Altaica

by Tracy M. Joyce

  One of the physicians gave him a jug of purple liquid. ‘Give everyone here a spoonful of this mixture. It will ease their suffering,’ she said.

  The other apprentice wrinkled his nose with disgust when he sniffed it. ‘Love’s lament … We’re killing them.’

  ‘They will die anyway. We need the room for others—some of whom can be saved. These cannot.’

  Hugo was shaking as he took the liquid from her. The pain-filled moans had been consuming his days and haunting his nights. The stench pervaded everything. Even the drinking water from the fountain and the well had a black film from the fires coating its surface. He could not stand it any longer; he just wanted peace.

  Many of the dying were barely conscious as he gently raised their heads and, murmuring encouragement, poured the tincture down their throats. Some were able to thank him and blessed him for his kindness; their small hope crushed him. Kneeling, he leaned forward and sobbed, drawing shuddering breaths which coated his soul with the stench of death. He just wanted to leave, but to where? Plague and famine had gone hand in hand. At least at the college there was still food to be had.

  At last he rose to continue; a middle-aged woman was next. Her damp hair clung to sallow pustule-marked skin and her breath was ragged.

  Hugo started to speak, but she raised a trembling hand to forestall him. Looking at him sympathetically she said, ‘I know what awaits me … I’m sorry.’ She shook as she tried to raise her head to drink. Tears streaked down Hugo’s face. Amidst all her suffering she had felt sorry for him!

  Hugo woke in fright, looking dazedly about him. He could still smell the fetor of death. He staggered to the railing gasping, for once not caring about the water, just trying to rid himself of that smell.

  * * *

  ‘But how did she know, Gabi?’

  ‘I don’t know and I don’t care, Elena,’ Gabriela whispered harshly. ‘Nor should you.’

  ‘I’m just saying, it’s not normal. She’s not nor—’

  ‘Well, thank the gods she did know, Elena, or those children would be dead!’ Disgusted, Gabriela strove to keep her voice low. ‘Maybe that’s just what this is, help from the gods. Who knows? But Isa is my friend and she has done nothing wrong. We should help her.’

  ‘And why does she need our help?’

  ‘She’s unwell, her leg still pains her, she needs to rest.’

  ‘All she does is sleep. When she is awake you all pander to her.’

  ‘What is wrong with you? I let her down by not helping her and I’m ashamed that I did. I let my fear rule me, but what’s your excuse? There’s more going on with you than worrying about recriminations from the others if we help her and things go wrong. I see what you’re doing. You sit and chat and whisper. All the while spreading poison about Isa. Why? What has she ever done to you?’

  Elena’s face twisted, but before she could say a word, Gabriela leaned close to her and vehemently continued, ‘Don’t speak unless it’s about something else entirely. I don’t know you anymore, Elena.’ Gabriela spun away from her and stalked over to Jaime and Daniel. Her passage was marked by the gaze of many.

  Lucia stood beside Nicanor, her arms folded, watching the animated discussion between Elena and Gabriela with interest.

  Nicanor frowned. ‘What was that about?’

  Lucia shook her head. ‘I can only guess, but it bears watching.’

  Nicanor’s lips brushed her cheek gently. ‘But carefully, my love. She’s family. Curro adores her.’

  Lucia sighed. ‘I know. You know I would never want to hurt him. Some things he’ll have to see for himself.’ She shook her head. ‘Elena’s never been this bad.’

  * * *

  Curro had been watching his nephew practicing when Gabriela’s disturbance captured his attention. He ruffled Pio’s hair affectionately with a grin and a word of praise, then left to comfort Elena.

  Elena watched Curro approach from the corner of her eye. Her hands gripped the railing with such intensity that her knuckles shone white. She forced herself to breathe deeply and relax her grip.

  Curro slipped his arm around her waist. ‘What’s wrong? It’s not like you to argue with Gabi.’

  He hadn’t heard them. Good, she thought. ‘Nothing. I’m just tired, irritable and tense … We all are.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Doubt niggled at Curro.

  ‘How’s Pio?’

