by L. E. Waters
I walk in a far-off state, my legs moving but feeling nothing. Even as I step over the dead and dying, I am numb. We walk right past a small cottage halfway up the hill, and I see my mother and me looking out that same blue-shuttered window. I leave the group and go into the house, and all my young memories come back to me. I see the ground where I traced my last picture, the nail my mother’s keys hung from, and the place the chest sat. Suddenly the object in my hand has weight, and I open my palm to see the wonderful wooden triangle with the blue stone I held so many times in her embrace. I run my thumb over it, and the tragedy of it all hits me fast. I fall to the floor, sobbing.
We could not even recognize each other, life had separated us so!
The room is filling with smoke; the thatched roof is in flames. I draw a boy, a mother, and father with my finger in the dirt in front of the fireplace. I stand up and let it burn along with the rest of the village. I walk up the hill that my Ma and I never made it to the top of that day and find Rolf laying the bodies out in front of the church we never reached.
Gunhilda lays down Chief Toke beside Dalla and Thora, as other warriors are brought to lie too.
Rolf calls out, “We have no Angel of Death with us, and we can’t bring these bodies back to Hedeby in this heat. They will not last. All of us must prepare them as best we can. I order all riches and plunder gathered to be brought here to bury with the chieftain!”
They all nod and go down the hill to bring up what they killed for. Rolf and I start our hole for Thora as Gunhilda and other warriors begin digging the large grave for Toke. No one even stops to rest after the battle.
No one can rest when the dead are waiting.
Chapter 11
Rolf makes sure there are two chambers in Thora’s tomb. We fill the bottom with her finest linens, tapestries, jewels, weaving loom, and bowls. A female thrall washes the blood away and dresses her in the goatskin dress she was married in. We lower her down onto her green cushions and sit her up as if she is awake, supporting her with some of her things. She looks so alive sitting there that it’s going to be hard to fill it in. We help Gunhilda lower the chieftain and surround him with all the riches. The other thralls bring up beer, bread, and dried meat they stored for our journey.
Rolf stands at Toke’s grave and says, “Bring the chief his thrall! The faithful companion that will follow him in death as she had pleased him in life.”
We place her in the chamber next to his, and Rolf chants a prayer to Odin. All the warriors who can still stand give a cheer, and the thralls fill in the tomb.
Rolf then walks over to Thora’s grave; he looks toward the men and asks, “Is there a rune carver among us?”
One of the thralls raises his hand, not surprising given that most of the thralls that were brought along are skilled workers.
Rolf nods to his master. “I’ll pay your master well to have this large stone at her head to be carved to mark her passing.”
The thrall bows to Rolf and goes to get his tools from the ship. Rolf turns to face me, but calls out to all of the thralls. “My wife demands a formal burial with all the things she will need in death.” He looks directly in my eyes. “Who will die with her? Who will serve by her side in the afterlife?”
That’s what her second chamber is for.
I look up to the sky while he’s waiting for an answer. I don’t want to die, but what do I have now alive? All I have is Una and a goose, and now neither one of them is safe with Thora gone. The sun is setting behind us and makes the colors of the darkening sky seem cool next to the last orange burn of the day. I have no world without Thora. I promised her I would always be with her. I glance down at the small second chamber and know I belong there.
I step forward and say, “I will go with her.”
Rolf seems pleased with this. “And so it should be.”
He has the thrall pass him her peacock, which gives one last meow before he wrings its little neck. He bends down and places it in her hands. A smile comes over my face at this inappropriate time as I think about how she’d laugh to see that thing buried so close to her.
I bow down beside the hole and lay my forehead on the ground, wondering what the pain will feel like and how long I will feel it for.
Rolf and some of the other warriors laugh, and Rolf says, “You’re better off doing this after a few horns of beer. We’re not barbarians!”
They laugh again as Gunhilda comes and slaps her arm around me with far too great a force. We sit around on the boulders in front of the simple white church with a large carved cross on the dark walnut door.
