v

Against Babylon the sea Rises, she is overwhelmed by roaring waves

Jeremiah 51:24

May 1662


I have had no sleep in almost three days. my arms ache heavy and numb, my fingers are cold and calloused. I look at the poor sweet lady in front of me, Marguerite, she is a friend of my mothers. It pains me to see her in this delirium. I am beginning to grow accustomed to the workings of this dreaded disease. It it so infuriating watching it work it's way into each life, into their souls. Yesterday, when papa Francoise and I arrived she was sitting in her chair in the ladies parlour, her hands over her ears, mortified. She was otherwise fine, in good health, no symptoms whatsoever. Her husband on the other hand lay writhing in pain on the small chaise, waistcoat unbuttoned, shirt drenched in sweat. I have learnt that it always begin thus. Fever to start, a ferocious burning that causes great agitation and dare I say it, great pain to the poorly. No amount of cold compress, bleeding nor physic can abate it. I look in pity upon the ravaged face of my mothers closest friend as she moans in discomfort a lavender compress on her forehead on her forehead. She is opaque, dense dark circles between her eyes and cheekbones. Her skin is porcelain, with high crimson coloured spots on her cheeks. Her undergarments stuck to her through sweat. I place a sheet gently under her arms, to cover her modesty more than anything. I feel so helpless.


Her husband , the poor man is upstairs with papa and Francoise. He is now much farther along, nearer to the icy hands of death. To see such an illness first hand is like truly seeing the Hand of God in action, and watching it as it plays at gambling. I have been afraid, so scared that this Hand may pick upon one of those whom I love. It too Sylvie last week. And I cried, hot saline tears of remorse for the only friend I had throughout my short life. I am too scared to aid upstairs. I know from the noises I attempt to drown out with singing that he is very ill at ease indeed: that he is vomiting his humours. I also know that by now he will have very little of his life force left to continue, so he will be vomiting blood and innards.


I shake my head and notice that my Lady is in a semi-restful state of slumber. Her eyes move under her bruised eyelids. I pray that she dreams sweetly and that both her and her husband are there together in good health, not suffering here on the mortal plane as their bodies wither and die. I place the back of my hand on her cheek, she still burns ferociously. In a few hours perhaps, the fever will break and she will feel well enough for a short conversation with me, maybe make some polite conversation. She will think that she has taken some steps towards recovery. Ah, how cruel I think. To feel like oneself again before facing certain death. I steady myself on the back of the old wooden chair and will my heavy legs to work. I walk slowly and unsure how to put one foot in front of another. The sun is setting on Marseilles. It burns deeply crimson, low in the sky. It colours the sea a blood red burgundy creeping in the shade of death onto eat hut and house. The port itself is closed indefinitely. Down the hills by the quayside burn two huge pyres. Thick black smoke billow from them joining with the ominous darkness swirling like beautiful white clouds of the daytime. I laugh bitterly. This foul pungent smoke is the burning of the wretched and grateful dead. A smell that will haunt me until the day that I die. The plague only hit Marseilles two months ago. For a while we thought our prayers had been answered and our little town of zealots had been spared. Or so we though. In the middle of February: a storm hit us from the sea. A ship, an enormous galleon came drifting silently to port. It was a ghost ship if there is such a thing. No man was alive on that ship: only her rats scurried to the land to tell their tale. And so it begun, sweeping in waves. Taking the rich merchants and the poor fishermen. Always the same pattern, family after family. Always with the same hour of reprieve before facing their final hours. And papa, Francoise and I have tended to them all, all writhing and screaming, some even clutching their crucifixes for divine intervention, some shouting profanities at some unseen ghosts. We continue onwards, unharmed and untouched. Papa swears it is the sanitation pomanders that we wear. Francoise believes it is because we have developed some barrier against the pestilence. He calls it "Resistance". In his brief time with us he has become very wise in the physic. Papa is very taken with his natural gift and ability for it. For my sins I am taken with other things.... I light the oil lamp and the candles on the mantelpiece as the last chink of sunlight disappears from view and the long night draws in. I hear a sudden ghastly scream a deathly howl and a final struggled gasp.It falls eerily silent but for the soft laboured breathing of my lady behind me. I turn to take a look at her. Two black bruise like blisters have raised either side of her throat. Bulboes my father calls them. He usually lances them as they appear, placing a draining bowl underneath them. They seem to be full of foul smelling thick bloody puss. Lancing them does not cure the patient, but it seemingly makes them more comfortable, easing their delirium for a short while. I hear two sets of laboured footsteps on the wooden floor and some soft gentle talking. They are cleaning. I know the routine. The bedchamber will have to be sanitised. The body will be covered. It will be up to me to stitch the corpse in his blood spattered bed sheets. Lord knows what will happen to him then. The body collector died in the street yesterday. Down the winding streets to the port, there are dozens of corpses awaiting to be burned on the pyres. They almost lay on top of one another. I am startled by a loud thumping on the door and bought back to my dismal reality with a jolt. I run to answer'Oui?' I need no more formalities as this is certainly a call to another house, another dying person.'Your Father child? Is he here?' I immediately recognise the man. He is the less than gentleman we met a few months ago in our own home. This time he is much changed. There is a wild panic in his eyes. The blue eyes dart from left to right in his swollen face. He has ridden all the way here from Paris; I am sure of it. In one moment I go from distrust to almost admiration.'Entre Monsieur' I run upstairs for papa, knocking softly on the bedchamber door. He nods quickly motioning for me to stay here with Francoise. This is the first moment we have had together, solely alone for almost three weeks.
I survey the room quickly. There are bowls of bile, blood and leaches scattered around the wooden floor. The gentleman has already been stripped and lay in his bloody sheet. 'This is no place for you Hannah, I'm so sorry you have to see this' Francoise speaks softly shaking his head. The passion in his deep voice makes my heart melt. He hesitated slightly as he said my name...I'm sure of it. I nod at him but continue to clean and sanitise. It's routine: it must be done quickly and efficiently as papa has taught us.


