Widow's Welcome

by D. K. Fields

  ‘No need to divine it. You know it too. Seen it before, haven’t you?’

  ‘Not like this,’ I said.

  She waved one of her rainbow hands. ‘Different people up north, different problems, same kind of dying.’

  ‘So, you want me to run from it? Join Cope’s crew and leave without looking back?’

  ‘No one knows what’s out there, out beyond Break Deep. But we know what’s here. That’s my point.’

  ‘Leave me alone.’

  She took my hand in hers. ‘You don’t have to face this on your own,’ she said. She let go, and I fled.

  *

  I woke the following day with a pounding head and an empty stomach. I remembered little of how I got back to my hut, and if I had vented the contents of my stomach I was relieved to find no evidence on my pallet or anywhere else inside. The bitter, furry taste in my mouth suggested some other location had been less fortunate. I hurried, as much as my head would allow, to heat some water. The striking of flint and steel was torturously loud and I had to grit my teeth to remove the sensation that they were shaking themselves loose.

  Luckily, I already had some herbs ready to cast into the pot: a pestle and mortar was beyond me at that moment. As they boiled, I retreated to the far side of my hut; even though I knew the infusion would settle me, I found the smell unbearable. I belched tornstone. When it was ready I held my nose and swallowed, which almost choked me. I cursed myself as all kinds of fool. My mother had said my intolerance for alcohol came from my father’s people, and that it was her great shame. She would openly weep when it was mentioned.

  I was approaching recovery when there was a knock at my door. I considered acting the coward and keeping my silence, but my mouth had experienced enough bad tastes for one morning.

  ‘If the peril is beyond mild, come in, otherwise Sanga Cafferney is two ’walks over,’ I called, my head cradled in my hands.

  ‘That butcher? I think not.’ Madam Wishful entered in a flurry of layered skirts and wig-powder, which formed a constant fog around her. She had a handkerchief pressed to her mouth and was sweating profusely.

  ‘A hot morning to be paying house calls,’ I said. I didn’t get up from my stool; I couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t fall off.

  ‘Hot?’ she said, taking a moment to grasp my meaning. ‘Oh, yes, of course.’ She dabbed her forehead, losing yet more powder, and then returned the handkerchief to her mouth. ‘You look dreadful, Sanga.’

  ‘One day I will learn to leave ale to the bargemen.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, stretching out the word until I thought it might snap. ‘Dreadful stuff.’

  ‘Is it Daniel?’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘He was struggling to pass urine, an early infection. I have a stronger tonic here.’

  ‘Oh, no, Sanga,’ she said. ‘He’s fine. Pissing like a Fenestiran fountain.’

  ‘I hope not,’ I said, recalling their preference for six-spout fountains. She tittered. A noise I had never heard her make before.

  ‘Well, to business I’m afraid, my dear sanga.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘Yes, I’m ending our arrangement. Terribly sorry but nothing for it, what with recent events. I’m sure you understand.’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t,’ I said. ‘What events?’

  ‘That poor family. I’m certain you did everything you could.’ She was backing away from me, towards the door, ever so slowly. She had, I realised, been doing so since the moment she entered. ‘That’s what I keep telling everyone: Sanga Jeffereys would have helped that family all he could, even if he isn’t a full—’

  ‘Madam Wishful, what family?’

  ‘They’re calling it Black Foot, or Black Ankle, or Black Toe, something like that.’

  I stood very slowly. Madam Wishful almost jumped out of the doorway.

  ‘They all died?’ I said.

  ‘But I thought you knew? Were you not there, after all?’

  ‘The father? The aunt?’

  She couldn’t say it, only nod.

  ‘Audience welcome them,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not your services, Sanga, I want you to know that. And I wanted to say it myself. It’s just a matter of reputation. Please say you understand?’

  I waved her away.

