La Folie

1422 Bordeaux France

In the bitter depths of winter air, clouds of fumed smoke swirl over the streets of Bordeaux, France. The plague had taken so many victims that mass graves were constructed. It was more convenient than individual burials now that the death toll has risen above the living occupants. My husband Maslin had kept us within the city too afraid of losing his precious assets, and instead, he lost his life. Maslin boarded up our home to keep the desperate and infected out. But we didn’t know just how dangerous the plague was. As we ran out of food and water, our bodies grew thin. Our skin is like paper on jagged edges. Then, the epidemic took Maslin. Could you blame me for wanting to die too? There was nothing left, nothing here for me, everything and everyone was gone but me. With frail, bloodied fingers, I’d torn my way free of the cage between life and death and run out into the unknown ready to accept mortality.

A fallible target, easily spotted amongst the piles of unmoving bodies rolled against the walls of the streets like barricades of diseased flesh. It took minutes for some foul lump of a man to find me—my strength minute against his advances. As I hung there, the tips of my toes barely brushing the frozen dirt below, neck constricted by a meaty callus fist. My strained breath is fogging in front of my mouth in wispy puffs. I could taste blood. He’d struck me, the impact a crack against my face. I hadn’t known if the blood was coming from my nose or if it was merely my mouth that bled from impact. Either way, I could taste the metallic bitterness. The oaf of a man drew back his fist for another blow. But stopped with a sharp inhale, his grasp on my neck loosened. I followed his gaze to the protruding blade in his chest. A dark pool is forming around the fabric. His eyes met mine, a look of equal confusion. Then, he let go, falling to the ground.

Released from his hold, my feet collided with the cold earth below. Wavering from lack of oxygen, my legs buckled, dropping me to my knees. I could see the blood on my hands, crimson specks on my night shift. In front of me, the attacker lay on his side, blood continuing to pool from his wound as I looked up. Before, I stood two cloaked figures. I had no fight left, nothing else to give. My eyes close, all the energy and adrenaline expended. Darkness.

I could hear the soft crunching of dirt and hushed murmurs. Then I was rising from the ground, my limbs swaying in the gentle motion, side to side. My body is a pendulum of time keeping pace with the holder. Who wielded the pendulum? For so long, it had never been I. If I could have written my story, it would have started with love. A mother’s love, one that is unconditional and forever. Perhaps then, my story would be different. There would be less pain and more control, but then again, did you ever really have control when you’re a woman?

I was an exhausted passenger in my body, not quite there, but not entirely gone either. I hear the sounds around me, drifting above myself in the darkness, swaying in the solid hold of my carrier. I wanted to drift up higher. To go to a warm place. The place I had seen the angel of my mother so long ago. I was dying of hypothermia then, diving into winter waters to pull my older brother’s body from the canal. It had been too late, of course. My brother Thomas had been stabbed before his murderer dumped him into the water. But as I’d laid there dying, the winter world about me had changed to something new. In the sunny sky, I could see my Mother, an angel speaking to me. I could feel her warm touch and gentle words of comfort. But I couldn’t get to her now. I reached toward the warm place above me, hoping she could lift me to her. Instead, it was growing dimmer, the light fading.

I opened my eyes. My dirt-covered fingers splay out onto fabric. The land below me was moving. My filthy bony fingers wiggle on command. Yes, this was real. I am awake.

How had I gotten here? My eyes trail down to the white night shift, tattered and dirty. My arms were still thin and frail, and I could still feel the ache of dehydration and starvation in my belly. I felt weak and dizzy. I lift from the nice bed onto my elbow.

The room I was in had three closed windows across the room; there was a desk with items sprawled across it, parchment rolls, and containers. To the left of the room were a mirror and a dressing area. This was a room of some sort? I was on a bed, but the ground was moving as if the entire place was on horseback.

Sliding to the edge of the bed, my toes touch the wood floor. My arms and legs were filthy, blood-stained, and thin. My night shift was also a catastrophe of mud and dark crimson. I stood, wobbling uneasily.

Making my way to the window, I unlatched it and looked out to see blue sky and even bluer water. A cold sensation ran straight through to my soul. I was on the water, deep dark blue water. This was the ocean, and after a glance around, this was most certainly the quarters of a boat. I couldn’t swim, I’d never been on a ship, and the frightening thought of where I was or how I’d gotten here hung heavy on my mind.

