Paul Lawrence - Hearts of Darkness

The Hancock’s house nestled deep in the grass, just below the line of the road, sinking beneath a mound of creeping ivy. Loud weeping sounded from the window, the lament of a mother that discovers she may lose a child. Too late then for the Hancocks to think of leaving. Was it late for us too? My chest constricted and I struggled to breathe. Not the plague, I told myself, just naked fear.

I stepped to the small glass window and peered in, Dowling at my elbow. Six people knelt about a bed upon which lay two figures; one

still and quiet, the other feverish. Mary Hancock knelt upon the floor wiping a child’s brow, the boy we met on our first day. She watched his every move from behind her black hair, fallen wild across her face. The boy writhed and twitched, eyes closed, body glistening, moaning quietly.

One of the girls tended to the father, dabbing at his forehead while tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. I would have thought him dead already were it not for the colour of his skin, a fierce burning scarlet. The boy bared his teeth and dug his fingers into the flesh of his own chest.

The children all looked to their mother constantly, biting their lips and fighting the tears, realising something was wrong, yet not wanting to distress their mother further. Then one of the younger girls screamed, pointing at me. ‘Marshall Howe,’ she shrieked, composure shattered.

Mary Hancock looked straight at me, cloth held suspended above her child’s face. For a moment I sensed the same horror I saw in her daughter, but she quickly recovered her wits and rose, striding to the door, furious.

‘Why are you here?’ she demanded, throwing the door wide open. ‘Why do you come?’

‘We heard weeping,’ Dowling explained, stepping away. ‘We came to see if we might help.’

‘We help each other by leaving each other alone,’ she beseeched him, bitterness in her voice. ‘That way we make sure the plague doesn’t spread. Do you not understand? That is what we were told.’

I understood well enough, though I reckoned it was nonsense. It hadn’t stopped the Pest in London and hadn’t stopped it here. The whole village hid behind closed doors for fear of spreading the plague, yet the plague killed two of every three already.

‘I have some leaves.’ I pulled the packet from my pocket. ‘And a pipe.’

She glowered, furious, then slammed the door closed. Nine of them snuggled together in their little nest, two adults, six children and the Pestilence.

‘Who will dig the graves?’ I realised. ‘Marshall Howe digs only the last.’

Dowling didn’t reply, just stared, eyes soft, jaw loose.

‘And we may be leaving soon,’ I reminded him, whatever his oath.

‘I will build them a fire,’ Dowling replied, teeth clenched, ‘and find vitriol or vinegar. Then we will dig graves where they cannot be seen.’

We hadn’t yet succeeded in finding bread, let alone vitriol and vinegar, and whilst I admired his sensitivity, I wondered how Mary Hancock would know we had dug holes for her if she couldn’t see them.

‘I will fetch vitriol and vinegar,’ I said. ‘You start building the fire and fetch the shovel from Buxton’s house.’

I headed back towards the centre of the village, back the way we came. In the distance a familiar figure approached.

Smythe stepped sideways, blocking my path. Though most of his head was bald, still he sported a short ginger tuft upon his forehead. He carried a bag. ‘Where are you going? You were told to stop at Buxton’s house.’

‘I came to find you,’ I replied. ‘Josselin said you would bring us food.’

‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘Am I not here?’ He handed me the bag. Inside was a loaf of bread, some sausages and a pie.

‘Do you have vitriol and vinegar?’ I asked him. ‘Or pitch, tar, frankincense?’

He screwed up his face like I was a lunatic. ‘Why do you want vitriol and vinegar?’

‘John Hancock is infected,’ I told him. ‘His son besides. We want to light a fire to fumigate the house.’

‘Ah,’ he groaned, like he was punched in the guts. ‘I’ve known Mary all my life.’ He bowed his head and placed his hands on his hips. ‘What use is a fire?’

‘They lit fires in London to keep away the plague,’ I explained, though they didn’t seem to work.

‘You think it will help the Hancocks?’ he demanded, sceptical.

More likely it would help us think we were being useful. I shrugged.

He turned on his heel and beckoned me back towards the pond. ‘Vitriol and vinegar I can fetch you,’ he said. ‘Not the rest of it. Your fire will still work?’

‘Some people used only vitriol and vinegar,’ I replied. The poor mostly. ‘It works as well as any other remedy.’ Which was not at all.

He nodded to himself, striding onward.

‘You have lived here all your life,’ I guessed, struggling to keep up.

‘Aye,’ Smythe replied, staring ahead.

‘Are you not afraid to wander the village, now it is plagued?’

He turned, mouth drawn into a tight sneer. ‘Would you have me cower in a corner while every man I know dies? Makes no difference, anyhow; the Pest still claims its victims.’

‘It was the same in London,’ I said. ‘When plague took a man, the whole house was shut up until all were recovered, then forty days more. The plague still spread.’

He eyed me with suspicion. ‘You live, though.’

‘I left for the country,’ I replied, wary. ‘As did every man that had the means. We waited for the plague to leave, then returned. I stayed

in London longer than most, but was ultimately persuaded by the voice of the majority.’

‘What voice?’ he scowled.

‘Save thyself,’ I answered. ‘It is the only sure way to avoid death.’

His cheeks flushed, and I thought he would strike me.

‘I’m just agreeing with your sentiment,’ I protested. ‘That there be no purpose in locking thyself behind closed door.’

‘Aye,’ he growled, ‘but you say there be no purpose in locking ourselves behind closed boundary, neither.’

‘I am one man,’ I replied. ‘You had this debate already, I assume.’

‘There was little debate,’ Smythe grumbled. ‘It was Mompesson’s idea. The rest of us went along with it because he said God would look favourably upon us.’ He snorted. ‘Which he has not.’

‘You live,’ I pointed out.

‘So far,’ he replied, marching on down the stony track.

We emerged into the clearing by the pond. A hand clutched at my heart. Marshall Howe was chopping wood with a great axe. I caught a glimpse of three shadows in the cage, but hurried along towards the bridge. ‘What is he doing?’ I asked Smythe.

He cast Howe a cursory glance. ‘Something for Josselin. Great oaf. What do you do in London?’

‘My father made shoes,’ I answered, truthfully. ‘I was a clerk. Now I would be an apothecary.’

‘An apothecary?’ he exclaimed. ‘No apothecary has visited here since we closed the boundaries. I heard they have cures for the plague in London. You can cure us?’

‘I shared with you the only cure I know of, and it be preventive,’ I replied. ‘Though there are many remedies you might try. A warm poultice of butter, onion and garlic, perhaps. I knew of a medic once who swore by nutmeg, boiled meat and pickles.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘He died.’ Fell face first into his dinner, I recalled.

Smythe glanced sideways. ‘What remedies do you take?’

I dug into my pocket. ‘My leaves and pipe.’ I showed him.

He eyed the leaves eagerly. ‘Do they work?’

‘I am not dead yet,’ I answered. ‘Though I think more by good fortune. Here.’ I offered him the packet. ‘Take some.’

‘I will try it,’ Smythe resolved. ‘Keep the packet until we reach my home.’ He shook his head, as if trying to shake a thought out his ear. ‘Why come to Shyam? Save thyself, you say. Flee the plague while you may. Yet you come to Shyam?’