  ‘Fine. His playing is improving, but I don’t know how long he’ll continue.’ Elena looked enquiringly at him. ‘His lips are getting too dry and chapped, just like the rest of us.’

  She turned into his arms and burrowed her face into his chest as his arms tightened around her. She was learning to ignore the crustiness of their clothes and the smell of stale sweat. She could still smell Curro, her Curro. ‘Gods, I miss this.’ Her hands had slipped under his shirt and were gently playing along his back.

  He groaned, lowered his head and kissed her. It didn’t matter that he was exhausted, hungry and thirsty; she could still arouse him. ‘I miss being alone. You’re torturing me …’ He gently extricated her arms from under his shirt. She immediately stiffened. ‘Elena, don’t be like that. I want nothing more than to touch you, to be with you … It’s just so frustrating.’

  Reluctantly she nodded, her forehead resting against his chest. ‘How’s Isaura?’ She hoped her tone of voice was neutral, but something about it alerted him and she felt a slight tension go through his large frame.

  ‘Pio is keeping her company. He’s like her sentinel. She seems to sleep a lot, but other than that she is no worse off than the rest of us.’

  Elena bit her tongue. ‘That’s good.’

  He sighed, embracing her more tightly. ‘Elena, I married you. You are my wife. Not Isa, not ever. I have never loved Isa like that, ever.’ She nodded, unable to look at him. ‘Gods, I thought we were over this. You know I love you. Why is this surfacing again now? It’s been so long.’ He could feel her begin to shake. ‘Elena, no.’ He tipped her face up to his, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. ‘Don’t cry. You are my dearest, my only true love.’ Her rained kisses on her face, her eyes and her lips. He held her face firmly, but tenderly, between his hands, forcing her to see the worry and love in his gaze; willing her to believe him.

  She gave him a small tentative smile. ‘I’m sorry. I just don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ISAURA HOBBLED ALONG the deck. The bruising had long gone, but her strength had not returned. The deep ache remained high in her leg along with a pulling sensation from torn muscles, but she forced herself to continue.

  Pio carried her bag and walked beside her. She paused, leaning heavily on her walking stick.

  Lucia caught sight of them and came to help. Placing an arm around Isaura’s waist she assisted her forward. ‘Isa, you need to rest.’

  ‘I seem to spend all my time resting, when I need to check on people.’

  Lucia helped Isaura sit on the deck near a little girl whose once fair skin was now red, raw and blistered. She had dark circles under her eyes.

  Isaura looked at the girl’s mother. ‘No change?’ She merely shook her head. Putting her hand on the girl’s brow, Isaura frowned. She delved into her bag and pulled out several glazed jars. Removing the stoppers, she looked inside each with increasing frustration. ‘Empty, all empty.’ She didn’t know why she even bothered to look. She dove her hands into her satchel, muttering, ‘Maybe there’s seeds?’

  Lucia knelt down next to her, grabbing her hands to still her increasingly frantic searching. ‘Isa.’

  Isaura’s eyes met Lucia’s with a brief haunted, despairing glance that was gone with her next intake of breath. She put her hand on the child’s brow again, then gently cupped her cheek in her hand. The girl’s skin felt like paper. She sighed. ‘There is nothing I can do. Susana was always frail.’

  ‘Do something,’ the mother implored her.

  ‘I …’

  ‘You are supposed to be our
healer. Do something!’

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Isaura snapped. ‘I can’t make it rain. I can’t make food magically appear. She needs more of both; even that may not be enough.’

  Pio said in a hoarse voice, ‘She can have some of my water.’

  Lucia gasped. ‘No, Pio, she cannot.’

  ‘Your son has more heart than you.’

  ‘He can’t …’ Lucia sagged, looking miserable.

  Isaura felt bone weary and helpless. She took the woman’s hands in hers and looked her in the eye. ‘Even if Pio did this—it would not help. Lucia, I want you to take Pio away, but if you could return in a few minutes that would be good.’

  Lucia looked uncertain and confused, but did as Isaura asked.

  Still holding the woman’s hands, Isaura continued, ‘Now, you have two choices.’

  The woman looked startled, her eyes wide as she tried to pull her hands away. Isaura held them firmly, maintaining eye contact.

