The White Plague

by Frank Herbert

  “There are more ruins now,” Father Michael said. “You noticed that?”

  “Destruction, it seems,” John said. “But plenty of food.”

  “More that’s falling down. We’ve lost the look of the picaresque that really great ruins sometimes have. Now… it’s just tumbledown.”

  They fell silent, passing another burned cottage whose walls butted up against the road. The blank windows exposed ashed tatters of curtains like wounded eyelids.

  Someone will answer for that, Herity thought.

  He felt the long Irish memory barbed like a spear. Offend it and someday you would feel the thrust and see your life welling from the wound.

  They crested the top of the hill then and paused for breath, looking ahead to the long curve of another valley stretched out into mists at the upper end where a stream cascaded off black rocks, making its mark on the air with a moist screen that hid the farther hills. A hen cackled nearby.

  Herity cocked an ear, hearing the gurgle of water; a brook or a spring.

  “I hear water,” John said.

  “We could do with a bit of rest and some food,” Father Michael said.

  He crossed to the lower side of the road where tall grass covered a long slope into trees. Finding a spot in the stone wall where he could swing himself across, he went a few paces out into the tall grass. The boy leaped the wall and joined the priest.

  John looked up at the sky. Clouds were coming in, filling the western horizon. He glanced at Herity, who waved for him to join the priest and boy. John climbed onto the wall and stood there looking across the open land before jumping down. The landscape had been defined by gray rock walls into green rectangles with a few cottages, all black and roofless, sprinkled among them. He heard Herity cross the wall and come up beside him.

  “There’s a beauty to it yet,” Herity said.

  John glanced at him, then returned his attention to the view. The thin mist reduced the middle distances to muted pastels, a rolling meadowland with a river winding through it, tall trees and darker greens on the far side.

  “Are you thirsty, Mister O’Donnell?” Herity asked. But he looked at O’Neill as he spoke.

  “I could do with a cool drink of spring water,” John agreed.

  “I’m thinking you have no knowledge of thirst,” Herity said. “A cool glass of Guinness with foam as white as a virgin’s panties flowing over the edges. Now there’s a vision to raise a man’s thirst!”

  Father Michael and the boy began walking toward the trees below the meadow.

  “I heard you and the priest talking about the ruins,” Herity said. “It’s not ruins. Decay! That’s the word. Hope destroyed finally.”

  The priest and the boy stopped short of the trees near a granite outcropping. Looking after them, Herity said, “A fine man, the priest. Wouldn’t you agree, Mister O’Donnell?”

  At the jibing question, John felt O’Neill-Within begin to rise. Panic threatened him, then rage. “Others have suffered as much as you, Herity! You’re not alone!”

  A flush of blood darkened Herity’s face. His lips tightened into a thin line and his right hand went toward the pistol under his jacket but hesitated and lifted instead to scratch the beard stubble on his chin.

  “Would you listen to us now?” he asked. “We’re like a couple of wains in…”

  He broke off, stopped by the loud report of a shot from down in the trees below them. In one motion, Herity knocked John off his feet into the grass, rolled away with one hand in his pack, and before he stopped rolling had a small machine gun in his hands and was scrambling down to the shelter of the granite outcropping. He stopped there, peering down into the trees. John was right behind him, leaning up against the cold stone.

  John peered around his edge of the rock, looking for the priest and the boy. Were they hurt? Who had shot and where had it been aimed? A limb cracked below him and Father Michael’s pale and hatless head poked out of covering bushes under the trees. He was a wide-eyed blob of white against the green-and-brown background, the scar on his forehead very plain against the pale skin. He was staring directly up at John.

  “Get your face back in here!” Herity said. He yanked John back into the rock’s cover.

  “I saw Father Michael. He seems to be all right.”

  “And the boy?”

  “I didn’t see him.”

  “We’ll be patient a bit,” Herity said. “That was a rifle shot.” He cradled the machine gun against his chest and leaned back, scanning the rock wall bordering the road above them.

