We All Fall Down

Ring around the rosy�"

 

                Mother barely looks up from her work when Colby says, “Brother Shaun’s got it too,”

                It’s only a testimony to the bizarre normalcy of the statement.  Something like this should not be standard, this kind of claim should be met with a wringing of hands and a definite air of grief.  But Mother instead raises her head, and nods wearily. 

                “You know you aren’t to play with Nicky anymore, then.  If it’s even spread to the monastery, I do say, God must have it out for the entire city of London,” Mother sighs and re-threads her needle. 

                Her irreverence makes me uneasy.  Even if the Lord does have it out for us all, would it do to anger him more by saying so? Forgive her, please.  She’s just overwhelmed, is all.

                “And here you are, Abbey.  Now, mind you, this is the last time I’ll mend this shift�"“ she crosses her chest�"“so it would do you well to keep it clean, please,” 

                I accept the shift, which has been darned so many times it’s more patches than shift. Mother bustles over to the hearth, where she has a pot boiling.  She takes up the ladle, stirs a few times, and heaves another great sigh.  Looking in the pot, it’s only broth with a few potatoes bobbing forlornly in the center.

                Colby whines.  “But Nicky’s not the one infected. He only sees Brother Shaun once a week, either ways.  Just for his Latin studies, only once a week.  He doesn’t have it! Please, Mother?”

                Mother’s eyes flash.  She rarely gets worked up, but in the event that she does, chances of survival are slim.  “I shan’t have you wreaking more havoc in that blasted place, and coming home infected besides! D’you want to be the death of me, and Abbey too?”

                Colby recoils as quickly as he initially protested, and Mother smirks grimly.  “Abbey, dear, would you be able to run these down to the apothecary for me? Elizabeth Carwyn’s selling them by the dozen; a right strange notion people’ve got, thinking if they carry a pouch of herbs around with ‘em, they’re off scot-free.”  Mother hands me a bundle of rosemary and mallow leaves.

                I don’t know where people get the idea that a small bag of scent will keep them safe, but we’re just groping in the dark anymore, trying to find a way to conquer this plague that’s swept over the city, wiping out so much of the population.  I accept the herbs and grab my cloak, thinking I’ll make a small detour on my way to the Carwyns. 

                I bang the door shut behind me, and glance guiltily over my shoulder every few steps I take.  My mother would have a fit if she knew where I was going.

                The market in the downtown has been a haunt of mine for a few years now.  Before the plague, it was a hub of sunlight and trade and men and sawdust, and one could simple sit back and watch it all.  Nowadays, only those most desperate to provide for their families are willing to risk going. In fact, it’s been said that imported goods sold at this market were what exposed London to the Black Plague in the first place. 

                Women aren’t supposed to be in the market, at any rate.  Considering how little nourishment has been available of late, only my shift and apron identify me as a girl; if I had worn a tunic and trousers, one would not look twice at me.

                Against my better judgment, however, I am wearing woman’s garb, and more than a few filthy, scabby men leer at me as I walk by, and try to look as stately and dignified as possible. 

                I come to a stop in front of the blacksmith’s shop and peer inside.  The smith’s apprentice is hard at work in the bellows, his shirt off and his muscled back slicked with sweat.  It’s a sight for sore eyes, I must admit.

                Then the ringing of a bell averts my attention to the table at the front of the shop.  Ian is waving it at me, not even looking up from his ledger.  Smiling, I skip to him and place my elbows on his desk.  He awkwardly leans forward off his stool and pecks me on the cheek.

                “What brings you this way, missy?” he asks, a chunk of dark hair flopping over his eye.  Ian is lanky and gawky and secured his job here as a clerk after being turned down for the position of smith’s apprentice.  I suppose all humans have the tendency to root for the underdog, but they also are given the ability to identify a lost cause and give up.  I firmly believe God skipped me when he doled out that skill.  Ian has been my dear friend for years and more so than that for the past several months.

