Dirtnap - The Black Death Pt. 02

Near the banks of the Thames, hidden amongst the shacks and stalls of the fishmongers, was a little stone and thatch cottage. It huddled in a low spot where rainwater would end up after sluicing through the alleys between the aforementioned shacks and stalls, gathering up blood, guts, and various excretia -- mostly the products of butchered aquatic animals. Though by that point even a very dedicated con man would be hard pressed to call it water and keep a straight face. After a good storm, it turned out as something between an exotic fish stew en potentia and an ill-advised, possibly occult experiment in Darwinism.

To deal with this exact issue, a trench had been dug encircling the structure. A plank footbridge allowed access to the front door of the home, which locals called 'Eel-Pie Island.' Some civic-minded soul had driven a board into the ground nearby the bridge, painted with the warning; 'Slipry wen wet.' Anyone who spend any time in the vicinity knew that the concept applied to everything in the fishmongers' territory, but some folk need to feel that they are doing some good.

The single resident of the cottage approved of the sign. Her unspoken assessment was that it would burn well enough the next time she was running low on firewood. She'd pull up the footbridge as well, if it came to that. There would be no danger of being stranded for long. Given, visitors came somewhat less frequently, what with the population thinning of late. Nonetheless, most days there was someone who needed something from 'Ellie Eel-Pie.'

Born Elizabeth Southport, she had been raised by her grandmother, who had been something of a wise woman in her day. As for her parents and their early absence, Granny would only say that they had been lost due to religious conflict. Given the state of religion and it's impact on daily life, it seemed a perfectly credible, if vague, explanation. Sometimes she wondered if she should feel guilty for not spending more time wondering about her parents or mourning them, but she had been very young. And Granny had kept her busy.

Just now she was tending to one Beth Ward. A dark haired lass in her early twenties, recently widowed by the plague, who spent much of her time gathering reeds out in the marshes. When the girl was sat on one of the low stools used for visitors, Ellie poured her a mug of herb-fortified ale. Leaning back against her scarred old table, Ellie watched the girl tentatively satisfy the unspoken obligation of manners by sipping from the mug. All very well to call Ellie names behind her back, or pretend she didn't exist -- which is certainly what the Aldermen and Lords and Mayors of London had always done -- but sitting in her dim little home on Eel-Pie Island, they always took at least the one sip. It would not do to show one's disdain before receiving the sought-after treatment.

Out of habit, Ellie waited just a bit longer than was comfortable for her caller before speaking.

"Alright young Miss Ward, what's it about?"

Beth looked up sharply. Her mouth opened, but she faltered. This was her first time coming alone to see the wise woman. She had been once before with a friend -- as moral support, and because she was curious, but she was fairly certain her name had never come up. Well, she was supposed to be a wise woman. Let's not sit here acting like a daft, awe-struck little girl. With a little huff, she collected herself and held out her left hand.

"It's, er, warts, mum. Er, Miss-" she floundered.

"Miss Ellie will do."

"Yes, mum. Er-"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes.

"That'll do. Are you sure it's not the bubos?" she teased.

The girl's eyes widened and she very nearly dropped the mug in her effort to examine both sides of both hands all at once. Feeling a twinge of guilt, Ellie sighed.

"I jest, child. The black bumps never grow on the hands. Calm yourself."

She took the mug from the now scowling girl and set it safely on the table. Taking the Ward girl's hands, one at a time, in her own, she scrutinized them at length. The girl watched her face, looking for some quirk of expression that might suggest a positive or negative prognosis, and Ellie knew she was doing it because that was what people always did.

So she squeezed here and prodded there, and occasionally gave a murmured 'hmm.' While this played out on the surface, she recalled the contents of the pantry and considered what she might have for dinner. One of the monks from the nearby church stopped by the day before and paid with a jar of honey.

