Memoirs of a Plague Doctor

A crass and cocky false doctor survives the Black Plague through a series of outrageous and plot twisting adventures.

Ch. 1 A Wonderful Introduction

The air was thick and damp, bathed in heat and stink of the dying. Most doors and windows slammed, or drew in tightly. But the world still seemed loud, and crowded. Occasionally, usually in the evenings, the moaning began. The wailing of the sick, or sobbing of the widowers. Then by morning, it all stopped. A deadly silence prowled in the abandoned streets, until the migration of noise returned for an encore. Corpses, rotting and new, littered the gutters while vultures picked them relatively clean, or as clean as things got nowadays. Yes, this was the daily schedule of grotesque activities, endless and unstoppable.

Percevil Remy Grimaldi, a citizen and participant in the richness of the roaring 1350s. Presents to you, the reader, an exclusive and noble representation of his encounters, proven and not, with my accompanied narration.

The poignant stench was enough to snap bones in half, so to avoid this otherwise lethal affliction. Percevil stuffed posies, spanish spices, basil leaves, and other balms and curiosities  into the end of his charcoal black mask. Packing the empty spaces with tough straw, Percevil finally fixed the curved beak and mask around his entire face. The only openings to breath was two little holes on either side, prompting every breath he took to be filled with a mixture of overpowering odors, not to mention the air holes were regularly sprayed with rich perfumes. To protect himself from the ill, infected air, Perci spared no precaution. In fact, his entire body from head to toe was covered in some sort of leather or animal skin. A coarse dress fell to his ankles, with oversized sleeves reaching past his wrists. it wrapped around his neck and over his head, hiding all skin from view. Knee length boots and animal skin pants devoured his legs. His sleeve cuffs were tucked deeply into the leather gloves. He could see through glass fixtures in the mask, but everything was dipped in a milky yellow film. Atop his head, he wore a leather bound hat, with a style similar to a farmers. In his covered fist he held a wooden rod, as an extension of his hand, so he didn’t have to touch any of the sick. This costume, all in black, proved to be so macabre and ghoulish, it was as if demons had crawled up through the dirt to wrap themselves around the man. But, you see, this fashion was essential for survival. The people of the town, idiots they were, walked around half naked, thinking if they just covered their mouth they would be saved. foolish halfwits.

And now, I must confess, a lie that i have told. that Mr. Grimaldi was not, in fact, just a citizen and participant in the time of the plague. No, he was much more than a bystander and spectator. He was a bright light among the dimmest of men. The most precious gift in the time of disease. A doctor. Although, never formally trained, with any medical background, or any sense of the practice. He was still, in all his glory, a doctor.

With an ancient, creaking cart he hauled everywhere. The tiny wooden wheels whining from the strain. With soap boxes stuffed with herbs and leaves, musty jars with hazelnut colored corks brimming with discolored potions and draughts, pouches with fraying string fat with spices, and stray bottles filled with strange liquids. The whole thing smelled of mildew and rot, and teetered back and forth like a toddler standing for the first time. The groaning of the wagon, and clanking of the glass jars created an orchestra to state his arrival. He rolled into a house, no eyes behind the smudged glass, no mouth to watch speak, it was as if the words were coming from another being entirely. He was inhuman, like an overgrown bug, but with the air of malevolent intention, you were wary to turn your back even for a second. Eyes followed his every step, people were just waiting for him to unfold leathery black wings, or scaly horns to protrude from his hat.

Though, he wasn’t the only well coated twisted looking doctor around. It was a sought after profession, as it was the city that hired and paid them. And work was slim in these years. Percevil began his work shortly after the plague swept over the country. Prescribing and performing bloodlettings, frog or leech applications, or any combination of concoctions. With few to no results, he always blamed that the stars were not in the precise order, or it wasn't God's will to heal you now. And people still wanted him, believed they could be healed. The plague doctors carried around lists. Percevils was, more often that not, crumpled and torn with nearly indistinguishable writing in black ink scrawls. Names and addresses, a very long list. Many of the name's owners were dead by morning.

Percevils day was as dull as any. Carting through the mostly emptied streets. His only companion was Welsley, a stoutman who wore striped vests, and ripped pants. A white rag hung around his ears, draping over his mouth. He wore a tattered bowlers hat.

"BRING OUT YER DEAD!" He hollered, a fat arm swinging up down ringing a bronze bell. The high pitched cry of the bell rang free in the desolate streets.

"BRING OUT YER DEAD! CART FOR YER DEAD!" He continued, near wheezing.

