A Cloud of Outrageous Blue

by Vesper Stamper

  * * *

  —

  The new roof is finally on the chapel of Saint Eustace, protecting it from the elements, so the builders can live in here instead of the shed. I thrust the door open, breathless and soaked, my legs getting weak under me. The linen veil drips on my shoulders. My arms hang heavy, and I weep with a groaning from someplace inside of me that I can’t name, dark violets and blues oozing like thick dough around me.

  The builders are lying on pallets on the chancel, surrounding a fire built on the bare earth. Mason springs up and hurries to me.

  “Come here,” he says, surprised. He gathers me to his chest. “Are you all right?”

  “I had to get away from there. Whatever that is, I don’t want to be anywhere near it.”

  “Edie, what happened?” Mason leads me to a bed of unbound straw at the foot of the chancel. He puts a dry blanket over my shoulders and unpins my wet veil. I breathe and calm and sob again, and he holds me.

  “Brother Timothy’s dying,” I finally manage. “He can barely speak. He’s spitting blood.”

  “That’s the end of it,” says Mason. “That’s how they all died. Once you see that blood, it’s over.”

  “What is this, Mason? It’s not like any other fever…it’s different from sweating sickness or the flux.”

  “I don’t know, but after Gilbert died, I couldn’t help thinking—it’s stupid…but what if it’s punishment? What if we’ve made God angry?”

  “But why would he punish Brother Timothy? A monk in a priory?”

  His look is incredulous. “Not everyone here’s a saint, Edyth. You know that better than anyone.”

  My tears stop—I think I know what he’s getting at. “Are you saying you think we’ve made God angry?”

  He gets up and paces, trying to formulate words for thoughts he’s probably never had.

  “I mean, I don’t usually think about these things, God and rules and such—that stuff’s for old people, or nuns. But it’s not like you’re supposed to sneak around with a girl who lives in a convent…Maybe?”

  It’s a good question: what the rules are, when one of you is a vagabond and the other’s bound to a life she hasn’t made a promise to. Should you run from the rules if it’d save your life?

  But that moment in the cloister with the Pri and the Anti-Pri returns to me, the comet streaking across my mind, trailing the prioress’s words: Every generation has a defining moment, a crisis of decision. I wipe my face with the blanket, and the next words out of my mouth are the last ones I thought I’d ever say:

  “Then you should leave, Mason. You should get out of this place before it gets worse.”

  “Leave?” he protests. “What about you?”

  “I have to stay here. I have something I need to do.”

  “What do you need to do?”

  “I don’t know exactly what it is yet,” I say. “But I will. It’s not about me now.”

  He stares at the ground. “Forget what I said then—whether or not we’re being punished, this chapel won’t build itself. I need the full pay to get me through the winter, until I can find my next gig. And I’m not going anywhere without you, Edyth.”

  “But what if I could do something to stop it? Remember those towns each of us passed on the way here, the ones where everyone was dead? What if it was this same fever—what if we’re next? Mason, if—” The words catch in my throat. “If we live, we can find each other. After.”

  Mason looks at me intently for a moment, then hunches over and methodically lays a handful of straw pieces in perfectly straight lines. At last he gets up and fetches an extra tunic, folds it and pats it like a pillow for me to lie down on. He pulls the cloak over me. It’s a long time before he speaks again.

  “Well, for now, I’m here,” he says. “I have a job, and you have a place to lay your head. And whatever this sickness is, we’re going to stare it back down to the pit of hell together.”

  — 27 —

  Somehow I will myself to wake before dawn and leave the chapel to avoid suspicion. Cautiously I sweep over to the infirmary to check on Brother Timothy, and Bridgit’s there, sitting vigil for her old friend. The hectic buzz from last night seems to have worn off a little, and Joan and Alice muddle through their exhaustion to find a treatment that will work.

