The Plague

Jenna had the plague. She knew this when she coughed up blood in a fit some days prior. She was walking down the cobbled streets of Tradd, holding a cloth tight to her face as the ordinance declared. She continued holding it after passing the dead and the dying, whose bodies were propped up or strewn about in alleyways and on the sides of buildings. The sick called after her with desperate moans, but she only quickened her pace. She did not let them anywhere near, as her father had commanded.

She continued through the church district, hoping to take a break and catch her breath in the abandoned streets. She soon discovered that nowhere was safe. Diseased citizens swarmed by flies still called after her incoherently. She wondered where the carts were and why they had not come to pick up the profusion of dead. She failed to avoid noticing the growing smell of decay. Fear and disgust drove Jenna ever faster to her destination.

Exhaustion soon overtook her. Hyperventilating behind the layered cloth forced her to remove it. Jenna felt the disease-laden air enter her lungs in panicked breaths. Her body revulsed the smell and decay, sending her into an endless coughing fit. She felt a speck of something in her chest that she could not get out. Bending over, she propped her arm on a nearby wall and coughed violently for several minutes. A satisfying wetness came up with a final hack, and Jenna spit blood on the ground. She stared at the dark clump, a foggy realization coming to her: The plague had reached her at last.

The following days were a blur. Jenna could not recall getting home, much less telling her father her condition. Memories came of more coughing fits in bed. Only the first on the street had ended with such a satisfying conclusion. The others never truly ended, as the congestive specks in her chest grew in abundance and she could never manage to remove them. She continually spat thin strings of blood into a metal pan beside her bed, presumably left there by her father. Constantly woken up by fits, she failed to get any quality rest. Her growing delirium soon merged dreams with reality.

Jenna opened her eyes to the sound of her door slamming shut. Her father Clarion stood in front of the door. He wore his dirt-smeared work suit, covered in wrinkles and adorned with worn brass buttons. It was obvious that he had been sleeping in it, which he did only when on call. Jenna restrained herself from falling into another fit and stared at him in silence.

“You are a stubborn girl, Jenna. I cannot tell you how pleased I am, seeing you awake and responsive. You have stayed coherent much longer than expected! That is a good sign!” Clarion smiled. “How are you feeling, my sweet pie?”

Jenna opened her mouth to speak, but what came out was a rasp.

“I am not sure, father. Not great, at least.”

“Of course, that is expected. It is the fourth day since you came home with it, which is usually the time when one is taken away by the carts. Your strength, however, is proving far superior than the usual patient!”

Jenna could not restrain herself any longer, and fell into a fit. When it concluded, she saw Clarion had not moved from his place by the door, and he now wore a solemn frown.

“Unfortunately, I am afraid strength can do no more than prolong the inevitable. You are getting worse, my sweet pie, and I have taken it upon myself to make arrangements for you. I must bring you into the city today for treatment.”

“Father--no. The healers are--” more hacking coughs interrupted Jenna. Her mind was in a fog of confusion. She made a great effort to cease the fit and resume speaking.

“The healers are far too busy. We would be placed in an endless queue, father. I would never forgive myself for exposing you if you caught it. I know that I don’t have many days left. I wish to spend them here--” she was interrupted by more coughing. Clarion waited patiently until she fell quiet.

“Oh, you selfless girl! I have heard the case of our useless healers. Why we do not get aid from other towns I cannot imagine. It is funny to me that we closed our gates for the safety of the country while they refused to show us respect in return. What could be more important than stopping this as soon as possible? As if abandoning us will engender our loyalty! Perhaps the plague is convenient then, in helping rid them of disloyal citizens!”

Clarion’s gestures were far more aggressive than usual. He seemed to be pent up, Jenna guessed, from the endless quarantine and lack of fresh air. Clarion took a deep breath before resuming.

“But I am getting sidetracked; the country matters not. Jenna, I must tell you my intentions, for they regard you. You know well the sacrifices I’ve made for your future and safety, yes? You know that everything in my life I do for one single purpose?”

