Timeless Memories

Black mist swirls around me, dancing tendrils reeking of nameless fear. It wraps around me like a lover's embrace, filling my mouth so that I cannot scream, clutching and shredding gleefully at my soul...

I gasp aloud and open my eyes, frantically searching for... something... I cannot remember what now. There was something important I should know... something dreadful...

The sound of a jet engine draws my attention, and I look up into the clear, beautiful blue sky of a perfect fall day. The air is crisp and invigorating and a light wind rustles over the sparse grass, stirring the hems of my dress.

Before me spreads the old cemetery, its weatherworn gravestones standing like weary sentries. Behind that rises the remains of the old castle where Lord Horrinburg and his family resided, when he still acted as lord of our small village.

I remember he once complimented me upon my apple tarts.

His stone is not here, of course. He and his whole family fled to London with the first signs of trouble. Much good it did them, for the plague followed swiftly and now they are all lost somewhere, buried beneath stones that like as not do not even bear their names.

Not like the others that lie here.

My feet carry me up the path. Strange, how familiar it feels when I do not remember going this way before... No doubt my feverish imagination is playing tricks on me once more.

See, here is where they buried the first of those who died. The placement of the stones indicates the care and grief of the stricken families, back when that care and grief still mattered, before we all gave in to the inevitable and simply disposed of the bodies as quickly as we were able.

Hazel Graham
1578-1586
The sunshine in our lives.
R.I.P.

Sweet little Hazel! I watched over her when she was a mere babe, and she was fond of me always. I can almost hear her voice now, calling, as she used to when she caught a glimpse of me down the street: "Rosa! Rosa! Come see my new kitten!", her clear treble carrying easily on the wind.

And here, her mother, dear Angelica, taken ill while tending to her daughter. We spent many an afternoon braiding each other's hair by the riverside, whispering silly, girly dreams into one another's ear.

A sudden noise shatters the silence and breaks the flow of my thoughts. Irritated, I glare at the car that pulls up on the far side of the cemetery. A couple emerges, shading their eyes against the sun. The boy, a tall, clean-shaven youth, gazes over the gravestones, his eyes serious and melancholy. The girl, sporting tight shorts and a tshirt with a large pink heart in the center, whips out a pair of sunglasses. Her expression is more pouty than interested.

I scowl and ignore the pair, hoping that they take the hint and leave me be. They've no right to be here, wandering among these sacred stones, as though they know anything about the people beneath them, as though they could really reduce what had happened down to a few facts and figures gleaned in tattered schoolbooks.

Turning my back on the intruders, I start down a new row, gently running my fingers along the worn stone. My parents rest here, side by side, as was their final wish. Tears blur my vision, but I blink them back. I should be thankful. Theirs was a rapid decline, and not the lingering agony that so many others endured.

I try to hurry by the next stone, but my steps slow of their own volition, and I stand as though transfixed, involuntary shudders running through my body.

Claire Hubert
1554-1586
She were a wisewoman 'til the devil took her.
Lord have mercy on her soul.

I do not know - God help me, but I do not - whether she was truly a witch or not. Her death brought no surcease to the sick, and there were those who whispered, afterwards, that mayhap our haste was our undoing, that mayhap her herb lore could have saved us, or eased the suffering of those stricken. I do not know. I know only that I am accountable for her death, as surely as if mine were the hands that touched torch to pyre. But she was an odd one, to be sure, living alone as she did with only her cat for company. 'Twas said she could curse as soon as cure, that she counted the devil among her friends.

And I, overwrought at the passing of my parents so close upon the heels of my best and dearest friend, I spoke the words that set the witch hunt in motion, when I accused her of purposefully withholding her healing. And when the embers had settled, when dawn peeked over the horizon at the horror committed in the night, what had we gained? The sick were still sick, the plague as ravenous as before. The only thing that had changed was that I would always hear her screams in my dreams, see her eyes staring into mine as the flames licked up her dress to toss playfully at her golden tresses.

"Brandon, wait up!" The shrill voice of the girl drags me abruptly back from my memories. For a fleeting instant, as I stumble back from the stone before me, I am almost grateful for their presence.

The wind blows again, and I tell myself that's the only reason for my shivers. I run my hands up and down my bare arms, smoothing away goosebumps. Thankfully, the couple do not notice my distress; I do not know what answer I would make were they to inquire.

