I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  The village’s stream is shallow, just a trickle of water compared to the ocean that hugs the borders of Marseille.

  All my life I’ve stayed hidden. Cyrielle and I have had our fair share of sneaking away, but we always stayed inside the village when I was younger. People knew my face. We were a small community full of secrets. I was one of them. People didn’t bother to look at me twice. I was just a question mark in the background. They didn’t know what to make of me, but I paid them no harm.

  The heart of Marseille is just outside my village, and it’s a place of wonder. I’ve gone within its walls once, and that ended with my life almost taken after being accused of witchcraft. Since then I have hidden myself away, never setting foot onto the soil where I bled as the crowd withered away and Cyrielle took me home.

  Marseille resides on the coast of France. It’s our epicenter, our connection to the world. Ships come and go, and exotic foods and herbs pass through our borders. I wanted so badly to see it; I was foolish enough to wander off from Cyrielle after we had traveled there together five years ago.

  The withering stream of water leads to something much grander, and I follow its path until the stream grows. Wider and wider the water expands, deepens, and brings me forward. Looking up, I see the ocean that welcomes me to the coast—the Mediterranean Basin. A chill wind blows off the sea, and the fresh air makes me want to cry with joy.

  Ships dock in the port, their huge sails halting as they are pulled down and stowed away. Goods are carried off the docks, and merchants barter not far away, already making deals to sell their wares.

  “What are you doing here?”

  The voice freezes me, and I know it’s the man who waits for me to enter Marseille again, so my life can be taken properly—just like it should have been five years ago. But he knows I will never do that again under my own will.

  “Shouldn’t you be tending to your sister?”

  I swallow, knowing his voice from the one that haunts my dreams. “I’m getting her fresh water. Shouldn’t you be tending to your wife?” My words are sharp, braver than I expect. I’m surprised because I can already feel my hands shaking. My back is to him, and I want to turn so he doesn’t have an upper hand, but I’m afraid to move.

  “It’s the wife’s job to tend to the husband, not the other way around,” Anton says.

  He laughs, and it makes me want to slap him, but what would that get me? A quick, painless death if I’ m lucky.

  “Do you even love her?” I say. Tears start to brim in my eyes, and I wipe them away, even though this man cannot see my face.

  “She is a bearer of my child, is she not?”

  “You would sacrifice your daughter’s life if it meant saving your own skin,” I say, but a hand shoves at me and the next thing I’m on the ground. I turn to look at Anton. He looms over me, the sun at his back, making him appear as a giant dark outline.

  “Care to repeat? I don’t think I heard you,” he says.

  I bite my lip and want to pick myself up but know he will simply throw me down again.

  “Now here’s the funny thing. I met you before I met your sister. But your sister,” he scoffs and puts a knee on the ground next to me, leaning forward. “Well, let’s just say she puts on quite the show when prompted.”

  I don’t think, and my actions are stupid. I spit in his face and he slaps me so fast I’m not even sure it has happened. But it did happen because my cheek feels as if it has been set on fire. His large hand wraps around my neck, and my head’s on the ground again. I can feel water soaking my hair, and that’s the funny part—I’m concerned about my hair. I spent such a long time braiding it on top of my head, and now the water will ruin it. The fact that Anton might kill me right here doesn’t even occur to me.

  “Maggot,” he says in a whisper, like it’s some secret love poem only meant for my ears. His forearm bears down on my throat, and I can’t breathe. His other hand slips to his sheath, and he pulls out a dagger.

  “Nothing is stopping me from killing you. No one wants you,” he tells me.

  “My mama would find out and take Margo from you!” I try to scream back at him, but my vision is blurring. My breaths come in quick little movements, like my chest doesn’t have enough room for air. He runs the blunt side of the knife down my throat, and a small squeak that sounds like a newborn pup escapes from me.

  “The same mama who lets a dying women sleep in your bed?”

  “What?” The word is more of a cough, but he seems to understand me.

  “A pestilence is coming, Aida. It’s spreading. Kills everything it touches, and, by God, how it has touched Margo.”

