by Ann Benson
Alejandro heard the midnight knock through a dream; he was crashing through dark woods with vague ogres in pursuit—an all-too-common occurrence—when the banging brought him abruptly to his mind’s surface. He opened his eyes but saw nothing through the darkness.
He had heard nothing from the cooper’s wife in several days and wondered immediately if the man’s time had finally come. He rose from the narrow bed and wiped his hand over his beard. He tucked his long dark hair behind his ears and set his feet on the hard-packed floor of the room he shared with the boy Guillaume, who in the innocence of childhood had slept soundly through the knock. His knees ached, if only for the briefest time—a harbinger, he feared, of what was to come as he aged.
But he would accept it all with gratitude and offered up a quick prayer that he would live long enough to experience every misery that age could inflict, if only he could see once again the girl he called daughter. Girl indeed! By now she was a young woman. He allowed himself a few seconds of missing this young woman who had, in the agony of bereavement, given life to this child seven years before. She was as precious to him as any daughter who might have sprung from his own loins—of which there were, sadly, none.
The deep ache in his heart made that ache which he felt in his knees seem trivial. He chided himself, for if missing a person could evoke proximity, the young woman would now be in his household where she truly belonged, not among those whose blood she happened to share, through some monumental error on the part of God.
Forgive me, he prayed. I mean no disrespect in pointing out Your oversights. “But why is it,” he said in his quietest voice, “that such knocks as these come only in the unholiest of hours, when one cannot help but imagine some foul demon on the other side of the planks?”
The ill-defined dread he felt was all imagination; beyond the door would be a small, tired Englishwoman. He ducked through a low passageway, and before he could stand fully, the knock came again.
He stood slowly and stared at the door. The firm pounding he heard could not have been made by the frail fist of a sorrowful old woman but by someone with much more strength of hand. And, judging by the rapidity and force, a good deal more urgency.
He tiptoed the rest of the way to the door and positioned himself to one side. “Never stand directly in the center of a door,” Eduardo Hernandez had once told him. “A decent sword well thrust can come right through the boards. Imagine,” the old soldier warned, “what a fine sword in the hands of a master might do to your gut. Even you with all your skills will be helpless.”
But who else would come with dawn still hours hence? Strangers rarely traveled through this quarter of the city during daylight, let alone at night. He peered with one squinted eye through a crack along the edge of the door, hoping for a glimpse of the caller, but it was impossible to see anything in the darkness.
“Who knocks?” he said finally.
“I seek the physician Canches” came the reply.
Had they found him? His heart threatened to thump out of his chest. “One moment,” he said. The words came out far more timidly than he would have liked. He cleared his throat, then added, “I’ll see if he can be awakened.”
He barely heard the grunted response on the other side of the door; he rushed into the bedroom and shook the boy urgently.
“Guillaume,” he whispered. “Guillaume! You must wake up!”
The boy rubbed his eyes as he came awake. “But why, Grand-père—”
“Ask no questions now.” His own voice sounded sharp, even to himself, and he tried to soften it. “Just make ready as I have showed you before—we may need to leave quickly.”
As if he had not understood, the boy said, “But, Grand-père, where are we—”
“Shhh! Now hurry.”
“Yes, Grand-père.” He threw off his coverlet and stood up, wavering sleepily as he rose.
Alejandro steadied him. “Good boy,” he said. “Now listen carefully. Watch from right here.” He pointed to a spot just inside the room. “If I make the signal we have practiced, you must run out the back door and go to Rachel’s house. She will take care of you until I can come to get you.”
On one of the many occasions when they had practiced for this dreaded event, Guillaume had tearfully asked, “What if you do not come to get me?” Alejandro had not answered. He had never considered the possibility that he might not be able to do so.
The boy nodded solemnly. Alejandro gave him a reassuring touch on the cheek and slunk back to the door. He took in a long breath before turning the wood latch.
The door was not shoved inward on the turning of the latch, which would certainly have been the case if King Edward’s men were on the other side. When the creak of the hinges stopped, the physician saw a youngish man with a familiar crest emblazoned on the front of his red mantle. He slowly let out the breath he had been holding.
“You are de Chauliac’s man.”
He received a nod in return.
“I am Canches.”
The soldier looked relieved to hear that. “My master says you must come to the palace.” He held out a sealed scroll. “I am not to return without you.”
On taking the scroll from the soldier’s hand, Alejandro said, “He might have requested my presence at a more reasonable hour.”
As the physician read what was written, the soldier said, “You are to come immediately. My master says you are to bring the boy with you.”
Alejandro stepped back as he considered the contents of the message. He and de Chauliac had discussed and planned for an urgent situation through secret letters over the years, but now that a crisis seemed to be upon him, he felt ill-prepared. “How much time is there?” he asked quietly.
“He only said immediately.”
After a few seconds’ pause, Alejandro took the man by the arm and drew him inside. “I must see to two matters before we leave,” he said.
“But already I have horses waiting at the end of the street,” the soldier protested.
