I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  “Once upon a time, yes.”

  “Oh,” is all she says. She smiles a little and steps back the slightest bit. Although her gaze never leaves me, I can feel her preparing to leave. “Well, I don’t think I know her.”

  She turns her back to me, going in the direction I had just come from, but I can see her spotting the village near the beach, full of life, and I wonder if that’s where she lives.

  “Wait,” I say.

  She stops, but her body doesn’t pivot to see me. “Yes?”

  “What is the bottle for?”

  She turns the slightest bit, only giving her profile, as she brings the small bottle toward her chest, hugging it near her heart.

  “Medicine, my lady. My son … I’m not sure if he’ll make it.” She tries to smile, but I can see the burn of her words as they reach across her mouth. She’s frozen in some fearful memory as she speaks, and her eyes drift off to some faraway land.

  “Is he sick with the pestilence?”

  “The pestilence?” she asks, as if it is something unheard of. She looks at me with questions, but she never actually speaks them. “You mean the Black Death?”

  My mind flashes to Bernie, how his hands and fingers swelled to a dark skin that didn’t seem human. I had seen so many people succumb to it, their own flesh rotting away while their bodies still continued to live. It was all so overwhelming, the number of the sick and the dying that no one cared to ever give it a name.

  I nod to the woman as she stands far from me.

  “No, my lady, of course not,” she says. Part of her shudders with the thought of her son rotting due to the Black Death, but another deeper part sighs with great relief that her son isn’t ill with that disease.

  She smiles weakly, pulling the bottle closer to her before walking away.

  XXVI.

  It’s a long time before I reach my village. My memories tell me there should be small cruck houses surrounded by fences with sheep grazing not too far away. The land should be overwhelmed by men working farmland and crops. Yet there is none of that.

  My village has been turned into a town. The roads are cobblestoned and rough. Women walk across the ground like it is nothing. They don’t realize the deaths I have seen here. I question if I’m at the right location, but when I look over the horizon and see the same view I woke up to every day, I take tentative steps, seeking the perfect angle until I finally find where my home once stood.

  A market takes its place, people trading food and going about their daily lives. I step to the side, leaning against a small building made of stone, watching what had once been my home. A man fights with a merchant, obviously disgusted with his offer. I see him spit on the ground and a part of me wants to hurt him.

  “Care to place a wager?” a man says from behind me.

  I turn, and, within the shadows of an alley, a small man sits on a wooden crate in the shadows, tossing a pair of dice in his hands. His smile is warm, inviting even, but I find myself staggering away. His hair grows down his back in an unkempt braid.

  “No, sir,” I say.

  “Why, I’m sure you desire something.”

  I look down at his fingers covered in dirt, black under the nails. I see beneath his layers of clothing how tight his belt is wound, just how small and frail his frame is and I consider if this man could hurt me even if he tried.

  “No, I’m just … trying to find my mother.” My eyes scan the crowd within the market. People linger under tents and small children poke around the stands, sneaking small bits of food into their pockets, hoping no one is looking.

  “Why, I’ll help you find her! If only at a price, my dear.” He offers his hand, fingers extended, expecting payment. His smile curls to the corner of his eyes and I’m both repulsed and intrigued by the stranger.

  “I don’t have anything to offer you.”

  “Of course you do! Look at yourself! You aren’t from here, are you?”

  I retreat at his words. He scans my figure, looking too closely at my body. Suddenly the small, feeble man I had just been talking to turns into something more dangerous. He rolls the dice around in his palm, eager with his thoughts. My feet stagger backward when I see him lift himself from his seat. As suddenly as I move, I’m stopped by another figure.

  “Easy, Archie. Leave the girl alone.”

  I gasp at the stranger’s words, surprising me. The man behind me steps around and smiles down at Archie. The stranger wears a dark cloak that extends almost to the back of his knees; his voice gentle when he speaks.

  “Take the bread and go bother someone else,” he says.

  The man offers a loaf pulled from his cloak. It looks stale, but Archie takes it with eager fingers. With a small grumble he shoos us away and doesn’t look up again.

  “Come on,” the man in the cloak says, ushering me with a gentle hand from Archie. “Don’t mind him. He targets those who look confused, though I don’t blame him. He usually scams food from them, if he doesn’t scare them first.”

  He turns to me so I can see his face past the shadows.

  My breath stops. As soon as we’re out of view of others I wind my arm back and hope—even though I won’t feel the punch—that maybe Garren will.

  “Luna!” He catches my fist in his hand.

  I push against him, but no movement comes of it.

  “You tried to kill me!” I scream, but it comes out sounding more like a cry. “You did kill me.” And this time I speak the words sound feeble.

  “Luna, hush, not here,” he says.

  “Where’s my family?”

  He pushes me from the market back to the path I came from. I put my arms against his chest, stare at the tips of my fingers, but feel nothing.

  I want to hate this man. I want to drown him the same way he’d drowned me, but I find myself falling into his arms instead.

  “I’ll explain everything. I promise.”

  He looks down at me with eyes that mimic the ocean and I can’t fight anymore. I pull my arms in by my side and let him lead me.