I was on a boat, surrounded by water, and I couldn’t swim. Footsteps echoed across the deck, and voices grew closer. My eyes dart around the room in search of some weapon. On the table is an envelope opener. I wield it backing behind the door; it was most likely a man. I could knock him on the head and tie him up with the sheets, maybe barter my way off of this ship?

The door opened, and it was indeed the voice of a man who entered the door. He was taller than I, with a lean build and broad shoulders, hair dark, and skin tan. There was an accent in his words as he spoke. I swung my weapon, but he was quick. He ducks from my blow, catching my wrist in his fist. His dark eyes focus on me with surprising intensity. With his other hand, he rips the dull blade from my hand. The motion pulls me forward, and I stumble.

“You’re quite vicious for a half-dead skeleton,” he releases me and turns to place the opener back on the desk. I scramble backward until the wall meets me, “What are you going to do?” He asks casually, leaning against the desk, “open me to death?”

I scowled at him. His eyes flick away from me to focus on someone else at the door. I can smell perfume, a scent that had been foreign in the months of death and despair.

“Well, she still fights her, “he says, as a woman enters the room. To my surprise, she is dressed as a man, britches, hat, and all.

“Nicole,” she says, her voice soft and sweet.

I furrow my brows at the sound, the familiarity. Her skin was tan, her body voluptuous. She moves closer, and I cringe, covering my face.

“Nicole, it’s me,” she says, removing the hat. Dark almond-shaped eyes beneath thick black lashes bear into me.

Lowering my arms, a sob that sounded more like a croak escapes me.

“Kat,” I whisper, leaning forward to touch the beloved aspiration before me.

She takes my hand in hers and leads it to her face.

“Yes, it’s me,” she smiles.

“How,” I whimper before wrapping my arms around her neck. She pulls me to close her hand on the back of my head. Now I’m crying.

“It’s you, it’s you,” I whimper into her hair.

“Shhh, shh, hush now,” she rocks me in her arms like a child.

“They were all dead, every one, dead. I wanted to die, but it wouldn’t take me,” my sobs echo into Kat’s hair, and I know that my words don’t make sense. But I cry into her shoulder anyway. After a few moments, she gently pushed me away from her and wiped the wet hairs from my face.

“Fate brought you back to me,” her thumb brushes tears back from my cheeks. She pauses, “to us,” she says with a glance over at the quiet man who leans against his desk observing.

I wipe the snot from my nose and warily eye the man.

“Adriel, could you please bring some water?”

He nods and moves across the room, leaving us in momentary silence. We sit there staring at one another until he returns. His footsteps are light, and his movements quick and precise. He is careful not to get too close when he hands her the glass. I take the cup of water and down it quickly. My insides scream in pure joy. Without a word, he brings the pitcher over. I pass up the cup and snatch the pitcher from him, putting the water to my mouth. His eyebrows rise in surprise.

“I’ll go get more water,” he leaves once more.

The water pours over my chin as I frantically swallow until the pitcher is bare.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened, at least not right now. I want to get you cleaned up and fed. Then we can move on from there?”

She said it was like a suggestion, but I knew she was telling me what was about to happen. I didn’t care. I was at her will.

Adriel returned shortly with freshwater and food. He left promptly after giving us space. He didn’t tell Kat what to do or ask her what she was going to do. He just gave us space. I was more than thankful for it. Katherine went to help me strip and wash. She was gentle with her care, and I tried not to notice her sharp breaths when the shift lifted from my body. It was clear that I’d been starving; my body was malnourished. The edges of my bones stuck out against my skin. Although my body was frail and my stomach empty, I took my time with the food.

I was too thin to fit in her dresses. Instead, Kat fastened a rope around a pair of pants to keep them up and rolled the long sleeves to my elbows. Her actions were mother-like, and it loved the care that I’d not received in my lifetime. Perhaps that is why I was so malleable. Every moment she took care of me was a moment that I’d missed in childhood, and it was like bread to the starving child within me.

We were sitting on Adriel’s bed, her hands braiding the blonde hair that fell to my hips.

“I’d thought you’d left the city like some of the other nobles and wealthy families,” she said, continuing her quick work with the braid, ” as the sickness spread, they ran, all of them, anyone who had money fled to their summer castles and cottages.”

