THE SICKNESS
In a quiet, plague-ravaged town, Whitfield stumbles upon a dead woman's haunting letter. Her words stir the musician’s soul, inspiring a melody that echoes the fragility of the human spirit.
Whitfield walked along a narrow winding river, picking his way over and through the rocks. The going wasn’t easy, but it was cooler here in the small canyon than on the flats above. He looked at the swift current, longing for a drink, but not yet desperate enough to risk it. He knew from experience that open sources like these couldn’t always be trusted; too easily contaminated. So he continued on his way, hoping he’d find a source nearby that was more trustworthy.
A few miles downriver he came to a bridge. That was promising; bridges meant roads, roads went to towns, towns had people who might help him resupply for a few songs. Maybe a hot meal and some companionship for a night if he played his cards right. With this thought as motivation and his spirits a little brighter, he made his way up the bank and stood at one end of the bridge, looking in both directions, trying to decide which way was most likely to take him to the nearest town. After a short pause, he made up his mind and began walking, now with a bit more hurry in his step.
A mile later he came upon a small town, but not as he was hoping to find it. There were no barking dogs, no voices carried on the wind—things were too still, too quiet. The town wasn’t in disrepair, per se. The construction was sturdy enough. But there were signs of overgrowth and neglect a town like this wouldn’t have tolerated. Approaching with caution and wary of an ambush, he kept his hand on the pistol in his belt. As he neared the first house the wind gently rustled a few nearby shrubs. The blades of a rusted windmill creaked.
After passing the second and third houses without incident, he relaxed somewhat, but his unease never truly left. Remaining cautious he continued toward the center of town. It hadn’t been a large community, but looked like it had prospered in its day.
Stopping in front of a handsome house near the center of town, he looked once again up and down the empty streets. Too quiet. It felt haunted. What happened here? he wondered.
Finally his curiosity got the better of him and he went inside. In the kitchen he set his guitar in a nearby chair before unslinging his pack and setting it on the table.
He went to the sink and tried the faucet. It sputtered for a bit then began to flow, cool and clear. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, filled and sniffed it. No off-smells. A good sign. There must be a well on the property, he deduced. He drank deeply, slaking his thirst and relishing the sweet coolness as it wet his parched throat. He took off his hat, wet his face and hair, and dried off on a hand towel hanging from one of the drawers.
Next he went to the pantry. It was loaded with stores of canned goods; peaches, pears, cherries, smoked fish, green beans, pickles, and more. He couldn’t believe his good fortune! Grabbing a jar of peaches he twisted off the top and drank the thick syrup, then finding a fork nearby, devoured the rest of the contents. Next he ate a can of smoked fish, presumably caught from the river he had been following earlier in the day, and half a jar of pickles. Delicious.
With his hunger satisfied Whitfield loaded his pack with several jars from the pantry when, still not quite believing his luck, his eyes settled on a half dozen jars of a clear liquid. Could it be? He opened one and sniffed, then took a tentative sip. Moonshine! He did a little jig, took one of the jars to the table, sat, and poured a measure into his empty water glass.
He then dug around in his pack and pulled out an ancient briar pipe and small pouch of tobacco. From his pocket he produced a well worn, equally ancient lighter and opened the lid with a click. He struck the flint wheel a few times until a gentle flame ignited. He put it to his pipe and puffed, watching the tobacco expand before beginning to glow at the tips. He tamped it with a calloused finger and put the flame to the tobacco once more and puffed until an ember formed in the middle. He flicked the lid closed and put the pre-war relic back in his pocket and leaned back in his chair, puffed his pipe and sipped the moonshine contentedly.
After a few sips his eyelids grew heavy. He set his pipe down and let his head droop, pulling his hat down to block the light coming in through the window and dozed.
_____
Whitfield woke a few hours later, refreshed, but sore from the last few days of hard walking. The sun was nearly setting and a slight haze of tobacco smoke hung in the still air. He eyed the glass he hadn’t finished earlier and downed the remainder of the contents, wincing as the liquid fire warmed his belly. He stood, stretched, and set about searching the house.
Besides the kitchen and the living room, which was off the entryway, the ground floor had two rooms. The first looked like it had once belonged to 3 girls. There were 3 beds, a stuffed animal at the head of each, dresses hanging in the closet, and the curtains over the windows bore a floral pattern. The second room was a small den or study. The room was spartan - aside from a simple writing desk with a fountain pen, inkwell and small stack of blank writing paper the room was barren.
