The Plague Diaries

by Ronlyn Domingue

  On the twenty-third, “19th birthday. Father traveling, sent package—three jars of honey which taste of three different flowers. From Nikolas, a book of ‘hilariously sentimental poetry,’ his favorite ones marked with ribbons. I think he’s in Uldiland now, soon to Prev.”

  Then, near the end of the month, I received this note:

  Dear Miss Riven,

  I invite you to a hunt the morning of 5 October. You should arrive at the grove’s gate at dawn attired for the occasion. Be prepared for the blood.

  Sincerely,

  fm

  Post script. You are at liberty to decline.

  THE GIRL I HAD BEEN never would have considered, much less accepted, the invitation. The young woman I was then appreciated the unknown. What might be discovered in a conversation, behind a closed door, at the least.

  Well before dawn, the alarm of my clock woke me. I dressed in my oldest shoes and clothing. Instead of pinning my hair, I let one black braid hang at my back. In my satchel, I packed a clean skirt and blouse.

  I ate a small breakfast to curb my hunger, slipped into my purple cloak, and walked to the manor, surprising the guards at the main entrance and manor gate who expected no visitors so early.

  Fewmany’s figure was a dark shape in the ascending light. He stood at the open gate. He wore a jerkin over a loose shirt, knee-length breeches, and high boots. A pouch hung at his hip from a belt. His hair flared wildly about his head. There was a bow in his hand and a leather strap across his chest. A full quiver of arrows was on his back. On his right hand was a fingerless glove and on his left arm a sheath of leather. He allowed me through the gate and locked it behind us.

  A blur whipped around my head, then his. He scowled, frozen. The unmistakable buzz of a bee lingered at my ear. I frowned. We stood together until the nuisance was gone.

  “Remove your spectacles if you can see well enough without them,” he said.

  I placed them in my satchel.

  “Set aside your cloak. Your skirt is too long. Running will be difficult. Will you allow it to be altered?”

  I nodded. When he knelt in front of me and drew a short knife, I startled.

  He looked up at me, his amber eyes clear.

  “I won’t cut you. Be still,” he said.

  A wide ribbon pulled away. The skirt draped to my kneecaps. I felt exposed to the elements, to his presence, but the anxiety was accompanied by a rush, as if something had been freed.

  “Put on this belt. You’ll have a role in the morning’s events,” he said.

  The belt had a sheath, and within the sheath was a knife. I slipped it out to look. It was as long as my forearm, the handle made of bone, cool and smooth, the blade sharp with an edge of light. The weight of it on my body seemed to force my feet closer to the earth.

  He instructed me to follow him closely. The wind was in our favor, he said, but we must take care to be as quiet as possible. He would rely on gestures rather than words, so I must pay attention.

  “Are you afraid?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. What will happen will be all the more potent.”

  “What’s that?”

  “And spoil the surprise? This you must experience, not be told, my keeper of tales,” he said.

  We walked along a path. He stepped off, mindful of the leaves and twigs, and crept among the trees. I watched him move as if he’d changed skins, as if his fine suits covered an entirely different creature. I inched forward with my innate caution and ability to hide.

  When he paused, I paused. When he stared at his feet, I tried to see what he did. As he scanned ahead, I peered around his side for a glimpse of what he hoped to find. I realized then I didn’t know what he planned to track. I knew hunts could involve dogs and falcons, and weapons blunt and sharp, and that some seasons were better than others for one animal or another. Between us, there were a bow, several arrows, and two knives. I wasn’t so fast or strong, and I didn’t know what physical demands would be made of me.

  I had the fleeting thought I might be in danger.

  Yet as the mysterious pursuit continued, I detected a change in my senses. This wasn’t the open connection I once had to everything that surrounded me, birdsong a note in my own. Quiet Little Secret by herself but not alone in the woods, long ago. No, this was defined by boundary. I noticed the press of my foot on the soil. I listened for the distance between my ears and the source of the chirp, rustle, and whisper. I perceived the space around me as definite. It was then my heart beat with anticipation rather than caution. I was after something.

