by Mandi Lynn
“We will need to rebalance the humors. Those are what keeps the body in alignment,” the Bird says in a muffled voice.
Papa nods as if he understands and Dondre steps back, away from the scene that unfolds in front of him. Mama watches as the small knife comes to her skin, the Bird holding it in his gloved hand. The skin breaks and dark liquid bleeds out.
Mama doesn’t even flinch. She looks up at the door for a moment, and I think she sees me—a corner of her lip lifts in a smile.
From behind me a hand covers my mouth and pulls me away. I feel the small body behind me and know it is Mystral right away. I don’t fight her, for fear of alerting Papa and the Bird that I was watching. I let her lead me and when we are out of hearing distance she releases her grip.
“What were you thinking?” Mystral says, her eyes abuzz.
I brush off my kirtle and don’t answer her. Instead I look back at the cruck house where Mama is taking treatment for the pestilence.
“They’ll kill you,” Mystral says. Her voice is steady and sure. She’s not accusing Papa of whipping me or abandoning me; she just knows what he’ll do to me, if he ever sees my face again. That much was clear after what Dondre said earlier.
“Who is the man?” I ask, still looking at the house. “The Bird. He wears a mask.”
“A doctor. The beak of the mask is filled with herbs that filter the bad air.” She shakes her head, like it is nothing but useless tidings.
“And I suppose you know how to cure the pestilence.” I say the words, not expecting her to respond to them. It was meant to mock her, but instead she smiles at me.
“Yes, with your help.”
“Mystral, please, I need to get back to my family.” I brush past her, but she takes my arm. She doesn’t turn me to face her, but her lips are at my ear when she speaks.
“They don’t want you. You’ve seen what they’ve done once. What makes you think they won’t hesitate to kill you if they have the chance?”
“They wouldn’t,” I say, looking at the home I was exiled from. All I can see is Papa’s face after he brought the thick leather down to my back. Hate fueled him, but what hurt most was how easily he swayed Mama; all it took was a small sliver of doubt for her to leave my side.
“Don’t lie to yourself, Luna.” She lets go of my arms and takes a few steps back.
The opportunity to run appears, but she knows I won’t leave. I care more for my life than my family does. I don’t trust them enough to keep me safe. Yet somehow, I remain.
Mystral’s hair lies across her breast and is braided in one long coil with pieces of ribbon intertwined and flowing at the ends of her hair. She doesn’t fit in here. Women should have their hair hidden away; men should not see such long locks. She doesn’t care though; everything about her is wrong. Her black cloak floats around her body in sheets, the hood no longer covering her face.
“You can save them, you know.” Mystral’s voice is quiet.
Her words curl around in the air, as they linger my way. When I don’t respond, she takes it as an invitation to continue. “The pestilence will kill more than half of those you love, even if they don’t love you back. All you have to do is find the cure on Tiboulain.” She points in the direction of the coast off Marseille.
“Frioul Archipelago?” I ask, turning and sure enough, the four islands sit among the ocean. Not many venture out to them. For the most part they are all just large masses of rock, unable to support vegetation, so few people make the journey to explore.
“Tiboulain is the smallest of the four islands and mostly forgotten. It stays hidden, out of our sight, behind the two larger islands, Ratonneau and Pomègues. Your task is simple. Go to the island and take immortality.” Mystral’s voice grows in excitement, like a small child, and when I see her face I see just how badly she wants this. She clutches her braid absentmindedly and comes closer to me.
“Immortality?” I ask, growing wary the longer I talk to her.
“You and I, and whoever we choose, will live forever.” Her eyes are almost kind as she looks at me, her smile softening as time passes.
“I can’t take part in this …” I think of what to call what she’s doing. And of course I know what to call it. It’s what I’ve been accused of my entire life. “Sorcery.”
“Luna, no. That’s not it at all. There are no herbs or potions, like you may think. It is just simple logic.”
“Then what is it?” I ask.
