Plague and Ash

Excerpt

Plague and Ash
Sita Bethel © 2021
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Something woke me. I blinked at the morning light peeking through the curtains and cutting rectangles onto the ceiling. Only a corner of the quilt draped over my legs while the rest twisted beside me. I must’ve been thrashing in my sleep again. I hadn’t slept well since I’d come home for harvest break, too worried. After slinging my feet over the edge of the bed, I tucked them into my house shoes to avoid the chilly wooden floor. I heard Mama coughing in the kitchen. The acrid smoke smacked me in the face as soon as I left my room. I waved my hand around my nose.

“Mama?”

“Burned the damn sausage. Did the smoke wake you?” Mama scraped four burnt discs out of her cast iron skillet and into the scrap bowl, but I was sure Buttermilk wouldn’t touch them.

“The coughing,” I admitted.

“Don’t worry, Sarah. It’s the smoke, nothing else. Pops and I have been drinking elderberry juice, and once we’ve harvested all the crops, we’ll hole up through the winter and wait for this to blow over.”

“Biscuits.” I rushed to the oven, using a dish rag to pull out the tin pan before they burned with the sausage.

“Sorry, my mind’s elsewhere.”

“I can help you and Pops harvest if you’re worried.”

“No. We done told you to stay inside with your brothers.”

“The only reason I came home from the School was to help with the harvest, so let me help.”

“Oh, you came home to work? And here I thought you’d want to see your family.”

“Of course I do.” I shoved my fists against my hips. “And help. Why won’t you let me be useful? The sooner you’re done, the sooner we can all spend more time together.”

“Sarah.” Mama plopped her rump onto a nearby stool and rested her elbows on her knees. “We didn’t want you to worry, but…”

“Who’s sick?” Frowning, I crossed my arms over my chest. The towel dangled in my hand.

“Aunt Flora.” Mama turned away. The gas lights made her gray streak flash and made the wrinkles around her mouth deep as weathered cracks splitting wood. “The baby’s got the Fever too.”

“Mama.” I dropped the towel. Crouching low, I roped my arms around her.

“You stay inside, all right?”

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“It’ll…be all right. I’m sure. Will you re-cook the sausage for me? I need to help your father.”

“Go on.” I pulled a pack of butcher paper out of the ice box and set it on the counter.

“We’ll be home late.” Mama pulled me close to kiss my temple and then walked out the door.

I warshed my hands in the deep, enamel sink. It was only October, but the morning water rushing over my hands was frigid. Hissing, I grabbed another towel and dried them before shaping the ground meat into patties and getting them in a hot skillet. The view from the kitchen window was burnished, sun all orange and fiery as it struck the mist clinging to the yard. Buttermilk crept along the fence line, stalking a field mouse. I hoped she caught it because otherwise it’d be burnt sausage for her.

A shadow slipped through the cluster of pecan trees near the road. At least I thought one did, but when I squinted, I only saw a fat old squirrel cursing at something hiding in the branches above him. I snorted, shook my head, and flipped the sausages. As they browned, I fetched a jar of sorghum molasses and set it on the table with the butter dish. We grew sorghum grain, but Mama always kept enough sweet sorghum in the garden to make syrup for us.

Abel was the first to stumble out of his room. His hair sprayed around his head in dark brown wisps. They took after Mama, but I had Pops’s copper highlights. Last semester, the other girls at the School convinced me to lighten my hair with peroxide, but instead of summer-kissed and sunny, it turned a brassy off-orange, and once my roots grew out, I had Billy take his clippers to it. Now it was a shaggy mess, and I couldn’t wait until it was long enough to pull away from my face.

“Where’s Mama?” Abel asked.

“She went to help Pops. There’s sausage in the skillet.”

“Why does it smell of smoke?”

“Mama burnt the sausage, but I cooked more.” I fixed my own plate and sat on the stool next to the stove, balancing the plate on my lap.

“Did she swear?”

“Yup.”