  He slowed his pace, raised his hand, and stopped. I couldn’t see what he must have seen. He turned to face me, holding a finger in front of his lips. With grace, he sidestepped until he was aligned with a large oak and moved straight ahead. As I repeated his steps, more deliberate than he in my restraint, I scanned the area. The undergrowth rustled, but I didn’t see what disturbed the branches.

  We slipped behind another tree, then another. He held up his right hand, higher, twisting his palm to the fletched arrows in the quiver, as he bent upon his knee. I could see over his shoulder. A deer chewed the leaves near its nose. The doe stood in perfect profile.

  Suddenly, she raised its head and flicked her tail. He didn’t move. The deer remained still. After a few moments, she began to eat again.

  As he raised the bow, I held my breath, my blood thick and forceful under my skin. He drew back the bowstring.

  Stay, I said without saying.

  She turned her neck. Her eyes met mine with recognition, shifted their focus away, and glazed with panic.

  There was a quick whoosh, then a wet slap.

  The deer kicked its back heels into the air and ran to its right between the trees.

  He stood but didn’t run. He searched the ground.

  “Look for the blood trail. You will find spots. Walk slowly. When you find one, stop and look for the next. Follow how they connect,” he said.

  He found the first drops. The trail continued sharply to our left. He rushed ahead.

  I sprinted behind him, surprised at his speed and my own. The sudden exertion transmuted air into flames in my lungs. We continued farther on, how far, I don’t know.

  Then I saw the fence, and against the fence, the deer. On the other side, the land was pasture and lit with early sun. Nothing was beyond the grass—no houses, no fences, no trees. I turned my eyes back to the animal.

  The deer lay on its right side fighting to breathe. The arrow jutted from the space near its left shoulder. Small bubbles foamed at its mouth and burst to stain its fur.

  He nudged me with his bow.

  “Pay attention to your pounding heart.”

  He knelt next to the deer. He placed his hand near the wound, rubbed the blood between his fingers. He straddled the deer and heaved it inches away from the bars.

  “Draw your knife and come here,” he said.

  I looked into his eyes. He didn’t blink, and because he didn’t blink, I was able to hold myself there. He stood his full height. I took the knife out and held it near my chest.

  A thought rose with the action. One deep plunge in the right spot and there he’d lie, too. I shuddered because there was pleasure in the horror. A fleeting primal thrill.

  “Listen. I will hold its head. You will draw the blade with one long deep stroke across its throat. Begin with the edge closest to the hilt, slide across smoothly, and all the way through. The hide is thick. You’ll have to exert pressure.”

  He bent his knees, anchored into his legs, and grasped the deer by the jaws. It gave a weak struggle.

  I knelt on the ground. The deer’s eyes searched for mine. I ignored the excruciating throb in my forehead. I stared at a point on its neck, raised the knife, and did as I was told. In that brief instant, I felt as I never had before. Invincible.

  Blood poured from the wound onto my naked knee. I dropped the knife and touched the wet thick smear. I smelled the animal dank and a hint o
f metal. My vision blurred as if a veil had fallen over my face. My upturned fingers were red. I didn’t recognize my hands, or the curve of my breasts, or the black twist of hair that crossed my collarbone.16

  When my focus returned, I walked toward the trees. There were eyes on me, the animals in full view—fox, boar, crow.

  A single firm stroke swept against the back of my head.

  “Well done,” he said.

  I turned to see him with a rag held out in offer. I wiped my knee, my hands. The dampness disappeared, but the stains lingered. With a lurch, I ran ahead and heaved a puddle on the ground.

  “I did, too, the first time. The shock. The excitement,” he said.

  With my back to him, I leaned into a tree. A sensual breeze rushed around my bare legs. As the rough bark pushed through my clothes to my skin, I contemplated the force that emerged from nowhere within me.