Jenna nodded.

“Good. Since the day you were born I have put all the love and care I could muster towards your happiness. So you must know how impossible it is for me to not embrace you at this very moment!”

Clarion took a step forward.

“Father, for all my life, do not--” coughing, “--come near! If it is my dying wish, do not get ill!” Clarion halted, his fists clenching.
“I have made...arrangements,” a hopeful look rising to his face. “The church is offering a unique service to its most loyal members. I have wonderful news sweet pie--you have been invited to take their treatment!”

It could not be the fogginess that confused Jenna. No, the church had no healing abilities. She recalled this, also thinking that Clarion would know better than anyone, being a studious member of the church and a close friend of the deacon’s for decades.

“It is an experimental treatment. They made that very clear, and wished me to tell you as well. I say this only out of respect, and not to make you wary! These are good, honorable people. The deacon and priest will be administering the treatment themselves.”

He waited, but Jenna restrained herself from immediate judgement.

“Jenna, I am no fool. Your disposition toward the Church has never been...as positive as I had hoped...but nevertheless, you will be subject to this treatment. Countless times has the Church bestowed on us life altering miracles! I know you will give me the honor of taking you to them, fully willing. There is no other option.”

Clarion said this so matter-of-factly that Jenna’s blood began to boil. She almost rose from her bed in a fury, but realized it would cost much strength, and resigned herself to a reproachful tone.

“I have avoided sharing my true thoughts on your church, father, out of respect for you and your small pleasures. But as it pertains to me and therefore you have no right to decide, I absolutely refuse to--”

“Nonsense! All nonsense! You are bedridden and dying, and expect me to do nothing out of respect for your selfish pride? I will not waste my time. You had better get some rest, for the treatment is tonight!”

He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Burning with frustration, Jenna contemplated leaving a farewell letter on the bed and spending her last hours on the streets. But as her anger simmered, a coughing fit held long at bay overtook her. It maintained for minutes, an hour even, before Jenna took a desperate swig of water and fell unconscious.

She awoke in a haze, jostling around in some wooden container. Screams filled the night air, and Tradd’s cobble streets were barely illuminated by the street lamps. A figure ahead was pulling her in an open cart, and Jenna began recalling her earlier conversation.

“Father?”

It came as a whisper, drowned out by the rattling cart.

“Father!”

The shout was no louder than before, yet it left her gasping for air. Jenna’s strength gave out and she collapsed into the cart, unconscious.

She was revived some time later with a stinging in her nose. A tall man in black robes stood above her, holding a white tablet in front of Jenna’s face. She backed up in revulsion, finding that she lay on a flat wooden board. The man’s cold expression did not change as he placed the tablet next to others like it on a nearby table, completely ignoring Jenna.

Jenna’s eyes darted around the church. Barely acquainted with its interior, she recognized the large stained glass design adorning the back wall. The glass design was two concentric circles, the outer bright red and the inner a deep purple. A yellow star covered with gems lay dormant in the center of the inner circle, which would have glowed like a blooming flower in the afternoon sun when light shone through. It did not shine, however, intensifying the brooding red glow of candles on the altar. Only glimpses could be seen of the tall man’s face in the dim red candlelight.

“Sweet pie,” she heard from behind, “I am sure you must be startled in your waking moments. Do not fret--you may not recall, for I have not brought you here since your younger days, but we are currently in the holy church of Zohar! Isn’t it beautiful? No, no, please do not stir my innocent Jenna. All will be taken care of by our good holy men!”

Jenna strained against thick straps on her wrists and ankles, her panic building.

“I have learned that our miracle workers have been bombarded by the unholy dregs of the city, those ungrateful worms! They beat upon the doors at late hours and attempt to force their way in--to what end I cannot say. Those poor fools must think they can force themselves on Godly men and receive a treatment they do not deserve, but also cannot receive, being the unfaithful that they are! Yet they still come, believing that our holy men--those men who receive their strength and magic from the blessings of Zohar Himself--can somehow be overcome by the chaotic forces of madness. I pity them!”