The man had suffered from a painful sore on his tongue. Ellie had quickly ascertained that the likely causes of the injury were threefold. Namely, teeth like a horse, tongue like a cow, and a penchant for chewing dry meat. He hadn't shown any reaction when she explained the risks of the wound nor when she gave him willow extract for the pain and advised rinsing with salted water. She suspected the sore had only been a convenient excuse, and he had come for the attention. After all, while reputedly disgusting, and possibly a witch, Ellie smelled of mint and cloves, still had most of her teeth, and didn't shy away from even the poor lads from the tanneries. Up close, you realized she probably hadn't seen thirty winters. If not an hourglass shape exactly, she certainly had curves about her. Call a spade a spade, she was a woman, right, who wasn't your mother, sister, land lady, or, God forbid, your mother-in-law.*

{*Though, to be fair, many men would not even conceive of their mothers-in-law as being strictly human, let alone female. Rather they would be categorized as a sort of hag, and fitted in with other such creatures -- like demons and tax collectors.}

Perhaps she could send the girl to fetch her a fresh loaf. There was leftover fish stew in the cauldron that would be good for sopping after a quick bubble. Bit of bread with the stew, bit of bread with honey after...

Ellie realized she had just examined the same wart for the third time. Ah, well. There was no danger in a wart or three now and then. And they were just warts -- not hairy moles or boils or pox. Caught from the leeches or frogs or some other wee wriggling denizens of the marshes, like as not.

"Right," she released the girl's hands and began moving about the room, "Have you been eating strange toadstools, Miss Ward?"

"No... I've not eaten toadstools of any kind, I'm sure."

"And have you crossed a witch?" Ellie asked while placing a large cleaver on the scarred tabletop next to the mug.

"W-... No?" Beth ventured, torn between incredulity and growing paranoia.

"Good. Have you pissed off the side of a bridge under a full moon?" The questions were purely for her amusement, and she sometimes wondered how ridiculous she could make them before some discerning soul demanded she admit it.

"P- I- Wh-" the girl's face began to take on a rosy hue, and she finally settled on; "How?"

"I'll do the asking, thank you, Miss Ward." Ellie replied, businesslike, before sinking an arm into a barrel stood in a dark corner of the room.

With a brief splash, she drew up something long and glistening. Returning to the table, she moved the mug well aside before slapping down a dripping eel. Taking up the cleaver and raising it in her other hand, she paused.

"Come here, girl. Hold out your hands." she used a particular tone, refined to bypass most of the brain and illicit obedience in most patients.

The girl rose slowly and did as she was told even as she stared at the slitherous creature pinned to the table, moderately aghast. Ellie brought the cleaver down, separating head from, well, everything else an eel has.

"Be still," she commanded sternly, brandishing the headless length of eel.

To her credit, the girl shuddered, but remained still and kept her hands outspread. Ellie rubbed the bloody stump on each wart in turn. When this was done, she left the girl to fetch a smallish burlap sack from the unusually spacious interior of a creaky bread box. The body of the eel was stuffed in and the sack tied off.

"Bury the body. Burn the sack." Ellie instructed.

Beth Ward's sense of disgust began to short-circuit when the still occasionally moving sack was thrust into her bloody hands.

"Do not cross the burial spot thereafter. As the body rots away, it takes yer bumps with it."

At this Beth brightened ever so slightly.

"Mind you don't wash your hands til after it's buried."

Standing, Beth nodded. Ellie shooed her toward the door, following. The girl hesitated at the door.

"I haven't paid, Miss Eel -- Eelie -- Ellie, er..."

"Indeed." Elizabeth gave the girl a cool look, "When you've done the thing, you'll buy a loaf of fresh bread and bring it back here to me."

"Oh. Bread. Yes'm." Again she hesitated. "What of the head, Miss?"

"Today is for warts, girl. Come another day for answers. Go on now. And don't forget the bread."

When the Ward girl had gone, Ellie stoked the fire and stirred the leftover stew. Crossing to the table she scooped up the eel's head and executed a smooth hook shot into the cauldron.

Warts. Plague was burning up the citizenry like wheat in a wild fire, and she was bothered about warts. Ah, well. There would always be fools. Might as well put bread and honey on Ellie's table as waste their coin elsewhere.

* * *

Felix followed Lord Rubbery out of the last room and into the corridor, closing the door behind him. He stood waiting, at ease, while the lord deposited a still mostly full bowl of chicken broth into a nearby barrel. There was a brief clatter as the bowl met others at the bottom. He continued waiting while Rubbery bent over the barrel, hands gripping the rim, and sighed deeply.

