Wilbur Smith - C11 Blue Horizon

by C11 Blue Horizon(Lit)

  When the bucket was full she staggered to the rabbit hutch, then to

  the chicken run, and released all the animals and fowls to fend for themselves. "I am not going to be able to take care of you," she explained to them.

  Carrying the water bucket, she staggered unsteadily back to the kitchen, water slopping down her legs. She placed the bucket beside the hearth with a copper dipper hooked over the side. "Food!" she murmured, through the giddy mirages in her head. She fetched the remains of the cheese and ham and a basket of apples from the pantry and placed them where she could reach them.

  "Cold. It will be cold at night." She dragged herself to the linen chest where her mother had kept what remained of her dowry, took out a bundle of woollen blankets and a sheepskin rug and laid them out beside the hearth. Then she fetched an armful of firewood from the stack in the corner and, as the shivering fits began, she built up the fire.

  "The door! Lock the door!" She had heard that in the city starving pigs and dogs had broken into the houses where people lay too sick to defend themselves. The animals had eaten them alive. She closed the door and placed the locking bar in the brackets. She found her father's axe and a carving knife, and laid them beside her mattress.

  There were rats in the thatch and the walls of the cottage. She had heard them scurrying about in the night, and her mother had complained of their nocturnal depredations in her pantry. Petronella had described to Louisa how a huge rat had got into the nursery of the big house while the new nursemaid was drunk on gin. Her father had found the horrid beast in her little sister's cot and had ordered the grooms to thrash the drunken nurse. The wretched woman's screams had penetrated the classroom, and the children had exchanged glances of delicious horror as they listened. Now Louisa's skin crawled at the thought of lying helpless under a rat's razor fangs.

  With the last of her strength she brought down the largest of her mother's copper pots from its hook on the wall, and placed it in the corner with the lid in place. She was a fastidious child, and the thought of fouling herself as her parents had done was abhorrent to her.

  "That's all I can do," she whispered, and collapsed on to the sheepskin. Dark clouds swirled in her head and her blood seemed to boil in her veins with the heat of fever. "Our Father, which art in heaven..." She recited the prayer in English, as her mother had taught her, but the sweltering darkness overwhelmed her.

  Perhaps an eternity passed before she rose slowly to the surface of her mind, like a swimmer coming up from great depth. The darkness gave way to a blinding white light. Like sunlight on a snowfield, it dazzled

  and blinded her. The cold came out of the light, chilling her blood and frosting her bones, so she shivered wildly.

  Moving painfully she drew the sheepskin over herself, and rolled herself into a ball, hugging her knees to her chest. Then, fearfully, she reached behind: the flesh had wasted from her buttocks leaving the bones poking through. She explored herself with a finger, dreading the feel of wet, slimy faeces, but her skin was dry. She sniffed her finger tentatively. It was clean.

  She remembered overhearing her father talking to her mother, "Diarrhoea is the worst sign. Those who survive do not scour their bowels."

  "It's a sign from Jesus," Louisa whispered to herself, through chattering teeth. "I did not dirty myself. I am not going to die." Then the scalding heat came back to burn away the cold and the white light. She tossed on the mattress in delirium, crying to her father and her mother, and to Jesus. Thirst woke her: it was a fire in her throat and her tongue filled her parched mouth like a sun-heated stone. She fought to raise herself on one elbow and reach for the water dipper. On the first attempt she spilled most of it over her chest, then choked and gasped on what remained in the copper dipper. The few mouthfuls that she was able to swallow renewed her strength miraculously. On her next attempt she forced down the entire contents of the dipper. She rested again, then drank another dipperful. She was satiated at last and the fires in her blood for the moment seemed quenched. She curled under the sheepskin, her belly bulging with the water she had drunk. This time the sleep that overcame her was deep but natural.

  Pain roused her. She did not know where she was, or what had caused it. Then she heard a harsh ripping sound close at hand. She opened her eyes and looked down. One of her feet protruded from under the sheepskin. Hunched over her bare foot was something as big as a tomcat, grey and hairy. For a moment she did not know what it was, but then the tearing sound came again and the pain. She wanted to kick out at it, or scream, but she was frozen with terror. This was her worst nightmare come true.

  The creature lifted its head and peered at her with bright, bead like eyes. It wiggled the whiskers on its long, pointed nose, and the sharp curved fangs that overlapped its lower lip were rosy pink with her blood. It had been gnawing at her ankle. The little girl and the rat stared at each other, but Louisa was still paralysed with horror. The rat lowered its head and bit into her flesh again. Slowly Louisa reached out for the carving knife beside her head. With the speed of a cat she slashed out

  at the foul creature. The rat was almost as quick: it leaped high in the air, but the point of the knife split open its belly. It squealed, and flopped over.