She looks down, suddenly unsure of what to say. “I cannot say. Only you can discover it.”
“Do you even know what it is?” I watch her as my questions alter her.
Her sheer confidence in her plan diminishes, and she slouches forward.
“No, but—” she says.
I wait for her to finish, but she never finds the words. Instead I watch as she runs scenarios through her head, thinking of what she could possibly say to convince me. Finally she looks at me and her gaze pierces my eyes. “You have a bond with the moon.”
“No,” I say. In the past few days I’ve seen too many deaths, too many bodies, and she wants to lie to me and tell me something out there will make us live forever.
“Please,” Mystral begs. Her voice reaches a level of hysteria and I almost feel sorry for her. Her arm comes out and she grips my hand, pleading. “Luna, I need you. Your family needs you,” she tries one last time.
I push her hand from me. “You said it yourself, Mystral. My family would jump at the opportunity to kill me, so why should I gift them with immortality?”
The words sting her, of that much I am sure. She cowers away and for the first time, I see genuine fear. Her face is lined with wrinkles and I no longer see her as the young woman I first thought she was. She morphs into an aged soul before my eyes, keeping her youthful figure and looks, but her posture slumps and surrenders.
“Just … remember what I said … if you change your mind,” she says, taking in a deep breath and holding herself upright again.
It amazes me how quickly simple features appear to change her beyond her years.
She nods at me as she walks away.
I don’t bother returning the gesture, yet I watch as she leaves.
XV.
Life comes and goes. It slips so easily from our grasp and sometimes we don’t bother to capture it. There are days when living becomes too hard and we push it away. We offer ourselves to death, like there is nothing to live for. Nothing is just … so much.
Whenever I pass the tavern I see people living their reckless lives. They drink as much ale as they can afford, then proceed to wander in the streets. They trip and hobble and sometimes I hear their moans as they bend over, their bodies ridding themselves of the poison they’ve swallowed. Everyone is dying. Some run from it; others run to it.
~~~
Mama is sick for days. The sun rises and sets and I stay away for fear of my life. I know if Papa sees me he may just kill me. I wonder what is happening to us, what is causing this pestilence, but I can’t find an answer. People are saying this is God’s punishment for our sins, while others are convinced that it is the sign of Christ’s coming. The ones who believe the latter are those who whip themselves as they cross through the towns. I choose to believe neither.
I reside in a nearby cruck house. Someone’s belongings are still strewn about. Clothes hang on the line, drying from a day’s launder. Food is gathered in the corner, waiting to be prepared for the next meal. Outside a mule whinnies for attention. A life was abandoned. When I first found the cruck, I wondered what had happened to the previous inhabitants but I quickly dismissed those thoughts when I saw the men walking by with the cart of dead.
I’ve only been residing in this borrowed home for a few days since Margo died and already my food is running scarce. When I decided to live here I told myself I wouldn’t disrupt anything, that I was just using it as a shelter in order to watch my family, but very quickly hunger called.
Dondre never sleeps inside anymore. I�
�ve been watching him through the window of the borrowed cruck, and he always stays outside. I’m not sure if Papa has asked him to leave, like he did with me, or if Dondre left by choice, but either way my brother now sleeps under the stars. It’s all he does. Even in the light of day he lies on the ground and goes to sleep.
When I initially spotted him, he had looked back at me. I knew he had seen me, but his face never changed or acknowledged my existence. At first I thought I would have to run again, maybe even leave my family forever, but Dondre never told anyone that I was hiding nearby. So now I watch my little brother, as his chest rises and falls, and wonder what exactly he is thinking.
~~~
Mama’s coughing never stops. Every night when I twist and turn on my straw mattress, I hear Mama having a fit, never able to sleep or regain her strength. At times I wish she would just let go, leave us, give up—let us have peace with her coming death. That’s when I begin to hate myself. Awful thoughts haunt me at night. Self-preservation consumes me, and I’m willing to do anything.
