Feminine 101

If you have not already done so, or if you are new, I recommend starting with Chapter 1. This is a linear story and will make a lot more sense read as a whole. Please leave a like, comment, or subscribe to my blog to get notifications when a new chapter is published. If I get 100 views on a single post of One More Life, I will self-publish a digital and printed copy with an exclusive Epilogue. If you only missed the last post, you can read Chapter 13 here.

The sun-darkened farmer sat patiently on an old stump while the blacksmith worked. He kept his thoughts mostly to himself, not keen to distract the burly craftsman. The rhythmic clang of the hammer rang out in the crisp autumn air. A few chickens scattered down the dusty street as a stooped figure made his way toward them. Beetle, a very old man and a fixture of nuisance in their tiny village, shuffled toward the workshop no doubt bringing some outrageous gossip with which to tempt them. The farmer eyed the smithy, willing him to finish quickly, but the burly man showed no signs of slowing. A wry smile crossed his sweat-drenched face, the only indication that he also noticed the approach of Beetle. At least he would not be forced to listen to his antics alone today. 

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The reedy old voice wheezed out a cheerful greeting, “Good morning to you, sirs! Mind if I sit with ye for a spell?” Without awaiting an answer, Beetle sank onto a stack of grain sacks by the mossy stone wall with a groan of satisfaction. 

The smithy and farmer grunted and gestured amicably but said nothing. Beetle eyed them both with a suspicious look. “I hope yer families are all well?” He seemed to impart special meaning into the greeting. 

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The farmer nodded quietly waiting for Beetle to share whatever was on his mind. 

Beetle adjusted his ragged cloak with fussiness to rival any noble and then spoke in a casual tone. “It’d be fearsome to hear that locals has been struck down.” He paused dramatically waiting for one of them to take the bait. When neither said anything, he shrugged and continued. “‘Course Messina is a terrible long way.” He eyed them clearly hoping to have piqued their curiosity. 

The farmer rolled his eyes and smiled slightly, “Messina, you say?” The blacksmith coughed a silent laugh and said nothing. 

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Beetle leaned forward to his captive audience. “A dozen ships docked at port. Crews were all dead. ‘Cept a pitiful handful barely clinging to life, all covered in boils, bleeding and oozing muck. Terrible sight.” He sat back with a shudder.

The farmer arched an eyebrow and Beetle crossed his legs casually. “ ‘Course, the port authority sent the ships away, but the damage’s done. They’re sayin’ it’s spreading ‘crost the country like wildfire.” He looked at his nails as though they were the most interesting thing in the world. “They say no one’s safe. You can go to bed healthy and strong at night and never wake up. Yer wife has to deal with a rotting corpse in the morn’. They’s hauling the bodies out by the cartfuls in Messina, they is.”

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The blacksmith finally paused his work to growl, “Are you practicing a new tale to scare those kids ‘as been pickin’ on your dog?”

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Beetle flashed irritation but was interrupted before he could respond.

A newcomer had joined their gathering standing several feet away. The man, a trader, by the look of his traveling cloak and worldly expression, spoke up, “It’s true. My cousin, Titus, worked for the port authority at Messina or did. He was one of the first to succumb. Then his daughter. Then his wife.”

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Both the smithy and the farmer were frowning at the trader who continued, “The city’s locked down pretty tight now. I was told that you can smell the dead and rotting things from miles away. I know I won’t be going there anytime soon.”

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The farmer, still frowning, finally spoke, “And how did you hear about your cousin?” 

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“Word was sent to my brother. When I passed there 3 weeks ago, he told me.” The trader glanced toward his cart. “If I was you, I’d stay away from any who’s sick.”

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Beetle leaned forward a little too eagerly, “Is it true that family’s is leavin’ their sick ones in the streets so’s to not get it?”

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The trader looked grim and only nodded confirmation.

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There was silence for a moment before the smithy plunged the newly repaired tool into a bucket of water with a raucous hiss. “That’ll do it, Andrew.” And he laid the cooling piece of metal on a scrap of leather and wrapped it up. 