  “What did you do to her?” I scream. I don’t understand where the sudden burst of energy has come from, but it explodes from my body.

  Anton doesn’t seem fazed though; in fact he seems rather amused.

  “Look over there, Aida. Nothing but ships, but something is on those ships.”

  He loosens his grip on my neck, and I dare a glance at the harbor. Just like before, ships load and unload their hauls. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “You don’t see it, do you?” His hand wanders from my neck to my face. His chokehold on me is over, letting my throat gasp in air. His hand grips my jaw and forces my gaze upon one ship in particular. “Tell me what they’re unloading.”

  My eyes try to focus, but my body is still gasping for air. It takes me too long to focus, and Anton knees me in my side. I close my eyes, and a single tear runs down my face.

  “Look!”

  And so I do. At bottom of the cliff, caressing the ocean, is the port. My eyes find the ships, just to the right of where the waves crash. People are gathered around like the Pope has come, but this is different. Bystanders cry out or even run from the sight. I see it then. I see what is being carried from the ship.

  One by one, bodies are removed—limp, lifeless. Each man being hauled off the ship is dead. Even from this far away, I cannot pull my gaze from the scene.

  “Are those …” I lose my words.

  A man crosses onto the dock and pulls a body off the ship. The dead are so mutilated by rot I can’t make out any human features. A body is hauled away and thrown onto a cart with others. The dockworkers stack the dead together and on the sides of streets people cry and hide their faces. I cannot hear the screams, but I can see a woman as she rushes toward one of the deceased. Another body is tossed on top of the one she seeks, and a stranger pulls her from the cart so its contents can be hauled away.

  Cold air brushes across the ocean and brings with it a deathly numb feeling. I wrap my arms around myself to shield from the wind, but I’m not sure if the chills come from the air of death or the last bit of fall saying goodbye, before the winter scatters its snow across the villages.

  “You live in your own fleeting world, Aida. Out here people are dying of a pestilence. It’s wiping out entire villages, and it’s come all this way, right here, to ours. I did nothing to Margo. The pestilence got her. I’ve yet to hear a tale of someone who’s hosted the disease and lived to tell of it.” He backs from me and stands up.

  I sit up and scoot from the man as fast as I can.

  I’m nothing but an animal to him—disposable. He stands above me, as if it’s five years ago again. He could kill me now if he really wanted to. No one is stopping him. He steps forward, and I think this is it. He’ll finally have his way with me, but he doesn’t. He leans forward and his eyes come to my level.

  “I don’t understand you.” He grips my chin and forces me to look at him—allowing him to look at my eyes. He stares at them, memorizes them.

  I can’t stand to look at him. Yet I have to look at him. I can see the shift in his gaze, as he tries to process what I am—witch, monster—all the accusations play across his features. “Some say this thing that’s coming is God’s wrath. He’s here to wipe the slate clean, and I suppose, if that is true, then you’ll be one of the first to die.”

  He pushes me away, and I stumble
back. Anton stands again and hovers over me, always looking down, like I’m something for his amusement.

  “Margo is going to die,” he says.

  Not a question or a wandering thought—a fact. The words sting. Margo had never been the most accepting sister, but she didn’t treat me like a monster, like Papa. Like Anton.

  “You don’t deserve Margo.” I mean to shout the words, but my voice fails me, dying almost as soon as the sounds form on my lips.

  My words make him smile. “Oh, I know that. I deserve much, much better. In fact that’s what I plan on finding.”

  For the first time I look at Anton under my free will. He smiles, and it scares me. His dark hair creates shadows around his eyes, and I realize just how alone the two of us are next to this stream. My fingers dig into the dirt, and I retreat from the man I once called my accuser—the man who could still pose as my killer should he choose.

  He laughs at my sudden fear.

  “No one wants you,” he tells me, pushing my arm with the tip of his boot. It puts me off balance, and I fall to the side. Anton watches me from where he stands, looking down at me as nothing more than a dying animal on the street. His expression blanks away to something different, followed by a change in his posture as he backs from me.

