He gagged. The fog stank, and sat heavy on the town. Bodies lay in the street, some freshly dead, some long dead and putrid; and here and there a body trembled slightly, not quite gone. The few who were afoot avoided each other. An occasional dog meandered among the corpses, sniffing as it went.
He must leave this rot. His woman and his son were gone. He felt fortunate that he had been able to get them buried before the gravediggers died. There were three of them counting the one she had carried in her womb for eight months. It remained there, inchoate, when they put her in the ground. All three now lay together. He had yelled at those who had dumped them in. He had expected some dignity in the interment but there was no dignity. The monks shoveled mud and dirt over them as he yelled. They did not look at him. One said, —Friend, you should not complain. Yours at least have their own hole. We put seventeen in one hole this morning before we came here. I doubt any of them knew each other. They came to their hole on the death wagon.
There was nothing but death in this stinking, heavy, immobile fog that shrouded the town. Now the gravediggers were dead, and no one would touch a corpse so they all lay rotting where they had drawn their last breath, in the streets, in the dank interiors, even in the public waters. When he left he would leave nothing because there was nothing. He had the clothes he wore and a sack with a few small loaves in it and a pouch of salt and a cloak and a thick wool blanket and two empty water flasks that he had used in his ventures in the East. He had a blade and an oak staff and a longbow with five dozen arrows in his quiver, and a purse fat and heavy with his own coin. In his youth he had traveled to the Eastern Empire with his master, a noble who had insisted that he learn the skills of a scribe and an archer while he was still a boy. His master had survived in the East, mostly as an administrator, and had returned to the kingdom and had freed his servants, and as he lay dying from this stinking pestilence he summoned his former servants and gave each a leather purse full of silver and gold coin.
There was nothing left in this town but dead and dying bodies, the filth of human detritus, and a stench that filled every space. He must leave today, now. He had been thirsty but the smells had made him gag and had lessened his thirst; there was no beer, no wine, no mead, and the swill in the public fountains was undrinkable. Every day until the last of the friars died they pulled bodies from these fountains. He was thirsty but he had no choice but to wait until he could drink from a spring in the hills, a spring above the towns and away from the hillside villages. He had learned from the Eastern priests that there was bad water and there was good water, and he knew without doubt that there was no good water here; he would find good water, but it would not be here. He would eat his crumbs in time, and he would eat grubs and roots and whatever nature might provide. But he would live. He would leave this town now, and he would live. His choice was to live in the forest or die in the town. He would go to the forest. He knew the forest and he knew that he could live there. There is life in the forest, notwithstanding its mystery and the fear of it because of the occasional wolf or bear, or dark spirit according to some. But he knew where the dark spirit was this day, and he would leave that this morning, now.
So he left, walking quickly, occasionally looking back to see if there were others behind him. There were none, and by noon he had passed through the city gate. He stopped and looked back for a moment, said goodbye to the dead, and chose his course.
By late afternoon he began to look earnestly for a brook which would indicate a source of good water. Now he was truly thirsty and he needed water. By his reckoning he had traveled ten to twelve miles. He had passed through or skirted several hamlets, and he aimed for a forest that he could see vaguely through the mist three or four miles distant where he could prepare a camp to give him comfort through the night. But his thirst was such that he decided to look for water now, before he got to the forest, where he might not find water before nightfall and surely would not find it in the dark of the night.
He came upon a thin line of vegetation cutting through a field, probably growth sustained by the waters of a tiny stream, he thought. He left the road and cut through the field and came to a brook. Though he was intensely thirsty, he determined to drink from the source of this brook where the water would be clean, and good, and where he could fill his flasks with water to get him through another day of flight from the filth and wretchedness that he had left a few hours back. As he walked upstream he could see a knob of woods ahead on a slope, and beyond that there was no line of vegetation cutting through the field beyond the knob. So the spring would be in that little patch of woods.