Dondre coughs also, so I stop watching him through the window.
~~~
The Bird comes and goes. In my dreams he’s not a surgeon but the Devil’s apprentice. Instead of healing Mama and Dondre, he poisons them through their veins. His dark cloak hides his features, like the coward he is. The Bird never touches the sick, for fear of catching the pestilence, but I’m sure he doesn’t know how it is spread. Maybe it is spread within the air. His herb beak can’t protect him, because he is still within proximity of the sick. Nobody wants to be near me and I wonder if that’s why I’m still alive. Those that are loved, those whose lives have been touched—those are the ones to succumb.
The men walk through the village today, dragging the dead in their cart. The bodies are fresh, and even though they don’t carry the odor of death just yet, their skin is stained with blood and vomit. The pair are slow and quiet as they pass my doorway. My eyes are hidden in the shadows as they look to me with a questioning gaze. Are there any dead I would like to dispose of?
When I don’t speak they continue on, looking toward Dondre who lies against a wall across from me. The old wooden walls of the cruck house are the only things supporting him and even though the two men stop and look at him, they don’t place him on the cart. Not yet.
~~~
I was almost killed when I was small. I can’t remember much of what happened or why it happened. I just remember chaos. Mama and I had gone to the market to trade our furs for food for that night’s meal. When I was a child, I never had to be hidden. I was just like every other girl at the time. I got to help Mama with chores and I dreamed of a man courting me. It was a time before I knew I was different, when people looked at me and didn’t stare. They saw my pale eyes and thought it was just a trick of the light. When I grew older, the word “witchcraft” came to mind.
Mama had let me carry the furs to the market that day; Papa had killed the rabbit the day before. We ate the meat for a meal and we were to trade the furs. It was the softest thing I had ever held and I tried to convince Mama to let me keep it, but she had assured me it would be worth much more to us if we traded it.
When we got to the market, we had searched out a merchants who was looking for furs. Their locations were unspoken, but everyone knew where to find someone for a trade.
“What do you have today?” the man had asked. He had looked in my hands, where I gripped the soft rabbit skin. He had leaned down to get a closer look and put his hand out to caress the fur. I hadn’t been thinking at the time. When I could see the dirt beneath his fingernails, I hadn’t wanted him to touch the soft rabbit. I pulled away, and he looked at me.
I had seen then the surprise in his eyes as he looked into mine. At first it was wonder, but then fear had been etched into the lines around his eyes and his hand had moved from the fur toward his belt.
“What is she?” He had been talking to Mama, but his gaze had never left me. I remember hearing the anger in his voice and yet not being afraid—no one would ever hurt me; I had done nothing wrong.
I was so foolish.
My gaze had followed his arm, where his hand was on his waist. With the sun in the sky a small glint of metal had shone from his belt.
“What are you talking about?” Mama’s voice had been calm, so I stayed calm also, but when I looked up at her she was anything but. Mama gripped my wrist and had tried to pull me away, but the merchant was stronger.
His hand had left his belt and he had held up a knife. He dragged me to him and rested the blunt of the knife against my neck.
Mama had begun to cry and scream when he tore me from her. She had put out her hand and gripped the knife; the sharp metal had bit into her skin, and a dark liquid had leaked from her fingers. She had ripped the knife from the man’s hand with a shout and had thrown it to the ground.
The merchant hadn’t known what to do. He let me go easily after that.
Mama ran me home while she bled. I had tried asking her if she was okay, but she just shushed me while she cried. We had left the furs at the market and never got anything for them. Papa was mad, but his anger had diminished once he saw Mama’s hand.
She had saved my life that day. It was the first of many times people had looked at me and thought I was something unnatural that should be disposed of. All my life I’ve wanted to return the favor to thank Mama. She’s dying, but I’m helpless.
XVI.
“Aida?”
My name is whispered into the morning light. When I roll over I see a figure at the door.
“Is that you?”