Jenna’s shallow wheezing forced her to stop struggling against the straps, lest she faint from exhaustion once more. She jumped, startled as rough hands came from behind and hot breath came upon her head. She felt the hands stroking her knotty black hair and heard her father’s voice in her ear, which he lowered to a point where not even the tall man could hear.

“I have spoken with the deacon, who has agreed to treat you for, I must admit, a steeper fee than I had expected. Do not worry young one! I will have given any amount, done any good or terrible deed, if it meant curing you. What is the use of money saved if one’s future is all but lost? You are my pride and joy, sweet pie, and you must live no matter the cost.”

Jenna barely heard the drawer in the deacon’s desk closing. She looked over to find him turning around, carrying a small wooden box steadily as he glided across the floor to them with an unnaturally smooth stride. Clarion lowered his voice further and spoke faster.

“These holy men, Jenna, are admittedly particular. They do not wish to cure those who do not worship our God. I have told them you are an avid believer but do not attend worships because you don’t like crowds. Jenna, I beg you, do not sully this opportunity. I would rather die than see you succumb to the plague’s worst symptoms. Please, stay quiet!”

With this, Clarion rose swiftly as the deacon came near. Jenna, fully awake now, saw his face clearer in the dim light.

His clean-shaven face, sharp pointed chin, thin eyebrows and nose, and completely bald head were revealed as he lowered back a dark hood. His clear olive skin reflected the red glow of the candles and he stared, through and not into, Jenna’s eyes with his own cold gaze. She could not help but be unnerved at feeling absolutely nothing from the man. His motions and frame were so well-practiced as to seem artificial with their unnatural smoothness. His appearance was the most flattering aspect, however, as the feeling Jenna got from observing him was the same she felt when looking upon the sculptures in the town square. She felt no humanity, no sense of being from the physical entity in front of her. Any idea of his character was fabricated, Jenna knew, of her own mind, as his cold, lifeless face expressed less human intent than those sculptures of triumphant kings adorning Tradd’s streets.

As Jenna observed the looming figure before her, she heard a door open from the side. Entering the chamber was an old man in draping white robes, approaching the pulpit with a wooden box in hand. He did not acknowledge them until he reached his station before the pulpit, where he then smiled at Jenna and Clarion and did not spare his underling a glance.

“The poor family before us today has been stricken down, most unfairly it may seem, by the ameliorating plague Zohar has gifted us. All blessings of the Lord may appear to be curses at first in our unworthy eyes, but rest assured, there is righteous purpose in all His actions. Let this simple fact comfort you: the great Zohar has never, in the history of his known existence, cursed our dregs without simultaneously giving the cure! Throughout history, all his gifts have been rejected, insulted, wrongly disparaged in every way--when they have only helped our species toward a collective goal of enlightenment! Of course I do not disregard the woeful claims of the masses. They are correct in one way: we were never deserving of this plague, and never will be. Its blessings will only drag along our ignorant, self-crippled society!”

The priest spoke to fill the large chamber, which would have been fitting of a large congregation, but only fell on the ears of the three individuals to the side of the hall.

“A good friend of the church has been subject to the pains of Zohar’s blessing,” he continued. “We hate to see the good and righteous suffer from the effects of our Lord’s plan, but we must all remember that His hammer is unconditional. The most innocent may suffer, and the most evil may enjoy the profits of the circumstances. But all will be righted in the end! It is our duty, as the loyal servants of our Lord, to help when we are able and when we see fit. It is for this reason that the ritual must wait no longer, and be done immediately!”

He slammed his fist on the pulpit to emphasize his final words. But after a pause, he seemed to forget his immediacy, and resumed where he left off.

