When Harmyn finished, she chimed her bell three times. The crowd responded with the same.
By the thirteenth week, the crowds thinned after Harmyn left the wall, but several people gathered at the gate, waiting. When she and I left the castle grounds together, it was no longer without notice. The first few instances when I watched people approach her, I feared for her safety, even though I saw Guardians close by, watching, their blue prominently displayed. Margana stood among them several times, giving us a wave. I wouldn’t leave Harmyn’s side, no matter how the crowd pushed.
How insistent the people were as they reached for the child.
Some wanted to express their appreciation, bowing before her, touching her clothes, giving her notes—thank you for singing; you brighten my day; you have the most beautiful voice I’ve ever heard.
But most were desperate, and they knew, although they didn’t know how, Harmyn could help them. They held out their afflicted arms to her. They presented their children, some with wounds that wouldn’t heal, most infirm in some way. They offered bags of coins, jewelry and timepieces, baskets of food. Each week, more people fell on their knees before her, begging for relief they believed she could give.
And so, she did.
Harmyn sat cross-legged on the street, hands held open, and everyone grouped around her. She began to hum, but it wasn’t as simple as that. Instead of singular notes rising and falling, she hummed in chords. Impossible though this seemed, I couldn’t deny my own ears. I looked at everyone as the notes within the chords changed. From their bodies, I could tell who Harmyn reached, sometimes watching a bruise fade, an atrophied hand relax, a dark expression lift.
Once she was done, Harmyn pressed her hands against the ground and exhaled with a puff. Then from the satchel she’d started to carry, she handed out fresh flowers, enough for everyone.
Where did you get these? I asked her the first time she did this.
From the ground, she said.
Did you ask permission to take them from the castle gardens?
They didn’t grow there, she said. She gave me a red poppy. Later, I would realize why.
WEEK 14
DIARY ENTRY 23 SEPTEMBER /38
My 21st birthday. A pigeon, dove, and sparrow sang at my window, which fell on deaf ears. It’s the second day I cannot hear anything. This isn’t like being alone in an empty room or awake while the house sleeps, in a meadow on a summer day or in a forest in the middle of winter. I feel defenseless. My body is constantly tense, waiting for signals of danger.
The sore place on my cheek—that’s now a lurid green-edged purple bruise. There’s a knot behind my navel, which I haven’t felt in a very long time. My arms feel tired and the flesh looks doughy. And my bones ache, not like they did when I had ruptures; this is more subtle and incessant.
Because Father insisted on a cake for my birthday, we went to the house. I sensed he did this more out of obligation than celebration. Father’s glove is gone—no more blood. He has no visible marks like I do (my eye shocked him), but he’s hunched over and struggles to keep his chin up. Unless Nikolas writes to tell me, I won’t know how he fares until he returns from his trip. I hope they left before the equinox, as I insisted.
To walk through town is ghoulish now. Almost everyone has an affliction, many with several, and some worse than any seen among the children. It’s awful—twisted limbs, crippled gaits, wounds seeping through clothes, eyes narrow with pain.
I am responsible for this. If anyone knew, I couldn’t blame them for what they’d do to me.
If the pattern holds, the children will sicken with the last phase in 3 weeks.
Harmyn says as we worsen, all is not dire. The gold flecks she saw in the children are brighter, but she can’t explain what they are. Something magnificent, she thinks. The adults already have the spots. I dared to ask about myself. She said I have a fleck on my right hand at the web of my thumb.
Charlotte and her baby, Tom, are doing well. The longsheet reports have her worried. She’s asked for reassurance if—when—the plague spreads, the sickness isn’t as awful as it seems. Muriel returned early to the conservatory, to her “well-rested favorite piano,” where she can practice without interruption or complaint. Among my letters, I’ve posted one to Mr. Remarque. What he has to say about my mother will be unrestrained, I’m sure.
WEEKLY POST.
