his body thrown into a sewer, but it was recovered by a woman called Lucina, who buried it in the catacombs where now the Basilica of St Sebastian stands.

  Goda wiped her sweating brow and rocked back on her heels away from the heat of the hearth fire. Although the door and shutters were flung wide to catch any breeze from the sea, the cottage was still as hot as a baker’s oven.

  ‘Don’t let the wax burn,’ I warned her. ‘That’s the last of the oil of roses. This drought has withered all the blooms this year.’

  Alarm flashed across her dull face and she seized the iron rod from which the pot was suspended, swivelling it away from the fire. Scrambling to her feet, she carried it to the table where the human vertebrae stood in a neat row, the wicks already in place. I had supervised her cleaning of each one, ensuring that she carefully scraped the old wax out of each crevice with
a sharp bone pick I had fashioned myself. At first, she had recoiled from even touching them, but I insisted. It is the only way with simple girls. You must be firm with them if they are to overcome their foolishness and learn.

  ‘You would be glad to touch a saint’s bones, wouldn’t you?’

  She stared at them. ‘Are these holy relics?’

  ‘Relics, yes, you might call them that. Pour carefully now. Don’t fill them to the top else the wax will spill over when the candles are lit.’

  Her hand shook. She gripped the pot tighter.

  ‘Clean the pot at once before the wax sets hard.’

  I watched her step out into the blinding sunshine, and crouch down to scrub the pot with a few sprigs of knee holly. Behind me, the baby wailed, and she sprang up abandoning the dirty pot.

  ‘I will tend the child,’ I said. ‘You will need to fetch water to rinse the pot.’

  I never allowed her to take the baby with her when she left the house to fetch water. I knew if I had, she would simply have wandered off with her and neglected to return. The child always pulled her back.

  I waited until her bare feet had padded over the rise, the two pails dangling from the yoke across her neck. Then I closed the door and, kneeling, drew a box from beneath my bed. Slowly, and with great reverence, I unwrapped the white linen, exposing the stiff, blackened hand I had taken from the chest in the chapel.

  When that foul diviner spoke of bones, he had stared directly at me. He knew what I possessed and he wanted it. But it had been given into my care by God. I would protect it from them all, even from Father Cuthbert, who cared nothing for St Cadeyrn. No one cared for these saints as I did.

  Even when I’d been a child in the nunnery, I’d been more devoted to their shrines than the nuns were. I loved to look up at their gentle smiles in the candlelight, to see them garlanded and dressed. On their feast days, a host of candles would be lit at their feet, the flames spreading in a sea of holy fire. I’d gaze up into their faces and their painted lips would part and smile in pleasure. I heard them whispering to me, telling me how they loved me because of my care of them. They were my friends, my only friends. And still now they protected me as fiercely as I guarded them. I would allow no one to desecrate my saints.

  The clank of a pail outside jerked me from my thoughts. Goda was returning and only then did I realise the baby was howling. Its face was scarlet and wet with sweat and tears. I wrapped the hand hastily and had only just managed to push the box back under the bed when the door burst open and Goda rushed in, snatching up her daughter and pressing her so hard to her face that the baby screamed even louder. Goda was babbling nonsense and trying to calm the child, promising never to leave her again. She sank on to a stool, unlaced the front of her gown, dragged out a long skinny breast and rubbed her dark nipple across the baby’s mouth. The little one’s lips fastened greedily around it and her sobs subsided as she tugged on it, gripping Goda’s dug with her fist, as a drunken sailor would grasp at the breasts of a tavern whore.

  I reached for the soft pigskin bag that I wore always at my waist and pulled out the skull goblet, which I half filled from a small flagon of mead.

  I offered the skull goblet to Goda. ‘Here, drink this. Mead will help your milk to flow.’

  She gazed at the polished cup, with its arm-bone stem and scapula base, though I could see she did not recognise it for what it was.

  ‘Drink,’ I urged her. ‘It is a special cup. A holy relic. It will keep you from harm and bring your beloved Jory close to you, so close you will imagine he has already returned to you and that you hold him in your arms.’

  Goda smiled, her eyes unfocused as if she was already dreaming of her lover. She took the goblet from me and drank as greedily as her babe.

  Chapter 43

  And it was given him to give life to the image of the beast and that the image of the beast should speak.

  The Apocalypse of St John

  A blessed warmth swept over Luke, but almost at the same instant there was an explosion of pain as if knives had been stabbed into his limbs and twisted violently. He shrieked. Something was crawling over his legs, rasping the skin from his flesh. He tried to fling it off.

  ‘Be still, boy.’

  He felt a hand pressing hard on his forehead. He opened his eyes, moaning and jerking his limbs to ease the agony. He was lying in a small chamber on a heap of stinking sheepskins. He was naked. The Prophet’s pinch-faced wife, Uriel, was laying cloths soaked in hot water on his legs and body. As blood seeped back into his numb icy flesh, the pain flowed in with it. Her fingers were hard and hot. They burned his bare skin as she probed him, rubbed him, lifted his cock.