“The humble servant before you knows the unfamiliarity of this treatment. In your position, I would just as well be frightened, or at least wary, of such mysteries! However, your warranted lack of trust in humanity must be stifled by your unrelenting faith in the Lord. The treatment I propose has been verified, thrice over, by various holy texts in our storage. It is only by the gift of Zohar that we are able to send this plague--though it is righteous in its purpose and should not be called so--straight to the Abyss! Do not fear any side effects or accidents, for it is by the power of the Lord that my hand is commanded!”

Regardless of the priest’s words, Jenna squirmed uncomfortably in the tight wooden cart. All reason had fled her mind, all logic drowned by the overwhelming pain in her throat and chest. The sole thought shining through her fog was a feeling of dread. The priest and his treatment seemed so vicious, so far from the comforting message he attempted, that Jenna instinctively grasped the edges of the cart and started dragging herself out. It was with this surge of fear that she found the strength to make it over the lip and onto the cold stone floor. The impact was sudden and intense, and as the rough floor met her hip and elbows, she let out the rest of the air in her lungs with a single wince. The expulsion brought on a fit, but with no air to fuel it, Jenna panicked. Her body attempted to hyperventilate, unable to inhale even if her airway was not inflamed and no wider than a piece of straw.

She vaguely felt invasive hands as a black haze enveloped her vision. She closed her eyes, attempting to calm herself and manage a breath. Time was unreadable, and Jenna could not decide whether her panic had made it slow or her wavering awareness was cutting whole seconds from her memory.

Coming out of this trance, she awoke on a higher platform, barely noticing the cold stone she rested on and the tight leather straps around her wrists. She looked out at rows of pews, realizing that she was now in the sanctuary. Looking around in hazy observation, Jenna recognized her father to the side, leaning uneasily against the wall. They locked eyes, and she realized her appearance must have reflected how she felt, for his recent commanding attitude was entirely replaced with fear. Jenna’s thoughts were interrupted as she shot up from the chair, pulling at her wrist straps in reaction to an alarming sensation.

A warm, thick wetness covered her, dripping from the top of her head and soaking her body and clothes entirely. The viscous liquid fell endlessly over her eyes as she attempted to gauge what it was. What overcame her next, causing her mind to race in panicked curiosity, was the odor. The air smelled strongly of iron, permeating from the warm liquid on her skin and clothes. With a forced attempt she opened her eyes wide. From the first glance, she knew it was not the dim light of the candles that colored her. Jenna was covered from head to toe in blood.

Thinking only of the blood on her skin, Jenna began screaming and thrashing violently against the straps at her wrists. Her unbound legs pushed against the ground in an attempt to overturn the stone chair, but it proved too heavy. Her growing hopelessness only drove her further into panic and she thrashed with her whole body, slamming her ribs against the stone armrests.

Coming into view was a masked figure in black robes, gliding to the spot directly in front of her. The figure’s mask was of grey stone, a demonic effigy with high cheeks, thick brows, and a ferocious maw. Concentric circles were focalized above the eyes in the center of the forehead. Two wine colored gems turned to Jenna as the figure took their place within arm’s reach. The attention of the mask was locked on her, and she felt compelled to thrash more violently.

A trail of smoke crept from a bundle of sticks the figure held. They stood before her, as if the mask itself took pleasure in watching her struggle. Jenna realized that the only sound echoing throughout the dark chamber was her own thrashing and crying, further instilling in her a terrified loneliness.

The cloaked figure started waving his arms and body, methodically, creating a trail of shapes with the smoking bundle in their hand. Jenna was not relieved by the sound of humming behind her. Its inhumanly deep tones refused to be consonant or dissonant, furthering the enigma of the scene. Jenna found that she had stopped thrashing, enraptured by what she immediately understood as an ancient ritual. Her mind calmed as her light began to fade.

Oblivious to changing circumstances, Jenna found herself in a trance. The chamber’s red light dimmed with her fleeting awareness and fear. The masked figure was no longer menacing, the sights and sounds of the chamber becoming oddly familiar. Inhibitions left with memories. Understanding nothing but the present moment, she noticed she was surrounded by darkness.