  By sunset I had, one way or another, lost all my regular custom. The three other brothels that I serviced had cited the same reason as Madam Wishful, but had done so through nervous errand runners. Carla Beswick sent her sister to tell me her baby was just fine, thank you, no need to visit. Mr Driscal was feeling much better, not coughing at all, according to his grandson. All kinds of cousins, nephews, nieces, and grandchildren graced my alleyway that afternoon. Not a single one entered my hut: I could see their mothers’ decrees written on their terrified faces. Many pressed themselves against the opposite wall of the alley and had to shout their messages. After the first few I drew my curtain, but left the door open, hoping to make it easier on them. But really it added to the fear – as if I had become some malignant beast, grown monstrous overnight.

  The only person to come inside was Sanga Cafferney. The older man was very apologetic, only stopping briefly because of all the extra work. As he said that, he had the good grace to wince. He wanted me to know that it was just the folly of superstitious and scared people. The kind of people who didn’t just burn down a house touched by plague, but a whole street.

  I was too stunned to weep or break anything in anger. All day I sat at my desk as one voice after another made their excuses. Nightfall was a relief: by then I had no one left.

  At least, so I thought. When a note slid under my door, I had no idea who might have been cancelling my services. I ran through a mental list, starting with patients I knew to be either alone or without family, though in Bordair that was extremely rare. Mrs Granger had already sent round her neighbour and Mrs Paulson had limped her own way to my door.

  I could have looked at the note, of course, but instead I made an extravagant dinner – at least, extravagant by my standards. I emptied my meagre larder of anything still fresh and sat down to a thick soup with dumplings, bread with butter and some dried sausage. I ate beyond the feeling of being full. As I loosened my belt I experienced a moment of vertigo, as if my three-legged stool were the spire of the Grand Seat of the Poet in Fenest. Clutching my desk with one hand, I rifled through my papers and instruments with the other. I collected every coin and small purse I could find. I counted my money once, twice, three times. It might have been enough for passage up the Cask, far enough away that people would hire me, and a small hut of my own.

  I opened my small bag out onto the pallet and found a larger bag that rarely left the hut. I crossed my little floor many times, taking items from shelves to the pallet, then back again as I sorted through what was essential or too expensive to buy anew. On one such crossing, I kicked the forgotten note. In a hurry, my attention more focussed on approximating the weight of my larger mortar, I bent down and opened it.

  Marley’s Wharf, Berth Six. Signed CC.

  *

  I took only my usual bag. I reasoned I was likely dead, one way or another, so what good would worldly possessions do me? And, in the unlikely event I returned to Bordair, there was a chance my association with Black Toe, or whatever it was called, would keep people away from my hut in the meantime. A chance. Fear, like stone, has a tendency to be worn away by time to reveal something different yet related beneath: fascination. I patted my large mortar, knowing that it would fetch a fine price if someone was brave enough – and strong enough – to steal it.

  A little before dawn I crept from my own hut. When a couple rounded the alley corner I jumped at their merriment. My palms were sweating on the handles of my bag. As the couple passed, I managed to mumble a Drunkard’s greeting but they ignored me for each other.

  Watching their retreating backs I wondered if I’d ever been quite so lonely.

  There was a slip of water between my hut and the
one adjacent. I went right to the edge of the ’walk so the toes of my boots had nothing between them and the slickly empty surface. That perception of emptiness was folly, of course; the waters of Bordair teemed with life, death, and all that existed between. I could clutch my bag, I thought, and if my will were strong enough I might drown.

  ‘If that’s what you want to do, I think the captain’s given you a better offer,’ someone said behind me. Mona, the water-reader. She couldn’t stop me, and I doubted she would even come in after me. But having her there, watching, made it impossible. So instead I fiddled with my fly as no man had before, or would ever again.

  ‘Then aren’t I the fortunate one?’ I tried to smile, but it was obvious she saw through that as well as my little pretence.

  ‘Latecomer, Widow, Drunkard: they’ll all be interested in your story, Sanga. Now, shall we?’

  Mona casually offered me her arm and we walked together along mostly empty boardwalks. Even at such an early hour, I was glad that she avoided the busier parts of the city.