Suddenly he stopped. He smelled smoke and it was the smoke of a campfire. The knob was about a quarter of a mile away. Because of the fog, he could not see the smoke, but he knew this smell. This was not the smell of peat burning on a peasant's hearth but of deadwood and some juniper. This would be a campfire. Now, instead of following the brook straight to the trees, he swung out and flanked through the field to approach the knob and the spring from a vantage point above the spring. He took his longbow from his back and nocked an arrow. He stooped as he flanked the little wood and began slowly approaching it from above. When he came to the edge of the growth and entered he saw a woman seated on a fallen log next to a small fire with a toddler beside her. He could hear the gurgle of the spring nearby. He approached, slowly.
—Are you alone?
She did not look up. —I heard you and saw you coming when you flanked us. I have this child. I have goats, three does and a buck. I have a few coins in a pouch. I have God. And now you are here. I am not alone.
—You saw me?
—Yes. It is easier to see out from here within this wood than to see in from out there.
—Where are the goats?
—They are browsing somewhere here in the wood. They will come when they come, or when I leave.
—You have no food?
—The child and I have milk from the goats. I know how to pick mushrooms. I know how to catch small animals and fish. The ferns are tasty. I can dig for grubs with my blade; the ground here is full of them and they roast very nicely and taste good. I have a firesteel and flint. I have air in my lungs to start the tinder, unlike most in the city which I left. We have not starved, nor will we, by the grace of God. Where are you going?
—I don't know. I am just going. And you?
She looked at the child, and then into her fire. —Nor do I know where I am going, Sir. What I do know is that right now I am here by this fire. It feels good.
—Where is your man?
—He is in the city. He will never leave the city.
—He is very foolish.
—He is very dead.
He looked away for a moment.
—Forgive me.
—Done. They buried him a month ago. He has much company there. More than half the city. And most of the rest will soon be dead.
—Yes. But they will not be buried. The gravediggers are dead.
She motioned with a nod, —Sit. I will give you some cheese. I am Maria.
—I am Gavin. Some call me Shanke — the long-legged one.
He drank from the spring and filled his flasks and then took a loaf of bread from his sack and broke it and handed a chunk to her. She broke off a morsel and gave it to the child. They ate.
—What is the child's name?
—I do not know.
He stopped chewing, puzzled, and looked quickly at her and the child. —The child must be two or three years old. Surely you have not waited this long to name it?
—When I left the city I found the child sitting by its dead mother just outside the gate. She had been dead for some time. I watched others walk by without giving the child any attention. I could not do that. I do not condemn the others, but I could not do that.
—How about its father?
—I do not know. I asked the few who were nearby. None knew. Some said the child had been there by its dead mother for two days. I picked him up and put him on my shoulders and left the city with my goats. That was three days ago. He is not heavy, as you can see.
—It is a boy?
—Yes.
He handed the little one a piece of his bread.
She watched them. The light had begun to fade.
—You may camp here tonight if you wish, she said, looking into the fire. It will soon be dark.
He studied the tiny flames. He could think of no compelling reason to proceed to the forest and set up another camp, when there was already comfort here. It was true that he would be three or four miles farther along if he went on to the forest now, but farther along to where? There was plenty of brush and bough here to make a small shelter for himself, as she had already done for herself and the child.
—You are very gracious. I will stay here tonight. I will not violate you.
—Nor I you, she said.
***
When morning came the fog was gone and the goats were back. Two lay near Maria and two near Gavin.
—Would you and yours come with me? he asked Maria, as he began to gather his kit. The goats were already sniffing him and rubbing against him, enjoying their morning. Maria was picking dead black coals from what had been the fire and putting them in a small leather pouch where she kept her flint and steel.
—It would slow you down. The goats do not travel fast, nor does this little one.
He nodded. —True, but that would not matter, would it? We're just going — no destination except to put distance between ourselves and that deadly pestilence, wherever that may be. And it will be safer for us to be together.
He motioned toward the child. —It will surely be better for the little one. We can take turns with him, and there is no need for us to travel fast. We must only keep moving. And the goats will give us food as we go. God brought us together did He not? Or would you prefer to say it was my thirst?
She looked down and smiled. She liked this man. She picked another handful of dead embers one by one and put them in her tinder pouch.
—We will go together.
And so they did. It has been a long journey, too long to recount here in full.