  “What was the surprise?” he asked as if he’d sensed what I was thinking.

  I faced him. “The surge of power.”

  “How did it feel?”

  “I’ve no measure or comparison.”

  “Nevertheless.”

  “As if anything imaginable were possible.”

  “You ventured far and deep,” he said.

  Blood smeared his clothing. With a spin on his heel, he turned south. He strode like a man in his youthful prime. I quickened my steps to catch up to him.

  “Why did you invite me?” I asked.

  “To see the true size of your fangs. My, how big they are,” he said. “Come along. I’ll have Cook prepare a breakfast while we tidy up. Guess what you’ll have for tomorrow’s midday meal.”

  SOON AFTER I BATHED AWAY the grime of the chase, I felt diffuse, as if I’d been unmoored from my body. For days, the feeling continued. I’d lose my sense of time and place, finding ink pooled under my pen or blanking on a response to a market vendor. Sometimes, I’d lapse into that morning again—the raise of his hand, the pound of the chase, the tension of the cut before I finished the deer’s life. The severing moment was open as a threshold, and while the deer crossed through, I remained here but aware of what hadn’t closed.

  I realized Naughton found reasons to come into the library more often. He left items to be shelved one at a time instead of in a stack, checked whether the drapes were closed to spare the collection the ruin of light, asked if I wanted a fresh pot of tea or the fire stoked. As he never did before, he lingered in his service, movements slow, brown eyes watchful, until I was sometimes irritated enough to say, “That is all, Naughton.”

  “Yes, Miss,” he’d say with a bow.

  The frequency with which I saw Fewmany remained the same, but a nuance softened our interaction. We seemed to know something of the other that hadn’t been known before, although it couldn’t be easily named or described. I felt close to him, and I think he had a fondness, even respect, for me that he didn’t before.

  This he revealed in the simplest way. He’d come in to recommend a book he’d finished, and in the midst of our conversation, he called me Secret. I surely reacted with surprise because his posture straightened.

  “ ’Twas impetuous to address you that way. I hope I caused no offense,” he said.

  “None taken. Certain formalities seem dispensable of late.”

  “Indeed, we are more familiar than we once were,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, his expression relaxed.

  “That is so.” In my pause, I noticed the handkerchief in his bulging pocket matched the burgundy cravat at his neck. “If I may, then, ask a question about something I’ve long wondered.”

  “No harm in asking, is there?” he said.

  “What do you keep in your pocket?”

  He pressed his palm against it. “Bread crusts, which remind me of home, and two copper coins, which remind me of how I got away.”

  I nodded, needing no explanation. Years before, when I was an apprentice, we’d had a private meeting, and he told a story of his childhood when he found a bag of coins and bought enough bread to gorge himself. He wouldn’t let himself forget the poor boy he once had been.17

  Several days later, I received a letter stating he’d departed to address “some matters of urgency” and would return in January.

  My own routine didn’t change—days in the library; nights tending housework and reading, sometimes going to a performance or lecture—but I felt more lonely than I had in many months. I’d come to enjoy the company of Fewmany’s guests, as well as his own.

  Although I no longer lived with my father and didn’t visit him as often as I could have, his concurrent absence—he, too, was traveling—left me unsettled. Everyone for whom I cared was gone.

  One night, as I lay in my bed and heard Julia’s faint whimper below, a deep sadness came upon me.

  I slipped into the trough of it, swept away from my snug bed and cozy apartment, and found myself once again a small child. Once again, wondering where Father was, peering at my mother’s back from a corner of the room through wooden bars, her silencing hiss when I made the slightest noise.

  Her little fungus.

  JANUARY /37

  I HEARD A SMALL BARK, then a vicious sneeze, and the rap-rap, rap-rap. A warm greeting was on my tongue’s tip as the door opened—this was the first I’d seen him in weeks—but all I managed was a bewildered smile.