A rickety, stained cart was attached to a tired looking Clydesdale, with caramel colored hair, and mane the shade and texture of thick hay. The cart was medium sized, but overflowing with cargo. Arms and legs, some stiff with rigor mortis, others so new they flopped around like a fish on a dock. Masses of flies congregated on the ripe flesh, creating a sickly black and green blanket constantly swelling and breaking like waves on a beach. Most eyes hung open to reveal yellowed orbs red rimmed ghost eyes. The smell was so strong it hung like a fog over the corpses, almost visible. Wesley's face was almost permanently shaded green, from the putrid air. Some families, in an attempt for decency wrapped their loved ones in the moth bitten sheets they died on. But many, too afraid the handle the sick too closely, dragged their twisted bodies into the streets with gloved hands. Thus, Welsleys collection.

At the end of the day, or when his wagon is too heavy to tow. He throws the pile of bodies into a dug out pit outside of town, one the city commissioned. These mass graves were common now. There simply wasn't enough time or manpower to bury the growing numbers individually.

So, this is what his friend did for a living, depending on the dead to die. He was an anxious man though, his cheeks usually swollen red and glossy with sweat over the tint of green. Whenever the rag around his mouth fell down, it revealed a chin that never ceased to wobble like a turkeys. Always so uneasy, that short little man.

“Well hello, ole Welsley!” Percevil called to him, his voice like an echo inside the hollow mask, the plump man jumped and looked around fervently for the speaker, as if it’d been a ghost. Chuckling to himself, Percevil waved from where he stood, in the door of an apartment across the street. Welsley clutched his heart in relief to see his cloaked friend.

“You look like de devil himself,” Welsley wheezed and high pitched, then off he went braying like a donkey for people to bring out their dead.

Ch.2 A cure’s a cure’s a cure

By the time the sun melted into the red wax horizon, the list of names had all been scratched out. Each house visited, Of the twelve listed, nine were alive to greet him, eight were alive on his departure, and although he’d never admit, It’s likely none will be alive come the next sunset.

In a secluded spot, in an abandoned field still riddled with the corpses of pumpkins and squash. A little spot remained. With flattened grass and weeds, all the vines and rotting pumpkin flesh cleared away. A ratty, plaid blanket carpeted the small patch. Dirt and leaves drug across the sheet like dust on boots. A bottle lay empty, with dark green glass and gold foil coat, it had just drops of foamy liquid sitting at it’s bottom. A well suited trenchcoat sat folded on the rags, with shiny buttons like beetle wings, and deep satin pockets with well ironed cuffs, the whole jacket was the color of the inside of a chimney, black as coaldust.

Percevil trudged, aiding aching muscles, dragging along the cart half heartedly. He came to this little clearing, parking his little bunch of medicines, and throwing himself on the mat as if it were a well feathered bed. He landed hard, shaking up clouds of dust, forcing a smile on his cracked lips. His eye were tired and half closed, and his fingers sore from being curled around the cart’s handle. He reached over to retrieve the green glass bottle. He pushed the beak of his mask up onto his eyes, wrapping his stiff fingers around the glass neck. When only drops came to meet his dry lips, he pitched the bottle into the dead field, hearing the glass bounce against the hardened dirt.

He tore his mask from his face completely, the cool air stinging his flustered cheeks, the skin of the mask was tough and constricting. Peeling his gloves off, one hand at a time, his fingers sighed at the freedom. He pulled the fabric off from around his head, so it gathered at his neck. With boots now removed, kicked off into the dust. He relaxed, stretching and then settling. Curling up on the ground, his heavy layers his only protection from the cold, which wasn't too bad that night.

He awoke, heart racing, to a widely grinning face inches from his own.

" COCKAADOODLE DOO!" The face screamed thickly accented, Percevil grabbed it by the collar on instinct shaking the head back and forth. It laughed like drunk hyena before collapsing backward. Whipping upward, Percevil grew from shock and confusion to pointed anger. There, sat on his a*s, was Morgan the pirate.

Morgan had slanted eyes, and jet black hair. As skinny as a straw of hay, and almost as yellow. He wasn’t really a pirate, of course. He was sailor on the trading boats, but Percevil’s flare for drama had interceded. He came from some coast in Asia, Percevil never really bothered to pay too much attention. It was actually a fishing village, on a trade route. Morgan, of course, wasn’t his real name. When he first came to Italy, five years ago, he introduced himself as Ming Zaihou. At the time Percevil worked stamping cargo for foreign trading ships. When he heard Morgan’s real name, he sneered. ‘What kind of sailor’s name is Ming Zaihou. You sound like a rice plant,’. This being Ming’s long awaited first encounter with a foreigner, Percevil’s words bit like bee stings. He had finally escaped his homeland, but his excitement melted at this white man’s words, Ming felt he did not belong in this new world. Ashamed, Ming spent the night he was at port at the bar of a tavern in the city, drinking gin and tonics till his eyes swam. And when the moon began to sink back down to earth, like a deflated balloon, The bartender, a surly guy with beard reaching down his neck offered Ming another drink. He asked ‘More gin?’ with no reply, he repeated himself, ‘More gin?’. Ming, now more drunk than he’s ever been, could just barely hear the man’s words, more gin more gin over and over, the words slurring together. By morning he had one thing on his mind More gin. And so he decided from that day forward everyone would call him Morgan.