  “You’re leaving,” I say. “What about Joelle?”

  “She doesn’t belong to me,” he says, a simple, quick statement that doesn’t make him think twice.

  “She’s your daughter.” The words come out biting, shouting to a man who would never care for someone other than himself. “Your flesh and blood. And you’re abandoning her.” My words grow softer and softer, emotion erupting in my throat, threatening to close off my air. “What if this pestilence comes? Your daughter could die.” I choke on the word. In my mind I don’t see Margo getting better. I only see her dying in Mama’s arms, never able to say goodbye to her daughter—her daughter who may have the same fate.

  “She isn’t my concern anymore,” he says, never turning his back to me.

  “Then what is?” I ask.

  “Why, my life.” He pivots now, walking away with a quick wave of the hand. In the distance I see a horse tied up to a tree—his escape was planned; he’s never coming back. All this time I’ve wished for him to leave. But now the time has finally come, I can’t stand it. My sister—his wife—could be dying, and he sees it as an invitation to leave.

  I’m gathered by the stream, covered in mud-stained clothing, glaring at a man I hate, wishing he would come back.

  III.

  Papa and Dondre return from their day’s work when I come home from the stream. I’m still a ways from our cruck house, but Papa’s voice rings out loud and clear. He’s screaming at Margo, saying she’s worthless if a man no longer wants her. We’re women. We are judged by the men who wish to marry us; take that away, and all that is left is a useless body that must be fed.

  “Well, go track him down!” Papa shouts, continuing some fight started long ago. His voice echoes in the small space of our home. It leaves us only to mingle at the sides, in hopes he won’t look at us and scream.

  “I can’t, Papa!” Margo is trying to scream, to get his attention, to make him listen, but it’s useless. Her voice comes out muffled and broken.

  All Papa sees is two extra mouths to feed if Anton no longer wants them. Little Joelle sits outside the cruck house, inside the fenced area where we keep the sheep. Dondre keeps watch over her nearby, sharpening his knife. He doesn’t see me, but when Joelle recognizes me she backs up and casts away her gaze.

  Dondre must hear my footsteps, because he looks up, as I close the distance between us. “You used my knife,” he says.

  “It was the only one I could find. Mama asked me to skin the rabbit you killed.”

  His expression doesn’t change; he just goes back to sharpening his knife.

  “When did you get home?”

  “Not long ago,” he says. Papa yells again, and Dondre peeks into the cruck house for a moment before turning to me. “Margo’s back.”

  His gaze has mild interest toward his oldest sibling, probably wondering, why is Margo here? Is Anton coming back for them?

  If Papa found out Anton was never coming back, I don’t know what he would do to Margo and Joelle.

  “She’s sick,” I tell Dondre. “Anton didn’t want to leave her alone while he worked the fields.”

  My little brother doesn’t believe my lie. He flicks his knife to the ground, where it sticks in the gravel. “It’s not fair. You know that, right?” He crosses his arms and stares me down. He looks so much like Papa when he does this that it scares me.

  “It’s not meant to be fair,” I say.

  “Don’t pull that on me, Aida. Anton will come back for Margo and Joelle. I’m talking about the coney. I killed that rabbit on my own yesterday, and what did I get in reward? You skinned it with my knife.”

  “Is that what this is about? A filthy rabbit? I skinned it because Mama said she would cook it.”

  “And now it’s rotting away, because Margo showed up before Mama could cook it. That’s how things always go. If I’m lucky, they’ll look at me for five seconds, but then you and Margo go ahead and—”

  “Watch yourself, Dondre,” I warn.

  His face is tight, as he stares into me—never has he been afraid of my eyes.

  “Do you think I want this? I’d prefer Papa ignored me, and I’m sure Margo feels the same right now.”

  Dondre calms slightly and the tense up-and-down movements of his chest slow to a normal pace. His hands are fisted at his sides, but suddenly it’s like all energy has left him as he lets his anger melt away. We both hear Margo cough violently inside.

