I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  I turn around to see a small boy, not over the age of eight, lying in a bed. He looks like Margo had, his fingers black as he shivers under a blanket.

  “Did Mama send you?” he asks, his voice growing louder, but as he gains volume he coughs. When he is finally able to stop, he looks at me with sad eyes, his lips turned downward.

  “No,” I say, coming farther inside. Outside the rain continues, but as I enter the sound fades into the background. Things are scattered everywhere. Broken pots lie abandoned on the floor, baskets on their side, emptied. It looks like a robber has just passed through, but the boy doesn’t appear to be a victim of a burglary.

  “Oh.” The boy closes his eyes and sinks into his pillow He doesn’t make a sound, but I see a tear run down his face.

  I come forward to kneel next to the boy on the floor. “What’s your name?”

  His eyes pop open as he turns his head to me. He seems surprised at my proximity but answers my question with a smile. “Bernie.”

  Up close I see the blanket over his body is covered with sweat, but he clutches it around his frame like it’s the only thing he has left. Dark circles are under his eyes and the boy is skinny enough that I can see his cheekbones.

  “I’m Aida,” I say, offering a smile.

  “Hello.”

  There’s a moment when neither of us speak. After a few more the boy looks away and groans, drawing the blanket closer to him.

  “What’s wrong?” I stretch my hand to touch his fingers that peek out beneath the cloth, but I’m shocked by what I feel. I expected thin bones, but instead it feels like my hands have come into contact with a rock. His fingers are hard and lifeless, stiff against the cloth.

  “Mama left,” he tells me, closing his eyes again. His voice is sleepy and grows thick as time passes.

  “What about your papa? Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

  He shakes his head, but as soon as he makes the movement his body stiffens. He heaves and coughs, and I wait for the blood to come, just like it had for Margo. I brace myself for the shock of the thick liquid to spew through his throat, but the boy stays strong and it never comes.

  “No.” He coughs. “Papa left too. They took everything with them.” I look around again and realize there was no robber; it was just Bernie’s parents packing their things to leave and abandon their sick child. “They left me a loaf of bread, but I ate it all.” He starts to cry, fat tears rolling off his cheeks and onto his pillow. “I didn’t mean to.”

  “Shh,” I say. “It’s okay. You’ll be all right.” And there it is again, my lie. How many times in a single lifetime can I lie before trust is eradicated?

  Bernie’s hair is plastered to his forehead, and I smooth it away with my fingers. Under his skin he is boiling. His sweat coats my hand, but his skin burns me like hot coals.

  He turns his face to me even though the movement pains him. He looks at me closely, studying my face. All expression leaves him, as he asks his next question. “Why are your eyes white?”

  I take away my hand and feel my own body cool, as I break contact with the feverish boy. My eyes dart from his gaze, even though it’s too late. I consider my options. If I lie to him about this, will he believe me? Will Bernie assume, just like everyone else, that I am someone who works with the Devil?

  “I—my eyes are white because I got sick.” I don’t know why I say this. My story isn’t believable, but Bernie looks at me with something I’ve never seen before—sympathy. His eyes change and he looks me up and down for the signs of my sickness. His grimace turns into a small frown.

  “Are you still sick?”

  I shake my head. “It happened when I was small, but it gave me white eyes.” I point to them and wonder what he sees. Am I a monster?

  “Did you almost die?” he asks, but I know what he’s really asking. He wants to know what it feels like to defeat death; to come so close, yet live anyway.

  “Well, I don’t know. It was so long ago,” I tell him, but he seems disappointed by my answer.

  He chews on his lip and it bleeds. My hand inches out to stop him, but I know it is useless. After what I just saw at my own home, it’s only a matter of time until this little boy dies like Margo did.

  “Do you think it will hurt?” he cries in a sad, small way. I open my mouth to speak but his hoarse voice beats me. “Because it hurts right now.”