And for some reason, Morgan has hung on Percevil like a cross on a priest. A puppy at his heels, Morgan sought him out every time his ship came around. Percevil accepted his company and loyal companionship. And after awhile, Morgan began to adopt a more extroverted, and like-percevil, personality, that eventually even surpassed his. The result, was an overexcited small asian man with a tendency for irritation. And here he was, atop Percevil’s lap just as the Sun peeked over the hills.

His eyes were bright with pupils like spilled ink, and he wore an oversized jacket made of cheap material covered in different sized pockets and buckles. He wore a thin white shirt, like most sailors did, and tough pants that smelled of salt and vinegar. The sleeves rolled over his hands, and he looked like a child, mischievous and young.

Percevil smacked the side of his friends head, muttering obscenities under his breath. But as he pushed Morgan off him, a smile tugged at his lips. Morgan surrendered to sit cross legged on the ground, digging around in his pockets.

“When did your ship come in?” Percevil inquired, cracking his knuckles

“Dis morning,” Morgan answered, a wacky accent cut into his words, from his pockets he withdrew a two small boxes. And threw one to Percevil. Which was opened to reveal ten rolls of paper stuff tight with tobacco. As a smile grew on Percival's mouth, he looked up to see a match ignite with the sound of an opening lock, Morgan gleamed with pride.

“Why a pumpkin patch?” Morgan asked crudely. They walked through the dry field, tendrils of smoke leaked from their lips.

“What do you smell,” Percevil retorted, Morgan replied huffily

“I smer rotting pumpkins, it stinks out here,” he commented pointedly

“Right,” he said, tapping his forehead, “And what you don’t smell, is the disease,”

Morgan nodded at his friend’s logic, and waited a minute before speaking again.

“It’s getting reary bad isn’t it?” Morgan asked

Percevil grinned,

"Stick with me kid, you've got nothing to worry about,"

It was still early in the morning, when Morgan visited. So, by the time Percevil arrived the city building, now cloaked in his gravely black attire, he was only bit late.

The city building had many rooms, full of people hiding from the outside, candles burned everywhere. A man with a gray mustache and fancy cane accosted Percevil at the door.

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE! Get out! get out!,” a squeaky voice yelled, it’s owner was wide eyed and spastic. Waving his arms, like bird wings. He had a tire round his waist, but was dressed in fine silk.

Surprised into shock, perecvil backed away from the crazy animal. That was before regaining composure, He then threw his own cane into the air, holding it threateningly above the old mans head.

Coughing into a rag, the excited man flinched away from percevil. Like a turtle into his shell, the fancy man shrank away.

"Oh, why bother," he cried, throwing his hands up. He turned down the hallway, sniffing and fussing.

"What's gotten into you, Olliver!" Percevil demanded

Olliver was a man of forty five, a ripe age for the time, but his appearance was even more elderly. He was a member of the state government, a good talker, and right stubborn. He had sat behind a desk most his life, under candlelight, writing, reading, or arguing. His unkempt appearance was shocking to see, it was expected of the officials to be the put together ones.

His voice broke when he spoke

"It's all gone to hell, anyway," Olliver reasoned with the wind, "All their suits, their fancy documents, and titles," he spoke with disgust, "didn't save them did it!" He declared

Percevil followed him further into the building, he had had few conversations with the man, but they had been aware of the other’s existence. He was so caught up with the rambling, the emptiness of the building went unnoticed.

"God save us," Olliver muttered, "oh it's gone, it's all gone!" He worked a silver key into its lock, shakily opening the door, "it's all your fault!" He turned on percevil pointing the key at him dramatically, but the confrontation lasted only a moment. The man tucked the key into his breast pocket, continuing into the unlocked room. Percevil followed, quiet with confusion and curiosity.

Mountains of papers were stacked. Unruly and lopsided, Olliver ruffled through them with sweaty fingers, grievously throwing sheets and scrolls everywhere. He was panic stricken, passive aggressively snapping at percevil ever so often. twitching hands shuffled the overwhelming packets of paper that flew about the room. He piled them in the center of the room, forming a circle. Percevil stood in the door, witness to the alien acts. Olliver paused to breath, and wipe his brow, surveying his work. All the cabinets, drawers, and surfaces had been cleared. Olliver now stood in the middle of ring of paperwork.

Olliver’s eyes flicked up at Percevil, they were wild and crazed.

“They didn’t listen to me,” he whispered raggily, a quivering smile overtook his liips, “I warned them, i did, and they just ignored me. They just kept filing, and writing, and working,” his muttering grew, he began to laugh, chuckling softly.