Finally the lord looked up. He had tied several folds of linen over his nose and mouth before they had entered the first sick room. Above the makeshift mask, his eyes were weary.

"Well, good doctor, you've seen the face of the disease here in London. Do you find it much the same as it was when you treated it elsewhere?"

Felix gave a slow, exaggerated nod.

"Much the same, my lord. I fear I see nothing different here. Nothing that might hint at an efficacious treatment or preventative."

"Is there no hope at all?"

There was a faint sound of flexing leather as Felix turned his head back to the room from which they had come. And back again.

"I do not hope, my lord. Hope is generally the last thing one does before giving up. I will endeavor, instead, to solve this problem. Each day, until one or the other -- I or this plague -- cease to trouble this world."

The lord stood silently staring for a moment. His jaw clenched. He nodded sharply.

"Well said, man. Indeed."

Rubbery lingered, hands gripping the barrel lid before straightening up.

"Very well. Come. Let us discuss lodgings while we clean ourselves."

Rubbery removed the linen from his face and deposited it in a large lidded wicker basket on his way to the font of spirits. He and Felix both stopped to strip off loose blouse and apron and deposited those as well.

"Lodgings, my lord?" Felix asked.

"Yes." Rubbery at last moved to the font. "Were it a week earlier I would stand you a room here in the Hall, but this past Wednesday a small contingent of distant relatives appeared on my doorstep seeking shelter. I could scarcely turn them away at a time like this."

"Of course." Felix acknowledged.

"So they now inhabit the last guest chamber not given to housing the sick." He scrubbed his hands vigorously between sentences. "It's probably just as well. I own the three cottages behind the Hall. Only one is occupied. Of the other two, one has been vacant since before the Mortality began."

Rubbery stepped away from the font, holding his hands before him in the same awkward manner used by every human ever taught not to wipe their hands on their clothes.

"I imagine you'll want to take other patients when you're not here. And there's your mule. And of course a good many other distractions a man on his own might pursue. If you'll spend the bulk of every other day here, tending patients, you may take whichever cottage suits you. There will always be food and drink for you here in the hall, though I admit, my cook is only moderately accomplished."

The lord gave his hands a distracted shake and crossed his arms over his chest.

"What say you, Doctor Lupino?"

"I would be in your debt."

"No, I'd not have that between us," Rubbery replied sternly, "Continue your endeavor to solve the problem and we shall call it a fair trade agreement."

Rubbery held forth his right hand.

Without hesitation Felix dipped his leather-gloved hand into the font, drew it out and took the offered hand. He gave it one firm shake. The lord smiled for the first time since they had entered the sick ward.

"You think quickly." Rubbery observed. "Perhaps I should have you look at some of my unfinished designs."

"I would welcome the stimulation."

Rubbery nodded.

"Very well, uh..." he trailed off, eyes moving from Felix's gloved hands up to his mask. "Perhaps just a splash of spirits about the uh-"

"Ah, quite so." Felix agreed.

Dipping both hands this time, he brought them up to wipe alcohol over the contours of his mask and down over the curving planes of the beak. That done, the two left the makeshift hospital ward and made their way through the halls to the lord's personal chambers.

"Wait here a moment. I'll fetch the keys to the cottages."

"Either will serve. I'm not particular about lodgings." Felix offered.

He stood patiently outside the doors while the lord stepped into his chambers. Rubbery soon emerged to hand over a key on an iron ring before leading the way back to the dining hall where first they had met.

"You'll want to unpack and so forth," Rubbery said, "Come back on the morrow, between dawn and midday. I'll introduce you to the rest of the household."

Felix cut a shallow bow.

"My lord."

While Felix straightened and turned to go, Rubbery retook his seat at the head of the table. His eyes fell on the parchments still resting where he had left them. Resting his elbows on the tabletop and his face in one hand, he frowned.

While Lord Rubbery tried in vain to ascertain which papers he needed to read and which he could burn -- without actually reading them -- Felix retrieved Caesar and nearly reached the front door without incident. And then a confluence of disparate factors -- namely Felix's own limited field of vision, a sharp corner, and Rollo's stature -- came together to impede his timely departure.