  “I know, Bernie,” I say, brushing my hand against his hot skin. He looks at me like I’m his savior. His eyes gaze wide at me as he soaks in my image. Bernie smiles and, very slowly, wipes a tear from his eyes in a grimace.

  “My mama told me dying doesn’t hurt,” he says. “She said that God will take us in His glory, and nothing will hurt.”

  I don’t say a word, feeling like my voice would interrupt him.

  He stares, unblinking, at the ceiling. A hole is in the roof, above the spot where the fire belongs, allowing smoke to escape.

  “What did I do?” Bernie sobs suddenly. His chest rises and falls in a fast pace. Groans come whenever he moves and the more upset he gets, the harder his chest heaves. The little boy brings on his own pain through his emotions.

  “Shh,” I whisper, putting my hand over his. His skin burns against mine, and it’s a while before Bernie comes to an even breath again. A long silence hangs between us in the stormy air. All that can be heard is the consistent patter of rain on the roof.

  “What did I—” Bernie starts again, his voice in hiccups.

  “Shh, Bernie, it’s okay.”

  “But what—what did I do to make God hate me?”

  He isn’t crying, but I can tell he holds back the tears. Under my hand his body is tense. His breathing is staggered, ready to slip.

  “God doesn’t hate you,” I tell him simply.

  “Then why am I dying?” His voice is a somber whisper in the heart of the storm. I hear his words, but I don’t want to.

  What a cruel world it is to have a child aware that they are dying. The young are supposed to live free; not wait for death to come in its full fatigue to take them away. In this universe where death is so plain—this universe where I do not wish to live—a boy lies dying, wondering why God hates him.

  “Because that’s how it is,” I say, feeling the flow of tears grow inside my chest, waiting to be released. I haven’t grieved for my lost sister. But this boy accepts me more than my family ever has.

  When I look at Bernie, I see Margo. Not when her limbs were flailing in her last moments of life, but when she walked through the threshold of our home, Joelle in tow. I see her now, as I saw her before I knew she was sick. I saw my sister at a glance and thought everything was fine and that she was just dropping by for a visit. She had hidden the buboes and blackened fingers, but my eyes had been too ignorant to notice.

  “You’re lucky, Bernie. God’s saving you. I know you don’t understand right now, but you will,” I say.

  “When?”

  His voice is soft. Outside the sun peeks through the clouds of rain and sunlight shines on Bernie’s face. He has beautiful light eyes that shine against his dark and stained skin. His eyes gleam like the facets of a gem, and I try to ignore the tears that cling to his lids.

  “I don’t know,” I say, my voice nothing but a whisper. I want to cure this boy and make him whole again. I would rather give this boy my life so he can live. I imagine how his life could have been, had it not been interrupted by this pestilence. He’d marry someday; his round face would lose its childish looks, and it wouldn’t be long until he had a lady wrapped around his finger. I mourn for the life that he will never have.

  “Aida?”

  It’s the first time he’s addressed me. This time it is his hand that touches mine, his touch a hot spark. I don’t pull away from the heat—I welcome it. I feel his gaze, as he watches a tear trail down my face.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him, giving his hand a light squeeze, careful not to hurt him.

  He doesn’t smile. His face is limp, an
d his hand becomes a heavy weight in my grip.

  That’s when I realize he hasn’t been coughing. This entire time Bernie has been able to bring his rough and tired voice forward without the interruption of coughs. I don’t know if this is a good thing.

  His lids close. He’s tired—falling asleep. I know this, but my heart still hesitates, as he stops talking to me. I sit there with Bernie, his hand in mine, watching his chest rise and fall, so I know he’s alive.

  “Goodnight, Bernie,” I say, even though it is well into the day. I bring his small hand to me and hold his palm to my cheek. I can’t stand the heat that comes from this little boy. I pull away his fingers and kiss his hand before placing it on his chest, wishing it was me with the pestilence rather than him.

  I stand up but don’t turn away, always watching the small rise and fall of each of his breaths—that unsteady, staggering pattern.

  XII.