  Louisa dropped the knife and watched, wide-eyed, as the rat dragged itself across the stone floor, the slimy purple tangle of its entrails slithering after it. She was panting and it took a long time for her heart to slow and her breathing to settle. Then she found that the shock had made her feel stronger. She sat up and examined her injured foot. The bites were deep. She tore a strip off her petticoat and wrapped it round her ankle. Then she realized she was hungry. She crawled to the table and pulled herself up. The rat had been at the ham, but she hacked away the chewed area, and cut a thick slice, and placed it on a slab of bread. Green mould was already growing on the cheese, evidence of how long she had lain unconscious on the hearth. Mould and all, it was delicious. She drank the last dipperful of water. She wished she could replenish the bucket, but she knew she was not strong enough, and she was afraid to open the door.

  She dragged herself to the big copper pot in the corner and squatted over it. While she piddled, she lifted her skirt high and examined her lower belly. It was smooth and unblemished, her innocent little cleft naked of hair. But she stared at the swollen buboes in her groin. They were hard as acorns and painful when she touched them, but not the same terrifying colour or size of those that had killed her mother. She thought about the razor, but knew she did not have the courage to do that to herself.

  "I am not going to die!" For the first time she truly believed it. She smoothed down her skirt and crawled back to her mattress. With the carving knife clutched in her hand she slept again. After that, the days and nights mingled into a dreamlike succession of sleeping and brief intervals of wakefulness. Gradually these periods became longer. Each time she woke she felt stronger, more able to care for herself. When she used the pot in the corner she discovered that the buboes had subsided and had changed from red to pink. They were not nearly so painful when she touched them, but she knew she had to drink.

  She summoned every last shred of her courage and strength, tottered out into the yard and refilled the water bucket. Then she locked herself into the kitchen again. When the ham was just a bare bone and the apple basket was empty, she found that she was strong enough to make her way into the garden, where she pulled up a basketful of turnips and potatoes. She rekindled the fire with her father's flint, and cooked a stew of vegetables flavoured with the ham bone. The food was delicious,

  and the strength flowed back into her. Each morning after that she set herself a task for the day.

  On the first she emptied the copper vessel she had been using as a chamber-pot into her father's compost pit, then washed it out with lye and hot water, and hung it back on its hook. She knew her mother would have wanted that. The effort exhausted her and she crept back to the sheepskin.

  The next morning she felt strong enough to fill the bucket
from the pump, strip off her filthy clothing and wash herself from head to toe with a ladleful of the precious soap her mother made by boiling sheep's fat and wood ash together. She was delighted to find that the buboes in her groin had almost disappeared. With her fingertips she could press them quite hard and the pain was bearable. When her skin was pink and glowing, she scrubbed her teeth with a finger dipped in salt and dressed the rat bite on her leg from her mother's medicine chest. Then she chose fresh clothes from the linen chest.

  The next day she was hungry again. She caught one of the rabbits that were hopping trustingly around the garden, held it up by the ears, steeled herself, and broke its neck with the stick her father had kept for that purpose. She gutted and skinned the carcass as her mother had taught her, then quartered it and placed it in the pot with onions and potatoes. When she had eaten it, she sucked the bones white.

  The following morning she went down to the bottom of the orchard and spent the morning tidying and tending her parents' graves. Until now she had not left the security of the cottage garden, but she gathered her courage, climbed through the hole in the hedge and crept up to the greenhouse. She made certain that no one was anywhere to be seen. The estate seemed deserted still. She picked out some of the choicest blooms from the vast array on the shelves, placed them in a handcart, trundled them back to the cottage and planted them in the newly smoothed earth of the graves. She chatted away to her parents as she worked, telling them every detail of her ordeal, about the rat, and the rabbit, and how she had cooked the stew in the black three-legged pot.

  "I am so sorry I used your best copper pot, Mama," she hung her head in shame, 'but I have washed it and hung it back on the wall."

  When the graves had been decorated to her satisfaction curiosity rose in her again. Once more she slipped through the hedge and took a circuitous route through the plantation of fir trees until she could approach the big house from the south side. It was silent and bleak: all the windows were shuttered. When she sidled up cautiously to the front door she found that it was locked and barred. She stared at the cross

  that someone had sketched crudely on the door in red. The paint had run like tears of blood down the panel. It was the plague warning.

  Suddenly she felt lonely and bereft. She sat down on the steps that led up to the doorway. "I think I'm the only person left alive in the world. All the others are dead."

  At last she stood up and, made bold by desperation, ran round to the back door, which led to the kitchen and the servants' quarters. She tried it. To her astonishment it swung open. "Hello!" she called. "Is anyone there? Stals! Hans! Where are you?"

  The kitchen was deserted. She went through to the scullery and stuck her head through the door. "Hello!" There was no answer. She went through the entire house, searching every room, but they were all deserted. Everywhere there was evidence of the family's hasty departure. She left everything untouched and closed the kitchen door carefully when she left.

  On the way back to the cottage a thought occurred to her. She turned off the path and went down to the chapel at the end of the rose garden. Some of the headstones in the cemetery were two hundred years old and covered with green moss, but near the door there was a line of new graves. The headstones had not yet been set in place. The posies of flowers on them had faded and withered. Names and final messages were printed on black-edged cards on each pile of fresh earth. The ink had run in the rain, but Louisa could still read the names. She found one that read Tetronella Katrina Susanna van Hitters'. Her friend lay between two of her younger brothers.