  John looked at the weapon in Herity’s hands.

  Seeing John’s attention, Herity said: “The Jews make fine guns, now don’t they?” He whirled at the sound of swishing grass below them.

  John looked up to see Father Michael peering down at them. The black felt hat once more covered the brand-scarred forehead.

  Herity scrambled to his feet and peered past the priest toward the trees. “Where’s the boy?”

  “Safe behind some more boulders down there in the trees.”

  “Only the one rifle shot,” Herity said.

  “Likely someone shooting a cow or a pig.”

  “Or himself, that being the more common thing nowadays.”

  “You’re a man full of evil,” Father Michael said. He pointed at the machine gun. “Where did you get that terrible weapon?”

  “This fine Uzi made by the clever Jews, I took it off a dead man, Father Michael. Isn’t that where we get most things nowadays?”

  “What do you intend with it?” Father Michael asked.

  “To use it if need be. Exactly where did you leave the boy?”

  Father Michael turned and pointed at the gray gleam of more rocks just within the trees, the granite partly hidden by invading gorse.

  “We will go down there one at a time,” Herity said. “I will go first, Mister O’Donnell next, then you, Priest. Stay here until I call.”

  Crouching low, Herity darted from behind the rocks and ran zig-zagging down the slope into the trees. They saw him duck behind the other rocks, then his voice called:

  “Just the way I did it!”

  John darted from behind the boulder, feeling exposed and vulnerable as he ran down the slope – left, right, left and into a pocket between the rocks where he saw the boy crouched, huddled into the blue coat. There was no sign of Herity. The boy stared at John with a blank expression.

  There came the sound of running and Father Michael joined them, putting a protective arm around the boy.

  Herity reappeared then, trotting up from deeper in the trees. He joined them in the rock shelter, breathing heavily, the machine gun held at the ready across his chest.

  “The three of you will stay here until I’ve looked over the land below us,” Herity said. “That was a foolish thing you did, Priest, sauntering up there through the open after such a shot.”

  “If God means me to go now, He will take me now,” Father Michael said.

  “Or so you hoped,” Herity said. “It’s a sin, Father. Remember that. When you court death, how is that different from deliberate suicide?”

  Father Michael cringed.

  Herity started to leave but John detained him with a hand on his arm. “Joseph.”

  Herity turned a surprised look at John.

  “I’m grateful for your concern,” John said. “And I’d like you to call me John, but I’ll not change one word of what I said up there.” He gestured with his chin up the hill toward where Herity had knocked him down to protect him. “I meant every word of it.”

  Herity grinned. “Of course you did, Yank!”

  With that, Herity ducked from behind the sheltering rocks and ran down into the trees. They heard a limb crack, then silence.

  “A strange man, that,” Father Michael said.

  The boy pulled away from the priest and peered over the sheltering rocks.

  “Here! Stay down!” Father Michael said. He pulled the boy back.

  “Herity acts
like a soldier,” John said.

  “That he does.”

  “Where did you encounter him?”

  Father Michael looked away, hiding his face from John, but not before John saw a look of near panic there. What was it between those two – the priest and the violent man of action?

  Father Michael spoke in a choked voice: “You might say God threw Joseph and me together. The reason for it, I cannot say.” He returned his gaze to John, the features composed.

  “What about the boy?” John asked. “Why is he with you?”

  “A band of tinkers gave him to me,” Father Michael said. “You’d call them Gypsies, but they’re not really, y’ know. They treated him well. They were the ones told me of his vow of silence.”

  “Then he can talk?”

  “I’ve heard him cry out in his sleep.”

  The boy closed his eyes and bowed his head into the blue jacket.

  “Has he a name?” John asked.

  “Only he can say and he won’t.”

  “Have you made any attempt to find his…”

  “Hush now!” Father Michael glared at John. “Some pains are best not poked at, man.”