  The world will always continue to move. Even when there’s no laughter, the tides will push and pull; insects will roam in the soil and foragers will feast over our dead bodies. Humans are too ignorant to open their eyes and see the chaos before them.

  The rain is just a mist in the sky, as I walk from everything that I’ve ever loved. Bernie was alive when I left, but part of me knows that his moment here in this lifetime is almost up. It doesn’t matter how much I hope and pray; God will take whom He chooses.

  The man on the streets said God was taking mercy on our souls by taking us. At first I didn’t believe him. What if nothing exists after this life? But now, after just one day, I know anything—even if it is nothing—is better than this life of watching others succumb to the pestilence before my eyes.

  Marseille. The town comes into view, as I continue my pace. It’s no longer in its full glory. The air is utterly still. No wind comes off the port; the church bells don’t chime. In the distance are smokestacks—the only tell that people still reside in Marseille.

  It’s a long time before the smell comes. I’m just outside the town when I’m covered in a cloak of rotting flesh. My eyes water at the scent of burning skin. I sprint forward and cross into town. The streets are empty like I’ve never seen them. Any occupants are slumped at the side of the street, leaning against a building as they cough.

  No one looks up when I rush through. Their eyes stay glazed over in their sickened state. I pass by one woman and I think I hear the word help being muttered, but the sound is lost to the rush of total fear and abandonment that I feel.

  Two men pull a wooden cart down the street, already heavy with its load. One of them says something and they both stop in the middle of the street. The man lets go of the handle and bends down on the side of the road, wrapping his arms around a girl my age. I scream out to stop him, to let the defenseless girl go, but she doesn’t speak. The young girl doesn’t even move as he picks her up and drops her in the cart. The other man holding the cart looks up at me, but his face is as placid as ever.

  The two men grip the cart firmly and continue down the street to where I stand. I shift to the side, leaning against a building wall, averting my gaze as they come closer, feeling their eyes roam over my body.

  As soon as their backs are to me, I see inside the cart and the bodies that rest within. The young girl is not its first victim. There are other bodies. Young and old, male and female—all in various forms of decay. An unsavory stench carries through the air around the cart, and I wonder how I didn’t realize it was full of the dead right away.

  Someone grips my hand and I’m being pulled away. I’m about to scream, but another hand comes up around my face and covers my mouth, muffling my scream. The only ones who can hear me are the sick who lie in the street. They don’t bother to look my way, as I’m being dragged away.

  “Hush!”

  I’m being led to an alcove hidden in the darkness of an alley.

  “Hush, you!”

  The voice is female as one arm wraps around my torso, the other around my throat, fingers gripping my face. She isn’t much bigger than me, though she feels stronger. Every time I move, her arms tighten around me.

  “I’ll let you go. Just don’t yell out,” she whispers in my ear.

  She waits, just holding me in her solid grip, and I realize she wants my consent. I nod my head in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

  She lets out a breath and releases me. My body surges forward and runs in the direction of the bright and open streets. A hand punches my back and I’m on the cobblestones of the alley. Scrapes embellish my skin with shallow marks.

  “I’m sorry,” the girl who captured me says.

  Her pleading voice is far away. Part of her sounds like she might actually regret what she’s done.

  “I didn’t mean that. But I need you.”

  I twist around to see my assailant. The voice sounds sweet, like a young girl, but, when I turn, I see a mature woman. She’s not much bigger than I am, but her face is aged. Not like Mama’s; this woman has a divine grace about her. She’s almost childlike when I glance at her, but when I look close enough, I see the frail lines in her skin. She’s hooded in a dark cloak and when she approaches me, she pulls it farther over her face.

  She stands above me and offers a hand. I can’t see her features in the dark alley full of shadows, but I gaze at her, trying to see past her hood to the woman who hides beneath.

  “Get up,” she tells me.

  When I don’t obey she bends down and picks me up like I’m a disobedient child. Her strength is jarring as she stands me straight and proceeds to circle around my position. The woman takes note of all the flaws that are within me. Her gaze is piercing and I can feel her eyes appraising me.