At the top of the stairs there was a hallway with 4 doors, 2 on each side. The first door on the left had belonged to the boys. In it were 2 beds, a bookshelf with several books on it, a writing desk with pens, paper and other bric-a-brac, and leaning against a corner were two small caliber rifles.
Behind the next door, a toilet and clawfoot tub. Whitfield pocketed a bar of soap and the jar of toothpaste, and made a mental note of the shaving kit in case he decided to clean up later.
Across from the washroom, the master bedroom. Whitfield found a good pair of boots and a jacket which held a few rounds of ammunition. Behind the fourth door was a nursery. Inside was an empty crib. Sitting in the rocking chair next to it was the corpse of a desiccated woman. On her lap was a folded letter. Whitfield took the letter and tucked it into the pocket of his shirt before removing a small blanket from the crib and draping it over the woman’s head, hiding her rictus grin.
Whitfield went back downstairs to the kitchen. The sun had nearly set and the room was tinted red and tending blue - it would be dark soon. He remembered seeing candles in the pantry earlier and lit one now. He sat and poured himself another finger of ‘shine. He pulled the woman’s letter from his pocket and unfolded it noting how the ink had bled where her tears had fallen…
To Whomever Finds This Letter,
I am afraid. God forgive me - I’m so afraid.
The sickness came a fortnight ago and spread like wildfire. The first we seen of it was a dead hen. Then it took the flock. Before we knew it, the livestock was all suffering, laboring to breathe, foaming at the mouth and finally dropping dead. Townsfolk too. First the old, the young, the infirm. I watched them from the window upstairs as they piled up the dead on one of the farms and started burning bodies, quick as they were dropping. But it didn’t stop the sickness spreading.
My baby boy got sick. God help me, I was too afraid to hold him. I watched him struggle, watched him die. My husband was in the village, helping the others burn bodies.
Nothing worked. My husband and other children all got sick. I didn’t touch any of them. I hid and prayed and begged God to not get sick.
Day and night the bodies burned until there was nobody left but me. I’m all alone. I’m afraid.
I should have held them. I should have held them all, and comforted them, but I couldn’t.
My family is all dead, the town is all dead. The pets, the hens and the livestock. I’m all that’s left, and I don’t have much longer. Now I’m sick. I don’t deserve to live.
I did my best to tidy up the house and then I wrote this letter so that folks would know that I know I did wrong.
Judge me harshly or not at all.
Beatrice
Whitfield folded the letter and put it back in his pocket musing over what he’d just read. He held his guitar and gently strummed an A major - he began picking the strings with his fingers as he considered her words. After a bit he worked in a D chord, then an E. His fingers kept a rhythm as he thought about the woman’s situation. After a bit the music smoothed out and sweetened up and Whitfield began to hum a melody. It was soft and sweet and full of sadness…
_____
The next morning, after a breakfast of canned fish and pears, Whitfield shaved, cleaned up the best he could and put on the pair of boots and jacket he’d found the night before. He slung his pack over his shoulder, picked up his guitar, and headed back along the road. Since there were no more living hosts, he reasoned the sickness had likely died off. But, if it found him, he’d know soon enough and seek a comfortable place among the trees to die.
As he reached the other side of town he saw the pile of blackened skeletons from the Beatrice’s letter - it was sporting the ambitious growth of a young blackberry patch and soon would be unrecognizable as the mass grave it was.
He removed his hat and lowered his head in respect for a moment before continuing on his way, a somber melody playing in his head.
THE SICKNESS
by Whitfield Fahrenheit
The sickness came
It spread like wildfire
First the old, the young, the lame
I was afraid - I was afraid
My baby died
In a bad way
Not in my arms, but all alone
I was afraid - I was afraid
I watched him suffer
From a distance
Watched him struggle with every breath
I was afraid - I was afraid
My baby died
I should have held him
And stroked his hair to ease his pain
He died alone
God forgive me, He died afraid
He died on Sunday
They burned him Monday
But still the sickness was not done
I was afraid - I was afraid
It took my husband
And our daughters
I tried to hide and wish it away
I was afraid - I was afraid
It killed the village
The hens and cattle
I watched it all from far away
I was afraid - I was afraid
And now the sickness
Has finally found me
There's no one left, I’m all alone
No one to hold me, I'm so afraid
Lord, forgive me, I am afraid
This! I’m excited to read more!!!