                “Mother wants me to bring these down to Elizabeth Carwyn.  People think somehow it’ll help them; I’ve no idea, really.  But come with me.  If I’ve passed a lascivious man on my way to the apothecary, I’ve passed a thousand,” I really do not want to take the road to the apothecary on my own.  Every time I’ve taken it, Ian’s been with me, and even though he’s not an imposing specimen, he’s enough to discourage the urchins who hang about there.

                “I can’t, Abbey.  My work-day ends at eight o’clock.  And all we had for supper last night was broth and�"and, Abbey, Alistair’s got it. He’s got the Black Plague, and so’s Mother.”

                Ian hangs his head and swipes at stubborn tears that insist on popping out.  Since his father died in a shipyard accident three years ago, Ian’s been the sole breadwinner of his family.  His mother, desperate for money, took up an undesirable profession, and has since only provided more small mouths for Ian to feed.

                Ian treats each and every one of his mother’s b*****d children as his kin, but Alistair is the only one who is his real, flesh-and-blood brother.  As much as he’d hate to admit it, he loves his mother, and to see her suffer is hurting him.

                “Oh, Ian. When did�"I mean, do you know how long--?” I fumble the words, but Ian understands my meaning.

                “Mother seemed tired about three days ago, and it just got worse.  Alistair thinks she must have been exposed to it during ‘work’�"“ Ian drums his fingers on the table, obviously uncomfortable with his mother’s idea of work�"“and the next night she had a fever, and the aches about her, and then her hands were--  Dear God, Abbey, her hands…”  Unable to continue, Ian supports his head with his hands, as if he literally no longer has the strength to hold it up.

                I lay my hand on his shoulder.  “And Alistair?” I prompt him.  It may seem callous, but I need to know how long the boy’s been sick, if he still has a chance.

                “Only just last night,” Ian answers hollowly. 

                “Just last night? Why, that’s not bad at all! I tell you what, I’ll drop these off at the apothecary and I’ll see if they have anything new in, all right?” I try as hard as I can to sound genuinely cheerful, but it comes out forced and I want to smack myself for it.

                “If you want. Thanks, Abbey. Thank you�"“

                I take his face in my hands, wipe a tear out of the corner of his eye. Then I kiss him, long and soft Then I can just imagine my mother behind me and I pull away and Ian whispers, “For that, too. I think I needed that.”

                I set off to the apothecary, leaving Ian with his head in a cloud of rosemary and despair.

 

A pocketful of posies�"

 

                The road to the apothecary is infested with rough men, the sort of whom Ian’s mother derives most of her income.  I duck my head and avoid eye contact, and somehow manage to arrive at the Carwyn’s with my virtue still intact.

                The door to the shop, with the small charm to ward off evil hanging above it, is ajar.  I nudge it open with my hip and call, “Elizabeth? It’s Abbey Swaide.  My mother sent me; she has some more packets for you.  Elizabeth?”

                Elizabeth Carwyn is a superstitious old woman.  Her ancestors, as she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen, were brought here from Ireland on a slave ship, and she holds fast to her traditions.  Her children have grown and gone, but they sometimes still check in on her. 

                Today is clearly not one of those days, because the shop is dark and it smells old and musty.  It smells older and mustier than usual, actually, and a dreadful idea begins to take shape in my mind.

                I push through the curtains Elizabeth has hanging over the doorway to the back part of her shop, where she lives.  Elizabeth’s kettle is over the hearth, the coals having died out long ago.  Her table is scattered with leaves and pestles and small skin bags.

                Her bed contains her cold, dead body.  I see her, and I do not scream.

                After all, my suspicions have only been confirmed.  Morbidly enough, this is no surprise.  I can see things now from the perspective of my mother, and it would have been much better to continue to exist in blissful ignorance.

                It is with a heavy heart that I walk back home.  Someone will discover Elizabeth soon enough and take her and place her body in one of the mass graves with a thousand others, and forget about her.  I am afraid that if I am the one to dispose of her, I will forget her as well.

                In this time when everything is so scarce, memory is the one thing we have control over.

 

Ashes, ashes�"

 

                The days melt into one another; wake up, make meals, eat them, sleep.  Mother and Colby are still alive, thank the Lord.  But Alistair dies, Ian’s mother dies, Colby’s friend Nicky and Brother Shaun and countless others die.  We do not leave the house.