Having long since developed an especial set of reflexes in response to just this sort of occurrence, Rollo immediately dropped to one knee and tucked his chin. There was a muffled impact followed by the sounds of graceless tumbling. Which was followed by a pained groan. Rollo stood, adjusted his collar, and returned Caesar's impressive stare. He nodded and turned about.

"Here now, that's no place to take a nap, Master Sawbones." He commented.

Felix tipped his head back to look up at the little man.

"I remember you being arse-high, Rollo. Why is it, then, that my shin smarts?"

"Ah, only reflexes like a hedgehog, haven't I?" Rollo answered proudly. "And a head like a hammer, as my old da used to say."

"Like a hammer?"

"Like a hammer's got." Rollo explained pointedly, "A metal head, see?"

"Oh. Yes."

Rollo tipped his head to one side and put his hands on his hips.

"Leaving us already, Master Lupino?"

Felix took his time replying, first sitting up and turning to face his interrogator. After stopping to rub at his throbbing shin, he reached into a pocket and brought out the key he had so recently acquired. He held his arm outstretched, dangling the key from an index finger.

"Your lord has generously offered me the use of a vacant cottage in exchange for my services."

"Huh." Rollo scratched his stubbled cheek thoughtfully. "The one's still full. The other, at the corner, was emptied by the Mortality. The one in the middle..."

Rollo trailed off. A shifty smile blossomed on his face.

"Yes?" Felix coaxed.

"Ha. No doubt he gave you the key to the old Turney place. Been empty for years. Don't suppose Ash told you why it's been empty?"

"No?"

"Well, far back as I remember, there's been one retired Navy man, two families, and a trio of traveling performers in and out of that particular building. Every one left in a hurry, claiming the place was haunted. Except for the old sailor. He just up and disappeared without a word. Mostly figure he decided to go back out to sea."

"Ah." Felix acknowledged.

"On account of the haunting." Rollo added helpfully.

"Intriguing."

"Aye. Well... good luck." Rollo offered cheerfully, turning and stepping around Caesar to continue on his way.

Outside, the late afternoon sun angled shadows Eastward. The air carried the distant sound of crows cawing. Felix glanced about, then proceeded to lead Caesar along to the corner of the building. Turning into the alley there, he ignored anything he might be stepping on or in. He passed an offshoot alley -- or a gap at any rate -- which ran between the back of Rubbery Hall and the rear walls of the cottages. Narrow enough that a man would have to turn sideways to shuffle down it. The overhanging roofs meant that most of the cramped space never saw any direct sunlight, and strange growths were evolving atop the layer of dirt and filth lining the passage. Felix made a mental note to take a closer look at a more convenient time.

Coming around to the front of the row of cottages, Felix checked the numbers against the one scratched on the key. 517. The first cottage was 516. Like a number of others he had already passed while moving through the city, a broad 'X' had been chalked on the front door. Some civic-minded soul had subsequently carved the semblance of a human skull in the wood of the door above the 'X.'

Felix had definite plans to thoroughly clean and disinfect, regardless of where he set up shop. For this and other reasons, he wasn't averse to moving into an abode which potentially harbored the plague. On the other hand, the purported haunting did peak his curiosity.

517 looked much like the cottages on either side, aside from a few anemic vines which had begun climbing the facade near one corner. The lock mechanism was stubborn from long disuse, but a little elbow grease saw it right. Felix pushed the door open and stepped in onto a dirt floor strewn with old, desiccated straw. The furnishings were sparse. Aside from the fireplace there was a small table attended by one chair and a hutch in the far left corner with a copper basin.

There was an empty doorway in the right wall and a door in the far wall which appeared to be made from woven reeds tied to a light wooden frame and hung on leather hinges.

The empty doorway in the right wall let into a room measuring about ten feet to a side. A spinning wheel stood in the center of the room without so much as a stool to keep it company.

Felix led Caesar into the room and closed the door again before checking the back room. He half expected the hinges to come apart or pull loose from the iron nails, but they only creaked a bit. In the room beyond was a large straw palette bed. A rotund woman of decidedly matronly endowments sat on a low stool at the foot of the bed. Despite the talk of hauntings, this last development came as no little surprise.

Felix drew up short, inhaling sharply, but otherwise maintaining his composure. The woman looked up sharply, and utterly failed to maintain hers. In fact, she began shrieking.