“Bring them here and through the house,” the physician whispered. “There is a narrow alley behind us where no one will see.”
The soldier looked surprised but dutifully turned and went back down the dark street. Alejandro left the door slightly ajar for his return. Then he went to the hearth and put the scroll into the embers. He fanned it with his hand for a few seconds until the parchment caught fire. He watched the wax seal melt as the flames consumed the message, written in de Chauliac’s own hand. He said to the small pile of ash, “Thank you, my dear, dear friend.”
“Father, wake up. We must leave immediately.”
On the best of days, Avram Canches took a very long time to awaken fully. On this night there would be no such luxury.
“Wake up!” Alejandro said as he shook him.
“What…” the old man said.
Alejandro helped his father to a sitting position. “I must take you to Rachel.”
On hearing this, the father’s face filled with fear. “Truly?” he said.
“Yes, truly. And immediately.”
In his confused state, Avram Canches said, “Have you killed someone again, boy?”
“No,” Alejandro said gently. “Not of late.” He turned away and called for Guillaume. The child appeared in the room within seconds. He was fully dressed and carried a small satchel in his hand.
Alejandro would have smiled, had there been time for such a show of pride. But instead he simply nodded his approval and said, “arrière-grand-père’s things…” He pointed to a leather case in one corner of the room.
The boy hastened to gather up the old man’s belongings. The case was heavy and the child had to struggle, but he did what was required. Alejandro took hold of his father, nearly carrying him. Within seconds, the three were heading out a rear door, into the darkness of the small street that led to Rachel’s home just a few doors away. Behind them, the physician heard the sound of hooves stepping into the house and the protesting snorts of the confuse
d horses.
Alejandro did not bother to knock on Rachel’s door; such formalities were not necessary with the widow who had been more of a mother to Guillaume than the physician had any right to expect. The boy ran in and out of her house at will, as if it were his own home. On the night of their arrival in Avignon seven years earlier, she had taken Guillaume out of Alejandro’s arms and, without so much as one question, put the fair-haired baby to her breast. The milk that would have gone to her own darker child still flowed; she had lost both that child and her husband to plague only days before. Since then, Alejandro’s generosity had kept food on her table, but Guillaume’s need for her had been far more nourishing.
As she came into the kitchen she wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. Her feet were bare below the white nightdress, and her long dark hair hung loose around her shoulders. For a few precious seconds, he stared at her.
His father was right. She was a beautiful woman.
But urgency reclaimed his attention. “We must go,” he said to her.
Rachel nodded sadly; she needed no additional explanation. With a look of terrible unhappiness, she reached out to Alejandro’s father. “Come, Avram,” she said softly. “I will take you to the bed.”
She supported Alejandro’s ancient father with great tenderness as he walked unsteadily beside her. Guillaume followed with the bag of possessions. It took a moment for her to settle Avram comfortably into her own bed. Alejandro heard her reassure the old man that she would arrange for his own familiar bed to be brought over on the morrow and that she would sleep by the hearth tonight. He heard the soft rustling as she arranged the covers over Avram. Alejandro looked into the room and saw the heartbreaking confusion on his father’s face.
Rachel came out of the room. Alejandro took her by the arm and pulled her aside.
For a few moments their eyes were locked together; neither one said a word. They had been thrown together by fate and had passed more than seven years in a strange sort of intimacy, as comfortable as that which passed between many husbands and wives, perhaps more so. Yet Alejandro had not allowed himself to slip too close to her, for fear that he might one day be forced to leave.
Now that day had come.
“I—I cannot thank you properly. You have been like a daughter to my father.”
He saw the sad accusation on her face. But not a daughter-in-law.
“I will return as soon as I can.” He took hold of her hand and pressed a bag of coins into it. “As long as my father lives, you shall never want, if it is within my power to see you comfortable.”
She looked away; he knew her heart was breaking.
“Please,” she whispered, “can we not go with you?”
A moment passed; she added, “For your father’s sake.”
“No,” Alejandro said gently.
Her expression turned bitter. “You had best say your good-byes to him, then. God may take him at any moment.”
Alejandro said nothing. He left her and went to his father again. He sat down on the straw and tucked the blanket up around the old man’s neck.
“I will return as soon as I can, Father.”
The response was barely audible. “God willing.”
“Yes. Rachel will care for you while we are gone.”
Avram looked into his son’s eyes. He managed the faintest smile. “She is a good woman. She would make a good wife. You should think about this before it is too late. By the time you come back, you may be so old that she will no longer want you.”
The gentle humor of his father’s chiding was bittersweet; both of them knew that his return was far from assured.
Alejandro patted his father’s hand and said, “You have always given me good advice.”
“You have never taken it.”
It was true; he had studied medicine against his parents’ wishes, far away from their native Spain, and—to his father’s complete horror—had never married.
“Well, there is time yet,” he said with a smile.
“God willing.”