20 September /38. Page 1, Column 3
KING’S PROXY NAMED—The Council elected Lord Humphrey Sullyard to serve in His Majesty’s stead, in the event the king succumbs to an incapacity and is unable to fulfill his duties. An agreement will be signed to grant Lord Sullyard all due powers, which will revert to the king as soon as his health is restored. From Penridge, Lord Sullyard has served on the Council for 31 years and was one of King Aeldrich’s closest advisers.
Rothwyke Services Log, Excerpt
20/9.
Subtle ground rumbling in Areas 11, east 10, south 8. First activity since June. Will monitor.
21/9.
Again, same intensity of rumbling, lasting only seconds, reported in all Areas. No new damage to buildings or streets reported.
22/9.
Multiple reports of a “murmur” and “low groaning” sound as minor tremors swept through, then a “roaring,” “booming,” or “thunderclap” when they stopped. Tremors strong enough to rattle objects. No structural damages reported as yet.
23/9.
Shocks coming at intervals day and night. Earthquakes unknown in this region. What is this?
24/9.
Still more shocks, less frequent, less intense.
25/9.
Four shocks today.
From the Plague of Silences Recollection Project Archives, Selected Excerpts
Diary No. 579. Female, 14
I pretended to go to my drawing lesson and went to the woods instead. I must go because I feel calm when I do. I must write in my diary because I don’t want to forget. Today was special. Secret took us on a walk. We watched bees repair their hive and ants clean mouse bones. I sat for a long while by myself. The sun moved, the wind blew leaves, and a snail crawled by. My heart felt full and I realized everything seemed so clear and bright, unlike being in town, where it feels so dark all the time, even in daylight. I’m glad no grown people come to the woods. It’s their fault, I think, the darkness. Let it stay there.
Diary No. 127. Male, 41, accountant
Watched everyone at their desks as they stared off from their ledgers. It seems none of us can concentrate for long. Mr. E— walked up the aisles banging his cane. He struck Mr. R—, which he’s done before numerous times. As usual, Mr. R— said nothing; we said nothing. When I came home, K— could see I was out of sorts. There is a heavy feeling in my chest, which worsens each day. After she went to bed, I locked myself in the water closet and screamed until my throat burned. The feeling is somewhat better now.
Diary No. 365. Female, 11
I might have a mind sickness. Am I the only one? I see what’s on the outside of people and I wonder if they have sickness on the inside, too. I know I’m not supposed to think the things I do. It is wrong, the things I wish. But I can’t stop. The thoughts spin around like the zoetrope I saw once. Oh, how a smile comes to my face and my heart feels blackly glad when I think of smashing ______’s head with an iron. Stabbing over and over and over until what I touched is bloody as meat. That would stop it. It would never happen again.
Diary No. 307. Male, 54, physician
Thus far 37 patients this week, each has the same afflictions which emerged in the children five weeks ago. Again, more female patients with the sanguine blot than male, and some of them telling the same preposterous stories. In addition to the visible afflictions, most complained of phantom pains throughout the body. Purgatives, all around.
Interview No. 214. Female; age during plague, 15; current occupation, teacher
The second phase, I was lucky. I remember seeing other children, and then the adults, mo
st everyone sick with the wasting and also the festers. My brothers and myself, we had aches in our chests, but none of the ailments so many seemed to suffer. Momma and Poppa, neither they were as bad off as our neighbors, poor souls. My friend O—, what a mess she was, her family no better. The smell in her house—the bucket where they kept the bandages before they burned them. Her father, brings tears to my eyes to think of him, O—’s father had to crawl to get around. He couldn’t work at all. My father would visit him every night no matter they couldn’t speak. Poppa was a clever man, and he took an old chair and put wheels on it and pushed Mr. I— up and down the sidewalk giving a how-do to everyone.
WEEK 15
NEITHER THE MISSES NOR JANE was at the garden at the start of that week, which worried me. As Harmyn and I neared the walk-up, Mr. Elgin and two men sat on the front steps. One smoked a pipe, one clutched a large cup, and Mr. Elgin rubbed his right arm, held in a sling.