When I have mastered myself sufficiently to look up once more, I find that I am several rows away. Here, the nature of those desperate plague-ridden days becomes obvious. The stonework is hurried, the words, wrought in haste, worn almost completely away with the passing of the years. Even that gave out, near the end, and we were reduced, at times, to using wooden crosses to mark our dead.

I know my destination now. One of the last stones on the next row. My steps grow hurried until I stand before it, reading the words through my tears.

Derrick Manning
1560-1588
Husband, son, brother.
R.I.P.

Somehow I find myself on my knees, one hand raised to stifle my sobs while the other rests against the stone, as though I can reach out and touch his dear flesh once more through the cold, hard surface.

Folks called us fools, to wed in such a time of woe. But Derrick understood why I asked it, understood that I needed to cling to any trace of joy I could find lest the horror around us drove me mad. It is the one bright spot I can recall in the darkness cast by death, when the village priest, despite his weariness tending to the sick, pronounced us man and wife.

Two months later, Derrick was dead.

Through the haze of my pain, I suddenly realize that the two young people are but a few feet away, wandering down a parallel row. I scramble to my feet, hastily wiping my face and berating myself for making such a public display of myself. To my surprise, and somewhat to my indignation, they take no notice of me, passing by without so much as a glance in my direction.

I sniff away the last of my tears, resolved to pay them no more mind. For a moment, as I stand forlornly before the stone of my beloved, I almost break down once more. I snatch my gaze away, blinking hard and willing myself to regain control. My eyes sweep unseeing over the cemetery.

Something catches my attention out of the corner of one eye. I turn, puzzled, to find more markers, much like the ones I have already visited. Still...

There. Something feels... odd about the end stone two rows down. A vague disquiet stirs in my stomach, tickling my spine and making my knees feel weak. I push it away with an impatient snort, deriding myself for my nerves.

But my curiosity is piqued, so, with a sigh at my own foolishness, I steer my steps in that direction.

To my vast irritation, the couple reach the stone slightly before I do and stand before it with hands linked, murmuring quietly. Approaching them from behind, hoping that they resume their pointless meandering, I hear the girl say, a whining note in her voice, "Brandon, I'm tired, and these are just some old stones. Can't we go home?"

My hands ball into fists at my side and I clench my teeth so hard my jaw aches. The fluttering is back in my stomach as well, which does nothing to improve my temper. I make my voice cold and disdainful. "Pardon me, can I pass through?" I step forward, anticipating their startled excuses and reflexive shuffle to the side.

Instead, neither budges an inch, and I am forced to pull up sharply to avoid bumping into them. My surprise at this blatant show of disregard barely registers on my mind before the boy, Brandon, sighs and turns to the girl.

"Alice, don't you think this is interesting at all? It's part of our history, y'know. The plague I was telling you about wiped out countless people, including every last person of the village that used to be right here on this spot."

What reply the girl made, tossing her hair carelessly, I do not know. My mind had suddenly gone blank, a curious, muffled roaring in my ears. Every last person? I reach out an unsteady hand to grab the boy's sleeve, to demand he take the words back, but before I can touch him, they move aside, allowing me at last a free view of the stone they had blocked.

Rosalyn Keithton
1563-1589
She's with her loved ones now.
R.I.P.

No... no! It makes no sense! I can't... how...

What is this mist? This black vapor that's creeping across the ground toward me? I run, but it's too fast; I can't avoid it! I can't...!

Black mist envelops me, caressing my skin with careless cruelty, whispering my name and laughing. It stinks, not of blood, but of carrion... carrion and rot and despair. My struggles are useless; soon, it will consume me, body, mind, and soul...

My eyes snap open, a cry of terror issuing from my lips. Wildly, I whirl around, fending against... against what? I cannot remember...

Have I been dreaming while awake? The fall sky stretches over me like a blue blanket, streaked here and there with white clouds.

I am at the old cemetery, among these many stones. Lord Horrinburg's castle looms in the background, majestic even in ruin. He enjoyed my apple tarts, once.

A movement catches my eye. Two people, a boy and a girl, are getting into a car on the other side of the gravestones. Their voices, innocent and unhurried, carries faintly on the wind.

I dismiss them from my mind as I approach the first stone. Sweet little Hazel, who had a passion for animals...