“I told them,” his shoulders trembled, “Those stupid, bureaucrats,” he wheezed, his breath twinged with humor

“Olliver..” Percevil ventured, “Did you take something? something one of those china fellows were selling on the docks?” he asked sensitively

Olliver began to guffaw, his shirt buttons straining at the stress of the man’s heaving chest. His face was red and glistening as w***e in church.

Suddenly, Olliver swallowed his laughs, breathing heavily. He eyed Percevil, his hands twittered. He looked oddly amused, and excited.

“Oh, it’s so good you’re here, Percy was it?”

“Percevil,” He answered tentatively

“Yes, yes, of course. So there is a man behind that mask..” he shaked his meaty finger at Perci

Percevil grew uncomfortable beneath his layers.

Olliver retrieved a packet from his pocket, he shook it onto the paper piles, dark gray powder spewed forth. Silvery mounds expanded on the parchment. Olliver twirled around, like a deranged fountain spraying the dust like water. He quivered with anticipation.

Once the packet was emptied, he threw it onto the floor. Gray banded around the confusing man, He looked up at Percevil like a whimsical child.

“Nifty things, it is,”He insisted, “Those b******s from the East aren’t worthless after all.. i guess” He grew quiet, producing a tiny sliver from his pocket. He marveled at it, spinning it between his two fingers.

“Quite right,” he breathed, “Better get on with it,” He slashed the little stick against paper he held in his other hand, and it ignited with a spark. The light glowed in his eyes for a second, before he flicked it onto the paper mass. Everything erupted in flame

The room was all charred black, smokey starbursts had redecorated. A tired looking man peared at the mess. He bent down, rubbing ashes between his gloved fingers, and dabbing some onto his tongue.

"Yep," he assured, "gunpowder," his voice was gruff, a gray mustache danced on his upper lip

Percevil sat sourly against the charcoaly walls, brushing ash and soot from his apron.

"Was he mad, officer?"

The officer smacked his gums, "well," he started, "this musta been one of them suicides," his statement was clear, "they think burning up their flesh is gunna save them,"

It didn't take much further investigation to pronounce that 80 percent of the state's employees had perished. The government grounds were barren, and Ollivers deeds made sense if you thought fire burned away disease and sin.

"I stopped by a couple of them politicians houses," the officer confessed, "all dead. Musta been one of them more lethal afflictions,"

Percevil rose to stretch his limbs. It had been an eventful morning.

"Ookay," percevil whistled, "I should start out on my routes,"

The officer hooted

"You don't got no routes, no more, percevil," he stated, "ain't got no employers," he implored the obvious, "don't go telling me that you'll treat the sick out of the goodness of your Christian heart," he teased

Percevil looked lost, contemplating the situation in his own mind. All of sudden he slumped down, like he'd gone limp. A moan came from behind his beak.

"Oooohhhh! I'm finished!" Percevil cried, he sounded like a wounded animal.

"Don't be so down about it," the officer comforter, "you're a talented man, you'll find something,"

Percevil hands were clamped to his head, bending the bill of his farmers hat. The hall reeked of smoke and carnage. The officer wandered back to the doors, there was no reason to hurry, Percevil wasn't sure why he ran to get the man in the first place. After all, most crimes nowadays were ignored, or at least weren't penalized.

Percevil sluggishly trudged from the offices. Sure enough, there was Morgan. The tiny man sat on the bottom stone steps, he jumped up attentively  the sight of his friend.

"What is a popper?" He asked innocently

"Why," percevil growled

"Daes what te officer tsaid you gonna be,"

And with that Percevil stormed from the fronts steps, muttering racial slurs.

Morgan wandered the decks that afternoon, chatting mostly in Chinese to other sailors from his land. Percevil had cast him off for the moment. And so he was here, aimless among chorus of mingling Asian voices.

Audrey was a beau. a whinnying colt among rippling racehorses. She was as flimsy as paper, stained with golden ink. Platinum curls hugged her cheeks, and polished rocks hung above pale breasts. A limp dress of amber hung on her frame, painted lips stretched into easy smiles. She was like summer rain, a warm breeze in the dead of winter. And she was Percevil’s. Draped around him like a shawl, she was loyal to a fault. Vying for the affection of the single man, filling the holes in her heart with one sided obsession. She was all-sacrificing to him, and yet at the same time she was unforgivingly vain. Painted and polished. Decorated and bedazzled. Graceful lines of Kohl traipsed above and below her hardened brown eyes, like the rocks that dash ships to bits. Roses blossomed across her lips, charmingly, and ceramic beads dangled from her earlobes glancing the sunlight.  

Author's Note

I know the Chinese accent sucks and is bordering on racist, help.