One of the warriors hands me a beer, and as I drink, I gaze out on all the gravestones behind us, wondering if my ma is there. With the liquid loosening my tongue, I say, “Never thought I’d be buried in the same place I was taken from. I don’t think I could pick a more beautiful place.”
One of the warriors says, “It’s a great honor to be chosen to be buried in such a way. Most thralls are left out for the wolves. They will have nothing in the afterlife. But now you will have eternity.”
I nod respectfully while I think of being eternally a thrall, but then I remember Thora and know it would never be like that. I wonder for a moment if my ma will be there, if they’ll share the same heaven. Twilight is creeping in, and the cemetery behind the church begins to look lonely.
Gunhilda hands me another beer, and I ask, “Why aren’t you running away now?”
A smirk spreads, flashing gleaming white teeth. “We will just have to see about that, won’t we?”
Then she starts slowly hopping from one foot to the other while watching me with a mischievous smile. I laugh, uncomfortable, wondering what she’s going to do, but then she picks up the speed into a jig. She begins to clap her hands wildly as she spins around the circle of warriors, now cheering and whistling. She pulls her flute from her thick belt and starts playing to the speed at which her feet are moving. I swallow down my second beer and get up to dance behind her. I attempt to follow the way she moves, but with my second beer, I’m glad to see it’s taking hold. As I twirl, it feels like the whole world is spinning, in a strange new way. I hear the cheering and her flute playing and feel like nothing matters, here nor there. Everything is going to be fine. This world is over, and I’m ready to see what the next world holds. I stop turning but brace myself for everything around me to quit turning.
I yell out, “Another beer!” and with a cheer, I’m handed another. I throw it back in four or five gulps, let out a large belch, and say, “Let’s get this over with!”
Gunhilda keeps playing a soft jig as we all walk to the tomb. The rune carver has already chiseled the head of a raven at the top of the stone. Everyone waits as I stare down at Thora and I think about what Toke had said before, about how we all have a choice. Death is always a choice, a choice even a thrall and every creature has: the ultimate choice.
I choose this; my soul belongs to no one.
I kneel down as Rolf whispers by my ear, “Repeat these words: I see my mistress sitting in paradise, and it is beautiful and green. She calls to me. Lead me to her.”
I repeat it just as he wanted me to, and I hope to see Thora’s spirit there but see only an empty graveyard. I hear Rolf remove his sword; I take a deep breath and lay my forehead back to the soil. I clench my mother’s triangle in my hand so hard the corner sticks in my flesh. I hear the sword slicing down through the air.
* = Not present in that life
Fourth Life
Ring Around the Rosie
Chapter 1
Our cart has been stuck in the mayhem of the marketplace for ten minutes without moving. It is exceptionally busy this early, even for Cheapside.
“Move your horse!” a hostile merchant hollers from behind.
“There is no way to go, short of murder!” Hadrian shouts behind him, holding the reins in fisted hands.
Reckless peasants, merchants, and wayward animals dart in front of the carts, creating a constant stream o
f disruption. I detest the open-air market, the way the streets are lined with shoddy thatched cottages and shambles. Stalls, selling everything from fabrics to spices, are set up all over, and noisy peddlers are advertising their wares. Everyone comes all over London and the countryside to either bring or purchase their goods for the day. The busy and bawdy traffic is the least of the unpleasantness experienced in Cheapside.
At dawn, butchers bring their moaning animals to slaughter at Butcher’s Row. There is Pig Lane, Chicken Lane, Cow Lane, and Cock Lane—each lane named for the animal slaughtered there. Butchers tie the doomed lot up and one by one begin slicing them open, spilling their blood, making rivers down the street. They carve them up and discard the inedible body parts on the ground beneath their feet. The sound of dying animals can be heard anywhere you stand in Cheapside, all day long. Blood sits in stagnant pools all over the streets, clotting and thickening as the day progresses, seeping into putrid cesspools. Entrails bake in the sun as rats and flies swarm at opportunistic moments. Every animal has its own smell as it rots on the cobblestones, being crushed and smashed by butchers’ heavy boots.
