Quite.
Ages since I danced with my wife. Good to see you. Leo returned the notebook to me. He caught Mrs. Gray’s waist and outstretched hand.
Father had taken a seat among colleagues from the twelfth floor, all of whom held handkerchiefs or wore gloves. When I studied the crowd, I noticed no one else covered his, or her, hand that way. I couldn’t imagine what that meant.
I stood alone, listening, content to do so as the lamplighters made their rounds and the sky blurred to a soft pink. I watched Nikolas dance with three women—once with an elderly woman wearing her daymaid’s apron, then with another somewhat older than he wearing a fashionable dress, and finally with a girl no more than twelve who was impressively graceful and whose cheeks flamed red.
Harmyn appeared at my side flushed from play. “The air is cheerful. It was good for Nikolas and the mayor to do this for everyone,” she said.
I nodded. I knew advisers had pressured Nikolas to be austere—don’t drain the coffers for anything but the absolute necessities—but he had agreed with a minority of ward leaders who believed entertainments would give some relief from the daily and mounting worries.
When the orchestra stopped for a break, Nikolas found us at the edge of the crowd. He extended his hand to Harmyn with flair.
“No, thank you. No, please, I don’t want to. Ask her now,” Harmyn said, her serious tone at odds with his playful invitation.
He turned to me. I shook my head. He withdrew a slip of paper and pointed to one line among several.
You know I’m light on my feet, he’d written.
I laughed as I read retorts he anticipated he’d have to give.
It’s time you learned a proper waltz.
Afraid of some good-natured teasing from your father?
This constitutes socially acceptable contact.
I shoved the note into my pocket. He offered his elbow and led me near the dais. When the music began again, he pointed to the couples stepping one, two, three, one, two, three. Study them, his eyes said. I accepted the sweep of his arm, looked down to watch the pattern of my feet, and gazed back at him once I felt in rhythm. Where my hands touched him, I held on for dear life, grateful for each moment I didn’t have to let go.
WEEK 3
IN AN EMPTY LOT TWO buildings from the walk-up where I once lived, volunteers from Warrick worked to build a new garden. I helped three days a week, often with Harmyn in tow. Each visit, I’d look in on my former neighbors. Mrs. Elgin kept to home, taking in piecework, while Mr. Elgin worked on the town’s drains. Sometimes Julia and Lucas were off playing with friends. Dora had her secretary job, but Jane, having been furloughed, struggled to keep herself busy. The Misses Acutt’s days were the same as they’d been before the sickness struck, although they, as had Jane, decided to do their service in the garden.
That week, the garden volunteers were ready to break up the soil which plows had turned. We took up our shovels, picks, and hoes as the morning’s mist lifted. Julia offered to help that day and spaced herself between Harmyn and Jane. Across from us, the Misses Acutt stood with their elderly friends.
No one gave Harmyn and me strange looks anymore. Although some people recognized me from when I lived in Warrick, most had no idea what to make of the tawny-skinned, silver-haired young woman with mismatched eyes or the violet-eyed child with her archaic clothing. Instead, now they watched Harmyn with curiosity, as most knew she was the one who sang to Rothwyke every morning.
Usually, Harmyn ignored the glances, keeping silent to thwart any more attention to herself. But that day, she sat next to Julia, the two of them smashing clumps of soil in their hands, and studied everyone. The people with the worst afflictions moved slowly.
All eyes fell on Harmyn as the first notes of a folk song drifted through the air. The Misses Acutt looked at each other, then at their companions. Together, they clapped and mouthed the words of a tune from their youth. Spontaneously, the rest worked in time with the melody, then another and another. When Harmyn stopped, everyone applauded.
Harmyn nodded her thanks, moved to a new spot on the ground, and peered over at Jane. This time, Harmyn sang a ballad, which made the younger adults smile at one another. Jane pressed her lips together, trying to seal off the grin which wanted to crack through. As Harmyn mangled a series of notes, Jane grabbed her knees and shook with noiseless laughter.