  On Fewmany’s head was a tasseled nightcap, the fringe level with where his Tell-a-Bell should have been. His silk robe was embroidered at every hem. His slippers, instead of leather, appeared to be felted wool. His red eyes and nose explained why he wore bedclothes but not why he would allow himself to be seen in such a state. He placed a book on the table’s edge.

  “Good morning,” he said.

  “Good morning. What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “ ’Tis but a coryza proving impervious to the apothecary’s store.” He whipped a handkerchief from a robe pocket, and finding it sodden, dug in a different one for another. “With apologies,” he said, then turned to blow his nose. “Three days in this condition, and the tedium from the quiet and the bed is near to putting me out of my mind. I can’t read another word. I have nothing to amuse me,” he said.

  I laughed to myself. He was like a cross child, too restless to lie still.

  “If you wish to sit, you can keep me company as I work,” I said.

  “I wouldn’t want to be a bother,” he said, stepping toward the cabinet. He traced his finger along the amaryllis, which had bloomed.

  “Nonsense.”

  He pulled a high-backed chair to face the fire, called Mutt to his lap, and honked piteously several times.

  He was silent so long, I thought he had drifted into a nap. But then, “What have you found of interest, of late?”

  I told him of three books I’d read and liked.

  “And what of the wing rooms?” he asked.

  The wing rooms—ovens in the summer, ice caves in the winter, airless as tombs, endlessly fascinating. “I had only started to look through the one with pottery last we spoke, and it’s now among my favorites. The mask room, however. I can appreciate the beauty but not the disturbing dreams they cause.”

  “If your explorations are complete, a new set is yours for the asking,” he said.

  “I would like that,” I said.

  “You have proven yourself faithful, Secret. I’ve no doubt of your fealty for that which belongs to me, and for me as well.”

  “That is true.”

  Fewmany peered around the chair. “I wish to share something which you haven’t seen. Does this interest you?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Fewmany sent Mutt to the floor and walked past the fireplace. I followed him the length of the library to the back wall of shelves and cabinets. He set five books aside, then moved both hands forward. A heavy clunk suggested the turn of a lock and then a groan, the pivot of a hinge. Above a cabinet, six shelves moved forward like a door.

  There was a hidden room, as I suspect
ed.

  “Come. Bring a lamp,” he said as he entered the dark.

  When I stepped past the cabinet, sunlight spread into the chamber. He had opened some of the drapes on the south wall. Mutt leapt in and began his inspection.

  Tall cabinets with long, thin drawers rose up from the floor opposite the secret entrance. Across from that was another set of shelves with objects on display. On the walls were framed drawings—all of them maps. A table near the west-facing windows reached nearly the length of the room. Upon this were more maps, weighted at the edges with metal instruments and various objects. The map borders were decorated in color with foliage, puffed cheeks of the four winds, and fantastical beasts.

  I lifted a copper globe, which fit perfectly in my hand. I could read the engraved names of distant lands. Where a shore met the sea, there was the phrase HC SVNT DRACONES Here be dragons. I replaced the small globe where I found it.

  “Within this chamber is the whole of the known world,” Fewmany said. “As noted by the cartographers, to be certain.”

  I looked at a framed map. Triangles twirled from the center outward, cutting the land and adjacent waters into fragments.

  “Curiosities, they are. Maps are alike in that what isn’t charted has as much significance as what is,” he said. “What you see there is an old map of Emmok. The main roads and the rivers, the intersections where towns and villages once thrived. Yet one does not see what might have never been drawn.”

  Fewmany pointed to a triangle colored blue and brown. Gold bled from the foothills, he claimed, and into the river. He knew this because an obscure geological text written sometime after the map was drawn told him so. At that time, the kingdom’s name was different, but the land’s prominent features were not. Fewmany hadn’t intended to discover this fact, but he did, by accident. The mine was dead by then, scoured clean by water and pickax. He owned a tract where it flowed once. Rich arable land, covered in barley crops.