They looked out at the street. Two young men and a young woman stood on the opposite sidewalk. They had touches of blue on their clothing. In the street, a group of children with wooden swords rushed at each other and a horse-sized effigy of a green dragon. Sawdust puffed from its side when one child stabbed it with a direct thrust. He turned to the men, waving his sword in triumph. The boy was Lucas. Mr. Elgin managed a grin and nod to acknowledge he’d seen his son’s deed. The children—mouths gaping wide with battle cries only the young people could hear—rushed to join the kill.
I knocked on the Misses Acutt’s door. When no one answered, I tried the knob. The door opened, but the apartment appeared to be empty except for Sir, who groomed himself in the parlor.
On the second floor, Jane and Dora’s door was open halfway. I waved my arms until Dora gestured for me to enter. I wondered why she was home instead of at work. Julia looked up from the floor where she sat with Flowsy and two other dolls. Together on the settee were Jane and Dora, holding hands with fingers entwined. Tall Miss Acutt perched on the chair’s edge with a doll in her hands.
We had seen each other the week before, so the bruise on my face didn’t startle them. But when I entered their semicircle, Julia pulled on my skirt. I looked down at her note.
Skirt too long. Ask Mother fix? she’d written.
I shook my head. I would do that myself, but I was waiting for the change in my body to stop. Within days, I had shrunk two inches and my arms had withered like old branches. I looked hideous. Thanks, but I can later, I wrote back.
Julia slipped the notebook under her knee and handed a doll to Harmyn, who sat it on her lap.
I took the chair opposite Tall Miss Acutt and gestured to Jane to give me the slate board next to her. As she did, she dabbed her mouth with a handkerchief. Her lips faded to rose. The linen absorbed a red stain.
Mr. Elgin outside, I wrote.
Dora wrote, Can’t work anymore. Saw his arm? then erased our words with her sleeve as Julia glanced up from her toys.
I nodded. In a few days, she’ll be as inanimate as Flowsy, I thought. Why are you home today? I wrote to Dora.
She stared at Tall Miss Acutt until our elderly friend nodded, then wrote, Jane took with the blot. Mrs. E & Short Miss A have it, too. She poised her hand to write more, then jotted, Are you well?
My stomach lurched. I knew what she meant as I nodded. Even if we had been able to talk and hear, we wouldn’t have been able to ask of the unspeakable. I watched Dora lace her fingers with Jane’s in an act of comfort, blatant before us guests, and then I knew Jane had told Dora what violation had been done to her. I wondered if Short Miss Acutt kept her secret from her sister, Mrs. Elgin from her husband.
We looked at one another then shifted our attention elsewhere. Before the plague, as well as during the first phase, this pause from contact was an ordinary part of conversation. Sometimes awkward, often only a rest. But in the second phase, this break felt like a small abandonment.
I noticed Harmyn looking at Jane, who stared toward the windows. Harmyn held her amulet and closed her eyes. Although none of us could hear her, she began to sing, but her voice didn’t soothe. Julia held Flowsy against her chest as if to shield her. Tall Miss Acutt hurried from the apartment. I doubled over as my lower belly cramped and my hips throbbed with pain. Dora clawed her fingers into her hair as she rocked back and forth. Jane pounded her fists against her legs as tears coursed over her scarlet cheeks.
Helpless and weak, we watched as Jane dropped down to her hands and knees, slamming her head against the floor. Harmyn touched Jane’s shoulder. Harmyn’s gaze fixed into an unknown distance, her eyes fierce. When Jane rose up, Harmyn stroked her forehead and stared at her until she looked back and nodded. With a wave, Harmyn called to Dora, who embraced Jane full in her arms.
Julia crawled close to me and leaned against my leg.
Well? I asked Harmyn. What she’d done reminded me of what happened with Nikolas, when she glimpsed into him after his parents died. But then, she’d had permission. We’d not given our consent.
