by Mandi Lynn
“No.”
She turns and uses her free hand to lower her dark cloak. The hood falls to her shoulders and reveals hair dark as night, braided upon her head. A plait wraps tightly around her scalp until it’s tied at her nape. The rest of her hair is tucked into her hood, and she tugs it out, revealing dark tresses that cascade down to her elbow. Ribbons decorate the braids that frame her face.
I hold in my gasp.
“You raided my dream.” All at once, it’s like the dream is happening all over again. I see Cyrielle, no longer pregnant, running to the edge of the cliff. But then it’s not Cyrielle anymore. It’s a woman with ribbons in her hair and a dress that swallows her body. It’s Mystral.
“You let me in,” she says calmly.
Panic grows inside me. Suddenly Mystral’s grip on my arm is too tight. It’s like she’s digging into me, but when I look down at her fingers, I see she only has a light grasp on me. If I really wanted to, I could run away, but my feet won’t let me.
“Luna, what have you seen in the past few days?”
She talks to me, but I ignore her. I’ve heard rumors of what witches can do, how their mind games work. All my life I’ve been accused of being a witch myself, but others were just too foolish to realize I didn’t possess the same powers Mystral does.
“What have you seen?” she asks again.
Her voice is soft and pleading and I wonder if this is still a game she’s playing.
I look up at her and see the question in her eyes. Just today I’ve seen my sister’s life taken from under my fingertips, then a boy—who I don’t even know or should care about—suffering as he contemplates his death. Today alone I’ve been exiled by my family, whipped, left abandoned, but that’s not what matters. Mystral doesn’t know all this. She shouldn’t know all this.
Today I saw a body being picked off the ground and added to a pile of dead on a cart. Today I saw a piece of the world die, and I wonder why I haven’t become a victim.
XIII.
Men in dark clothes stand in the street. Some don’t wear a shirt, and those are the ones I fear most. Their bare backs reveal whip marks. I watch as they all take the leather and slash it against their own skin with as much force as they can muster. None scream out in pain. They make their way through the streets in a slow procession, lashing their backs, inflicting their own pain. When I smell the leather, I feel the sting of my own fresh wound.
“Why are you showing me this?” I can’t help the horror that tears through my voice.
The masochistic men in the street mumble words about divine grace, salvation, and suffering in the name of Christ.
It makes me want to vomit.
“You need to see this,” is all Mystral says.
We stand on the side of the street. The men come closer and closer with each passing second. When they finally walk past, I smell their blood and sweat. Some lonely women follow them and worship. They wipe the men’s faces with a rag whenever they get a chance.
A man in the group whips himself, and he falls to the ground. No one stops to help him. He just kneels there, as others walk past him without noticing. And I don’t feel the need to help this man. I can’t find myself empathizing with him or trying to understand what drives him to such irrational action.
I hate myself for not helping him, for wanting to look away.
Eventually he gets up again and continues to follow the group. They will go village to village, attracting an audience. What do they want to get out of this? Is it really an attempt to make amends with God before their death, or is it just to have this last bit of control over their lives? If they die, then at least it will be on their own terms.
“What are they doing?” I ask. A crowd of followers gathers around the men, watching the show.
“Flagellants. They are cleansing themselves of their sins by the whip.” Mystral turns away and goes into the tavern.
I rush in after her as the moans and shouts from the flagellants fade.
Inside the tavern the air is stale and smells of the different concoctions people make to see how much they can drink while still being able to stand. The streets outside are full of nothing but the sick and dying, but in here people live on, alive and well—sort of.
Mystral moves to a table with rowdy men. She throws herself over one and takes his drink in her hand. He doesn’t protest but wraps his hand around her neck. She slips from his grasp in a quick motion, his drink still in her hand. She nods to me as she takes another table across the room that is empty.
“Come on. We have important business,” she says, walking past me and taking a seat.