All over London, people let livestock roam the streets, in an effort to clean up the garbage thrown from doorways into the gutters. To my right, three enormous sows rummage through a mixture of bones and decaying debris, snorting away, their fleshy faces covered in filth.
Someone yells from the window above our cart, “Look out below!”
Hadrian looks worried, as he knows he has to try to move quickly.
“Look out below!” they warn again.
He pulls the horse slightly to the left.
“Look out below!”
A full chamber pot is dumped, narrowly missing our cart and splashing up on the wooden sides. The pigs rush over to consume greedily whatever disgusting morsel was thrown down. Whenever I venture through Cheapside, I have to bring a sachet of rosemary to hold to my nose, or else the smell would be nauseating. Hadrian rarely takes me with him to go out. I’m excited to get out of the courtyard and see something different, vile smells or not. Hadrian has new surgical supplies and books coming to him from Paris. We have to go through Cheapside to get to the seaport on the Thames. Finally, we hear the steady creaking of the cart rolling along the muddy road.
The streets open up to a bustling harbor, every bit as smelly and crowded as the market.
“You wait here for me. I cannot get any closer to the dock,” Hadrian says without even looking at me.
He motions two dockhands to come with him. I watch his slightly hunched form disappear into the slender vessel at the end of the pier. It is a beautiful, early fall day. The time when the summer heat has faded away and been replaced by a slight cool breeze. The sun glistens off the water, making even the polluted Thames look sparkling and beautiful. Men shouting and running to the farthest dock breaks the solitude of the moment. I turn to what the commotion is and see a large merchant ship coming into the harbor. At first, nothing looks out of the ordinary, but then I notice how slow the boat is moving, like a ghost gliding among headstones.
There are no hands on deck. The boat is coming in unmanned, with only one of its sails still tied, two others flapping in the wind. The eerie sounds of the riggings clanging against the masts echoes over the water. Tenders are launched in an attempt to aid the ship, but are too late as it runs aground on the side of the port. The whole seaport turns its attention to this strange anomaly, and many stand openmouthed.
Did this ship lose its anchor or pull free from its cleats?
I watch as men pull their small boats astride and climb up the ropes. They’re on the deck for but an instant before they all run screaming off the ship or dive into the water below. The whole seaport knows what that means.
The Black Death has arrived in London.
Hadrian comes back with the men carrying a large trunk each. He squints toward the plague ship in annoyed anxiety. “Stay here. I have to see about this.”
The cart jolts at the added weight, while the dockhands stand and leer at me.
Hadrian, noticing this, changes his mind. “You better come with me, Elizabeth.”
We reach the farthest pier at the same time the men from the launches are landing, white-faced and soaking wet.
Hadrian marches up to them and demands, “What is it you have seen?”
One toothless, shaggy-bearded mariner barks back, “They’re all dead, they are! Every last one of them! All strewn across the deck, some burst open, guts all spilling out!”
The others are silent.
“I am a surgeon. I need to know exactly what you saw to diagnose what pestilence they are carrying.”
“Guts spilling out is what I’d seen! Jumped off before I could feel for fever!”
His mates start laughing at this. Hadrian gives the man a stern stare.
“Aaagh,” the mariner says as he wrings out his cap. “I saw one mate had a giant lump on his neck.”
“Any black splotches or blood around the mouth?”
“Look, love to gab with you, but we have to go tell the dock master about this here grounded ghost ship.” They walk away.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
Hadrian stops at a fellow surgeon’s house on our way back home. We are welcomed in for an early dinner. The table is amply covered with breads, meats, and fruits. The mistress of the house sits at the table, feeding her lapdog pieces of ham under the table.