Harmyn’s entire body shook. I’m sorry. I meant to help her, but when the shadow came out, it called out ones from the rest of you. Old shadows which belong to your mothers and grandmothers and their grandmothers, but they’re in you, too. I don’t understand what happened. I didn’t expect that. Harmyn put her head in her hands. The only reason you don’t have the blot is because those horrible things didn’t happen to you. But Jane, poor Jane. I had to help her see, it wasn’t her fault.
WEEK 16
FOR WEEKS, THE DISTANCE BETWEEN Father and me had widened. I avoided the house and him to the degree that I could. Although Father knew I held him responsible for what happened with the scissors and the symbol, my feelings hadn’t settled on this. By second phase, I couldn’t look at him without resentment, but I had no clear understanding why that was so. I sensed, too, he avoided me, using Harmyn as a shield, which only fueled my jealousy.
One evening, as I made tea, I watched Harmyn rush into the kitchen to find a treat in the cupboard. Father had found a sleight market supply of what seemed like an endless variety of sweets—syrup candies, brittles, nougats, liqueur-filled truffles. In this time of restriction, the excess piqued me; the indulgence more so.
The goodies weren’t the issue, however. I’d received plenty of treats and gifts from him in the past. The frivolity, the play, the joy—that infuriated me. When I was a child, my father gave attention with an instructive approach, from the way he read to me to the outings we had together. What fun I might have seemed secondary to what useful thing I might learn. Father was a teacher to Harmyn, as he’d been to me, and though I tried, I could recall few instances of laughter with him, in that house.
That night, I walked toward the parlor with my cup, planning to read alone. Harmyn, with a fistful of candy, opened her mouth and shut her eyes as if she’d heard a hilarious joke, and bumped into me. I grabbed her arm, scowled, and hushed her.
She froze, eyes wary.
What did I do? she asked.
I forced myself to take a breath. I hadn’t meant to be so harsh, but I reacted without thinking. I knew I shouldn’t feel as I did, but I couldn’t help it. Still, I didn’t apologize.
The child blinked. Your poison spilled over, didn’t it?
I nodded.
Then I’ll leave you to sit with it, Harmyn said with dispassion.
Sit I did, unable to concentrate on my book, aware of the dark corner where I once hid as a child, memories flitting so quickly through my thoughts, all was a blur. After I placed the cup in the basin, I stood near the dining table and faced where my mother once worked. My right hand tingled as a streaking pain burst between my hips. I remembered the afternoon she gave me the nesting dolls, when she told the story her years in fosterage and of her dead brother, Szevstan, and mentioned my stillborn ones. What she said to me, “Lucky thing I kept you. Lucky thing, I kept you.”31
Before I could stop myself, I went into my old room. The pain in my body worsened the moment I steppe
d inside. Unable to endure being there, I carried the boxes I needed into the spare room and sat with her diaries, searching for a vestige of two lost boys. Eight years had passed between my parents’ marriage and my birth, so I continued where I’d left off weeks before.
When she resumed her diary after the move to Foradair, the cheerful drawings became less frequent. Marks began to appear at some page corners. I puzzled through that diary and the next until I realized she’d kept record of her bleed days. The words blurred as I searched for a change in the regularity. A year and a half after they wed, the marks vanished. Several weeks on, there was a note written into her diary.
I didn’t sleep last night, thinking of the child within you.
At last! I am so happy, Zavet. I love you.
The volume of her translations remained steady as ever, until seven months later when she wrote nothing for a week, and then her work resumed as usual.
That gap in time held my first blue brother.
Sweat dampened my armpits as I tore through diary after diary, counting marks, seeing them disappear again two years later, finding the message from my father, “All will be well. I wait with joy for our baby,” and then again, a week of her absence, followed by words, words, words.
My second blue brother, who fell from her body and hardly interrupted her schedule.
After that, I couldn’t search for myself.
I went downstairs, stared at the ochre bowl on the table, and thrust it over the edge. The shatter gave me a frisson. Father and Harmyn walked in as I wrapped the shards in an old dustcloth.
The Plague Diaries Page 36