  Outraged and shrivelling in humiliation, Luke tried to push her hand away, but she twisted his cock savagely, making him yelp.

  ‘You wet yourself like a baby. You must be washed, boy, cleansed of all your filth. If you don’t lie still, it will be my duty to tell the Prophet you have not yet learned obedience and you need another lesson, a sharper one this time.’

  Luke swallowed hard. He didn’t know if it was true that he had wet himself, but he couldn’t go back into that shaft, he couldn’t.

  He didn’t know how long it was before the pain began to give way to tingling and an unbearable itching of his swollen feet and hands that was almost worse than the cramp, but that, too, eventually subsided. Uriel thrust his shirt and breeches at him. They were still damp, but Luke said nothing as he clumsily dressed himself as rapidly as his fat fingers would allow. He would willingly have covered himself with ice-soaked rags, anything to hide himself from her.

  Uriel turned her head, frowning. ‘Up, boy, the Prophet is coming,’ she announced.

  Moments later, Luke heard Brother Praeco’s boots slapping along the tunnel. His stomach lurched and he clambered shakily to his feet. Uriel shuffled a couple of paces to the edge of the chamber, hands folded and head bowed respectfully.

  The Prophet ducked under the low archway. He seemed to fill the whole chamber as he stepped inside. He stood looking down at Luke for a long time before he spoke. Luke was murmuring a single prayer over and over in his head, more fervently than any saint: Please don’t let him send me back to the ledge! Don’t let him send me back!

  ‘You must understand, Luke, the Lord tests all those He has chosen in the fire of His crucible. God does not choose rich and powerful men to deliver His Word, but the poor and the humble, like you and me. In my youth I was nothing more than a clerk in Holy Orders forced to record the droolings and deceit of bishops and prelates, whose wealthy families had bought them the means to rule over men who were far more worthy in intellect and faith than they. But I studied the Blessed Word of God and I understood what those prelates in their blindness and corruption could not see.

  ‘And God called me forth to be His prophet, to go out into the world and warn men of the terrors to come. He sent me to preach in the marketplaces and churches, to rebuke the rich and powerful. But I was tested in the fire. I was put in chains and left to starve in a bishop’s dungeons, flogged like a common harlot in the marketplace. I was set in the stocks before a baying mob, pelted with filth, left there in the bitter wind and rain for days at a time so that I almost froze to death. But I did not falter in my preaching, however much they mocked and derided me. And God rewarded me for faithfulness for He revealed to me in a dream that I was to lead His Chosen Ones and bring them through the Day of Wrath into His glorious new kingdom. I had proved myself worthy of His trust by my suffering.’

  The Prophet hooked his fingers under Luke’s chin, tilting the boy’s head back so that he was forced to look into those twin black pits. ‘I see so much of myself as a boy in you. You could be my own son. But are you worthy to become one of His Chosen Ones, Luke? Are you willing to do without question whatever the Lord demands? Will you obey me as your father?’

  With his head tilted back, the boy could barely swallow, much less talk, but the Prophet seemed to take his earnest gasp as a yes.
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  He released the boy’s head, and smoothed his wet hair. ‘Good, good,’ he murmured. ‘But words are easily spoken. Now we must put them to the test.’

  Chapter 44

  Porlock Manor

  A calf should not play with an ox for it is outmatched in horns.

  Medieval Proverb

  Rosa walks barefoot across the brown grass. Even though each leaf and twig is crisp and dry, her feet make no sound. Her mother and aunts taught her to move noiselessly. They taught her how to mask her body scent with the smells of the earth and plants, so that she could sit within touching distance of a wild hare or fox, but those creatures are not her quarry now. He is.

  Father Cuthbert stands by the manor’s fish pool, staring dismally into what little water remains. It is black now, though it was as green and thick as pease pottage just a few days ago. The fish, gasping on the surface or floating belly up, have been dragged out. Those few that could be revived in pails of well water, now circle in tubs in the relative cool of the dairy. The rest were smoked or eaten, smothered beneath strong vinegar sauces masking the taste of flesh that was far from fresh.

  Rosa glides towards the far side of the pond, loosening her thick dark hair and shaking it out across her shoulders. The leaves on the tree above her tremble violently as if caught in a sudden gust of wind, though there is scarcely a breeze. She gives no sign that she has seen the priest, but unties the laces fastening her gown and pulls it off, then the linen shift beneath, arching her bare back as she draws the garment over her head. Only the bear tooth amulet dangles between her breasts. The sun glints on the silver-capped tip, transforming it into a bright star.

  She knows he is watching her. On the very edge of her vision she sees his body half turn as if he would hurry away, but his head doesn’t follow. She ambles towards the pond, and across the cracked baked mud towards the stagnant puddle in the centre, until she stands ankle-deep. She bends, scooping up handfuls of water and dashing them over her arms and legs. Even the drops of black water sparkle as long as they are in the sunlight and glitter on her bare skin until they run back to the earth and become darkness again.