  ‘They’re calling it Black Jefferey,’ she said, with a calm that left no room for doubt. ‘They talk about it as if they’re talking about you. As if a man has crossed their threshold and strangled the life from their loved ones. “Black Jefferey took old Mr Mason down the street, took him quick, mind.” Or, “Black Jefferey better leave my two alone or I’ll show him what’s what.”’

  ‘My name is Jeffereys,’ I said, stressing the ‘s’ so much I made a ridiculous hissing noise.

  ‘I don’t think that matters to those taken by plague.’

  She said the word in the same way as any other she’d used to outline my plight. But it seemed to shake my head, forcefully, until I had to close my eyes to stop the dizziness. I pressed a hand to my temple in a fruitless attempt to ease the pressure.

  ‘How many have died?’ I said. ‘A lot?’

  ‘What’s “a lot”?’

  ‘I should have jumped,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe. Still can.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be trying to convince me not to?’

  ‘How could I?’ she said. ‘Perhaps someone here might be able to.’ She had paused at the entrance to a brothel, the last building before we were on the wharf proper and among the barges.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I said.

  ‘It could be some time.’

  ‘I’m no innocent, Mona. But those places – I’ve treated the people who work there.’

  She didn’t ask for specifics, didn’t want details or stories – and Audience knew I had enough to get us to Break Deep and back.

  There was plenty of other activity on the wharf, despite the early hour: bargemen loading and unloading, though telling the difference between the two was difficult at times. They also engaged in many tasks I could awkwardly describe but with no idea as to their purpose or effect. Even so, I felt a kind of peace at their business. I was intrigued by my own contentment but when I examined it more closely, I realised it came from a dark place: I was happy seeing people busy being alive. I jerked at this thought, and at the same time a barking started up. Mona misunderstood, and said, ‘Don’t worry, she knows it’s us.’

  We stopped at the bottom of a short gangway, at the top of which was a solid-looking Caskanese water-dog. I knew many barges employed such animals; I’d been told they had webbed paws, though I’d never inspected them closely myself. The dog turned its head towards the aft and barked again.

  ‘All right there, Brin, I see them and so does the Messenger.’ The captain came to the railing and patted the water-dog.

  ‘Is this it?’ I said, raising my voice above the din of the busy wharf.

  The captain spread her arms. ‘What did you expect?’

  ‘You said…’ I couldn’t remember exactly what the captain had said, but I remembered the implication: the crossing of Break Deep would not be done in a barge. And yet, here was a barge.

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘A barge, Captain?’

  ‘And what’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Well, nothing, of course. But.’ I gestured emptily.

  She laughed at my floundering. Mona didn’t join in, instead standing impassively by, which was somehow worse.

  ‘Don’t fret, Sanga,’ the captain said. ‘We will not be making the crossing on this good barge.’

  I hefted my bag and climbed the gangway. The captain had already turned back to her duties, but Mona helped me aboard.

  ‘She says “crossing” as if she’s sure there’s something on the other side,’ I said.

  ‘She is sure.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Look forward to seeing if she’s right.’

  ‘That’s your position, as the crew’s diviner?’ I said.

  ‘It is – if they ever ask. Sanga, I’m pleased you’re with us,’ she said.

  She kissed my cheek. I was too surprised to say or do anything. I must have worn that surprise clearly: she smiled, as much to herself as to me, and then went to join the captain at the aft. I stood there like a fool for some minutes.

  *

  I had been on plenty of barges in my life, of course, even if I had never worked as part of a crew. I was quite at home with the pitch and roll of it; my own hut had the same kind of movement, if to a lesser degree. I was also used to keeping out of the way. Bargemen, like all people, are creatures of habit and economy: they take well-worn paths that allow for the quickest accomplishment of any task. Identifying one of those routes, I found a dead spot in which to stand and observe.

  The captain was talking with the pilot: a tall, long-limbed man who appeared in a constant state of nodding. I initially thought this had something to do with their conversation, but it continued once the captain had moved away. There were four or five bargemen bustling to and fro at their various duties. The ’swain, Eliza, was just below the helm overseeing their work. She met my gaze but gave no acknowledgement of having met me before, or having been by my side when Dahey died.