  John turned his head away abruptly, trying to control a rictus grin. There was a pain in his breast. He could feel O’Neill-Within moving closer and closer to the surface. John put both hands over his face, trying to quell the dangerous Other. A sound of tumbling pebbles brought his face jerking up out of his hands.

  Herity ducked into their shelter. Perspiration ran down his face. Burrs and catchseeds tangled the lower part of his green trousers. The Israeli machine gun was still cradled against his breast. He took a moment to catch his breath, then: “There’s two cottages just over the next ridge and smoke from the both of them. There’s a radio and them listening to the news, talking about it.”

  Father Michael cleared his throat. “Any… any sign of…”

  “Nary a sign of a female,” Herity said. “Only men’s clothing on the washline. Neat, though, both cottages neat and well tended. I’m thinking it’s only men who’ve been well trained by their womenfolk.”

  “Graves?” Father Michael asked.

  “Four of ’em in the meadow below the cottages.”

  “Then perhaps the people there would shelter us,” Father Michael said.

  “Not so quick!” Herity said. He looked at John. “Do you think you could use this weapon, John?”

  John looked at the machine gun, sensing the power in it. He flexed his fingers. “Use it for what?”

  “I’ve a mind to walk up to those cottages open and friendly like,” Herity said. “With yourself covering me from above. There’s rocks and a fine vantage on the ridge.”

  John glanced at the priest.

  “I’ll not bless this,” Father Michael said. “The Church has sinned enough, calling on God to bless murder.”

  “We’ve no mind to murder anyone,” Herity said.

  “You’re going soldiering,” Father Michael said.

  “Ohhh, that,” Herity said. “I’m just not ready to commit suicide, Father.” He looked at John. “What about it, John?”

  John held out his hands for the machine gun. “Show me how it works.”

  “Very simple,” Herity said. He stepped up beside John with the gun. “This here’s the safety. When it’s like this…” he clicked it, “. . . all you need to do is point it and pull the trigger. Steady as the Rock of Cashel it is.” Herity restored the gun to safety and passed it to John.

  John hefted the weapon. It felt warm from Herity’s touch. A thing much more direct than the plague. Would O’Neill-Within rise up now and kill with noisy violence? John looked up to see Herity studying him.

  “Can you do it?” Herity asked.

  John nodded.

  “Then follow me, silent as a mouse in a featherbed. Priest, you and the boy stay where you are until we call.”

  “God willing,” Father Michael said.

  “There now!” Herity pounced, grinning. “He’s blessed us after all!”

  Herity led the way then at a bent-over trot. They went down into the trees, following a scuffed track in the needle duff, crossing over a thin runnel of water splashing across black rocks.

  John stopped, thirsty, looking first at the water and then at Herity.

  “I’d not drink it,” Herity whispered. “There’s a dead man upwind.” He pointed up the stream’s course. “Dead a week at least and fouling the water.” Herity smiled. “Pigs has been at him.”

  John shuddered.

  Herity turned away. John followed him up the opposite slope, moving slowly through scrub conifers. The duff underfoot muffled their steps. At the ridgetop, Herity motioned John to stay low, then pointed along the ridge to the left where a gray rock buttress could be glimpsed through the brown trunks.

  “From up there,” Herity whispered, “you’ve a grand view down into their dooryard. I’ll wait until I see you in place, then go along whistling, friendly and open without a weapon in sight. You understand?”

  John nodded. He bent low and scrambled upward through the trees, approaching the rocks from below the ridgetop. Creeping over the top, he found he could slide out onto the rocks. They smelled flinty and were still warm from the earlier sunlight. He glanced upward. It would be dark soon and the clouds had rain in them. Slowly, he crept out onto a shallow cup within the rocks until his eyes could peer over the end.