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The farmer dug in a sack by his feet drawing out a loaf of bread and a package of salt pork which the smithy took with a grin. “Your wife’s bread is the finest in a thousand miles. Don’t let the nobles find out or they’ll take her to cook for them.” He stuck out a hand to Andrew, “Give my regards to your family.”

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Andrew smiled warmly, “And mine to yours, Gregor.” He grasped the smithy’s hand, then glanced at Beetle and the trader who had turned back towards his cart before meaningfully meeting the smithy’s eyes. He spoke in a low voice, “You take care of your family and be wary of strangers. Anyone ‘round here gets sick, you keep away from them. You touch anyone that’s sick, you wash up real good, you hear?”

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Gregor’s eyes widened at this serious tone from the farmer. Andrew was level-headed to a fault and perhaps the smartest man he had ever known, far belying his simple farmer’s garb. The concern in his too-understanding eyes, the intensity of his warning made Gregor pause in alarm, but he nodded, committing Andrew’s instructions to memory. 

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The farmer scooped up the tool, mindful of the still-hot metal and turned to leave murmuring polite farewells to all around him. 

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The walk home was quiet, wind tousling his hair as he walked deep in thought. He passed field after neatly gleaned field unconsciously noting the familiar work of his neighbors. He was remembering the law as Moses read it, about washing and removing things unclean. He remembered another plague many, many centuries ago. Would this be worse than David’s plague? He thought of Messina not so far away as Beetle claimed, wondered if families really were leaving their sick loved ones to languish and die alone, knew that it was very likely. Fear–desperation–made people do unthinkable things. 

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He thought of Claricia at home, how she’d risen early to bake the loaf he’d used for payment to Gregor. Their daughters had slept cuddled in the loft against the late November chill; his sons slept behind a curtain in the main room. He himself had lain in bed after she was gone, listening to her gentle humming and the sounds of her work in their small home. He pictured the sway of her hips as she moved about the familiar space, could picture her brushing aside a stray tendril with the back of a flour-dusted hand. It was a luxury, staying in bed like that, one he was seldom afforded. But he drank in the sweetness of her devotion to him, of the fullness of their home, small compared with some, but no less wonderful. 

A shadow seemed to fall across the memory. She had died in David’s plague. A lump rose in his throat as his eyes narrowed. A chill breeze whipped at his cloak, stung his eyes. After two thousand years together, he still dreaded the parting of death. 

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And then there was the trader’s cousin. He could not be sure, he almost never was. But the last time, when she was named Lucia and he, Cornelius, they had a son who had taken work as a laborer at the port. His name was Titus. 

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As their cottage came into view his sons, nearly grown now, were visible stacking hay in honey-colored mounds as tall as the stable. The neat pile of chopped firewood for the coming winter spoke of their long hours of labor in his absence. One of his girls was drawing water from the stone-walled well and the other, a tiny girl of four, was gathering eggs. Their dog, a scruffy black thing with hair that made him appear double his actual size, raised his head and pointed toward Andrew for a moment before bounding in his direction. The beast bounced in circles around him while Andrew walked lost in thought, ignoring him. He paused on the road outside their home, unnoticed by anyone save the dog. 

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Just then, a woman emerged from the cottage, head wrapped in a cloth to keep the strands from her face. As if guided by some unseen sense, she turned instinctively toward him. A smile split wide on her face, like sunshine penetrating the cold November clouds. He never tired of it and returned her smile with unforced warmth, calling a greeting. His daughter dropped the eggs spilling yellow globs and brown shell fragments across the ground. It was a mess, one which she did not pay any mind as she and her brother, his youngest, raced to him. Between the dog’s throaty barks and the children’s chatter, it was a small moment of chaos. His elder children followed at a more reserved pace, curious for word from town. They parted as Claricia approached and he smiled down into her face, looking into her earnest eyes.

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