Harmyn had glimpsed them, searching their secret pasts for happy moments. She hadn’t asked permission—how could she have explained that gift of hers?—but I wouldn’t scold her later. Harmyn knew the rules she must follow. Her choice to break them that morning brought only joy.
After we completed our work and put away our tools, the volunteers left with smiles. Several people waved at Harmyn, and one elderly man patted her head. I noticed the adults walked away with ease in their steps.
My own merry feelings endured as we tended Old Woman’s garden and visited Father that evening. But when Harmyn came to my room before bed, I sensed a somber shift before she said a word.
“I understand why the adults suffer with physical ailments the children don’t have,” Harmyn said. “Eventually, I think many will figure it out for themselves, too, unless their shadows are very strong and won’t let them. What you see, or can’t, are manifestations of deeds done. Harm done to others over and over, or even only one cruel moment. Like beating someone, or saying cruel things.”
I thought of my blunted sight and hearing and felt a twist of regret as I looked at Harmyn. The first weeks she was with Old Woman and me, I had been dismissive and angry toward her. When I thought of Father’s crippled right hand, my stomach knotted. That hand had held the scissors, twelve relentless nights. And what of his left, which he kept gloved?
“Some people remember what they’ve done, but sometimes they forget. Well, they don’t forget, really, more so it’s denied. It gets buried but never goes away. Their bodies reveal the truth now. Their bodies remind them of what they’ve done.”
Should this be explained to everyone? I asked within our thoughts.
“No. It’s a mistake to make people aware of things before they’re ready. I also don’t know yet what will happen when everyone enters the next phase. Whatever has to be resolved might take the whole period of the plague, maybe far longer.”
Other than those who weren’t in Rothwyke for the first spread, why have some been spared? I asked.
“Have you noticed most of them are Guardians?” she asked. “Remember what Aoife wrote about them, how they rear their children and how they treat each other. I don’t think the plague could make them sick because they don’t have the same kind of shadows we do. Not as many or as dense anyway.”
What about the people who aren’t Guardians and who were here when the plants and animals got sick? I asked.
Harmyn rubbed her wrists as if they hurt. “I can only guess they’ve been lucky to have gentle lives.”
WEEK 4
DIARY ENTRY 13 JULY /38
How welcome the simplest routines are, giving order to our uncertainty. Harmyn sings every dawn to growing crowds. In the mornings, we work in the ward garden, or tend and harvest Old Woman’s. Today, we delivered cucumbers, green beans, and lettuces to a charity market, where those in dire need don’t have to pay for vegetable rations. In the afternoons, Harmyn does as she pleases, as long as Nikolas or I know where she is, a rule at his insistence. She’s made friends with Julia and others in Warrick, so she’s often there with them. I read in my room, or if Nikolas needs help, I’ll translate correspondence. I’m grateful for intellectual work. How bored I’m beginning to feel!
Most evenings, we three have a meal together, followed by a restful time reading or playing games. It’s less odd because of my time with Nikolas on the quest and the months we lived with Old Woman, but I remember always going to my room after dinner. After Harmyn’s in bed, we take walks, but exercise hasn’t been the sole purpose. He’s led me to dark corners, where we’ve unbuttoned and unclothed as little as
possible, the satisfaction quick. Once, I pulled him into the secret room (if those walls could talk of who else had been there, he joked) but we haven’t dared a night like the one before the plague. Surely the staff, definitely Hugh, suspects by now.
Muriel wrote me. She’s with her parents on the coast, where they fled after learning of the plague. Both are afflicted. Her father’s face is red “as if he’s overexerted himself.” Her mother complains of a sore throat and thick tongue. Muriel was unusually effusive about how anxious she is to return to the conservatory. She wanted to visit friends this summer, but her parents refused to give her the travel money. “I’ve begun to resent what I see now as stifling dependence,” she wrote. From Charlotte, I received a letter with an apology for her delay because she’s moving to a new house and expecting a baby soon.