  He found himself looking down a steep slope no more than a hundred meters into a fenced yard behind a neat cottage – whitewashed walls there, two chimneys and smoke from both of them… chickens scratching in the yard. The roof of another cottage poked up against the valley backdrop beyond the first one, smoke from only one of its chimneys. A cow byre had been built into the hillside off to the left. There was a smell of cow manure from it. The valley beyond contained a scattering of burned-out cottages and wrecked outbuildings, not a sign of smoke there. He returned his attention to the near cottage. A clothesline had been strung from a corner of the building to a post in the stone-enclosed yard. Clothing waved in the wind there – trousers, shirts, long underwear… There was the faint sound of a radio, someone talking. Everything looked so bucolic… except for the stillness and something lacking behind the sound of the radio and the clucking of the chickens.

  Abruptly, John froze at the sound of voices almost directly below him under the rock outcropping where he could not see.

  “They’ll not see us in here.” It was the voice of a young boy.

  “How much in the bottle?” Another young voice.

  “Almost a cup.” That was the first one.

  “Do you really think this caused it?” There was the sound of something scraping, a gurgling followed by a fit of coughing.

  “Gahhh! That’s awful!”

  “She said it was the drink, Burgh, and now she’s gone.”

  “It’s all stupid grownup stuff!”

  Something brushed against the rocks below John. He held his breath.

  “Grownups never know what they want!”

  There came a long silence below John in which he thought he could hear his own heart beating too loudly. He dared not move. He might scrape against the rock, alerting the boys, and they could call a warning to the people in the cottages. He moved only his eyes, trying to glimpse Herity, wondering where the man might be.

  “I’m glad you and your da came to live in the other cottage, Burgh.” That was the first child.

  “It was bad in the city.”

  “Lots of shooting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here, too. We hid in a cave.”

  Again, they were silent.

  Why was Herity delaying? John wondered. His chest felt painful when he breathed.

  “Do you remember what happened to your ma?”

  That was the first child.

  “Yes.”

  “I miss mine. Sometimes I think I’d best go to heaven and be with her. My da’s no fun anymore.”

  �
�Mine drinks this stuff.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s the drink do to you?”

  “I think it’s going to make me sick.”

  “Naw, you didn’t have enough of it.”

  “Hist!”

  There was silence beneath John’s hiding place.

  He heard it then: Herity singing of his Dark Rosaleen, a fine tenor voice approaching the cottages from below.

  “Someone coming!” That was the first child, a hoarse whisper.

  “A stranger. I see him.”

  A man’s voice called from the near cottage: “Burgh! Terry!”

  “Should we answer?” That was the second child.

  “No! Stay here. If it’s trouble we’ll be safer in here.”

  “The stranger’s alone.”

  Herity called out loudly from below: “Hello, the cottages! Anybody home?”

  A man’s voice responded: “Who is it asking?”

  “It’s Joseph Herity of Dublin town. I’ve a priest and a young boy with me and a Yank who fancies himself the savior of Ireland. Would you be giving food and shelter to weary travelers?”

  The man in the house shouted: “Step up close and let’s have a look at you.”

  Herity strode to within a few meters of the near cottage’s rear door. He raised his arms and turned to show he was unarmed. John saw movement of a gun barrel behind an open window of the cottage, but no shot came.

  “You’ve a priest with you, did you say?” the man in the house asked.

  “I did that. It’s Father Michael Flannery of Maynooth, himself as fine a priest as ever wore the black. And I see a cross over your door that tells me you’re not priest-haters in this house.”

  “We’ve graves that need blessing,” the man in the house said, his voice lower.

  “Sure and Father Michael would be happy to do that,” Herity said. “Shall I be calling him to join us?”

  “Yes… and welcome.”

  Herity turned and cupped his hands to his mouth: “Father Michael! You can all come in now. Pass the word to the Yank.”

  John started to rise, but at the last words, hesitated. Something wrong down there? Herity would know John could hear him.

  A wide smile on his face, Herity strode up to the cottage door as it was opened from inside. He thrust out a hand. “It’s Joseph Herity would like the name of you, sir.”