  ‘You can leave her to die slowly—it may be today or tomorrow. Or you can end it quickly and peacefully with her in your arms.’

  The woman wrenched her hands from Isaura’s and slapped her hard across the face as Lucia returned. ‘You, you are not a healer! We should have known better—bad blood will always come out. The two things your race is known for—magic and murder. Hill Clan witch!’

  Lucia gasped. Isaura held out her arm and Lucia helped her stand.

  ‘Find me if you change your mind.’

  No one would look at Isaura, no one would speak to her. Even Lucia remained silent as she helped her return to her pallet.

  * * *

  Elena reclined in Curro’s arms on their pallet. She had never felt so tired. Her skin was nearly raw. Her eyes felt constantly as if they had grit in them; they hurt waking and sleeping. She was parched, hungry and dirty. Salt seemed to encrust everything on the ship, including her. Curro was tenderly stroking her hair; his hands were so cracked and rough and her hair so dry and straw-like that they were catching on her hair and tugging on her scalp. She had never felt so miserable and hopeless.

  As they watched Lucia help Isaura, Curro whispered, ‘Poor Isa.’

  Elena felt a knife twist in her heart and her loathing deepened.

  * * *

  Hugo watched his daughter with dread, shuddering as he closed his eyes and drifted off into a fitful slumber. He awoke from his recurring nightmare sometime later to be assailed by the foul odour on the ship. In the chill darkness, he thought bitterly that there was no escape; in his dreams—and here—the stench of death still chased him. In the gloom he could just see Isaura being assisted across the deck by a thin man. Hugo sat up, watching intently as they stopped by a woman who was holding a child. Isaura spoke softly to her as she gently rocked and crooned to the child. She nodded, but did not cease her rocking. The man knelt and encompassed mother and child in his arms. Isaura drew a small leather pouch from her bag from which she removed a box of some kind. Hugo could not make out any more—he did not need to. He lay down, shaking.

  By morning, the couple still held their lifeless child. The villagers were silent, there was not a breath of wind; it seemed the world had stopped to mourn the loss of this small life.

  Unsure what to do, Nicanor and Lucia approached the parents. They roused the husband from his reverie and together they persuaded the mother to release her babe.

  Isaura sat slumped on her pallet, clutching her bag tightly. She felt numb. If any gods are listening, now would be a good time to get us out of this shit! Magic and murder. I have no magic … She weighed up the other—murder. Oh yes, that was definitely true.

  Hugo approached her. Gripping her shoulder he whispered accusingly, ‘You have some love’s lament, don’t you?’ Wearily she pushed his hand off, but he placed both hands on her shoulders. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Do you know what you are doing?’

  ‘Yes.’ She looked directly at him.

  ‘What are you planning to do? Kill us all off to ease our suffering?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Ridiculous, am I? You don’t know the consequences … Your mother would have been ashamed to see this. She would never have used this … she … I’m glad she cannot see what you have become.’

  ‘My mother? Who do you think taught me about it? Who do you think taught me to grow it in secret, to harvest and prepare it?’ She glared at him.

  Hugo reeled back away from her as if she had struck him. His eyes glazed as he muttered, ‘Gods no … I can’t believe it. You’re lying. Oh gods … I can’t see this again.’ He staggered off.

  Elena, ever watchful, followed this exchange. She looked thoughtfully at the grieving parents, then went to console them.

  * * *

  Hugo dreamed, always the same dream; always on waking he could still smell death. He saw the ill, prone bodies in his sleep and heard their moans; when he woke he still saw them. He glanced at Isaura as she was sleeping. She looked peaceful, guileless. He wished he could see her remain that way. Didn’t she realise what would happen? He had seen all this before. He remembered how it felt to ‘ease’ the suffering of so many—he still suffered. He had tried to avoid thinking about it for so long.

  Having fled the capital, unable to face anyone, he had made his way across the countryside. He avoided everyone until he chanced across Isaura’s mother. She was pregnant and alone. They had both fled Matyran. She was not sick, but she needed help; he could help her. In the end they helped each other. Running from the plague they reached Arunabejar and Isaura was born in an abandoned cottage in the woods. That cottage became their home. I saved two lives … just two out of so many. Saved—there was the joke. Now he was back where he started, and Isaura was headed down the same path. By the gods, he wished he had not lived to see this. And her mother … how could she? He dozed again, succumbing to his dreams.