  Something breaks in him at that moment. I see it in his eyes. His fear pulls out his true age—that of a child trying to be an adult—and I’m reminded of just how vulnerable he is. He no longer tries to mask his true emotions, and the small quiver of his lip tells me he’s scared; scared for our sister’s life. She can’t get sick; we have no doctor.

  “Is Margo dying?” he asks in a shaky voice.

  I don’t say anything. Beside us, Joelle’s face is hidden behind a fence post, but one eye peeks out, watching. Margo’s coughs become muffled and hoarse. Papa has stopped yelling, but I can hear quick, hushed whispers between him and Mama inside the cruck house.

  “We all die,” I say.

  Dondre latches onto my gaze. He’s shocked, stunned that I’ve just told him that our sister is going to die.

  “How can you say that?”

  Because it’s true … “I’m not saying she’ll die now.” He hears me; he doesn’t want to, but my words shake both of us to the core.

  “But when?” his voice snaps at me.

  I catch Joelle scooting from us. I don’t want to know what her face looks like as we discuss her mother’s death, but I find myself looking anyway. And I regret it. Little Joelle—my small niece—looks like she’s just seen a ghost. She stumbles away, tripping over mounds of dirt, and doesn’t bother to hide her whimpers as she slips under the fence and goes into the cruck house to find her mother.

  “Dondre …” I try to find the words.

  “No!”

  I look back at my baby brother. He’s so strong. Ever since he was born, I was jealous. Just the simple fact that he was a boy made my father favor him. Sometimes I wonder if he realizes how much I envy him. He is only twelve years of age, yet he’s seen and experienced more than I ever will in my lifetime.

  “Don’t tell me that she’s dying. Tell me … tell me she’ll be okay. Lie to me.”

  His tears stain his dirty cheeks. He uses his hand to wipe away the streaks as quickly as possible.

  “Okay,” I say, the breath leaving me. “She’ll be okay.”

  Dondre runs toward me and wraps his arms around my torso. He cries into my dress and hides his face in the folds, like he did when he was a toddler. His grip tightens around me and his cries grow louder as Margo coughs again. I t
ry to decipher which sound is worse: the suffocating coughs of my dying sister or the heart-wrenching sobs of my baby brother.

  “She’s going to be okay,” I say again. He nods his head against me, and we’re both aware we are lying to each other. In my mind all I can see are the dead bodies being unloaded from the ship at the harbor. It’s the first time I had seen or heard of this pestilence that Anton spoke of, but I live in a caged world.

  Joelle exits the cruck house in a silent progression. Her pace is frightful, and I see a worn, raggedy doll hanging from one of Joelle’s hands. It’s Margo’s from when she was little—and had always refused to give it up—and now her daughter is its caretaker. Joelle comes to my feet, next to Dondre and sits. She doesn’t say a word as she grips the doll and presses it to her face.

  IV.

  “We can’t just let her die,” Mama whispers.

  “Well, if we try to feed two extra mouths, we’ll all die. We don’t have the food to feed ourselves, Celine. That rabbit is the first meat you’ve seen on the table in a week, and you let it rot because you couldn’t stand to see your firstborn suffer. You and I both know that Aida has been looked at with fear for a reason.” Mama and Papa continue their conversation outside, unaware of the growing volume my father’s voice has taken.

  “She’s your own blood,” Mama tries to reason.

  “She has never been. Nothing about that child’s eyes proclaim innocence.”

  Dondre, Joelle, and I sit, trying to eat our meal, blocking out the sounds of Mama and Papa. Joelle sits with us but doesn’t eat; instead she turns every few seconds to look at her mother who has fallen asleep on the straw mattress. Dondre looks at his bowl of soup but doesn’t eat it. It’s made of herbs, the only thing Mama could find to feed us with the rabbit gone.

  I worry Margo may hear Mama and Papa fighting, but her sleep goes undisturbed. It’s the first time since her arrival that the air has stilled. The only sounds now are Mama’s and Papa’s voices outside. Dondre and I clean the pot used to make the soup, while the sun is still above the horizon, the two of us hovering over the basin of water. I haven’t heard him speak a word since I told him that Margo would be okay.