“Only time I ever hear Mama swear is in the kitchen.”

Abel was right, so I offered a distracted laugh, but I was focused on dipping my biscuit into my sorghum syrup and not his chatter. Abel pulled last night’s sweet tea from the ice box, sat at the table, and shoved his breakfast into his mouth. He chugged half a mason jar’s worth of tea before sighing and setting the glass onto the table.

“I’m gonna go to the pond and get some catfish for dinner.”

“No, you ain’t.” I snorted. We’ve had this conversation damn near every day for three heckin’ weeks.

“I swear I won’t talk to nobody, so let me go.”

“No, you ain’t going. I promised Mama we’d stay inside.”

“Sarah, I’m fourteen. I can handle myself.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Was I this stubborn when I argued with Mama? With three of us giving her sass, no wonder she had a gray streak cutting through her hair like a skunk stripe.

“Aunt Flora’s got the Fever,” I said.

“What?”

“Her and the baby came down with the Fever. Mama told me this morning. She don’t want me to tell you, but I am because I want you understand why we gotta stay inside. This is getting bad, Abel. I think Mom and Pops are scared.”

“But Pops’s been working with Uncle Caleb, and if Aunt Flora’s sick—”

“Then he might get sick too. I know, and elderberry juice ain’t gonna keep them healthy, but they’re our folk, so we can’t argue with them. All we can do is stay inside like they tell us. Mama promised they’d both stay home with us once they harvested all the sorghum.”

“Fine.” Abel slammed his plate near the sink. “I’ll stay inside.”

“Thank you.” I stacked my plate on top of Abel’s to warsh them later. “Where’s Cain?”

“Bed, I guess.”

“Cain! Come get breakfast!” I shouted over my shoulder.

With a frown, I stared out the window again. The pecan leaves were going golden, and the squirrels always stole the small, sweet ones if you weren’t quick at gathering them first. I could have a bucket’s worth in an hour, less if Cain and Abel helped. They’d probably complain, but at least it was something to do outside, if not the fishing hole. We could shell them on the porch, make fudge, and pretend it’s Christmas. As tired as Mom and Pops were after working the fields all day, they deserved something nice.

“Abel said Aunt Flora is sick.” Cain walked into the kitchen.

“She is, so don’t whine about how you can’t go see your friends, or go fishing, or sneak off to town to flirt with the girl at the general store because we ain’t going past the fence.”

“Is she gonna die?” Cain asked.

“No,” I said.

I had no right to say no. The Fever started with aches, coughing, and being hot to the touch, but instead of people recovering after a few rough nights, the Fever would raise their temperature until they were rambling nonsense and calling for their mamas. Once folk started hallucinating, they’d drool globs of frothy spit. Blood speckled their coughs, and they often lashed out at whoever was nursing them. First time I heard about it on the radio, they were warning people about a rabies outbreak. Something similar happened when I was eight, so I didn’t pay the warning no mind. My family was smart enough to leave stray animals alone. But then some of the students at the School received letters about sick family, and they were saying it weren’t no rabies.

I could not think about Aunt Flora coughing blood into her apron, or little Ruthie lying in her crib with a fever. She was already two, but we kept calling her “the baby” because she was the baby of the family. My fingers coiled into fists, as if I could punch the damn sickness right outta Aunt Flora, then chase it away.

I hadn’t heard of anyone recovering, but surely some did?

The rumors of plague were too vague and distant to hurt me while I was studying at the Oreburn University of Incantations—or the School, as everyone actually called it. The city was too busy to worry about a few sniffles, but Eaxley was a small town. We didn’t have horseless carriages or even regular carriages. Our horses were for our plows, and we did our schooling at home instead of sending the chilluns away where they couldn’t learn nothing useful, like how to cut grass with a scythe to feed the livestock, or how to gut a hog or shell a turtle. However, a man came three years ago during our harvest festival and handed toys to all the chilluns. He was an Autumn Saint Nicholas, in a brown tweed coat, who drove a motorized carriage with a shiny brass horn on the side instead of a sleigh with reindeer. I was nineteen at the time, but he handed me a ball, and I laughed when I took it, thinking it such a simple and childish toy.