Father’s restless. He told me land acquisitions are stalled until Fewmany returns. (Little does he know . . .) All he does now is manage the men managing the lands. Not speaking is a torment, but he can “speak” to Harmyn, which might be one reason he’s so glad to see us—her?—when we visit. Their lessons are going well. She learns remarkably fast.
WEEKLY POST.
16 July /38. Page 1, Column 1
CONTINGENCY LEADERSHIP FOR AILLIATH AND ROTHWYKE TO BE SELECTED—Next month, committees will meet to name proxies for King Nikolas, Mayor Pearson, and other important positions. Concerns over how the sickness will progress impelled both offices to prepare now, in the event any among them lose their full faculties. A regency council, comprising the king’s advisers, will elect a proxy to serve in His Majesty’s stead. Under the kingdom’s statues, because the king has neither a wife nor direct heir, the Council can either select a distant heir by blood or marriage or a member of the Council. Lord Ashby, speaking on the Council’s behalf, stated the king may give a recommendation, but as the kingdom’s statues read, his request might not be honored. The king himself will name interim officers, in the event those who currently serve cannot fulfill their duties. In Rothwyke, Mayor Pearson will meet with mayors and selected officials from at least seven towns. A committee will elect the mayor’s proxy and determine how many officers and clerks will be needed as interim staff.
From the Plague of Silences Recollection Project Archives, Selected Excerpts
Diary No. 92. Female, 51, occupation unknown
This week, for the four of us, 16 oz ham, 4 eggs, 8 oz butter, 4 oz cheese—half of what we got last week. Standard ration of veg, at least until the ward gardens are ready to harvest. The boys gripe of hunger. They want more meat, which isn’t always available on the sleight market. Last week the newsboxes became bread boxes, by the king’s decree, and anyone can get a loaf with no ration stamps required. Mrs. P— has a beekeeper friend who will barter for honey.
Y— assures me I shouldn’t worry about our rent. We’re fortunate, if he’s being truthful. The Post reported hundreds of eviction notices were sent this week. Ward leaders want rents reduced or delayed. Rothwyke has no law about this, for circumstances in which we find ourselves, and negotiations are landlord to landlord. I heard from Mrs. E— there’s talk about establishing new poorhouses. She said Mrs. Agister, who usually arranges orphan aid, has tried to rally one of her groups to help. There’s a rumor the king might order relief, too. I didn’t think myself unaware before, but I had no conception of how marginally so many lived. Three weeks without work, and here they are.
Diary No. 181. Female, 28, milliner
A— complains of a numb arm but says nothing about the cords in his neck like he’s been shouting at the top of his lungs. Which he did often before the sickness. Yesterday I went to cuff the youngest, and the pain in my hand doubled me. Stopped me dead cold. I knew then the things we’ve done, they’re showing. I went to the shops and wondered about the secrets behind those limps and twisted backs. Like me, has it made them think about what hurt they’ve caused?
Diary No. 307. Male, 54, physician
Preliminary reports from colleagues received. Children presenting with usual complaints (coryza, dyspepsia, etc.) aside from the loss of speech. Adults as well, but among them, we’ve seen a notable increase in those suffering from limb difficulties, swelling of tongue/throat, degrees of hearing and vision loss, various aches and pains. Youngest with these same ailments is 16 (three cases thus known); appears they’ve been struck by this so-called plague differently from others of the same age. Also, strangely, an observable increase in those complaining of impotence, not only among the mature gentlemen but also several too young to endure this debilitation. Only Dr. V— and Dr. G— report a disturbing phenomenon, spontaneous bleeding on hands, as if wicking through the skin like water through wood. The patients are all prominent men, advisers to the King, top men with FM Inc.
Interview No. 223. Male; age during plague, 10; current occupation, blacksmith
The first weeks. There was no one way people reacted, old or young. You could see it in their faces. Do you remember? Shock. Anger. Humor. Acceptance. Then soon enough, the silence was normal. Frustrating, too. You’re talking to me because you want to hear from those who didn’t write, or couldn’t. I finished my fifth year before the plague, but I wasn’t a good student.
