ix
'I will sweep away everything in your land' Said the Lord
Zephaniah 1:2
Despair has come quickly upon London. There is nothing more than we can do but watch, helplessly. I sit at what has become my resting place, by the window. A very different scene plays before me now. It is as if the gloomy grey of the watery sky has fallen on the desolate streets before me. The small stone built dwellings look deserted; doors are closed; small un-paned windows draped in black material. Their small doors have been marked with white chalk crosses. These are the houses of ghosts now, or the soon to pass over. No stray dogs or cats wander the streets any more searching for their rare scraps. They were mostly culled a few weeks ago killed as carriers of this plague. It only seems that the hand of God has redeemed their deaths by taking that of their murderers. He has exalted his wrath in a fiery vengeance. The King himself has fled to the countryside taking his folly court with him. The City gates are all closed, no one leaves, and no one enters. All doomed to the same fate. Waiting for their deaths to greet them.
I hear the bells a daily toll being chimed to the shout of 'bring out yer dead!'. I hear his echoing shouts before the macabre body collector comes into view. His booming voice and bell reverberates around the empty streets his words carried upon the wind, echoing from the stone. He appears; veiled from head to toe in a black robe. Hooded, the heavy cloak covers his feet. Upon his face he wears a farcical white clay mask. It covers all his features reminding me somewhat of the marionettes of my homeland. His nose is elongated and curled over, almost to his chin. Some of the womenfolk were discussing that he may cover his face because he is a leper. The lepers, who never entered the city before, are who I now spot scavenging in the houses of the dead for wares or even new dwellings. Isn't it funny how the tables turn.
I observe as he shuffles his way slowly and painfully towards the small well in the centre of the square, the wind blowing his robed figure, never quite whipping it up and exposing his feet. The large bell he rings in one hand. His booming voice is thick with a London accent. He lays the bell down on the cart. The cart is wooden and ancient almost full to the brim with bloated bodies. Arms, legs, some parts indescribable; hanging stiffly from the sides. Where he takes them Lord only knows. They are not burning bodies on pyres here. I can only imagine that they must be laid to rest together in a large lime lined hole in the ground. An unmarked mass grave for the uncared for.
I look away feeling suddenly sick and disorientated. A wave of nausea hits me and I have to place my head in my hands for a second. I stand and try to compose myself, placing both my hands on my waist and inhaling deeply, blowing through my lips. I say a little prayer in my head. Could this be the beginning of my end? Feeling the blood rushing and pounding in my head I decide to try a tonic of some sort just to give me some strength for the next few hours. I walk slowly over to the herbs and preserve shelf. I grab a pewter mug, pouring a goodish amount of honey into it, I add ginger, and some lemon rind from Marseilles and pour warm water over everything from the small hearth kettle. I then sit on the bench by the kitchen table and sit to stir the mixture. I let my mind drift a little.
I have been a married woman for all of three days. Our wedding was rushed, small but well meant and to me it was beautiful. Even through the noise of the dead collector in the background, our vows were meant and heartfelt. I cannot imagine my life with anyone else but him. Francoise looked like he had gone to heaven, although my dress was ill fitting and simple. In the eyes of our Lord we promised ourselves to one another for life, although feeling this nauseous I am unsure for how long my life will now be. It seems like the death has come calling for me. I shake myself away from the thought as I hear the floorboards creak upstairs.
I listen intently to the tone of the talking upstairs. It sounds very sombre. Papa took himself to his chamber yesterday. I know he has been unwell for a few days. I know he has not got 'the death'. I don't know what is wrong but he seems to be breaking his heart. Being unable to remedy this plague, and then the affront of London has broken him. Francoise says that his heart has broken, that he is a broken man. Looking into Papa's old tired eyes I see a shift in him but I am selfish and do not want him to give up on life. I weep silently into my drink and say another prayer-that this hell will soon be over. And that we will all live in peace.
x
The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.
Corinthians 5:17
I close my eyes and dream. Dream of a time when I was free to do as I pleased. To run around bare foot in the warm sunshine of my home, my skirts flying behind me the golden sun beating down on my skin; warm soft earth beneath my bare feet. Although I know it was only a false freedom. A glimmer. I hear a soft voice calling me but it seems so very far away. Distant but familiar, the girl in my dream recognises it and stops. I decide to ignore it and bask in the glorious scenario in my head. Somewhere on the outside, a cold soft cloth is pressed to my face. This pulls me a little further into reality, clouds cover the sun and it becomes darker, cold and grey.
I shiver uncontrollably as the sun seems to have lost it's friendly warmth. And then as I look down towards the port town of Marseilles, I see then and feel the vibration of their marching beneath my feet. Walking up the hill towards me is an army. Not an army of men, but an army of the dead. I can't help myself but to look at them and study. Some of them are merely walking skeletons, the others; the newly dead, hands and fingers bloated, reaching out for me. They moan my name. Some of the women hold their dead children to their breasts. All their eyes are vacant and grey. I scream, although what I hear myself doing it moan loudly, and turn to run away. But I am stuck. I look down at my feet and I am shackled, I cannot move. So I observe the hideous hoard coming for me, arms outstretched begging for me to join their number. In the dream I struggle against my shackles as the crowd approach me. I swear that I can smell their decomposing. Their fingers are all over my face, I scream and beat my arms wildly against them. Again I hear the voice call my name, and then two strong arms are around me. Thinking it is one of the zombies I struggle against them and scream once more, until they softly rock me. I am pulled quickly from the dream. My eyes flicker open.