But as soon as the sphere sat in my palm, it fizzed all golden and wild. Glitter showered from the toy, similar to the sparklers during the Planting Festival we had each year—when we weren’t rained out. The ball rose from my hands and bloomed into a flaming bird before dissipating into ribbons of smoke. The next morning, Mr. Barnaby was at our door with a suitcase full of papers and talk of sponsors and scholarships. My folks made me go outside and do chores while Pops listened politely, and Mr. Barnaby left after supper. In the evening, Pops asked me what I wanted to do.

I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew what I didn’t want—to get married to an Eaxley boy. Mama and Pops both were already asking me when I’d settle and were there any fellas in town who’d caught my eye. Mary, whose daddy was a beekeeper, was nice to look at, but I could tell she fancied boys, so I’d sorta given up on love altogether and planned on being a spinstress with a dozen cats instead of grandbabies.

Going to school gave me an escape. It gave me a chance to go to Oreburn and meet other people and have a reason not to start a family because I was “lost in my studies.” I begged Pops to let me go. I gave him a wonderful speech about the pursuit of knowledge, and he signed the papers, and I started the next year. Yet, about half the students were from small farming villages same as me, and there were breaks in spring, summer, and fall in order for all the rural students to go home and help their folk with the farms.

Only once I returned for harvest did the reality of the plague hit me. I rode home with half a dozen other students in a wagon provided by the School. Briar sat between Oreburn and Eaxley, and it was lively when we stopped for dinner. The diner was crowded with people and the din of conversation. A radio crackled a song from the Dragon Quartet, and the waitress was a pretty elven thing who offered us possum pie after our meal. The merriment was only interrupted by the occasional cough, reminding us all the time of year for colds and influenza was creeping close. I was already prepared for the slew of vitamins, teas, and juices Mama would pour down my throat once I returned home for the harvest. Nonetheless, it didn’t stop us from sipping on hard cider and singing with the rest of the tavern, enjoying the festivities.

I slept in the wagon, full, warm beneath a blanket, and crowded with friends. The driver never slept, and we didn’t ask. Everyone at the School was happy to answer a question, but it was never the answer you wanted. It was never a fun, he drank an enchanted cup of coffee and won’t sleep for a week; it was usually something unsettling such as, he’s a mechanical man full of gears and springs who never sleeps. Sometimes, I didn’t want answers, not when I had the stars above me and an easy wagon ride to rock me to sleep.

When we reached Eaxley, it was empty.

Not truly empty, the tavern was full, and the general store. People crowded in the tavern, drinking and singing without a care in the world. Meanwhile people rushed into the general store in a frenzy. They pushed through the crowds, and I could hear women bickering over the last ten pound sack of beans. The two buildings juxtaposed on opposite sides of the otherwise deserted street cut in half with each half in a different world. Other than those two stores, the streets were deserted. The old men who usually stood in front of the co-op were nowhere in sight. The outside market didn’t have a single crop for sale—not even Mary’s dad with his honey, or our stall where Mama sold jars of sorghum and bags of pecans for a little extra Christmas money each year. I wasn’t sure what made me more nervous—the empty patches or the crowded store and tavern.

And coughing echoed from both buildings. It wasn’t unusual for people to cough in fall, but Billy had rested his hand on my shoulder and given me a concerned glance.

“Radio said this side of Oreburn was getting bad. Make sure you stick to your own fields and keep away from town until the Fever runs its course.”

“You do the same.” I nudged my elbow into his side.

“My daddy wrote me and said Fairfield is fine and people are just telling ghost stories before the harvest festival.” Julia snorted. Nobody liked Julia because she insisted on being right about everything.

“Well, my pawpaw’s a doctor and said once a patient coughs their first drop of blood—they’re as good as dead.” Billy scowled at Julia. “He said it’s so contagious they have to burn the bodies to try and slow the spread, but it’s spreading all the same.”

