We do not eat the next day. Elizabeth, Clove, and I check behind the bakery and around the market but the competition for discarded food is too great. Stray animals, hungry people, and homeless drunks get to what little food is found first.
“Hey, aren’t you the spice shop girl?” a merchant says, recognizing me. “Didn’t your father have remedies in his shop? Medicines?” People stop what they are doing and look at me.
“No, that’s not me,” I protest.
“Of course she’s not the girl,” Elizabeth defends me. I haven’t told her about my life before the steps of the church. That I am the daughter of the spice shop owner. That he did invent an oil for protection from the Plague.
There’s a scream at the bottom of the street. We all turn to look. It’s the black beast I’ve seen before. A sense of dread flows across the street. I only see him for a moment before he goes through a doorway into a home. But it is certainly him. Or it. Head to toe in black.
“Run,” calls a woman. And the crowd breaks into a frenzy, running this way and that. I grab Clove’s hand and run with her up the street. Away from the beast. Elizabeth follows behind us. We run back to the bridge.
We huddle under our stone home for quite some time. Clove starts crying uncontrollably.
“There, there,” says her mother. Elizabeth cradles Clove in her lap as if she were a baby. Rocking her back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“Hungry,” Clove whimpers.
“I know. I know,” Elizabeth replies.
I am hungry too. We have to eat. I am so hungry something happens inside of me.
Slowly, I get up. I take the cloth out of my pocket. Then, I dig into my other pocket and pull out my bottle of Thieves Oil. I uncork the bottle. Sprinkle the oil on the cloth. And recork the bottle. Then, I put it back in my pocket for safekeeping.
Perhaps I can steal something, just like Lem. We have to eat.
“Rose … where are you going?” Elizabeth asks. She has concern in her voice.
“Elizabeth,” I say. “I will be back before dawn. Don’t worry.”
“Stay here,” she calls out behind me. “A young girl should not walk the streets at night. It isn’t safe. Please Rose, I don’t have the energy to carry Clove to follow you. Please stay.”
“Rose,” Clove cries.
I am hungry. We have to eat. We need something to trade. To buy food. To eat.
I don’t think of my panic. Or of the shadows in the darkness. Or voices in the distance. My hunger makes me act like a puppet on a string. It pulls at my feet, step by step. Food. We need food.
I walk the streets. I remember what Lem said about waiting to see no one was around.
I look for houses with red crosses painted on the door. I remember that the man on the street had said a house marked with a red cross was a plague house.
I find a small, gray brick house that has a large red cross on the door. I don’t know the owners of this home.
It is late and there is no one in sight. I look at the house and consider how to enter it. I’m too short to jump through a window. I’m not strong enough to break down the door.
Perhaps I should just try the door handle. Maybe luck is on my side.
I tie the oil-soaked cloth around my head. It covers my mouth and nose. I must look like a thief. Despite the pleasant scent of the oil, I feel sick. I am sweating.
Will I catch the Great Plague? No, trust Thieves Oil, I tell myself. In my heart, I know what I am about to do is a terrible thing. But the hunger in my body tells me I have no choice. Live or die, as Lem says. I need to eat. Clove and Elizabeth need to eat.
I don’t want to do this, but I have to. I won’t take anything important to anyone. No portraits of family. No wedding rings. Nothing that holds feelings.
I look around to make sure no one is watching. It seems clear. “Please be open. Please be open,” I whisper to myself. I lightly knock on the door twice. Just in case someone is home. No answer, so I turn the door handle. It opens.
I dash inside. My eyes dart around. I am standing in a sitting room, with upholstered chairs and wooden side tables. There is a painting of a ship battling against a storm at sea hanging on the wall. Two burgundy wingback chairs face a grand fireplace on the other side of the room. The fireplace contains only ashes and looks like it hasn’t been lit for days. I don’t see any hope chests or small items I can easily carry.
This home feels diseased. It’s dark and shadowed. The air feels heavy as if the windows haven’t been opened to fresh air in quite some time.
I creep down the hallway toward another door that is cracked open. I hate this. I hate being a thief. I grit my teeth. This has to be done. I quicken my pace. Get in, get something, and get out, I think to myself.
I tiptoe in and quickly scan another room. There is a window facing me with white curtains. The moon shines dim light. It is an office. There is another painting of a ship on a wall. This ship sails on calm waters. On the wooden desk there are piles of papers and rolls of parchment. Over the desk, a large trade route map is pinned to the wall. Father showed me maps like this when he told his stories of the spices. He taught me to know the routes the spices took to get from their place of origin to our shop in London.
Suddenly, I see something that looks of value. There. Two candlesticks sitting on the desk. The candlesticks have round plates at their bottoms. Connected to the plates are sculpted sticks to hold a candle. The candles have melted away.
Candlesticks don’t hold feelings, do they? No, they are like brooms and pots. Everyone has them. No one would miss them.
I can sell the candlesticks. I creep over and pick them up. They are heavy, which means they must be real silver. I pick up a candlestick in each hand. As I spin round to exit, my eyes lock on a man sitting in a chair.
He looks like Father would have looked, I imagine, if we had stayed to watch him die a plague death. The man wears twill breeches with leather suspenders the color of dried mushrooms. He does not wear shoes, nor socks, nor a shirt. The tips of his fingers and toes are a purplish-black color like an eggplant. His gray hair is matted to his forehead. He must have had a fever, I think to myself. It is then that I notice the buboes on his neck. I can’t think of Father looking like this. Nor Mother before him. I feel instantly nauseous.
I touch my mask to bring Thieves Oil closer to my face. This is not a safe place for me. I am in danger. Great danger. I think about the medical power of spice oils. They have a short-term impact. Father’s oil, while protective, could only provide a brief defense against the Plague. Long-term, daily exposure to an infected person would likely lead to illness.
I run out of the house. I slam the front door behind me, closing it on the Great Plague. Out to clean air. I rush along the street as fast as I can.
“You. You there!” I hear a man’s voice call to me. I turn and see someone dressed head to toe in black. A scary figure in the darkness. It is the beast! He wears a large-brimmed hat. Beneath the hat he wears a mask. But it is unlike any mask I have ever seen. It reminds me of an animal … a bird … a black bird … a crow! There are glass eyes and a beak in his mask. He wears a black cloak that goes down to his feet. He wears black gloves. He holds a lit lantern and he carries a wooden cane.
He is walking at a brisk pace to catch me. His cane clacks on the brick road after me.
“You! Stop right there!” He points his cane at me.
Is this crow-man a thief set to rob me? Or eat me? Either way, I decide quickly, he is a threat. I run as fast as I can. I cut down a side laneway and then another … in an attempt to lose him. I see wooden barrels and crates lined up against a brick wall. This is my chance. I pick up a crate and crawl underneath. As if I am a turtle and the crate is my shell. I hide. I see, from between the wood panels, the crow-man is walking up the laneway.
“Have you seen a girl run this way?!” I hear him ask someone up the lane. I don’t hear a reply. But I do hear the clack of his cane hitting the brick. Near me. Beside me. Away from me. The “clack clack” of the cane sounds farther and farther away. Finally, I cannot hear it anymore. He must be gone.
I carefully take my crate shell off. I pull my mask off my face and put it in my pocket. I look one way and the other. No crow-man. I hold the candlesticks close to my body. I hurry in the direction of Shanty Town.
I will trade the candlesticks for food. For Elizabeth, Clove, and me.
Father’s voice rings in my ears. Steal what you must to survive. I will survive.