Midnight Blue

by Simone van der Vlugt

  ‘The one near Goblin Gate, miss? Yes, that one’s closed. There’s a big P nailed to the door.’

  I stare at the man in shock. ‘They can’t both be …’

  ‘If one gets the plague it’s usually not long before the other does. But who knows, miss. There are people who survive. Don’t give up hope.’

  I try not to, but it isn’t easy.

  The next day someone comes along who confirms the Thirteen Beams is shut and the innkeeper and his wife have both died. That night, I cry myself to sleep.

  By mid-August, the number of new cases of the plague in Alkmaar is going down and I start to think about returning to Delft.

  My mother would rather keep me home until the birth, but it’s too long a wait for me. My belly is already getting in the way and if I wait any longer, travelling will be too difficult. Travelling after the birth doesn’t seem like a good idea. Besides which, I want to go back. I miss Evert and I worry. Not just about him but about my friends. There are so many contradictory reports about the situation in different cities that I have no idea what to expect.

  On a cloudy, windy day, I leave. Saying goodbye is especially hard when we don’t know how long it will be before we see each other again. My father gives up a day of work to take me some of the way on his cart.

  As we’re trundling along towards Zaanstreek, my father says, ‘I’m not happy about you travelling on your own like this. And in your condition, too. How are you going to get all the way to Delft?’

  ‘I want to take the horse-boat from Haarlem.’

  ‘If they find out where you’re from, they’ll never take you. Everyone from the North is under suspicion.’

  ‘I know. If I have to, I’ll walk.’ I watch the landscape go by for a while, lost in thought. ‘Don’t you think it strange, Pa, that there’s been no plague in Haarlem and other towns?’

  ‘The people in the towns that were hit probably sinned more. It gets to the point where God’s had enough.’

  ‘He seems to have more patience with some people than others.’

  My father glances sidelong at my face. ‘I don’t know why either, love. You never get a good answer to questions like that, not even from the Church. We’ve all got to try and lead good lives as best we can.’

  ‘And is that enough?’

  ‘I think so. We’re alive, we’re healthy, the plague passed us by. So we must have been doing something right.’

  We pass the hamlet of Spykerboor and take the road to Knollendam. From there I’ll carry on alone. I stare straight ahead, vacillating about what I’m about to confess.

  ‘Pa, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  He lets the reins drop onto the horse’s back and shakes his head. ‘No, child,’ he says, ‘you don’t need to tell me anything.’

  We say goodbye on the path along the dyke bordering the Zaan River. A hug, a kiss and my father turns the cart around. He waves and begins his journey home. The reeds rustle in the wind as I watch him leave. It’s not until he disappears behind a stand of trees that I turn away and pick up my bundle.

  If I get a move on, I can reach Haarlem before nightfall.

  40

  It’s a long but not unpleasant walk. The dyke takes me from Knollendam to Assendelft alongside the gently babbling water and past dozens of wood mills. I can rely on them for a drink of water, sometimes even a mug of milk. There are taverns where I can rest and have something to eat, and they have bandages to bind my painful feet.

  A farmer sees my swollen belly and offers me a lift on his cart all the way to Westzaan. The plague bypassed this area and feels far away. I enjoy the meadow landscape, the buzzards and hen harriers circling high above my head and the quiet villages we pass through.

  In Westzaan, I bid farewell to the farmer and wander around the harbour a little. It’s crammed with windmills and sawmills as well as boats from near and far. It doesn’t take much to find a cheap spot on one of the barges which stand ready to leave, brown sails clattering and snapping in the wind. The captain tells me I can forget about Haarlem, no one is being let in. The plague is raging through Leiden, so he can’t go there either.

  ‘I’m dropping my cargo off in Spaarnwoude, from there the Haarlemmers can fetch what they need themselves. And then I’m going back to Zaandam, it’s safe there,’ he says.

  ‘Do you know anyone who could take me further?’

  He nods. ‘It should be fine. Where are you headed? Delft? That’s a long way from Spaarnwoude.’