The body steps through the door. Cyrielle.
“How did you find me?” I ask, sitting up. Out the window the sun has barely risen. The air is still cold in the morning shade and dew coats the ground.
Cyrielle comes to sit beside me. For the first time I see the bundle of blankets in her arms. She hides something there, holding it close to her body, like it may just jump away at any given moment.
“I went to your cruck, but Dondre … he said you left. He didn’t tell me where you went, but he kept looking at this cruck,” she says quietly. She keeps looking down into the blankets in her arms. Her face is shallow and sunken, fresh tears stain her cheek.
“Cyrielle?”
She looks at me and I see the tears rim her eyes, threatening to flood over. The liquid slips down her cheek, but she doesn’t wipe it away. Instead her arms wrap around the blankets she holds.
“Is Jermaine all right?” I ask.
She releases a smile that seems almost painful. She coughs the slightest bit when her cheeks turn up, but it’s not like Mama’s or Margo’s. This is a tired cough, not one of a dying soul. Cyrielle shifts her arms up and brings the blanket to her face, inhaling the scent. She closes her eyes and her small smile disappears.
“What’s wrong?” I put my arm on her shoulder, and she stiffens.
Cyrielle gasps for air, her hysteria rising. Her grip on the blanket never loosens and I wait to see just how long it will be until she calms down. I watch as her shoulders heave and she cries. I half expect someone to overhear and come rushing in to check on us, but it never happens.
“Aida, I don’t know what happened!” She screams the words in between her cries.
I lean forward where she sits and wrap my arm around her shoulder, careful to avoid the blankets she holds so dearly.
“Shh,” I tell her. “It’ll all right.”
I feel her head shake against my shoulder. “He’s dead, Aida,” she mumbles into my collar.
I lean back but don’t release my hold. She stares at me, pleading, begging for help, but I can’t stop my gaze from wandering to the blankets. Unknowingly my hand glides over the coarse fabric, unfolding the bundle. A small tuft of hair is hidden under the sheet. I look up at Cyrielle, but her gaze rests upon the tiny head. I move the blanket farther away and look at the newborn within. The body is so small and frail—and lifeless.
“He never crie
d, Aida,” Cyrielle says in a whisper. Her voice breaks and I hear the tears sting her throat. She looks down at her son, gliding her fingers across his frail forehead, her movements so ginger.
“Does Jermaine know?”
She shakes her head, bending down to kiss the infant’s small tuft of hair. Even now he looks so much like Cyrielle, from his face to the shade of his hair.
“I don’t know what he’ll do. This is our baby, and he’s gone. I don’t know if Jermaine will forgive me,” Cyrielle cries.
“Cyrielle,” I say, removing her hands from the blankets.
She protests for a moment, but when I give her a small reassuring squeeze, she releases with a small gasp. I move aside the blanket and put her infant on my mattress, turning to Cyrielle and wrapping my arms around her shaking frame. For months she had grown this baby inside her, offering herself to this new life and now—just like that—it’s over; all for nothing.
She shudders against my touch, but I hug her to me, trying to reassure her. “Jermaine will love you, no matter what. How can you doubt that? He needs to know. Your son needs a proper burial.”
“I can’t do that,” she says. Her arms embrace me, and I can feel just how scared she is. Her entire body quivers as her chest rises and falls with each breath. For a long moment we sit in our embrace, neither of us sure what we should do or how to get there. She cries for her lost son and I can’t find myself to utter a tear. My eyes ache and sting, but I’m numb. I just kneel next to Cyrielle, holding her, wishing there was something more I could do.
“I—” she says. “I’ll tell Jermaine,” she finally says. She picks herself up, finally looking at her surroundings. The abandoned cruck stares back at her in its eerie, hopeless way.
“Would you like me to go with you?” I ask.
She bites her lip and stifles back a cry, as her arms wrap around her torso. Cyrielle shakes her head and puts on the bravest face she can muster.