I follow behind her and sit on an old ale barrel propped upright. Across from me Mystral puts down the drink and lays her arms across the table. “Drink it.”
My eyes widen. “What?”
“Am I unclear? Drink it.” She slides the drink over to me.
“How can you even think of drinking? Have you not seen what is out there? People are dying.”
“You think I don’t know that?” she snaps back at me, but then her body relaxes a bit. She looks around the room; the people throw themselves to and fro, asking the beer and gin to take them before the pestilence can. “Sometimes it’s easier to pretend everything is okay,” Mystral whispers, mesmerizing the faces in the room.
One large man has a table full of empty cups around him. He looks sick, but it’s not enough to stop him from taking another sip.
The smell of barley hovers around me. I look down at the mug Mystral gave me—ale. I push it away. She looks back at me and takes the mug, wrapping her delicate fingers around the drink.
“The people in this room may survive.”
I watch Mystral, but she doesn’t look at me. Her gaze drifts about the tavern, never settling on one face too long. She’s impassive as she continues to clutch the mug.
“Some may not … unless there’s a salvation.” Her eyes flicker over to mine, looking for understanding.
“What do you mean?”
Mystral grips the mug closer to her and sighs. She brings the drink to her lips and sips the ale. Her eyes never leave my face as she puts down the cup between us.
“A force outside of what is normal.”
She’s talking about black magic. I back from the table just slightly, but she doesn’t miss the movement. As soon as my hands leave the table Mystral throws the mug and grips my hand. In my shock I look around the room, but no one has noticed the mug has hit the wall and shattered.
“You have the power to save lives, Luna.”
Mystral tugs my arm toward her across the table, but I can’t bring myself to look at her. My eyes scan the room, begging someone to glance my way, but everyone in the tavern is preoccupied with their drunken games.
“My name isn’t Luna,” I say. My voice is just a murmur. I wish I could sound stronger.
“Your name is Aida de Luna. Born in the day of darkness, bearer of the white eyes. With just a sliver of the sun in the sky, you looked to the moon, and you were forever cast as a witch,” Mystral tells me.
The words sound strange from another’s mouth. Mama only told me the story of my birth once, just so I could understand why I was cast away.
“How do you know that?” Mystral’s fingers dig into my wrist even though I gave up trying to escape as soon as she threw the mug. My hands shake under her grasp, as she leans over the table in a heavy stance.
“I know you, Luna. I need you to help me.”
I stare at her hand that clasps mine. Her touch lightens, and the edge of her dark cloak falls across my wrist.
“I can’t help you,” I say, shaking my head. My voice wavers as I feel the tears well up and my throat constricts to hold in the biting hysteria.
“Yes, you can!” She picks up my wrists only to slam them down onto the table. Her voice projects through the room, and finally someone looks over. He just watches at first, but then he motions to someone else and now I have two faces watching. One by one more p
eople watch us as the scene unfolds. Mystral turns and sees her audience; she releases me.
“I’m sorry,” she says simply.
I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to the people who sit in the tavern, waiting for a fight to break out. I take the moment to slink away. I run around the tables and out the door, knowing Mystral won’t follow me with so many watching. I don’t know why it matters whether or not we’re a spectacle, and I don’t care. I run, feeling all eyes on me, but no footsteps following.
XIV.
Bernie’s dead when I find him again. I don’t really know what I expected. After seeing Margo it shouldn’t have been a surprise. The little boy reclines in his bed, just as I had left him, the sheet still covering his body even though he was overheated from the fever. I take the blanket and roll it off his still sweat-covered skin.
Bernie’s chest is bare, revealing a large bubo that adorns his armpit. I stifle a cry when I realize the mass of infection is almost the size of my fist. The longer I look at him, the more buboes I see scattered across his skin. I take the blanket and place it over his shoulders like he had originally left it.
“I’m so sorry.” I don’t know why I say it. I don’t even know this boy, but I feel responsible. I was the last one to talk to him; surely there was something I could have done.