  ‘Is the plague still going around in Delft?’

  ‘Not according to the latest reports.’

  ‘How bad was it there?’

  ‘Not so bad as in Leiden or Amsterdam, but the funeral bells were ringing out a fair bit there too.’

  With a mind consumed by fearful thoughts, I settle down amidst the cargo and don’t say another word for the whole journey.

  I stay the night in Spaarnwoude. The horse-drawn barges are no longer running, but the captain who dropped me off arranges for me to transfer to a different boat the next day. Now that the regular connection has been severed, there’s an enormous traffic of other barges, dinghies and rafts on the canals and waterways. Anything that can float is being pressed into service.

  Outside the city walls, business is still going on, even around Leiden, the city the scariest stories have been told about. Our skipper keeps sailing right on past. He sets me down in Leiderdorp and heads in the other direction. I stop at an inn for the night and get back on the road early the next day.

  Sadly, I don’t manage to find anyone willing to take me. No one’s willing to risk having a stranger to the area on board. No one’s willing to take me overland in the back of their cart either.

  ‘You say you’re not from Leiden, but I’ve no way of checking,’ says a farmer with a cart full of beetroot. ‘I don’t think anybody will take the risk, miss.’

  There’s nothing for it but to walk the last stretch. I can’t go very fast, but even at my slow pace I can get home today.

  I follow the towpath along the Vliet River, which leads in a straight line to Delft. I’m tormented by blisters, even through the bandages. When it gets so bad I can’t take another step, I rest, but never for too long. This close to home, every moment of delay is one too many. For a long time, I’ve managed to keep the torturous uncertainty about Evert’s fate at the back of my mind, but now there’s no avoiding it. I need to know how he is, whether he’s ill, whether he’s still alive.

  I keep on walking, blindly putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring my exhaustion. No one offers me a lift and I don’t ask for one. Almost every house I pass tells the same story, with a bundle of straw or the letter P on its door. In the hamlets I pass through, there’s a heavy stench that sticks in my chest. I’d prefer to bypass all the villages, but it would be too much of a detour. So I go through them, passing along silent streets that seem to have had the life leeched out of them. Many of the shops and houses have been boarded shut, the marketplaces are empty. Even with my feet hurting so terribly, I find myself speeding up. Each time I leave a ghost village like that behind, I heave a sigh of relief.

  Halfway through the day, I get hungry. The walls of Delft seem close but I’m not home and dry yet. Certainly not with an empty stomach. I turn onto a path leading to a farm and walk into the yard. A dog on a chain is barking madly. No one comes. My gaze goes to the front door and I don’t see a P.

  I’d prefer not to go into the farmhouse without permission but there doesn’t seem to be anyone here so I have no choice. I stand on the threshold to the kitchen and call out a couple of times. No one appears. There’s bread, fruit and cheese on the low table. I eye them greedily but keep moving.

  I carefully push the door open. A dark hallway stretches out before me. I hear a noise from somewhere inside and freeze. I listen, alert. The sound doesn’t come again, but suddenly there’s a foul smell in the air around me. I turn, about to leave, but then I hear the sound again. Somethi
ng thumping on wood.

  Even though there’s a voice in my head screaming at me to run, I don’t. I open the nearest door which, as I had expected, leads into the living room. I’m hit by a terrible stench, a smell I’ve come to know all too well.

  Someone is lying in the box bed. The thumps are coming from the hands and feet lashing out inside, accompanied by strangled cries and now and then a wailing gurgle. My heart’s in my throat from fear and horror. From a distance I can see it’s not a grown-up lying there but a child.

  I slowly walk over to the bed, every step a victory over my own instincts. It’s a little girl, seven at most. Damp, blonde hair sticks to her face, which is flushed bright red from the fever. Her chest is heaving but she still doesn’t seem to be getting enough air. A thin sheet half covers her, heavy with sweat and pus. Her fragile little body has at least six dark blue swellings and various other bruises, her whole body is tinged an unnatural colour.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I whisper.

