Abigail Sheaffer

Sweet Angel of Death

 

 

Isle of Wight, England

October 1st, 1348

 

 

She stands at the cliff, overlooking the ocean and inhales the salty air. She closes her eyes. Behind her, the trees are dappled ochre and crimson. Fallen apples make cider in their rotting skin. 

 

Her hair whips in her face and makes her eyes water. She stares back at the horizon. A ship rambles across the indigo waters, making small waves. The fragrance of burning silver birch and field maple stings her nostrils. 

 

Gemma closes her eyes again. 

 

Tomorrow, the ship docks. It has come from Genoa and bears fabrics and spices from Kaffa. Usually, she revels in this: in her husband buying saffron threads and silks. But she feels a startling melancholia that unsettles her. 

 

She opens her eyes and stares at the ship. She turns around and looks over her shoulder and gazes at the village. She shudders.

 

*

 

They wait at the harbor. Her daughter, Gelle, clings to her. Her husband, Nicholas, rests his hand on the small of her back.

 

“I’ve heard there be a pestilence,” an elderly servant whispers, “nonsense, Alma,” whispers another. 

 

“Nah, it’s true! They say God has unleashed a curse on the wicked… horrible wounds, blackened hands and elbows, bleeding an inky pus…” 

 

Nicholas feels her spine become rigid with fear. He leans in and whispers in her ear.  “It won’t get us, God has blessed us.” 

 

Gemma rubs her womb, Nicholas places his hand over hers. She closes her eyes and sees his fingers become livid and bulbous. Her breath catches in her chest. 

 

“Alma!” he cries out, “please fetch Lady Gemma a cup of water!” 

 

Gemma folds into his arms. 

 

*

 

Her midwife sits with her, daubing her perspiring forehead with vinegar and water. 

 

“It’s in the air!” Gemma cries. 

 

“Nonsense, Lady Gemma, nonsense. Those be rumors from Spain and Italy. It would never get to us here, we’re safe… we’re at the edge of the world!” 

 

Her midwife massages her feet. 

 

“Now, come now and rest, the baby is coming!” 

 

Gelle watches from behind a curtain until the midwife closes it. Nicholas stares down at the village. 

 

“Bring out your dead!” cries a man. He wears a beaked mask and rings a bell and his wagon is full of bodies. From the corner of his eye, he watches as Gelle stands on tip-toe to watch from the window.

 

“NO!” he says.

 

In the next room, the shrill sobbing of a baby lacerates the air.

 

*

 

She stands outside the door of the manor. A heavy fog rolls in from the ocean. Its fragrance is of rotting skin. 

 

Death has passed over us, she murmurs. She raps on the door. 

 

Nicholas, she calls. Gelle! 

 

The forest sways under a lavish, obsidian sky and the moon’s milky gaze weighs on her shoulders. 

 

She stares back at the cavernous expanse of tree branches that seem to wed with the brambles. Her muslin night dress becomes livid and stained with inky pus. 

 

Her lips are cold to the touch. She stares at her ankles, at toes that have fallen off. 

 

She comes to. 

 

*

 

The trees sway in the October air. 

 

A man in black with a beaked mask collects bodies in his wagon while ringing a bell which he throws over his shoulder as a butcher would meat. 

 

Nicholas hears scratches at the door of the manor. He stares at the bulbous mark on his hands. 

 

In the corner of his eye, he sometimes sees her. The wraith of his wife. 

 

He dares not breathe the air.

 

Closing his eyes, he sees a shadow and his candle flickers. He feels the silk of a dress, the warmth of a bosom that heaves behind his earlobe—the coldness of gold.

 

He reaches out his hand and feels a silken tendril of hair. It’s soft, it feels uncomfortable against the bulbous wound on his hand.

 

“Come with me,” she murmurs. 

 

“Gemma,” he says. 

 

His blood runs cold. Then warm.

 

He opens his eyes.

 

She is full of bulbous wounds and livid skin. Her hair has fallen out in chunks. Her fair skin is lavender but smells putrid. 

 

“Come with me,” she says again. 

 

*

 

He wakes up damp in his bed. 

 

A tree branch scratches against the walls of the manor.

 Candlelight reveals the bulbous wounds have spread. His fingertips and toes are cold.

 

“Sweet angel of death,” he cries. 

 

The candle flickers and burns out.

 

The pus begins to pour.

 

*

 

Gemma caresses his chest. Her lips softly press against his. 

 

“Wake up,” she implores.

 

Scarlet floods his vision.

 

 

 

Abigail Sheaffer is the former editor-in-chief of Chicago Literati and The Vignette Review. Her fiction has been published in Bluestockings, Crab Fat, Danse Macabre, Luna Luna, Literary Orphans, and many other publications. She currently works in the capacity of a cooking instructor for places such as Williams-Sonoma, park districts throughout Illinois, and small restaurants.