History Repeating

The click, clack of the wooden wheels on the rocky roadway heralded its arrival long before the shout of "Bring out your dead" was heard.

"Get back inside," I shouted to the children. I lit the bundle and waved it around the room. "I pray we have not let in the foul air."

"Give the children their garlic," Alfred said. He was afraid to work the fields for fear of bringing the plague to our door. I peeled the two potatoes and one carrot, all that was left in the cellar.

"We need water from the well," I began.

"Not today. Today we eat raw. Already there are crosses on half the doors." He was busy carving a figure from a log. "I will carve our names on the figure. We will not be forgotten."

Many of the villagers had died, to be buried in a pit, unmarked, unnamed. Only the rich had the dignity of a christian burial in this time of annihilation.

Athol was the first to show the sign. Alfred carved his name just before he expired. Mathilda soon followed. When Agnes succumbed, Alfred knew his time was near. He carved the last name on the figure and with his last breathe buried it deep below the hearth.

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