  “Alice,” says Joan, “write this down: Applied leeches for suspected profusion of blood. No improvement. Fever pestilential, not relieved by vinegar and rosewater. Will lance tumors to relieve phlegm.”

  Alice opens her wax tablet and takes notes in shorthand, but Joan is dictating faster than Alice can write. She spots me by the door, and my presence seems to give her an idea.

  “Brother Timothy told you his herbal compendium was almost finished, right, Edyth?” Alice asks.

  I nod. “Yes, it’s still on his desk. I saw all the folios there last night.”

  “I think I remember something in there about treating pustules. May I go up to the scriptorium?”

  “Fine,” says Joan, taking out her lance and a bowl, “but hurry. He is declining.”

  “Sister Joan,” I address the physician, “I don’t know much about planets and stars and such, but did Prioress Margaret happen to tell you about the comet?”

  “What comet?” She’s instantly attentive. “Was there a comet?”

  “Yes, the night the father and son arrived. I saw it, and so did she, and the sub-prioress, too.”

  “Tell me about it, Edyth—the size, shape, everything.”

  I get the painting from Brother Timothy’s bedside table and show her. Joan is transfixed as I describe the fireball, its fragmentation—and I even tell her about the colors that came with it.

  “I see” is all she says in response. She makes a note in her tablet, folds her hands and leans toward me. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

  “I think it was a warning about this disease,” I guess.

  “More than a warning, Edyth. A harbinger. Not every bout of fever gets a comet showing up. You were good to tell me. ”

  Alice returns with the loose folios and looks for the passage.

  Joan paces, biting her thumbnail. “Have you found it yet?”

  “Just a moment,” says Alice. She finds the entry and brings it to the physician. “Here it is: juniper tar.”

  “Right, let’s prepare it and hope for the best.” She crosses herself. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti…”

  * * *

  —

  Joan delivers the blow at chapter.

  “Brother Timothy has gone to his rest,” she says. “I watched him all night. I am sorry to say, it was not a peaceful death. But our priest was there and administered last rites, and our dear brother suffers no more.”

  The older nuns take it the worst. They had known Brother Timothy since they were all young novices in the double monastery. Bridgit sits stoic, but her face is red, and she can’t wipe the tears away fast enough with her drenched handkerchief.

  “I must also tell you,” Joan continues, even more soberly, “that this illness is like nothing I have seen. The planets are in a very bad alignment; thus a foul air is settling over the whole earth. We must combat it as best we can. I am seeking a remedy in all the books of physic I possess. Since we cannot control the air, we can at least bring ourselves into better balance. We must prepare for the worst, and commend ourselves to God’s mercy.”

  “What of the pilgrims?” someone calls out. Murmuring spreads among the assembly.

  “Of course they will be welcome here,” says the prioress. “We have plenty of room, stores of food, and all is prepared.”

  “No, I mean, where are they?” the sister clarifies. “It’s August. We should have had hundreds by now.”

  We don’t have to wait long for an answer to that question.

&nb
sp; * * *

  —

  The clamor wakes everyone up before morning. Agnes goes down to the gatehouse still tucking in her wimple, and we all run out to join her. Dozens of wailing women and shouting men beg to be let in, to be seen by the physician, to set their eyes on Eustace’s relics for some little comfort.

  “Right, yes, yes, everyone, peace to you all. Each person will be seen,” says the sub-prioress.

  But when I look out over the crowd, I’m utterly unprepared for the sight. I’ve never seen such panic, such total suffering. Men, women and children, rich and poor—dropping to the ground even as they wait to enter the gates.

  The healthy are shown to the guesthouse. The sick are triaged in the churchyard before being sent to the infirmary. Now that Joan’s seen several people through the stages of the disease, she knows what to expect, even if she doesn’t know exactly how to treat them.

  “First stage?” she quizzes Alice, while preparing a quantity of plantain ointment.

  “Fever, confusion, staggering.”

  “And then?”

  “The swellings, the bloody cough.”