  Louisa ran back to the cottage, and that night she sobbed herself to sleep. When she woke she felt sick and weak again, and her sorrow and loneliness had returned in full measure. She dragged herself out into the yard and washed her face and hands under the pump. Then, abruptly, she lifted her face, water running into her eyes and dripping off her chin. She cocked her head and, slowly, an expression of delight lit her face. Her eyes sparkled with blue lights. "People!" she said aloud. "Voices." They were faint, and came from the direction of the big house. "They have come back. I am not alone any more."

  Her face still wet, she raced to the hole in the hedge, jumped through and set off towards the big house. The sound of voices grew louder as she approached. At the potting shed she paused to catch her breath. She was about to run out on to the lawns, when some instinct warned her to be cautious. She hesitated, then put her head slowly round the corner of the red-brick wall. A chill of horror ran up her spine.

  She had expected to see coaches with the van Hitters' coat-of-arms drawn up on the gravel driveway, and the family disembarking, with the

  coachmen, grooms and footmen hovering around them. Instead a horde of strangers was running in and out of the front doors, carrying armfuls of silver, clothing and paintings. The doors had been smashed open, and the shattered panels hung drunkenly on their hinges.

  The looters were piling the treasures on to a row of handcarts, shouting and laughing with excitement. Louisa could see that they were the dregs of the city, of its docks and slums, army deserters, from prisons and barracks that had thrown open their gates when all the trappings of civilized government had been swept away by the plague. They were dressed in the rags of the back-streets and gutters, in odd pieces of military uniform and the ill-fitting finery of the rich they had plundered. One rascal, wearing a high plumed hat, brandished a square-faced bottle of gin as he staggered down the main staircase with a solid gold salver under his other arm. His face, flushed and marked with drink and dissipation, turned towards Louisa. Stunned by the scene, she was too slow to duck back behind the wall and he spotted her. "A woman. By Satan and all the devils of hell, a veritable woman! Young and juicy as a ripe red apple." He dropped the bottle and drew his sword. "Come here, you sweet little filly. Let's take a look at what you're hiding under those pretty skirts." He bounded down the steps.

  A wild cry went up from all his companions: "A woman! After her, lads! The one who catches her gets the cherry."

  They came in a screaming pack across the lawn towards her. Louisa swirled about and ran. At first she headed instinctively for the safety of the cottage, then realized that they were close behind her and would trap her there like a rabbit in its warren pursued by a troop of ferrets. She veered away across the paddock towards the woods. The ground was soft and muddy and her legs had not yet recovered their full strength after her sickness. They were gaining on her, their shouts loud and jubilant. She reached the treeline only just ahead of the leaders, but she knew these woods intimately for they were her playground. She twisted and turned along paths that were barely discernible, and ducked through thickets of blackberry and gorse.

  Every few minutes she stopped to listen, and each time the sounds of pursuit were fainter. At last they dwindled into silence. Her terror receded, but she knew it was still dangerous to leave the shelter of the forest. She found the densest stretch of thorns and crept into it, crawling on her belly until she was hidden. Then she burrowed into the dead leaves until only her mouth and eyes were showing, so she could watch the clearing she had just left. She lay there, panting and trembling. Gradually she calmed down, and lay without moving until the shadows of the trees stretched long upon the earth. Eventually, when there were

  still no more sounds of her hunters, she began to crawl back towards the clearing.

  She was just about to stand up when her nose wrinkled and she sniffed the air. She caught a whiff of tobacco smoke and sank down again, pressing herself to the earth. Her terror returned at full strength. After many silent, tense minutes she lifted her head slowly. At the far side of the clearing, a man sat with his back to the trunk of the tallest beech tree. He was smoking a long-stemmed clay pipe, but his eyes roved from side to side. She recognized him instantly. It was the man in the plumed hat who had first spotted her and who had led the chase. He was so close that she could hear every puff he took on his pipe. She buried her face in the leaf mould and tried to still her tremblin
g. She did not know what he would do to her if he discovered her, but she sensed that it would be beyond her worst nightmares.

  She lay and listened to the suck and gurgle of his spittle in the bowl of the pipe, and her terror mounted. Suddenly he hawked and spat a glob of thick mucus. She heard it splatter close to her head, and her nerve almost broke. It was only by exerting all her courage and self discipline that she stopped herself jumping to her feet and running again.

  Time seemed to stand still, but at last she felt the air turn cold on her bare arms. Still she did not lift her head. Then she heard rustling in the leaves, and heavy footsteps coming directly towards her across the clearing. They stopped close by her head, and a great bull voice bellowed, so close to her that her heart seemed to clench and freeze, "There you are! I can see you! I'm coming! Run! You'd better run!" Her frozen heart came to life, and hammered against her ribs, but she forced herself not to move. There was another long silence, then the footsteps walked away from where she lay. As he went she could hear him muttering to himself, "Dirty little whore, she's probably riddled with the pox, anyway."