Taken from the Novella 'Blessings of Death'
Copyrighted in 2010 ©
In 1347 the Black Plague had reached it’s peak. Across Europe thousands perished as this vile disease, festered in pestilence, showered the landscape with death. No one rich or poor, nor learned or simple, nor strong or weak were spare from it’s putrid touch. In the inner cities, so many had been wiped out that there wasn’t enough room to bury them all. Mass graves had become common as well as the unfortunate souls who had to collect the corpses. One such a man was Phillipe Deitre and this is his story…
A man of sorrow he was. Calloused and bitter. For there once was a time in his life when he had known better days, but not now. The ravenous plague had stolen from him his one true love and had left him in a state of continuous indifference. Originally a farm hand by trade, he now found himself carting off the numerous bodies left in the plagues’ wake. Ironically, it was a job he volunteered for. Each day was the same to him, as he did not care if he continued living or joined the dead. To each neighboring village he would walk with his death stained cart behind him.
Stopping on the outskirts, his emotionless voice would call to the few living souls who remained there. “Bring out your dead!” Hesitantly they would follow suit. With feelings of dread the villagers would bring their lost loved ones to the cart. Never making eye contact with the villagers, Phillipe could not help but rest his eyes upon the dead. Their black and bloated bodies, though reeking of death, seemed to call out to him. For in the eyes of the dead could still feel and sometimes hear his long lost love.
Such instances grieved him and to ignore them he would grip the handles of his cart tightly, to no avail. When his cart was filled with bodies he would walk past the outskirts where a freshly dug mass grave would be awaiting him. One there he would unload the dead and then find himself blankly staring at them and would do so for hours until he finally buried them.
So distraught he was with life that each evening he found himself n a dingy pub and drown his sorrows with drink. Rarely would that have it’s desired effect no matter how much of the amount he consumed. And even though he was inebriated the same questions still persisted in his mind. “Why do I still live? Why was she taken? To spare someone from love and not death is shameful indeed.” With his glass empty and his mind cloudy he would leave.
Walking the dank and dark streets he would always notice large groups of rats protruding from holes in the walls and sewers. How he loathed them. On his way home he always passed by a large church and his reaction to seeing it was always the same. Losing his love had lacerated his faith, and although he would never publicly state his feelings, the only thing he believed in now was the harsh realities he had to see everyday. The realities of pain, suffering, and death. Pausing briefly to gaze at the church, an act he did every night, he noticed something rather strange. To his right he could see, to his amazement, a solitary rat sitting back on it’s hind legs and staring right at him. Such a sight he had never seen prior to this night, it filled him with awe. Slowly, he tried to approach the lone rat who then sped away as soon as it was within grabbing distance. Phillipe stood there confused for a moment and when his senses returned to him, he dismissed the event entirely.
The next day he would resume his unwanted labors. Walking from village to village, the innumerable dead and the cart that carried them were his only companions. On more than one occasion he would have the body of a young child on his cart. Seeing this would inconspicuously wrench from him the closest thing that resembled an emotional response, but still he would carry on to the burial pit. Once all the bodies were beneath the earth Phillipe, with his cart behind him, started making his way back into town. Not ten steps had he walked when he noticed something that made his spine crawl. The lone rat, the same one from the night before, was again sitting on it’s haunches and staring right at him. Dumbstruck Phillipe just stood and gazed at the sight of it. Looking into it’s red eyes, he could tell the little vermin was sneering at him as if he wanted to show him something. Not understanding the gesture, Phillipe again tried to approach the rat who promptly scurried away. Finding himself extremely confused, he did not know what to make of the situation. This was the second time he had seen the rat. Would there be a third time? He did not know.