My parents, they couldn’t read or write. They were working at eight, ten. Their jobs? Mother in a pottery. She worked the kilns until she was old enough to apprentice. She painted. Father, always in coal, a trapper, then a hurrier in the mines until his family moved to Rothwyke, then a heaver. He was very strong.
Yes, right, they came of age before the child work laws, but you know those were broken. Blind eyes turned. Desperate families needed the money. Who cared about the children then, really? Funny thing, I’d forgotten this. When that rogue Fewmany closed the companies, even the kids got furlough notices. You didn’t know that? Oh yes. My sister worked in a match factory. She was fourteen. Cried and told Mother she’d turn to the streets if that meant we wouldn’t starve.
So—the silence, not speaking. In a way, we became like animals. Pointing. Gesturing. We had to read faces. I had a friend who could grunt. It was surprising how much could be said without words.
During that phase, ah, the sleep was so strange. I’ve talked to other survivors who remember it. Gray, often dreamless. Calm but empty. It was a heavy comfort, but so difficult to wake up in the morning.
WEEK 5
IN JULY, SEVERAL OF NIKOLAS’S friends returned from their high academy terms and travels abroad. As timing would have it, they suggested an evening out just before Nikolas’s twenty-first birthday. I declined when Nikolas asked if I would like to join them. He spent most of his time with men far older than he and not for social pleasure. I wanted him to have a night with his fellows, enjoying their company as he hadn’t in a long while.
While he was away that night, Harmyn and I went to the castle’s library. She practiced her handwriting, copying the words from a sea adventure Father, whom she now called GrandBren, had been reading with her. Her dexterity didn’t quite match her determination—her letters remained childlike—but neither Father nor I could fathom how quickly she’d grasped reading and learned new words. My extra tutoring proved unnecessary. What required an ordinary child years to master, she was achieving within weeks. Father promised to teach her arithmetic and history next. The evenings I watched them together, I remembered the lessons he’d given me, and I thought of my brothers who had never been, absent from Father’s spirited lectures. I wondered now, with a needling curiosity, how much Father missed the presence of those sons.
That night, while Harmyn sat nearby, the past slipped into the present as I turned through the old chronicles leading up to The Mapmaker’s War. My untrained eye could detect no remarkable variance in the writing, but I knew enough about binding to observe several of the books had been taken apart and stitched together again.
I read slowly, searching for Aoife. How careful they’d been to erase her. How thorough her disappearance. In those pages, she was a nameless appr
entice blamed for provoking the war. No mention that she’d been the kingdom’s mapmaker, that she was from a prominent noble family, that she had married Wyl and bore twins soon after. They, too, the infant girl and boy, were gone.
What Aoife had written herself wasn’t merely an artifact of memory. Her manuscript sealed a gap in history. She un-told lies which had been repeated for generations. A translation of her autobiography belonged in the royal archives as well as libraries beyond it.
If I were to provide this, I perceived danger in revealing too much, specifically about the realm. Aoife had used an incantation, I my intuition, but we both gained entry because of the bees. What might others attempt, even achieve, if this were known? I could leave out those mentions. No one would know. Only I could read the Guardians’ language as Aoife had written it, and the manuscript would stay in the realm forever once I gave it back.
Then I considered Aoife would want everything told. Throughout the pages, her refrain was “tell the truth.” More than a thousand years later, I held the power to honor that.
A chill rushed into my blood so fast, I shook.
Harmyn glanced up from her work. “What’s the matter? I feel the cold from here.”
“I’m not only Aoife’s descendant. The dreams and ruptures I’ve suffered, those were fragments of her life. I realize now—the ‘you’ in the manuscript wasn’t only an address to herself. The ‘you’ speaks to the part of me that is . . . her.”
“And?” Harmyn asked lightly.
“How it that possible? Her experiences weren’t mine, yet I know them. The manuscript itself confirms it all to be so.”
“You received the shape of your hands and color of your hair from people who came long before you. Why should it be difficult to believe memory is a trait which can’t be seen but is also a part of the body? Not only for you, but for everyone.”
The Plague Diaries Page 32