  “No,” I say, simply stopping. “Where’s the pestilence gone? I want to see my family.” Colors of violet, pink, and deep orange fill the air. The sun goes down in an ever-repeating orbit. The sky tells me to be happy.

  Garren stops, also looking down, as if he doesn’t know what to say. His eyes lift and I can feel him staring at me, and for a moment, I can’t break his gaze.

  “Luna, the pestilence has been gone for over one hundred years,” he finally says.

  And I feel myself fade from reality for a moment, no longer caring to hear what else this world has to say.

  XXVII.

  The moon glows with a beauty that must be envied. It lights the night and leads the way to a future, a passage, a place. Animals of the dark wake from within their nests and come out to creep within the pale light. They make small sounds as they scurry, but unless one looks closely, they can’t be found.

  Trees sway in the backdrop of the night, their leaves rustling in a gentle rhythm that I used to fall asleep to in the dark. That’s how it always was growing up—the quiet stir of leaves with the ocean waves crashing against the rock face that dropped below the cliffs. Now the noise serves to keep me awake, only reminding me of what is lost.

  One moment I was living my old life. Margo died of the pestilence after Anton abandoned her, leaving Joelle under the care of Mama and Papa. And Dondre, I remember the way he had last looked at me, how it appeared as if he hated me for something I didn’t do. How are they gone?

  In this new life, in this new world, I sit in some field Garren led me to. He told me about the pestilence that earned the name of the Black Death. More than half the world, it seemed, perished. Garren said this is one of the spots where they buried the dead. It’s the same patch of land I had once stood on while watching the two men cart the dead to leave them on the ground, one after another, never caring to give a service or pray for the lost souls as they passed on. It was death, and it was brutal. And it
is then I realize Mystral lied—I have no power to save lives.

  The last thing I had seen in my old life was fresh soil, shoveled over the dead. People feared walking near this plot of land, as if the disease could be caught by simply breathing the same air. The massive grave was left undisturbed by all. The only footprints in the soil were the ones left by those who had covered the graves with pounds of dirt.

  The site is trampled now, beaten down by careless passers-by who have no remembrance of what horror the ground holds. Everyone has forgotten how much death was seen by this soil.

  I rest in the middle of it all, surrounding myself with what I can imagine are those I lived with or nearby. Their words echo through my mind: witch, nothing but a witch.

  Even Dondre began to believe their words. He never spoke them directly to me, but in the end, when I looked into his eyes, all I saw was malice. To him, I was the one who killed Margo; I was the one who was watching Mama die, the Bird’s medicine bringing nothing but torment to her already dying body.

  I sit on the grave of those who hated me, of those who looked at me and only saw evil. To them I was a curse. They were the only people I had, and now they are gone.

  More than one hundred years, Garren had said. One whole century I was gone, held by the moon and now I’m here again. The world has continued on; the pestilence subsided; lives were lived, and lives were lost. The number of years doesn’t seem possible—more than a lifetime.

  The image of Mystral comes back to me, how she hunted me down in Marseille and told me how Tiboulain could save us all. I didn’t believe her. I didn’t want to believe in something like dark magic, but I was foolish and I sought out the salvation I didn’t deserve when I should have searched for death.

  I had always imagined myself dying of the pestilence, that at some point we all would. One by one our bodies would rot away and the world would die out. Perhaps it was God punishing us for being the awful beings we were. We cheated; we lied, and we stole; and all the while we expected this undying love from the universe. We thought of ourselves as indestructible, that we could face anything, because the world could not touch us. It was a lie. We were nothing but breakable figures. We were voodoo dolls just waiting for a misshapen savior. Sooner or later someone would set a fire that would melt the stitching of our perfect world.

  But I didn’t die. I’m here, and I’m alone, and I’m sitting on a massive grave site.

  Margo is beneath my feet. That’s why I was watching them bury the dead at the mass grave in my previous life. Mama had warned me not to follow the men as they carted away my sister’s body, but I did so anyway. They dragged that cart throughout the entire village, until it was full. They disrespected the dead, throwing them one on top of the other like they were nothing more than sacks of flour.

  Finally they had brought the cart to this field. Margo was somewhere in that cart. When they came to our cruck house, they had thrown her body on top of three others: a man who looked to be Papa’s age, another man much older, and a little girl who was no bigger than my torso. With a heave they had piled Margo’s body on the ground with all the others.

  They had unloaded the dead and placed them in the grave—horizontal, side by side—and, when there wasn’t any more room, a layer of dirt had been shoveled on the dead, only to bury more bodies.