Alejandro leaned over and placed a kiss on his father’s forehead. As he rose up to leave, the old man turned away.
Two
Goats were gold—mostly for their milk, since only a few of the cows had survived. Everyone dreamed shamelessly of cheeseburgers—which, unlike all the other assorted creatures they ate, did not taste like chicken. Even chickens didn’t taste like chicken in the new world. There were no more plump, seasoned Perdues, just skinny, tough fighters you had to chase around the yard to kill.
“Wiry,” Tom would say. Janie Crowe stared down at a textbook example of that wiriness, which lay on a platter in front of her. It was a good-size bird and would feed them all, but it would be nothing but bones by the time dinner was through. She snipped the feet off the already headless bird with a large pair of shears and tossed the clawed appendages into the compost pot, grimacing as she considered that in China someone knew how to make them palatable—assuming anyone was left there, that is.
But of course someone was left there. It was unthinkable that everyone had perished, though no traveling minstrels had come up the mountain with news of that empire. When the minstrels were still coming, there had been reports of Europe and South America, both struggling mightily like North America. If the world ever resumed its connections, everyone surmised that China would roar like a lion to the head of the pride, because when you start with too many people, the elimination of more than eighty percent of them wouldn’t be a crippling blow.
Janie glanced out the kitchen window and saw the green tips on the forsythia bush near the compound’s main gate. Her heart warmed at the sign of spring. New Englanders were known for their toughness, but even the most hardy souls were felled when DR SAM made its second pass through the world. And among those who’d survived, the unprepared didn’t make it through that first bitter winter without power or food, or protection from the bands of marauders who scavenged their way through every Middlesex village and town.
God bless Tom, she thought. It was due to her husband’s uncannily thorough planning that they were staying afloat in their mountain compound. Their minimalist life was often rich and rewarding in ways that surprised them. But there were still moments—far too many of them—when Janie’s finger itched for a clicker. She was not alone in that longing. “Remote denial syndrome” became—until it ceased to seem funny—the standard laugh-off to the daily chores of survival. Janie missed the comforts of her Before Plague home, as well as her wonderful vehicle, phones, stereos, constant refrigeration, air-conditioning, insect repellent, heat that didn’t require stoking, and, and, and…
Out of the corner of her eye she saw a blur of motion through the steamy glass, so she wiped away the moisture with the cuff of her sweater. Through the wet streaks that remained, she caught a glimpse of her son, Alex, running in the snow. Sarah would not be far behind. A smile rose, unbidden, onto her face, and all those luxurious comforts she pined for seemed suddenly unimportant.
At seven, Alex was lithe and sure-footed, though he had his share of little-boy moments and, to his physician–mother’s dismay, the usual allotment of bumps, bruises, and scrapes. From the moment of his birth, he had been a thing of beauty, a source of joy when there was no other place to find it. In the dark days of winter, he could always be counted on for a laugh and a smile. He seemed to know through some instinctual wisdom when Janie or Tom was distressed and, with one toothy grin, could restore them.
His existence was the result of two combined forces: strong will and miraculous science. When they closed the doors to the outside world and hunkered down for the storm of DR SAM eight years before, Janie had been well past the natural years of unassisted conception, nearing fifty—and she had had a tubal ligation. There were many days when she wondered what she could have been thinking when she begged to have this being implanted in her womb. Child-rearing in a world without machines, she had come to discover, was the work of young women.
He is so b
eautiful, she thought as she watched him at play. She tapped on the windowpane and her son looked toward her. The sweetest smile came onto his face. As he waved, the snowball he’d been forming fell out of his hands. He tried to catch it but only succeeded in crushing it. Janie saw but could not hear his laughter.
He bounded through the snow toward the back door. In a moment Janie heard the creak of the hinges and the lovely sound of children laughing.
“Wipe your feet!” she called out, “and wash your hands!” Once upon a time, when her daughter Betsy—
rest in peace
—was a child, she would have overlooked the mess on the floor, because a few moments with the central vac would magically make the dirt disappear. Now Janie and Sarah’s mother, Caroline, swept with straw brooms they made themselves and beat the rugs with switches, like prairie housewives; it was the only way to vanquish the dirt.
Laundry might as well be pounded on the rocks for all the effort it took without bleach and detergent, though they did have a solar dryer—the long rope clothesline that ran between two thick tree trunks in the courtyard. Tom and Caroline’s husband, Michael, would come in with the other men from their chores when the light faded; they took off their sweaty socks, put on their sheepskin slippers, and settled themselves at the table. Dinner would appear, prepared by their wives. After dinner, the men would sit with the children and check their schoolwork while the women cleaned up.
Just like the good old days.
Janie transferred the headless, footless carcass of the chicken to a roasting pan. Turnips and carrots would accompany the sorry thing, but not much else; they were rationing the potatoes so they’d last through spring. Already they’d set a few potato eyes in liquid nutrients to sprout, so the plants would be ready when the soil softened.
She glanced out the window again at the hated snow and thought, If it ever does.