  During the night he woke disorientated. Awareness returned, despair remained. He had wasted his life; he had not saved Isaura to see this happen. He had not saved himself to live through this again. He crept toward Isaura. She slept still. Her bag was by her side, her hand resting possessively upon it. He prodded her gently. She did not wake. He frowned. She looked frail; he’d never seen her look frail. Opening her satchel, he carefully managed to not disturb her hand. Very slowly he inched his hand into the leather bag. Gingerly he felt around until he found the small leather pouch. This was what he was looking for. With great care he slid the pouch out of the satchel and closed it again.

  His cracked, stiff fingers fumbled with the small binding of the pouch, until he finally opened it and drew out the wooden box. His hands shook as he examined the intricate carving of the lily. Just a small amount was all he’d need; he knew it acted quickly. She’d suffer more if he didn’t.

  His face contorted, his eyes scrunched, but tears failed him; all he could do was shake. He took a small metal spoon from the pouch. Quietly, he removed the lid from the box, dipping the spoon into the contents. He had no water … It would still work without water, a little slower, but it would still work.

  Trembling, he scooped some of the mixture into the spoon. As he moved it over Isaura’s sleeping form he did not notice that his shaking was scattering fine particles of purple powder over the deck. He concentrated, trying to steady his hand as he moved it closer to her face. Her hair was coming out of its familiar braid, dark wisps of salt encrusted strands surrounded her tanned face, long lashes rested against her skin; she looked peaceful.

  His breath became laboured. His hand hovered over her chest. He shook his head, suddenly appalled as clarity was bestowed upon him. Gods, what am I doing? How can I? Jerking back, horrified, he caused a curtain of the purple dust to fall toward his daughter and sprinkle over her blankets.

  Hugo recoiled, shock and guilt warring for dominance across his countenance. He huddled near a gap in the railing, rocking back and forth, staring toward the water with the box clutched ti
ghtly in his hands. Eventually, he was still. Opening the box, he put his hand into the powder. Scooping some out, he stared in fascination at it. Suddenly, he put it in his mouth. It was bitter. It stuck to his tongue and inside his gums. His mouth was so dry that he couldn’t swallow, yet still he could feel a tingling in his face, then a creeping numbness. Hugo tossed the box into the ocean and, finally at peace, he followed it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘MA, ISA WON’T wake up,’ Pio grumbled.

  ‘Let her sleep, Pio. We’re all tired … just let her sleep.’

  ‘She’s got purple stuff on her.’

  ‘What?’ Suddenly Lucia’s lethargy vanished. She stumbled up and headed toward Isaura’s sleeping place. ‘Get your father.’ Wide eyed, Pio ran to fetch Nicanor. Lucia stood immobile, looking down at Isaura’s still form. There was a fine dusting of purple powder across her blankets. When Nicanor reached her, he stood transfixed with horror at the sight before him.

  Lucia took his hand. ‘Gods no … please no.’

  Nicanor could not respond. He did not want to answer her, for speaking would confirm his friend’s fate. Those nearby had clustered about; everyone looked at Isaura but no one dared move.

  Pio’s voice interrupted the silence. ‘What is that purple stuff?’ He knelt down, sniffing the air near the blanket. ‘It smells strange.’

  As he reached out, Lucia snapped, ‘Don’t touch it!’

  His hand shot back as if scalded. ‘Why won’t she wake up?’

  ‘Oh, Pio …’ Lucia choked out.

  ‘Ma?’ Pio looked in shock at the faces of the adults around him. ‘Ma, she just won’t wake up. She’s not dead. Look, she’s breathing.’ By this stage he was kneeling by her head. ‘Look!’

  Lucia and Nicanor knelt down beside him. Sure enough, Isaura was breathing, albeit shallowly. They nodded their relief to those gathered around. Nicanor chuckled nervously, a dry hoarse sound, causing him to cough violently. Isaura did not stir.