I am in the upstairs room, Francoise sits next to me on the bed, rocking me gently in his arms. I look at him, his big brown eyes full of concern. I throw my arms around him fully aware that I am soaked in sweat feeling no need to hide away any shame from him. He kisses me gently on the cheek. We both know that there is something wrong. In some unspoken communications between us, we convey both our worries and I inspect my inner arms, and my calves. Breathing a large sigh of relief, when I find nothing there to indicate that I am infected. He takes my face in his hand and kisses me gently. Still holding me as if I am about to disappear he speaks.
'I don't know if it's exhaustion that's causing you to dream so vividly, or feel so unwell. I'm relieved every morning when you wake up. But I really don't know what's causing you to be so sick Hannah, my heart'
I see that in his eyes he thinks that he has failed. Just as stoic an apothecary as my father ever was.
Suddenly I feel another wave of nausea roll over me and I run over to to the small chamber bucket under the window and release my stomach into it. I really have no idea why I am clear of the plague. I do not vomit blood, only the contents of my now hungry stomach. Looking out of the window the sun is trying to fight with some watery grey cloud very low in the sky. There is no warmth in this sun, no consolation to be taken from it. I guess the time as being very early in the morning.
I turn to look at Francoise, who has already brought me a chamomile infusion.
'How is Papa' I ask hesitantly knowing the answer already in my mind, praying to myself silently that it will be different to what I anticipate. He shakes his head slowly.
'Weak Hannah, he has called for you. That is why I came to wake you, and for once I am glad I did. You look so peaceful when you sleep deeply. This morning though it looked like you were facing demons in your dreams'
I rejoin him on the small pallet bed, he looks warn tired and old. This man I call my husband, all of eighteen years and the weight of the world on his shoulders. He hands me the infusion which I drink readily, and a small oat biscuit which he has prepared himself during my illness. Poor Francoise. Always trying to do his utmost for others, so unselfish. I finish my meagre meal placing my cold hand on his warm skin. I will some strength into myself for him. He smiles at me and I grab my clothes from the small stool by the bed, tidying myself up to farewell with my father.
Before I enter the small room, Francoise places his hands on my shoulders to steady me and I draw a big breath from this comfort. I turn to look at him and he kisses me softly on the lips. It is time. I open the door and see him there. The scene is perfectly still and serene. The grey light of the morning seeps in through the open window casting long shadows from the bed down to my feet. There he lays, perfectly still. My saviour, my idol, my father. I run to the bedside and fall to my knees taking his hand cold and colourless in mine, kissing his fingers and gently running it on my cheek. Willing it to warm up and become strong as it once was. It is in vain. As I look up at his gentle face I see the shadow of death around his lips and nose. He has given up. His warm brown eyes have lost their dance and now look dull. He studies my face smiles weakly. We both know we are here to say goodbye.
'My beautiful daughter' he whispers softly. The effort required for this soft breath evident in his eyes. He inhales deeply.
'Life will change for you now, for the better. Know this before I face my Lord and God. You have always been more than a daughter to me. You have also been my pupil, my friend Hannah. Forget not who you are and where you came from. Who your people are. And know that your father loved you dearly, you and your choice of husband. Goodbye by heart, my Hannah. I am ready.' He smiles quietly and resting his head on the pillow. He motions to Francoise and whispers into his ear, before taking a final long breath and exhaling it deeply.
Francoise lays his arm gently on my shoulder. The other around my waist to support me as I stand on weary legs.
Papa is gone.
The morning is then a blur. I have no time to grieve. I sew him into fine linen sheets and talk softly to him as I used to, telling him my symptoms. Trying to control my nausea whilst Francoise prepares a small hole in the back of the tenure. We will bury him here, I do not wish for my father to become one of the faceless, nameless hoard in a mass grave pit. He will rest behind this small house. I am both sad and relieved. It is me and my Francoise now only. The two of us to face life together, and whatever it may throw at us.
As Francoise buries my father I sing a Piyyt a poem I remember from my scant Hebrew learnings. I sing quietly although all our neighbours have either left or are dead. Francoise pats the remainder of the cold, hard earth with a makeshift shovel and holds my hands as I finish. The plague has taken from me, but it has also given back. He looks down at me gauging my reaction. As I look into his eyes, he looks more at ease than he has in months. Turning to me he kisses my head, and places his hand on my stomach. As he does this I feel a fluttering there. I frown and think back, piecing the puzzle together. Nausea, vivid dreams....
Everything now falls into place. Papa had whispered to Francoise with his last breath. Life will now change for us. It is no longer me and Francoise, but our family. I am with child. How did I miss this?
Francoise takes my face in both his hands and kisses my lips tenderly and warmly. He smiles at me holding me close to him. We turn our backs on the grave site. Ready for a new life.
A new beginning.