Feeling nothing, she traversed the ethereal dark. Curiosity and wonder were replaced by a neutral state of being. An eternity passed, as well as no time at all, which were all in the same and made no difference. Dim curiosity grew as a doorway bathed in red light appeared from the nothingness. It grew in size and significance, as one might feel approaching an object, or an object approaching them. The red doorway had grown quickly, nearly enveloping all surroundings, when the sound of a scream pierced through. The sound of Clarion’s scream.
The doorway retracted, along with the darkness. Her surroundings faded by escaping to the periphery, and her senses were welcomed by a surge of energy and fear. Jenna’s vision arrived with the feeling of cold, drying liquid on her skin and clothes. She instinctively pulled her wrists against the straps, finding no resistance. She stood quickly, her sight darkening once more. The throbbing headache and spots in her eyesight were welcome, proving to be lightheadedness rather than the previous trancelike state. As her vision cleared, however, the changed scene petrified her body and mind.

The stone mask lay cracked on the floor, close to the figure’s body in a growing pool of blood. She recognized the cold, dead face of the dark-robed deacon. The sound of a gasp drew her attention away from the body. Turning, Clarion and the white-robed priest could barely be seen in the candlelight, embraced in a violent struggle. They were grappling on a table, the priest on top fighting for the knife in Clarion’s hand. Her father’s strength waned, and the priest’s grip overcame him. The knife clattered on the table, which suddenly produced a loud series of cracks. The table’s legs collapsed entirely, and Clarion fell downward, hitting the ground with his back taking all of the priest’s weight and the force behind it. The priest, in full control of the stunned Clarion, snatched the knife. Holding the knife above his head, the priest swung the knife downward with great effort, piercing her father in the chest. He stayed like that, admiring his work, his white robe soaked with blood.

Jenna rushed to a door at the opposite end of the chamber. Her mind ceased to function as she pulled at it hard, the door refusing to budge. She looked back to the pulpit, finding the priest beginning to stand. She looked back to the door, removing the board she now realized locked it, and promptly opened it. She stumbled into the cobbled streets, immediately running in the first direction her instincts took her. Her run soon became a clumsy gallop, as she was unable to catch her breath. Down the street, she looked at her hands driving her body forward, and saw them covered in dried blood. She looked down at her robes, unable to be shocked any further, noticing that she was moving through the city with blood caking her skin and clothes. Her fear of being seen was dim in comparison to the fear of the church, so she pushed forward.
She wondered vaguely at her energy, how she was able to travel after being so recently bedridden. She began filling her chest with air, unhindered by the congestion that had brought her to death’s door. The city, with its dying victims strewn in alleys and calling after her, was insignificant as it passed by her eyes. Her mind started functioning again, slowly, as she found the door of her home standing before her. Looking around and seeing the streets abandoned, Jenna quickly opened the door and entered her home.

She tried recalling the events in the church as she sat next to Clarion’s empty chair. When called upon, memories flooded like an eager visitor. They brought with them a fear so unbearable that she quickly ceased her attempts. She vowed to try again the following day.
She heated the bath, put her stained robe in the garbage, and sank into the warm water. The stains came off easily with the bar of lye. It was only when she washed her wrists that Jenna fell into an uncontrollable panic. After taking great effort to come back to her senses, she cleaned the rest of her stained body as quickly as possible. She dressed herself in a white sleeping gown and walked out to the sitting room.
Jenna stayed in her chair, waiting for her father to get home from work. She would not go to bed until he arrived. She wanted to greet him at the door as usual, see him place his hat on the stand, and put her arms around him with a smile and a kiss. She placed a candle by the window so he would know she had stayed up for him.

She sat motionless in her chair for some time. When a thought entered her mind, she would replace it with the comforting sound of her father walking up the steps and unlocking the door. She would stand and rush over to greet him. She would see him entering the door slowly, in a white robe. She would see a stone mask, with long features and gems for eyes, pause in front of her. She would see him raise his arms above his head, and come down to her in an embrace.