                It is a warm, heady September night that I wake in the dark.  I sit up too quickly, and blood rushes to my head, making it hard to breathe.  But after the head rush is over, I still can’t draw in enough air.

                The air is filled with smoke.

                I vault out of bed, and hurriedly dress. “Mother. Mother.  You need to wake up!  Goddammit, wake up! ” God is just going to have to forgive me as I shake my mother, who is unresponsive.   I feel a tug on my sleeve.  Colby faces me.

                “I tried to tell you last night, Abbey.  I thought you understood, you were looking right at me.  She’s sick, Abbey.  She has the plague.” Colby’s little face is peaked and solemn and as lost as mine.

                The events of the night before rush back, and I want to stay by this bed forever, stroking my mother’s feverish hand and being with her in her final hours.  Mother coughs, and raises her head to me.  “Abbey, you, you and Colby, you need to go.  Now.  I’ve lived a long enough life and I’ve come out with you two. There isn’t a thing more I could ask.”  She smells of rosewater and sickness.

                My eyes fill with tears from the smoke and the loss.  I grab Colby’s arm and pull him out the door. 

                London is in a state of chaos.  Men, women, children, and the occasional animal rush by us.  Buildings erupt into flames around us, and it is impossible to pinpoint their origin.

                The only thing I can think is the river and so I act on it.  I drag Colby by the arm and somewhere on our way Ian meets us with a handful of his younger half-siblings.  I can see by the way he looks at the ground that this isn’t all of them, but all he could manage to get out.

                The primal instinct of self-preservation keeps me going, burning hot in my chest as the city around us.  That feeling keeps me going�"until I trip and fall.

                Ian and Colby and the kids keep running.  

                Perhaps it’s better that way, I think.  One less person to be concerned about.  Every inch of my body aches.  What I’ve been living since this plague overtook London isn’t a life. 

 I roll over onto my back and look at the stars through a haze of smoke.  I lay prostrate like that until something nudges my leg.

                “Abbey?” 

                And he will raise you up on eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn�"

                “Abbey, get up! Come on!”

                Can’t the angel who’s come to take me away at least let me finish my hymn?  Make you to shine like the sun, and hold you in the palm of his hand.

                And God does.  He picks me up and holds me and carries me away.  His steps are slow and lurching, and his hand jabs uncomfortably across my middle until the soreness of it makes me open my eyes.

                God hasn’t come to take me away.  Ian has.  He’s got me slung over his shoulder and he places me down on the edge of the road.  I look behind us; we’re only a few hundred yards from where we started.  A smile flits across my lips; Ian was always so scrawny.

                “All right, Abbey.  New plan.  I can’t carry you any farther, so you have to walk.  C’mon, get up,”  Ian’s eyes are laced with concern and he sounds like I did the day I found Elizabeth Carwyn, full of false hope.

                “No,” I mumble.

                “Abbey, look at me,”  Ian tilts my head toward him and I force my eyes to stay open.  “We all fall sometimes, all right? We all fall down, but that’s fine, because we can get back up. We have to get back up.  So can you do that for me, Abbey? Can you get back up?”

                Ian’s words apply to much more than the here and now and we both know it.  I place my scraped, bloodied hands on either side of me and push myself up.

                “That’s a girl,” Ian smiles.  He takes my hand and we run for all we are worth down to the river, where he’s left Colby and his brothers and sisters in the hands of the emergency stations that have already begun to spring up. 

 I hold Ian’s hand and Colby’s in the other, and someone places a blanket over my shoulders.  I turn to thank them but no one is there.  The blanket is homespun, made of wool, and smells of rosewater.

I smile. Thank you, Mother.

There is nothing more to do than but wait, to see what survivors emerge, and to mourn those who don’t reappear.  But we are all far too used to that.  And as I clutch the hands of the two people on earth who matter the most to me, I feel far luckier than I ever have before.

 

We all fall down�"

 

                Yes, we all fall down.

                But that’s fine, because we can get back up.

                We just have to get back up.