  Beyond the barge I saw Bordair drag itself awake. Carts were set up along the wharf, mostly food and drink. Mostly drink. A woman carried a tray of pins and trinkets, likely of her own making, but she was politely ignored: bargemen had little need for possessions as far as I could see. A couple of young men – I didn’t recognise them from my rounds – lazed by some nets, calling without conviction to the women working a nearby barge.

  I felt a pang of regret at leaving my home, the place I had lived – in one part or another – for the majority of my life. Where I learned my trade. Where I nursed my mother until she died. I stepped towards the railing, then heard my name.

  I looked about me but the bargemen were all intent on their preparations, the captain talking to the pilot once more. From the railing I saw an elderly man set against a barrel. His legs ended in stumps, just above where the knee would have been, and in front of him was a cup.

  ‘Black Jefferey took my legs,’ the man said to a passer-by. A penny clinked into his cup and he said his thanks. ‘Black Jefferey took—’ Another coin. I watched the man until we cast off. It was rare that my namesake did not result in a penny – he emptied his cup into a pocket twice just while I was watching. I felt oddly conflicted.

  ‘Sanga?’

  I looked round to find the boy, Perse, holding out his hand. I do believe if I’d had a coin readily available I would have given it to him.

  ‘I’m to show you to your hammock,’ Perse said, taking my bag.

  I looked once more at the wharf, but the elderly man was obscured by another barge. I did not look at Bordair again.

  *

  Below deck was everything I’d imagined of a working barge: cramped, hot and noisy. A fine mist hung in the air near the ceiling. At first it was some relief, like the summer rain that fleetingly graced Bordair, but then I realised the mist was actually from the bodies that sweltered there. I ducked and swallowed back the bile that threatened to embarrass me among my new crewmates. Those ten or so paces were neither
pleasant nor easy, but I would have to get used to it. Break Deep was a long way from Bordair – how long, in terms of days on the barge, I had no real idea. But I knew there were a lot of the Washerwoman’s rivers between the two.

  Perse stopped at an empty hammock. He made no gesture, no comment, just stood there long enough to be sure I understood and then left me. The two hammocks either side of me were occupied, one man and one woman: both large, both snoring – though more of a purr than a shuddering roar. I put down my bag as quietly as I could, which was met with a yelp. I looked to the two sleeping bargemen but saw no movement from them. Instead, out of the darkness beneath my own hammock there resolved two eyes, and a tongue.

  ‘Hello?’ I said softly.

  With a grunt that spoke of significant effort, the water-dog stood and came to me. Its claws played on the wooden floor like a rhythmless spoons-man. I offered my hand, which it took to with a wet nose. Satisfied, it grunted again and returned to its position beneath my bed.

  I wondered if I was being made fun of – the butt of some joke only a bargeman would find funny. But looking about me I found mostly sleeping crew, and those awake were engaged in games of dice or speaking in pairs in hushed tones. A rough estimate suggested a crew of somewhere between twenty and thirty, though it was impossible in the dim light and confines of below deck to get a proper sense of numbers. It felt like a lot to me.

  In the end, I was too tired to raise an objection to the animal as a kind of bedfellow. I hung my jacket at the far end of the hammock and loosened my shirt. It was clear sleeping in your clothes was normal behaviour on a barge and, besides, that had become my behaviour of late. I loosened my shirt at the collar a little and then eased myself slowly onto my swinging bed. I watched my backside sink closer and closer to the dog, who, it appeared, was completely unconcerned by any event that did not directly and physically impact on her. When my weight was fully committed I was still a good few inches above the dog’s back, which I’m sure the animal knew would be the case from the outset.

  I lay down and was kept awake by thoughts of what Mona’s rather chaste kiss meant, or didn’t mean. I also spent a good while wondering just how old Mona was. As a few more bargemen stumbled down the steps to their hammocks, I decided I didn’t care. My thoughts wandered to my place in a crew – something I had never thought possible, something I had never prepared for. Finally, I fell asleep with the understanding that I would now be reliant on the knowledge and experience of those around me and, until my services were needed, I was completely unnecessary. I hoped to remain that way.