I stare down at my bony fingers. The blood and dirt were gone. My nails were trimmed, but still, the hands looked foreign to me, not my own.

I’d wanted to leave Bordeaux. In hindsight, we should have left, but Maslin had been so stubborn, so sure. Kat continued.

“The poor started dying first, those who were hungry and homeless on the street. I took my money from the floor where we’d hidden it, and I ran, bought passage on a boat, and traveled through Southern France. Sickness had spread through the land it took from the rich and the poor.

“Please,” my word is soft, but she stops speaking.

“I’m sorry, we can talk about this later,” she moves from the bed, but I catch her hands.

“I am grateful for you,” Her hand was warm between my own. I meant the words to my very core.

Kat sits back down beside me.

“You could have left me there to die. I had planned just to let the world take me. But you brought me with you, even though there were plagues, thieves, and dead bodies.”

“I would have never left you, Nicole. You are my family.”

At the word, I think suddenly about my sister and my Father. Family, for the first time, the word felt right. Katherine was my family.

I wasn’t ready to go onto the deck. I needed to sleep, but my dreams were cruel. They took me back to my old home. I sat by the bedroom door just beyond Maslin’s reach. In the crack of the door, his shadow moves, and I know that time is running out. Soon he will be gone, and I will be alone again. My fists pound against the door, and I’m screaming for him, but he won’t let me in. My cries shake my body.

Warm arms wrapped around me, pulling me out of the darkness.

“It’s okay,” Kat whispers.

I’m crying into her arms, and her hold tightens.

“It’s okay, it’s over now,” her voice is quiet and calm.

I open my eyes to see Kat next to me on the bed. At the open door, Adriel stood the look of alarm on his face fading. I had not only been screaming in my nightmare, but I’d also been screaming on the outside too. She promised to stay beside me.

I slept most of the day in Adriel’s bed; the overwhelming exhaustion left me nearly dead to the world. I hadn’t realized I’d slept the day away until I woke again in the night. Katherine lay beside me. I prop up on my elbow and see across the room Adriel had hung up a hammock. It swayed slightly, his body unmoving.

I lay back down, staring into Katherine’s sleeping face. I felt safe with her here, and although I didn’t know Adriel, if she trusted him, I would have to learn as well. Nestling my face into her shoulder, sleep took me.

Another nightmare wakes me. This time I’d fallen while running through the foggy streets of Bordeaux, and the dead had clasped their hands around my ankles, pulling me toward them. The mass grave had appeared behind me, and despite my efforts, they pulled me closer and closer into the massive hole of contorted bodies. I jolt upright in the darkness.

“It’s okay,” Kat whispers, her hand touching my shoulder.

My heart banged loudly against my chest, and my eyes darted frantically around the room until reality clicked back into place. I lay back down, facing Kat. We lay there in the bed in silence. Our hands are intertwined.

“He locked us in the house,” I tell her, my gaze on the fabric of her button-up shirt, “He boarded up the door and to keep people from breaking in. We were running low on food, water; we burned everything we had for warmth, furniture, and books. Maslin’s Mistress, who’d managed to weasel her way into our home with lies about being with child, was ill first. She died, leaving Maslin and me alone. But then he got sick, and he locked himself in another room,” a stray tear fell down my cheek. “I banged on the door, but he wouldn’t let me in. I sat on the other side, reading to him, just trying to be close to him. I would watch his shadow move against the floor, I slept there, and then,” I sniffle, “then he stopped moving, and I was alone.”

Her hands wrap around mine, holding them tightly.

“I wanted to die,” I told her, my eyes meeting hers, “I wanted to die, and the sickness wouldn’t take me, so I threw myself to it. I ran down the street, tripping over dead bodies, and then that man grabbed me.”

“The world works in mysterious ways,” she brushes a tear away from my cheek. “You were not meant to die in a house with that man. Our story is far greater than that, and we will write the ending. We are free. Free from our owners, from our ties. No one will hold us back again.”

I hadn’t thought of Maslin’s death as freedom. But she was right. For the first time, there was no one to own me, to control me, to force my hand or will.

“We are free,” she whispers again, squeezing my hand, “and this is just the beginning of our stories.”