  “How old are you?” she asks. She stops in front of me.

  I see her face hidden within the hood. She’s sad. Her eyes are watering, and I wonder if she’s lost a loved one to this pestilence like I have.

  “Please, tell me how old you are.”

  “Twenty-one years, my lady.”

  She nods and looks to the street before she looks at me again. “You have the eyes,” she tells me. Her fingers slide down my cheek and tip up my chin. She turns my face, edging my eyes to the only spot of light in the alley. “Aida de Luna, you have no idea how long I’ve been searching for you.”

  Her words stop me. Aida de Luna is a name from long ago, never fully spoken by anyone outside my family.

  “Aida de Luna. Helper of the moon. Is that what your name means?” As she speaks, she circles me again. Her eyes search me, as if my body bears some treasure or spell.

  I hold still, but I can feel my legs quiver under me.

  “Yes,” I say quietly, but my voice is powerful in its silence.

  Papa laughed at Mama when she suggested that I be named after the moon. I don’t understand why Mama was so adamant about having my name be a constant reminder of what’s wrong with me, but I suppose that was the point. It’s to tell others that I’m not the Devil’s child. My eyes are shining, just like the moon, and not the Hell that my iris color screams of. No one ever saw me as the moon.

  “What do you think I am, Luna?”

  “Aida,” I correct her. I’m Aida—helper. That’s what I’m supposed to be known as, not the moon—not Luna. No one has ever called me that.

  “You’re Luna. Maybe not yet, but you will be.”

  I stare at my captor. Her face doesn’t look as young and flawless now. When she stops circling me I’m able to see the age etched across her features. She seems tired. I can tell when she loses her willpower, her body swaying with fatigue. Her hand peeks out the edge of her cloak and all I see are skin and bones.

  “Are you sick?” I ask. “Like the rest of them?” She doesn’t seem like them. This is a different disease that eats away at her, if it’s a disease at all.

  She blinks. “What do you think I am?”

  Her voice is harsher the second time she has to ask. The world bears down on her and she sways with the effort to stand and talk to me. I’m impor
tant to her for some reason. And even though I know I should be afraid of this stranger, I’m not. I want to help her, whatever it is she needs.

  “What are you?” I ask, confusion coloring my voice.

  “I’m like you. We’re the same thing. I need you to tell me what that is,” she says.

  Her face crumbles. I don’t understand what’s going on. Just a minute ago this woman was holding me hostage, and now she can barely hold herself up.

  “Please.”

  I don’t know what she is.

  She waits in anticipation. She leans forward, and her pupils grow large in a flash, making her entire eye black and dark.

  I scream out, knowing exactly what she is.

  “You’re a witch!” I stagger away, but she catches my arm, her iron grip pulling me forward again. Her strength is back. I watch in wonder as her bony fingers flesh out, growing healthy and long before my eyes. My gaze follows all the way to her face; what had once been sharp and defined is now flush and youthful. The wrinkles disappear from her face, and though she had been beautiful before, she now possesses some sort of glory.

  Her grip on me loosens as her pupils shrink back to a regular size.

  The thin wrinkles around her eyes return, but that’s all. She still holds a strange and remarkable beauty.

  “Are you a black witch?” I continue to pull away, but she doesn’t let go.

  Her face is somber when she looks at me.

  “Black and white are one and the same, Luna.”

  Black. I’m sure of it. A white witch would be quick to tell of their good deeds and how many they’ve saved.

  “My name is Mystral, and I need you.”

  She pulls me to her in a possessive manner.

  I flinch away, but with each protest she drags me toward her in a quick motion. My feet are reluctant as I follow behind her. We continue slowly down the alley.

  “What are you doing?” I’m surprised by how distressed my voice sounds when I speak. That edge of hysteria is a reminder that I can’t escape.

  Mystral stops in front of me, and I stumble into her. Her back faces me as she speaks, her grip never letting up. “You don’t trust me.”