  “And what comes after the lumps and the cough?”

  “Speech is lost, the skin turns black, the heart races and fails. Death within three days—or less.”

  “Fine,” says Joan. “So we can base our treatment on where the patient is on the time line. Get ready. I hear them coming.”

  The funeral bell tolls in town. Every church down in Thornchester is tolling them several times a day now.

  * * *

  —

  Compline is tense that night. Right in the middle of singing the psalm, the Dragon Nun runs to the altar with a shriek, falls on her knees, then rolls to her back. The prioress stays in her choir seat, observing with narrowed eyes, but Agnes scoops her up and holds her.

  “Felisia! God’s mercy—what is it?” Agnes pleads.

  “I have seen it,” the Dragon Nun howls, wild-eyed and sweating. “I have seen the afflicting devil! He is here!” She convulses in Agnes’s arms.

  “What does he look like, this demon?”

  She sits up and pulls Agnes close. “His body is a skeleton, covered in taut skin, green-gray like river mud. He has wings like a bat, and his mouth is hell itself, as huge as a city, flaming and devouring!”

  “Devouring whom, sister?” Agnes presses. “Who is the demon consuming?”

  She looks at Agnes, and her visage changes to a twisted smile. “Whoever he damn well wants,” she says. “But he’s starting with sinners like her.”

  She thrusts out her hand and points at me.

  Suddenly Dragon’s weakness returns and she melts in defeated tears. Compline devolves into a cacophony of gossip and accusation.

  “Brother Timothy was shut up in the scriptorium day in, day out with all those women,” says Agnes. She looks at me in disdain and turns to the rest of the nuns. “Why else would Timothy die the same way as a peasant traveler and his son, a laborer and a conversa medic? For Timothy to suffer directly from the hand of God like this? It must have been secret sin.”

  “It is time for judgment to begin in the house of God,” wails the Dragon Nun.

  Murmurs of assent go through the crowd of sisters.

  “Sub-Prioress,” says the Pri, her strong voice slicing through the chaos, “kindly tend to your ward and help her to bed. We must finish compline. Edyth le Sherman, since you have served the sub-prioress in the past, please assist them.”

  Agnes helps the Dragon to stand, and we leave through the transept. I hang back, not enthused to help, really hoping I won’t be needed.

  Agnes coddles the frightened seer, her arm around her shoulder as we head toward the dormitory. “Tell me, Sister Felisia, what else do you see?”

  “You are going to lead this priory through the storm, Mother,” says the Dragon.

  “You mistake me, dear.” She feigns humble amazement. “Prioress Margaret will see us through. I am only her servant.”

  “Saint Christopher’s is about to go through a pruning, Mother,” Felisia continues with inexplicable calm. “Stay the course, and steer the ship.” And then she lowers her head to the side and refuses to say more.

  Agnes pats the girl’s shoulder as they peel off toward Felisia’s cell. “A prophet,” I hear the sub-prioress say. “God has sent us the comfort of a prophet.”

  — 28 —

  “She’s really rushing things this morning,” I whisper to Alice in chapter. “That’s not like the Pri.”

  “I know,” says Alice. “Do you realize she skipped two whole pages of Bede’s Martyrs?”

  “Daughters,” the prioress addresses the gathering, “I want to thank our sub-prioress for her faithful leadership while I was away. But I have been gone too long. I am ceasing my travels and will remain at the priory. It is time for our community to come together more than ever before, and each one of you has an important part to play. Saint Christopher’s needs all of us, and so do the sick who are streaming to our gates.”

  “She and Agnes could not be more different,” whispers Alice.

  After dismissal, I gather the prioress’s books, and Agnes sweeps into the space between me and Prioress Margaret.

  “Venerable Mother,” Agnes says with a reverent bow, “I feel that the Lord would have me renew my service to you at this difficult time. Please allow me the honor of carrying your books today.”