'Hannah?' I look at him and there are tears in his eyes. He sits on the edge of the straw mattress with his head in his hands and he sobs. And my heart breaks. So far he has been the strong one, solid as any rock. I walk over to him sitting next to him. Almost afraid to touch him, but I sigh, and take both his tear soaked hands in mine. I tell him how petrified I am, how brave he has been, how this is hell on earth and no one should have to see it lest endure it. All that we can do is attempt to aid the suffering and the passing of the inflicted. He looks at me with those eyes, seeing deep into my soul, understanding that I am as lost as he is. He takes my face in his hands, never looking away from my eyes. He leans in closer to me, so close I can feel his breath on my lips, smell his familiarity enveloping me. I almost want to pout my lips a little to search for his. I need nothing more than their reassurance at the moment. I realise that I am instinctively holding my breath. He is moving closer, I feel the heat radiating off his skin on mine. I close my eyes. 'Francoise? Hannah? Come here at once' Papa shouts walking up the stairs. We jump apart on the bed once more, he standing on his feet hands in his pockets, I sat on the end of the bed playing with my skirts blushing deeply. The time has come. Marseilles is condemned. We must go to Paris to treat the court.

vi

that you will spare the lives of my father and mother, my brothers and sisters, and all who belong to them, and that you will save us from death. " Joshua 2:13

Paris December 1663

Today is my birthday. I am finally 14. Old enough to run my own home, to take a husband if I so wish, to do everything expected of a middle class lady. I am finally beginning to understand and fully realise the drawbacks of my fathers' life. The responsibility that comes with being an "adult".

Paris with all it's finery and grandiose is all but taken. Houses are being looted, burning to the ground, empty, dead and dying. It's eerie sitting here in the small dingy rented apartment listening to the black rats shuffle their way along the shadows. In the darkness of the city there are stray dogs howling to the now full moon. Their owners gone, either fortunate enough to have escaped to the countryside of inner France, or laying dead in their blood soaked bedclothes in the street. There is no one left to burn them, even though the numerous pyres still burn. It is a shell of a city. Common people, well, they have flocked together int eh churches, only to fall before Him, their God on their knees and die.

I am so cold. Oblivious to all that is going on around me. I have work to do. I listen a moment to the sound of the whistling in the ash filled grate and a chill runs down my spine. I may be old enough to take my own husband and home, but am I mature enough to say goodbye?
I turn to look at the small bed and the smaller broken body upon it.My heart feels like a block of marble. I am so angry I want to scream; so utterly exhausted I could sleep for a week; and so disgusted with my faith and my pitiful god that I could swear allegiance with any stray demon. Above all I am...empty.

I sit on the small wicker stool by the cot bed. I reach down for the bottle of lavender water by my feet and pour it into a delicate glass bowl full of warmed water. I begin to wash the body before me, asking myself why I bothered to warm the water. I look at the hands first, barely larger than mine, nails cleanly cut and manicured. No hard work ever done by them. The hand is stiff in mine, the rigor has set in. I take a small piece of cloth torn from the bed sheet and wash gently between each slim finger. Moving slowly from the palm and up the arm I stop to take a look at the bulboe. It looks like a black bruise, slightly raised. I trace around it with my finger. It looks so out of place on this slim white arm.The arm resists my movements all the while, but I continue washing around, underneath. Treating her with dignity all the while.

I pull down the bed sheet slightly, it is still damp with stale sweat. I adjust her bodice, tying her laces at the top tightly and neatly. I move to my feet and expose the small feet, they are turning a shade of purple which is both disturbing and beautiful at the same time. I stop and stare ashamedly above the knee. Here I can see an open wound of a lanced pit. Papa said not to touch, but I care not any more. I reach out my hand to clean the open bulboe. She deserves better than to be left with a monstrosity like that.

I sit down again, my legs quivering slightly. I gently and tenderly unbraid her hair and brush it through. It feels alive and soft in my hands almost like wound silk. I gag involuntarily as the smell of her hair fills my nostrils. It smells of olive groves and cornfields; the warm sun. The smell of home. I look down to her neck and straighten her crucifix so it falls on her collarbone where she liked to wear it.. She suffered silently with her God.

I run my fingers slowly and gently along her dark silky brows, the skin there soft and delicate but cold as stone: down to the arch of her nose, to her full lips. I sigh and close her dark staring eyes. She looks at peace.

I get the instinct to place my head for one last time on her stomach. It is the child within me that needs comforting.I bend over her body and place my hand and head there.
"Hannah" she groans softly
Stifling a scream I jump up knocking the bowl shattering it into a thousand pieces on the floor, sending the chair flying across the room. I close my eyes and sink to my knees. I feel two strong arms around me and I sob uncontrollably. I have no tears. Only anger, resentment and hatred. He pulls me up to my feet and cradles me to his chest allowing me to vent my tumult at him. He kisses the top of my head and lays his cheek gently on my crown, all the time holding me close and stroking my hair.
We stand in the debris, Francoise and I for what seems like hours. I sob, he silently comforts.

This is my final memory of France.

This is my final memory of my mother.