“You’re from the boonies. I bet your pawpaw’s a horse doctor and married to his cousin.”

“Shut up, Julia, or I’ll stick a cow patty down your dress.” I snapped at her, but I didn’t have time to make good on my threat.

The wagon pulled off to the side of the road. It was my stop. I hugged Billy, promised to write, grabbed my bags, and walked the last three miles of winding country road to home. For a few days, I harvested, but after Pops came home from a trip to the general store, he told us to stay inside. Cain and Abel—named so cuz they were twins, if I hadn’t mentioned—snuck to the pond a few times, but Pops caught them and put a stop to their trips. We spent the last three weeks playing rummy and talking about where we’d go and what we’d do once everything was normal again.

Now, Aunt Flora and the baby had a fever, and I wasn’t sure things would ever return to normal.

“Sarah. You’ve been standing in front of the winder all morning,” Abel said.

“Sorry.” I smiled so he didn’t guess I was upset. “Been stuck in the house so long, reckon time’s starting to slip from me. You wanna pick pecans?”

“Nah. Gonna listen to the radio. Maybe they’ll have a story on.”

“All right, but you better help me shell these if you think you’re eating the fudge.”

“We got chocolate?”

“Little bit.”

“Where is it?” Abel asked.

“I’m not telling you, little sneak thief. It’s for special occasions.”

“Then why you using it?”

“Because I’m making something we can share—where’s Cain?” My brow furrowed. “He’s never this quiet.”

“He’s taking a nap on the couch, why?”

“That boy is getting lazy. You two need to stop staying awake so late reading those awful pamphlets.”

“They’re not pamphlets—they’re books—they’re just serials.”

“Books with dirty pictures of women in them.” I snorted.

“They’re adventures. You gotta have a heroine for the hero to save in the adventure. Besides, how would you know they were dirty unless you read some?”

I usually snuck into their room and stole a few to read myself; that’s how I knew. They were trash, but in a fun way. I’d get lost in them and stay up half the night wanting to read more, and the illustrations of women with short skirts and net stockings were nothing like the long dresses the girls in Eaxley wore.

“Magic.” I waved my fingers at him.

“Whatever.” Abel brushed me off and disappeared.

I found a bucket in the pantry and went outside. Yup, damn squirrels done got the best pecans. Each time I thought I’d gotten lucky, I’d lift the shell from the mud to discover it was gnawed on one end. There were plenty of the fat, round pecans, and those were good for baking, but not as nice as the little ones for popping right into your mouth. I filled a bucket, fetched a bowl, and moved to the patio to shell my prizes. At one point I checked on the twins, both were in their bedroom with the radio blasting, so I left them to their shows and enjoyed the quiet outside.

Woodsmoke filled the air. I took a deep breath; there was something extra rich about the smell. Someone must have brought home a razorback from a hunt and decided to smoke him. While I finished shelling the nuts, half of me enjoyed the day: the pleasant air, the golden leaves falling to the ground, the bright sky and picture-perfect clouds. Yet the other half of me circled through the same thoughts on a constant loop. Is Flora and the baby going to be okay? What if they died? What if Pops got sick? Or Mama?

Stomach acid teased the back of my throat. I swallowed, but it didn’t warsh the burn away. Sighing, I hoisted the bowl of pecans to my hip and brushed the shelling dust from my pudgy belly before preparing to go inside to start supper.

“Sarah, what are you doing?” Mama shouted from the gate.

“Shelling pecans.” I held up the bowl.

“Get inside.”

“But I didn’t leave the yard—”

“Sarah Rue Gideon, you march your ass inside before it gets dark!”

My mouth dropped. She used my middle name and a curse word. Mama didn’t curse in public. Tears in my eyes, I rushed inside and shoved the pecans on the counter.

“Sarah, did you hear? They closed the School,” Cain said before I had a chance to sort out my thoughts.