I place my hand across his forehead and smooth back his hair, though the gesture is lost.
“God saved you, Bernie. I hope you understand that, because I don’t.” The tears overwhelm my eyes and fall down my cheeks. “I don’t understand why God took you away, but I hope you understand.”
His sweet eyes are closed, like he’s asleep, and part of me wants to believe he will wake up in a few minutes and tell me he’s okay. He looks peaceful in death, and I hope that’s how it was. In my heart I wish that his passing was painless, unlike my sister’s.
“May you find eternal peace.”
My tears fall to his face and become his tears. Wet stains float across his face and leave behind clear trails of pale skin. I bend my head down to his and let myself leave this world for a moment. I ignore the smell of death that rots his skin and makes me want to gag. His forehead is stone against mine, and I try to forget that he is gone. I murmur prayers into his hair until I can’t whisper words anymore.
I didn’t know Bernie. I shouldn’t be crying for him. His family left him here to die while they ran off to save themselves. They were selfish. I hope I’m never like them.
Bringing my face to Bernie’s, I kiss his forehead like I’m just wishing him a good night. I blink back the tears and promise myself this is it. From this point on I won’t cry, but like a lot of promises, they cannot be kept.
~~~
The cruck house burns down in flames, as Bernie receives a sad excuse for a funeral at my hands. I said all the blessings I knew, before I set fire to his home. I had no oils, but I hoped that wouldn’t stop God from receiving him, forgiving any lost sins. Even as I set the first spark, I prayed for Bernie.
Bright fire burns the wooden walls of the home and sets the straw roof aflame. It doesn’t take long to catch. Even with a fresh coat of rain, nothing stops the flames. The smell of burning flesh is in the air—the same scent intoxicates the air of Marseille—and now it reeks through the streets of this village too.
“What are you doing?”
I turn and see a woman slumped over. Her body is weak, the beginning symptoms of the pestilence written all over her face. When she coughs, her entire body shakes with the simple movement. Part of me wonders how long she has left to live.
“Saying goodbye,” I tell her. My eyes avert, and I take a step back. She doesn’t bother to look at my white irises as the flames of the cruck house consume her vision. She backs from me the slightest bit and her hands clutch at her heart.
“Is the boy …” she says, but then I think she reads my mind.
I can see the recognition in her face, as she realizes the boy she is asking about is gone, in the flames, his body leaving this world along with his soul. “I knew him—his mother.”
“Where did they go?”
She looks down at the ground, winces with the movement. “To the countryside, where it was safe. I couldn’t go with them—I wouldn’t have made the trip.” She looks up at me quickly, then to the cruck house. The flames are dying, running out of fuel to burn. The charred and ashen wood deteriorates, the walls no longer able to support weight.
“When did he die?” the woman asks in a shy voice.
“Today, just a few hours ago, I suppose.”
She nods her head, like this makes sense. It appears as if she is speaking to herself, lips moving, but she smiles at me and says, “Thank you,” before walking away. I watch her slow pace, as she distances herself from the fire with the burning boy.
The smoke drifts through the sky in dark sheets. I wait for it to engulf us and take mercy on our souls, but it floats away in the wind, dissipating until it can’t be seen anymore.
Why is it me who stands here, untouched by this sickness, while every person around me seems to succumb?
When I hear steps behind me again, my head whips around to see a man dressed in dark clothing, proceeding through the village. Even with the great distance between us, I can see he’s wearing a mask. He walks away from me, his back always to my face, but the longer I watch him weave through the village, the more sure I am of his destination.
Bernie’s home burns to the ground while I watch as the fire licks away the remainder of the building, until it has no choice but to dwindle down. With a last glance at what is left of the little boy’s life, I run home. I keep some distance from the man in the mask, but I never let him out of my sight.
The fields I had grown up on open in front of me, and I stop. The masked man continues onward, stepping through our fenced yard and through the door of our home. A few seconds later Dondre comes out, holding Joelle’s hand. He doesn’t see me and pulls Joelle away, outside the fence around our property.