“The sea urchin said the bodies had been split open. I doubt it was a symptom of the disease, probably the result of bloated bodies in the sun hitting the mast as the decks rolled,” Hadrian explains as I wonder how they could talk of such things while stuffing their faces.
Our host asks, “What other symptoms were observed?”
They’re talking only to each other; women are not a part of men’s conversations.
“The urchin only glanced around the deck and fled. However, he did say he noticed a lump on one of the doomed sailor’s necks.”
“A bubo.” The older doctor strokes his beard at this and concludes, “A strong indicator of the Great Mortality.”
Hadrian nods. “Yes, I agree.”
“Do you think there are any survivors?” Our host is furiously cutting his steak like he is trying to start a fire, causing the whole table to shake.
Hadrian scoffs. “I doubt they gave much effort in checking, but even if there were, London would not take them in.”
“Well, London has been watching for this for a year. They all thought it wouldn’t come to us. It has ravaged Italy and France, and now the plague is here.”
“You think London has been exposed from these few men boarding the vessel for a moment?” Hadrian drops his fork and knife and suddenly looks concerned.
“That, and I imagine the south wind blowing from the harbor stirring the corrupt vapors from those plague bodies and carrying the Black Death to each and every one of us who breathes.” He snaps for a servant, who comes quickly to his side. “Close all the windows facing the south side. From now on, only the pure air from the north is allowed in this house!”
Hadrian gives me a look, and I can tell he is anxious to get home to do the same.
“You do know it is all due to the unfavorable planetary alignment?” A grave look takes hold of our host’s face as he says this.
Hadrian nods somberly. “The major conjunction of Mars, Saturn, and Jupiter in Aquarius is an extraordinary event — an ominous event portending pestilence and great death.”
“Very ominous indeed!” the doctor exclaims as he tears a huge piece off a drumstick and gobbles it down.
“If in fact the plague has its grips on London, how should we act?” Hadrian asks.
“Depends on how much gold the good Lord or Lady will give you!” He laughs so hard at his own joke, he chokes on the wine he is drinking, causing it to sputter out his thin-lipped mouth.
“You think it unwise to treat lowly classes, then?”
He sputters for
some time and, once recovered, wipes his mouth with his sleeve. “It all depends what price you put on your own life. I have heard many of the leading doctors in Paris and Rome have all been killed simply for talking with infected patients.”
“How can we service the public if we are at risk by being in their very presence?”
“I tell you, Hadrian, if this plague takes hold in London, I will run and run fast. And you and your lovely wife should heed my advice too.”
I look up to see the doctor giving me a tight smile with food in his beard.
Hadrian is quiet all the way home, as usual. Dusk has set in, and the church bells are ringing everyone to bed. Peasant children run through the street, chasing each other with barking dogs in tow. I pray the doctor is wrong.
My mother comes to greet us upon entering. “I have had to eat dinner all alone tonight. Did you have plans elsewhere?”
“I am sorry Jacquelyn. There was an unpleasant event I had to discuss with another surgeon.”
She pulls her chin up. “That is fine. I was forced to amuse myself at the table.” She turns to me and kisses me on both cheeks. “Any news from the market?”
I take her into the sitting room as Hadrian drifts into his library with one of his trunks, barking orders to the servants to close the windows on his way.
“A plague ship came gliding in unmanned, the whole crew dead on deck.”
Her amber eyes widen at this news. “It has come at last!” She pulls me down to the bench beside her. “I knew it would come to kill us all just as it has ravaged Paris! We could not hide on this island forever!” She begins biting her fingernails. “We have to leave like we did during the Great Famine.”
“We will not have to leave. We will be fine here.” I hope I’ve stopped her before she begins lamenting yet again about the famine that happened thirty years ago.
She shakes her head, and her golden hair spills around her shoulders. “You have never seen the horrors I have witnessed. Men, women, and children were dying by the hundreds! The London streets filled with beggars. Families couldn’t keep the water out of their houses. Rain was seeping through everywhere, the roofs, and the walls, under the door—”