“What?” I rubbed my knuckles against my eye.

“Man on the radio said they closed the School because too many students got sick when they went home for break. The viscount in Oreburn don’t want people coming back and spreading it to the city.”

It made perfect sense, but I was bitter. I’d been trapped in the house for weeks, was yelled at for no reason, Aunt Flora was sick, and now school was closed, so I’d be stuck at home all winter long. In a fit, I ran to my room, flung myself on the bed, and angry cried into my pillow like I was a teenager again.

“Hey.” Pops knocked on my door after I’d gotten most of it out of my system. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah.” I scrubbed my face, trying to rope in my remaining emotions.

Pops was an oak tree, thick, stout, and deeply rooted to his land. His eyes were hazel; so were Cain and Abel’s—I got Mama’s brown eyes—and he always had a bandana or small towel because he worked until the sweat rolled into his eyes.

“Heard your classes were cancelled. I’m sorry.”

“I’ll be okay.” I sniffed.

I wasn’t sad. Not in a normal way. My tears were similar to if I held my breath until my lungs burned. Eventually, I’d have no choice but to suck in a gasp, right? Breathing was a reflex, and if I stop it for too long, a pressure would build until I automatically pulled in air to relieve the tightness. It was the same with my tears, just a reflex I couldn’t control, but they helped ease the discomfort in my chest.

“And your Mama didn’t mean to snap at you.”

“It’s okay. I understand she’s worried about Flora,” I said.

“I was hoping she wouldn’t tell you.” Pops glanced away.

“I wanted to help harvest and wouldn’t take no for an answer,” I explained.

“The yard seems safe, but…” Pops picked at his nails.

It wasn’t his usual habit, so it drew my attention. I noticed his nails black with ash.

“Were you burning?”

“Just the trash barrel.” Pops shrugged.

“Pops, I get you want to protect us, but you’re scaring me. What aren’t you telling us?”

“They closed down the general store.” Pops rested his hands on his knees. I noticed ashy smudges worked into his jeans.

“Is Mr. Creetus sick too?”

“They all got it. Anyone who doesn’t is hiding inside their homes, and…” Pop’s words faltered. His jaw ground so hard I thought he might crack a tooth. “With the town empty, we’ve seen bobcats flitting about, and your mama’s worried one might attack you even in the yard, so stay indoors all the time, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir.” I hugged myself.

I remembered the shadow I thought I saw weaving between the pecan trees. Could it have been a bobcat? The outline had seemed…bigger. A bear? Nah, not that big. Or maybe it was only my imagination, and I was trying to fit things in place—wanting to make sense of something, if not the plague sweeping through my town.

“Come on. Mama’s cooking dinner.” Pops waved for me to follow him.

I went to the warshroom to scrub my face with cold water and clean my hands before going into the kitchen. The skillet sizzled on the stove flames as Mama fried chicken.

“I’m sorry,” she said as soon as she saw me out of the corner of her vision.

“We were allowed to stay in the yard before,” I said.

“You’re right. I shouldn’t have hollered.”

“We’ll stay inside from now on.” I grabbed a stack of plates from the cupboard to set the table.

I never did warsh the breakfast dishes, and the guilt nagged at my guts. We also didn’t eat lunch. I had been busy stuffing my face with pecans, but I was surprised Cain and Abel didn’t shout at me for food. Maybe they made a sandwich. I glanced around but couldn’t see them. Pops had the news on the radio in the family room, so they must have been with him.

“Did you get a lot of harvesting done?” I asked to fill the silence chomping at both our nerves.

Momma took a while to answer, a deep frown wrinkling her face. “Not enough. There’s too many to harvest.”

I pursed my lips. She’d worded it oddly, but after a second, I said, “I’ll stay inside because you want me to, but if you change your mind—tell me, okay? Cain and Abel too. We wanna help.”

“You’re such good chilluns.” Mama stole me into her arms and squeezed the breath outta me.