  Prioress Margaret looks surprised as Agnes takes the books from me. “I would like that, Sister Agnes.”

  “That’s a change of character.” I nudge Alice, watching the two women leave together. “What do you think that’s about?”

  “If I were to give her the benefit of the doubt,” says Alice, “I’d say she was humbling herself. But…no. I think the Anti-Pri knows exactly what part she wants to play in all of this.”

  We stroll slowly through the cloister walk, trying to puzzle it out.

  Suddenly I tug Alice’s arm and we duck into an arched doorway. “Alice, I want to know what my part is. It’s been two weeks since I saw that fireball fly across the sky, and there’s no doubt now that it was an omen of this disease. The prioress said it would become clear why I was the one who saw the comet. But I’m lost. Am I supposed to hear a voice from heaven or something? I can’t stop drawing comets, stags, yew trees and streams of water, and now I’m having Mason carve those things in the chapel, too. I’m trying to add it all up—it’s so frustrating.”

  “You can’t dwell on it so much. All you can do is stay open and patient until it becomes obvious. That’s what Joan and I are doing with our treatments. Otherwise you’re going to drive yourself mad, Edyth. How about this? When you finish at the scriptorium for the day, come help in the infirmary. If you haven’t caught the fever yet, you’re probably safe. We really need an extra set of hands, and it’ll take your mind off of it for a while. It’s impossible to think about anything else in there.”

  “Sure,” I say. “I may as well do that as anything else.”

  That night, while Alice and Joan tend to patients, I pound herbs and prepare poultices. It’s a miserable place to be, especially on a rainy night, with the utter darkness outside, the oppressive clay-red walls and soot-stained ceiling, the cries of the dying behind the curtains.

  Then the door opens, and Agnes de Guile enters, rain dripping off her black veil into her face, like its own little tempest. Joan turns away and rolls her eyes.

  “Good evening, Joan, Alice,” says the sub-prioress, ignoring me while she scans the shelves. “I’m looking for something to help me sleep. All this excitement, you know. So many things to juggle. Might you have a bottle of something I can take before bed?”

  “Certainly, Sub-Prioress,” says Joan, feigning concern. “Alice, what should we recommend to help the sub-prioress have a restful slumber?”
>
  “Tincture of melissa,” says Alice, taking down a small glass jar from the shelf at the end of the infirmary hall.

  “Good,” says Joan. “Please prepare a dose.”

  “Make it extra strong, Alice,” says Agnes. “I want it to work quickly. Oh, is that a new book?” she asks, looking through the folios on the table as Alice mixes the tincture with honey and distilled wine.

  “Yes, Brother Timothy’s herbal compendium,” says Alice, handing Agnes the jar. She watches Agnes flip through the folios, and side-eyes me. “It has Dioscorides and Bald’s Leechbook, both. And even some of Hildegard’s Physica.”

  “Ah,” says Agnes, distractedly examining the pages. “Good, good to have those.”

  Abruptly Agnes turns to leave, glimpsing a man in the first cell. He’s lying catatonic and contorted on the bed in nothing but his braies. The sub-prioress shudders.

  “Many thanks to you,” she calls to Joan, and rushes out into the rain with the jar.

  Alice shuffles pages back into a neat pile and gives me the ingredients for Joan’s next concoction.

  * * *

  —

  After the morning burial, which is becoming disturbingly routine, Alice catches up with me and grasps my elbow as we head to the church. “Slow down,” she says. “We need to talk.”

  The sisters enter the calefactory door, and Alice and I slow our pace and fall behind.

  “Something’s not right, Edyth. The Anti-Pri—she’s up to something.”

  I stop and look at her. “What are you thinking?”

  “You know when she came to the infirmary asking for that sleep remedy? I thought I saw her put something under her scapular. It might’ve been a page from Brother Timothy’s herbal. I’m not sure which one. And, Edyth, she’s been in three times this week asking for stupid little remedies, when we’ve got people there in their death throes.”