  You don’t have to be a doctor to see this girl is a lost cause. I know a little about medicinal herbs for minor ailments like a sore throat or problems during your monthlies, but what can you give someone who’s dying of the plague? The little bit of laudanum I still have won’t save her. At most, it will offer some relief.

  I go to get my bag, which I’ve left standing by the kitchen door. As soon as I come into the kitchen, I know something has changed. There’s less light coming inside. In the same instant I see why: the doorway is blocked by a man, and he’s glaring at me.

  41

  For a few beats everything is quiet, then I say, ‘I’m sorry, I heard someone calling out.’

  He says nothing but continues to glare at me. Now that I look more closely, I see he’s still a boy. No older than fifteen, I reckon, very tall and with a split in his top lip that goes all the way to his nose.

  ‘I just wanted to get my things. There’s something to drink in there that can help that little girl.’ I gesture to my bundle.

  After a long look, he grabs my bag and hands it to me.

  Relieved, I put it on the table and rifle through it. The boy comes to stand beside me.

  ‘That girl in the bed, she must be your sister,’ I say.

  He nods.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Wilhelmina. She’s sick.’

  ‘Yes, I saw.’

  ‘She’s dying.’

  Something in his behaviour and the way he talks is odd, and it’s not because of his harelip. I study him for a moment before continuing.

  ‘I can’t make her better,’ I say gently. ‘But I can make sure she’s in less pain. Do you think that’s a good idea?’

  He nods and I pull out my last little jug of laudanum. As we’re walking back to the living room he says, ‘First they get sick and then they die. All of them.’

  ‘Apart from you. Why is that?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I ask.

  ‘Lucas.’

  ‘I’m Catrin. Are there any other people in the house, Lucas?’

  ‘They’re all dead. Are you going to die too?’

  ‘I’m not planning on it.’ That reminds me, I still need to take my laudanum. I remember seeing mugs in the cupboard when I was in here before. I grab three of them and pour a slug of laudanum into each one. I give one to Lucas and drain another myself.

  Lucas eyes the yellowish liquid suspiciously. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Drink up, then you won’t get ill.’

  While Lucas is pulling a face and draining his mug, I see to Wilhelmina. I don’t really want to touch her but there’s no other way. She needs to sit up to be able to drink. I stuff an extra pillow under her head so she’s more upright and I can let the laudanum trickle in between her cracked lips. She drinks greedily, as if she’s past being able to tell how bitter it is.

  ‘Mama,’ she mumbles, and grabs my hand.

  I stiffen, but I can’t bring myself to pull it away.

  ‘Hush now,’ I say gently as she begins to cry. ‘I’m here.’ I brush the damp hair off her face and feel my heart overflow with pity. To quiet her, I sing an old lullaby while the laudanum begins to do its work. The taut expression on her pinched little face begins to fade and it’s not long before she falls asleep. I carefully withdraw my hand.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asks Lucas, who’s been standing behind me the whole time.

  ‘No, she’s sleeping.’

  ‘Ma went to sleep too, but she didn’t wake up.’

  I come away from the bedside and ask, ‘Where is your mother now?’

  Lucas beckons and leads me back through the kitchen and outside. I notice then what I failed to see when I came in. In the yard, next to the outbuildings are six freshly dug graves.

  That night I sleep alongside Wilhelmina on the floor with the windows wide open to get rid of the smell. I daren’t use the bedding belonging to her deceased family members so I’m lying on my bundle.

  I’m no longer afraid of the plague, or maybe I’m simply too worn down to keep on resisting the inevitable. If my time’s up, it’s up. I’m no longer willing to be driven on, nor am I prepared to abandon a dying child. If you do get what you deserve, then let God take note of that.

  It’s a restless night, during which I frequently stumble, half-asleep, over to the bed to give Wilhelmina something to drink or comfort her. By the time dawn comes, there’s blood trickling from her nose and mouth. I stay by her side until she dies, her hand in mine.