Joelle tugs on my brother’s sleeve, and finally he looks up and sees me. I’m not sure if I expected a welcome or any acknowledgment, but the greeting I get is a surprise.
“What did you do to her?” he says, his voice ragged and hoarse. He grips Joelle by the hand and pulls her from me, which she doesn’t protest.
“What do you mean?”
“You killed Margo! You used some sort of magic on her!” he shouts, and I worry Mama and Papa will hear us and come outside. I imagine Papa with his whip again, slashing the thick leather strap across my back, the blood pouring out until I can’t bleed any longer. I step back, not much fearing my brother, but our father.
“I didn’t—”
“You did!” Dondre cuts me off. Joelle stands beside him, stone faced. “You made a pack with the Devil and killed Margo—and now Mama’s sick too!”
“What?”
Dondre is trying to will himself not to cry, but he’s losing the battle.
“Why do you want to take away Mama?” When he says the words, I see him as a child once again, gripping Joelle’s hand for strength. She doesn’t sway—even though, just hours ago, she lost her mother and her father abandoned her.
“Dondre, I didn’t,” I tell him. My voice is even, calm, but my brother unravels.
Beside him Joelle whispers something into his ear, and he pushes her away. She falls to the ground but doesn’t pick herself up. I rush over and offer my hand, but she squirms away like looking at me would give her the plague.
Dondre shoes his hand against my shoulder and I’m on the ground. He stands above me and my kirtle gathers around my feet, tying me in place. I hear Joelle get to her feet and join his side. She’s so much smaller than him, but at this moment she appears to have just as much strength as he does. Her gaze is fierce and I applaud her for it.
“Your eyes are white,” Dondre says. His hands are fists at his side. Joelle looks at him and mimics his gestures.
“Dondre, you know that,” I stut
ter the words, suddenly wary as he slips out the words everyone thinks when they see my eyes.
“Why are your eyes white?”
His words are angry, and part of me wants to believe that he still sees me as his big sister, but when I look into his eyes all I see is malice. He’s just like everyone else now. Whatever has happened within the past few hours has led him to believe I’m a witch.
“Why?” he shouts and pushes my shoulders down, until I realize I’m lying in the dirt.
I stay flat on the ground.
“Dondre?” The voice is quiet from within the cruck house.
Dondre turns and leaves me on the ground. Joelle stares down at me like I’m nothing more than a dying animal, and follows my brother inside the house.
I get up quickly and rush to the threshold but don’t enter. I peer through the opening, hiding my face as much as possible from anyone inside.
My mother lies on her bed, a dark man leering over her. He is masked, just as I had seen in the village, but now I can see exactly what he wears. His robes hang all the way to his feet and extend over his gloved hands. The material looks like a thick canvas, but it has a glossy coating, almost as if it had been dipped in wax. The large mask has openings for his eyes, but where his mouth slit should be is a long beak. I can’t see any skin. He is a bird.
The Bird holds a wooden cane, and uses it to poke and move Mama’s arms. She seems uncomfortable but listens when the man tells her to move this way or that. She doesn’t look sick, but then she moves to the right like the Bird tells her and winces. He holds out his cane and uses it to move her chin up and away. In the new light I see a lump grace the crook of her neck. A tear runs down her face, as the skin around the bubo stretches. He nods and moves from Mama to a bag on the other side of the room.
Mama sits, never looking up to the worried faces around her. Papa stands stiff but doesn’t comfort his wife. Dondre stands a few feet from the door with Joelle, waiting for the moment to run away.
I see a glint of metal, and the Bird comes back to Mama, a small knife in his hand. Mama sees it, but she holds out her arm, resting her hand across the Bird’s wooden cane. A sweet smell fills the air of the cruck house and I think it comes from the Bird—flowers, herbs, the aroma of healing.
