In his own words:   Mike Dowd is a sophomore in high school. He has lived his entire life in South Bend, Indiana. He excels in science and math, and he loves to write. He lives with his father, mother, and twin brother. He also likes to run cross country, throw shot put in track, and practice karate.

Yersinia Pestis

by Mike Dowd

     I giggled as I skipped down the dirt path. My mother had released me a little while ago after using me as a dress-up doll. At least it got me out of weaving, but her idea of clothing was so hot, especially in the summer’s heat. Some of my friends were probably around, so maybe we could play.

     I glanced to the side, looking for some children in the field. I could see no children, which wasn’t surprising, but I could see a man. He was laboring away, sweating in the summer heat. He looked oddly lethargic, despite the sun being high in the sky. I stepped off the path to spy on him.

     As I crept closer, a faint smell of rot whispered through the air. “Sir, are you all right?” I called. He looked towards me, and I stopped in my tracks. Droplets of blood speckled his tunic, and his nose and lips were black pits. Dark knobs littered his flesh, and his eyes looked sunken.

     “Sir…?” I asked again stepping back in fear. He began to walk towards me, his whole body shaking. I shrank back as he fell to the ground. The knobs burst, and putrid yellow pus began to leak from the wounds. The smell, even from a distance, was overwhelming.

     “Help!” he moaned, before a coughing fit overtook his body. I turned and ran, not paying attention to his bloody plea. I followed the path back to the village and sprinted to my home. The houses around me were fairly small wooden structures. Those bright colored houses probably held many animals at night. On cold winter nights, I wished we had animals to keep us warm, but as we were not a farming family, we didn’t own any. Besides, we had been given some blankets as gifts from the Italian men a few days ago.

I flew past some other urchins as they called out to join their game. I ignored them and entered my house. My mother sat in a corner on a small stool, weaving wool. Meanwhile, my father sat on the earthen floor in another corner, his head bowed. For a moment I could see him muttering prayers. He promptly looked up upon my entrance, noting my distress.

     “What’s the matter, Celestria?” he asked, worried.

            “I saw a man out in the fields!” I exclaimed. “Something happened to him!”

            “What happened to him darling?”

            “He smelled of death, and his skin was covered in pus. He suddenly fell down coughing blood!”

            “Take me to see him,” my father demanded. I nodded and led him outside. The children had disappeared from the streets, and the whole village seemed oddly quiet. As I led my father into the fields, I could hear muffled coughing from a few houses. We reached the field and I saw the man still on the ground, and he didn’t seem to be moving. A group of men surrounded him, and moved aside quickly when my father approached.

            “Father James? What is it?” one of the men asked.

            My father looked over the man and then stepped back as the horrid stench overwhelmed him. “A punishment, I believe. Our God has punished us for our sins.”

            The men’s heads looked down as they whispered quiet prayers. They began to disperse, silence amongst them. Tonight they would pray with their families.

My father took me home, and I realized the sky was beginning to darken. A sudden drowsiness passed over me, and I stumbled into my father. He looked down at me and quietly shook his head. “Stay home with you mother, and don’t leave the house. I believe the pestilence has come to the area. May God watch over our souls.” My father dropped me off at our home and continued into the village.

“Father, where are you going?” I asked.

“The plague doctor accompanied the Italians four days ago. He may be able to help us.” He closed the door, giving a slight smile to his wife behind me.

            My mother was never very perceptive of the outside world, but she understood what had happened. I explained the story to her and she nodded. For a moment, I was sure she was going to start crying. Instead, she began to prepare dinner. I knew she wasn’t telling me something, but I decided to let it go. While my father was gone, she retrieved dark bread and dried pork from a chest while I did some weaving. Even if I hated to weave, at least it took my mind off the events of the world.

            Father returned home eventually quietly, setting a small block of cheese on the table. He told us of his visit to the plague doctor in hushed tones. The bird-like practitioner had scared me a little when he first arrived in town. Now to learn he had visited some corpses already today, the scavenging bird theme seemed a little too real.

            I woke up the next morning to the sound of my mother coughing. My father was gone, but some bread lay on the table. I opted to break my fast and feasted on the coarse bread. My mother began to cough more, and I turned to her; blood splattered her gown as she lay against the wall. A fit of coughing overcame me for a moment, and she joined me for a few seconds. When my breathing came under control, I looked at her in horror.

            “Mother? Are you all right?” I asked.

            “No, my dear,” she responded. Her voice was raspy, and I noticed a slight bulge on her neck. Tears welled in my eyes just as the door opened. I twirled around and saw my father standing in the shadow of our house. It was past noon, as the shadow fell over him, and the sky was cloudy. I fancied I heard some rumbling in the distance.

            “The plague doctor is dead,” he said as he walked inside. He looked afraid as Mother began to cough again, and my father looked at her.  He stopped and looked up. “Why do you punish me so?” he whispered, his voice cracking. He knelt down next to Mother, and I could hear him sobbing.

            “Goodbye, James,” she whispered.

            “Goodbye, Victoria,” he responded. She fell into a coughing fit before her breathing stopped in his arms. Blood splattered his face, but he simply moved back from her, not bothering to wipe the droplets off.

He looked at me, and a fresh sob burst from his mouth. He walked to the door, and I followed him from a distance. We went out into the field, and I watched him look for something. He seemed to find what he was looking for and turned back towards me. He waved and then shuffled his feet across the ground.

            Suddenly, he fell, and a bloody spurt flew into the air. I gasped in horror and ran towards him. I passed a scythe at his feet; how could he be so clumsy as to trip? A rusty spike protruded through his chest, but my father was still breathing.

            “Why, Father?” I whispered.

            “It is my punishment,” he gasped in pain. He was dying in obvious pain. “Celestria, please, finish me.” I stood and looked at him.

            “How dare you!” I screamed and kicked him in the face. My eleven year-old body couldn’t hurt him too much. “Why do you do this to me? Why God?” I shouted.

I turned and walked away, his pained moans echoing through the air. I went back to the village and heard wailings from most of the houses. I peeked my head inside some of them and found parents lying on the ground, their extremities blackened. Many children were dead, covered in pus and blood. Tears fell from my eyes for a while, but soon enough, no more fell.

            I wandered home and looked for food. I ate feebly and then curled up in a blanket. I didn’t feel hungry. In fact, I felt oddly hollow, not sad or angry like I thought I should be. I soon fell asleep.

            The next morning, I awoke to coughing. This time, it was my own. Suddenly, I felt my stomach roil, and I turned quickly as I vomited dark blood. I slowly got up and made my way outside, still nauseous. A sudden heat washed over me, despite the dark, foreboding skies. I looked around and saw the houses around me up in flames. Ash and smoke floated into the sky. The metallic smell of blood filled my nostrils. I began to cough again, but was intent on looking for people. “Ring O’ Round the rosie, pocketful of posies…” There was nobody around; I could hear no cries. “Ashes, ashes, we all fall down…”