  I didn’t see where Margo’s body ended up in the grave site. I had seen a flash of her hair as they hoisted her away, but once she was placed in the massive hole I lost her. Inside the earth, the dead slept an eternal silence. Their limbs were wrought with dark sores, their extremities dying before their heart gave way. That was why they called it the Black Death.

  ~~~

  “Luna?”

  A voice stirs me awake in the forgotten morning. Light shines through the lids of my eyes, but part of me refuses to wake and face the day.

  “Are you all right?”

  I squint and see Garren’s hand touch my shoulder blade and I don’t feel the contact. I know he’s here, but my sense of touch is gone. I’m numb to my surroundings, never belonging to this place I’ve been abandoned to.

  “They’re gone.” I say the words clearly, even with the new shock of morning. I lie with my face buried, my body curled against the dry dirt of the mass grave. I feel the victims of the pestilence radiate their essence to my soul, begging me to join them in their death where I belong. I’m supposed to be dead. Yet I’m not dead.

  “Your mother?”

  I see Garren pull his hand from my shoulder, and part of me breaks because I can’t feel it. He’s here; I know he’s here, but I’m a ghost. I curl into my body as if I’m cold, but I’m not. I can’t remember the last time I felt anything. The sun on my face, the warmth of someone’s touch—it’s all just a distant memory.

  “I can’t feel anything,” I tell him. He doesn’t speak so I lift my head and look at the morning light for the first time. Off the side of the cliff the water breaks into white waves, a never-ending lull of soothing melody. The sky is pink with the new day.

  Garren sits close, waiting patiently for my words. He doesn’t judge or speak; he just listens.

  “That’s okay,” he says.

  I shake my head and gather myself into a seated position. I remember growing up, how Mama taught me to act as a lady and to be proper. She would have never stood for sitting on the bare ground like I am now. She would have reprimanded me for getting dirt on my kirtle, the only clothing I had that needed to be kept clean.

  When I look down all I see are rips and stains—Mama would have never allowed this.

  “Some people, when they lose someone, they don’t feel anything—and that’s okay. Just because you lost your mother and you don’t cry for her doesn’t make you a bad person.”

  Garren speaks, but his voice seems so far away. He doesn’t understand.

  “No,” I say. “I do miss her. I miss all my family, even if they wouldn’t miss me.” Emotions build in the back of my mind. Would my parents have grieved if I had died before them? If the pestilence had taken me instead of Margo, would Dondre still have despised me so?

  I watch with great fear as my hand shakes before my eyes. I can’t control the trembling that overtakes my body. Emotions of grief come for my family who never loved me. I want to hate them; I want to release all thoughts of them, but I can’t. Instead they rule my mind and cause me to miss them.

  “It’s okay.” Garren speaks again, but his voice is muffled to my ears.

  My breaths come in quick motions that I can’t regulate and I wait for the tears to overwhelm my eyes, to blind my vision, but they never do. My cries come, my voice a whine in the clear morning, but my eyes never glaze over with wetness. I shut out the world, desperate to escape this nightmare.

  When I look up, I see Garren’s face just inches from my own. His fingers reach out, brushing my cheek, but I don’t feel his touch. I see his fingers on my skin, but his presence is otherwise unknown.

  “I can’t feel anything,” I tell him, desperate for help, even if he may think of me as insane.

  “It’s okay, Luna,” he says, and I want to scream.

  “No,” I say. I push his hand from my face and hold his hand in my own. I look down at my skin and feel a piercing cry building in my core. “This,” I say, holding up our hands, “I can’t feel you. I can’t feel anything.”

  Garren looks at me, confused. I drop our hands and shrink from him. My clothing that hangs over my body, the ground that digs into my legs, the air that whispers against my skin—it’s all numb to me; it’s not here somehow.

  Tears never come, like the cruel curse made for those who wish to grieve. I look at Garren and wonder what he sees. A woman who is going insane? Someone who is grieving for a mother who died more than one hundred years ago?

  “Why are you here?” I ask. My voice is nothing more than a whimper.

  He looks at me for a long time. His eyes wander over my clothing, seeing what is there. Peasant clothing from years ago, when hu
manity was dying off because of a disease that came to kill anyone it touched. His gaze rests on my eyes at last and I wonder if now he will finally recoil at the sight of my silver irises.

  “Because I know,” he says.

  I shake my head, my gaze slowly floating down.

  “You don’t,” I say, but it is only a quiet whine, so much that I’m sure he didn’t hear me.

  “No,” he says, lifting my chin so I’m forced to look at him. His mouth is turned down, his face serious. “I do. Because I can’t feel this either.”

  XXVIII.

  “It was black magic,” Garren tells me. “We were just victims of it. Mystral was the only witch, not you. She just tricked you into doing her bidding. Tiboulain was her fountain of youth. You opened it for her. You may not be able to see her anymore, but she’s still here.”

  The sun has been down for hours now. It must be the middle of the night, but I feel no need to sleep—neither of us do.

  “Why’d she want me?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry to say you were marked since birth,” Garren tells me.

  “I don’t understand,” I say, my voice a numb whisper.

  “Have you seen your eyes?”

  My head lifts when he says the words.

  I nod, remembering each and every stare I’ve received. How they whipped me simply because people thought I was a witch. And it was all because of the color of my eyes. My eyes told them I was a witch and that my life needed to be extinguished, but they had no case against me. There was nothing they could do about me simply being alive.

  My arms wrap around my knees and I take deep breaths, noting the rise and fall of my chest. I hold my breath and wait. Seconds turn into minutes, and I feel no need to ever seek air again. I wait for my head to spin, for my world to slip away, but it doesn’t. After a few more minutes of stillness, I give in and take the air. Oxygen fills my lungs, but there is no relief or ecstasy from the sweet air.