We parted and Mama finished supper while I mixed the sweet tea in a glass pitcher. We had fried chicken, polk salad, beans, and leftover biscuits. I loaded my plate sloppy full, hungry after fussing in the yard all day.

“Y’all! Dinner’s ready!” Mama shouted toward the family room as she fixed Pops’s plate.

I ate quickly, not waiting for everyone because I wanted to get the dishes done before Mama noticed them. Afterward, I made fudge then paced the kitchen while I waited for it to set in the ice box. Though the morning had been chilly, the day had grown muggy. Mama had to turn on the attic fan, but for some reason they didn’t open any of the windows. I glanced at Abel as we sat at the kitchen table waiting on the fudge, but neither of us said anything.

“Where’s Cain?” I asked once the silence had gone on for too long.

“Sleeping.”

“If he sleeps now, he’s gonna stay up all night and then sleep in again tomorrow.”

“You go wake him, then.” Abel shrugged and focused on his comic with a picture of a blonde in a shimmering red dress tied to a chair, her eyes wide in horror as a shadow approached.

“Nah, he can sleep. It means more fudge for me.” I grinned.

I dug out a textbook on wild spell components from my school bag. The reading was dry, but I wouldn’t get a chance to attend classes until spring, so I suddenly wanted to know everything I was gonna miss. I was reading the history of Four Thieves Vinegar when Cain stumbled into the kitchen, forehead sweating and eyes glazed.

“You feeling all right?” I asked.

“Slept too hard,” he muttered. “Is the fudge ready?”

“Ought to be.”

It was a bit soft set, but good enough. We spent the rest of the evening crowded around the kitchen table—all five of us. We finished off the sweet tea and ate a few cubes of fudge each. A song played from the living room radio, and Mama sang. Her voice was springtime pretty. It was earthy and comforting. My entire childhood was filled with memories of her singing in the kitchen, cooking, or teaching me how to cook. Pops clapped for her. She blushed and hid her face, but he braced a hand on her back.

“Why you hiding? We’ve done been married for over twenty-five years.”

“And yet you still make me blush,” she said.

“What kind a man would I be if I couldn’t make my beautiful wife blush from time to time?”

“You stop that, Owen.” Mama shoved at his shoulder.

“True, ain’t it? You’re beautiful.”

“I’m already ready for Christmas,” Cain said, trying to distract our folks from their shameless flirting.

“Can’t wait to get a stocking full of coal, eh?” Pops chuckled.

“Can we get a puppy this year?” Abel asked.

“I don’t know.” Pops scratched his head. “Ask your mama.”

“Mama?” Cain’s expression perked up.

“Y’all hardly play with Buttermilk.”

“Cat ain’t no fun. You can run around with a dog, and take him fishing and hunting, and teach him to chase a ball,” Abel insisted.

“Perhaps some dogs would be good, for security,” Mama said in a low voice. She’d grown serious, and I itched to ask what she meant by security when we lived out in the middle of nowhere.

“We’ll see.” Pops nodded. He’d grown somber enough to match Mama—a gray sky over a cemetery.

“Yes! We’re getting dogs!” Cain and Abel grinned at each other.

They didn’t seem to notice the change in tone. Maybe I was pushing my own fears onto what I saw and heard. Mama brought out a deck of cards, and we played several rounds of rummy. Even with the windows shut, I could hear the last crickets and cicadas making a fuss outside. Soon they’d freeze to death, but tonight they were enjoying their last days in the fields and beneath the stars.

By the time I crawled to bed it was close to midnight, but I couldn’t sleep. The attic fan didn’t pull enough air through the house unless all the windows were opened to help. Hot and stuffy, I pushed the pane near my bed up a few inches, enough for a breeze. The bug-song filled my room, louder than before, and I saw the Wishing Well constellation dipping below the horizon. The smell of smoke still clung to the air. In the dark, I noticed it had a greasy sort of twang to it. I told myself Pops accidentally burnt the oil rags again. The thought, the excuse, helped me sleep.