  In the morning, Lucas reappears. I have no idea where he spent the night but wherever it was, it wasn’t on the farm. Maybe he prefers the open air, which isn’t hard to understand. He has two dead hares dangling in one hand. I’d been finding little pelts all over the house and now it’s clear who the poacher in the family is. It wouldn’t surprise me if Lucas spent most of his time wandering around the neighbourhood, even when his family was ill. That’s probably why he’s still alive.

  I give him his dose of laudanum, take my own dose and gently prepare him for the news that his sister has died. He barely reacts. In a few steps he’s at the bedside, looking down at the emaciated little body. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the room.

  I find him in the yard, digging the seventh grave.

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather give your sister a Christian burial?’ I ask. ‘We can have her picked up.’

  Lucas shakes his head and carries on digging. I watch for a while and reflect that he probably prefers to keep his family together than see them in a mass grave. They will be reburied later.

  Once the hole is deep enough, we go back into the farmhouse together, wrap Wilhelmina in a sheet, carry her out to the grave and lay her down in it. Lucas fills it, I pick some of the yellow roses that grow next to the house with an exuberant beauty that is jarring. I adorn each grave with a couple of roses. We stand gazing at them for a while in silence.

  ‘Is there anyone you can go to?’ I ask finally. ‘Have you got family in the area?’

  ‘Uncle Jan and Aunty Barbara in Delft.’

  ‘Then you must go to them.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I want to stay here.’

  This is unthinkable, of course. He’s too young to live alone on a farm. It’s probably a tenant farm, since I’ve seen no valuables to suggest any level of prosperity. The animals might be theirs, but I doubt it. The landowner will soon lease the farm to someone else and they’d have to find somewhere for Lucas to go. It’s clear he isn’t normal and can’t be treated like your average fifteen-year-old. This, combined with his harelip, leaves him few options. I can picture him leading a life of vagrancy, being exploited by employers or put on display at the fair. People can be very harsh when it comes to someone who’s different.

  ‘We can go together. I need to go to Delft too.’ I look at him and wait, half expecting him to shake his head again. To my surprise, he nods and walks back into the house. When I go after him to see what he’s doing, I find him packing his things.


  Whether we’re allowed to or not, we are taking the horse and cart. I search the house for valuable items and pack them into a sack. Lucas probably doesn’t attach much importance to them, but this could change one day. I take something from each member of his family: Wilhelmina’s doll, the decorative clips his mother used to fasten her lace cap, his father’s pipe, a hairbrush belonging to an older sister, his little brothers’ catapults and caps. I never get to know their names: Lucas refuses to talk about them.

  While he’s hitching up the horse, I milk the cows, which are lowing piteously. It’s a familiar task and I’m done in a jiffy. We take the milk with us in small cans with lids. Even the remaining food, like cheese and dried sausages, is loaded up, and I pick all the fruit from the trees for good measure. Even the plums, despite their bad reputation. I can’t imagine, after all I’ve been through, that I’m going to catch the plague by eating a plum. Finally, I untie the dog, which runs off immediately.

  After that, I climb onto the cart and Lucas comes and sits next to me. As we drive out of the farmyard, I take one last glance over my shoulder at the little row of graves.

  Lucas stares straight ahead.

  42

  We reach Delft shortly after midday. We drive under the imposing archway of The Hague Gate and trundle into town. Throughout the journey, I’ve been in such a state of fearful tension that the reins are sticking to my damp palms. I continuously scan the streets for signs of how bad the plague has been here. I’m pleased. I see fewer Ps nailed to the doors along Old Delft Street than I had expected.

  Following Lucas’s directions, I drive to Molen Street where his family lives. They have a bakery and Uncle Jan has just come out to blow his horn, signalling that there’s fresh bread. At least, I assume it’s Uncle Jan because Lucas is waving to him.

  The man lets go of the horn and approaches us slowly. He stops at a distance. ‘Lucas,’ he says.