Twenty-One
“Plagued”
Date Unknown
Time unknown
Location unknown
The first thing he noticed—the thing that smacked him in the face—was the stench: dirty people, dead people, human waste of every sort, smoke and dust, and all of it poisonous. There was no telling the dead from the dying, the smell was the same. He dropped to his hands and knees and everything came up. When he was empty, he heaved up bile. It took forever, it seemed, to get any strength back. To stop trembling, to stop his snot from flowing like a waterfall from his nose. And before he could even gain one knee, he began to hear it, a din: moans, retching, crying, howling at God to end it and spare them. Hundreds of them. Everywhere, all around him.
He thought, who am I and what place is this, that such suffering is allowed?
He really didn’t remember his name. He remembered home, but this—this was not it.
Overwhelmed by the horrible odors, he fell unconscious.
***
Darkness: the sounds were even more piteous; oil lamps flickered and things moved slightly by their uneven light.
Horror.
Someone died, another cried at the unbearable loss.
“They die with no dignity. Their humanity is stripped away, and I cannot help.”
A man had said it. A strong man, bearing a crisply spoken dialect and an unspoken kindness, pity and profound heartache that he could not hide in his tone. He was trying to keep emotional distance but the more he did so, the more he began to fail.
“I cannot stand to look upon these friends and neighbors who I cannot help. How do you do it, Soldier? How do you walk among this every day and not break, because I am broken.
“I have seen a neighbor come to sacrifice his last goat, yet his daughter died before the last drop of blood had fallen to the altar.”
The man who was listening slowly got to his feet. Shaking, he asked them what was going on.
“Traveler, you appeared as one of the dead to me. Yet here you stand, as strong as we are. What is your name,” the older man asked. The soldier just looked at him with benign curiosity.
“I must admit, I do not remember, nor how I came to be here. I do not know this place or these buildings. I am a farmer and a fisherman. I believe that I must be,” and he looked around, “very far from my farm and my wife.”
“Do you feel well?”
“I don’t know. I was retching before.”
“Then,” said the man still studying him, “you are like the rest. You came to sacrifice, and the gods have instead given you the plague! Some say they have abandoned us, but I say they have betrayed us.“
“Or,” he said thoughtfully, “perhaps they are not so mighty after all.”
“Come with us, traveler who speaks no dialect. We may find some water among the guards at the North Wall. You must drink,” the soldier said.
The sun was rising. The streets were almost impassable; where fires were not burning dead bodies, the dead and the dying lay all about. The odors mixed, making his head spin. Children, naked like their parents beside them, cried out that they were burning, but there was no water to be found.
People had already drained the last of a recent rain from puddles, and now they were lying dead just as they drank, on their bellies, heads down in cracked and drying mud.
“I have only recently returned here, to my beloved home, seeking peace after a fierce war campaign in Korinthia, only to find that it is more devastated than the fields I saw drenched in blood and entrails,” the soldier said. “As a citizen-soldier, I did my duty to help Athens with its problem in Potidaia. I was there three and a half years, and I saw many die, and learned only that death may be the best relief one can achieve during war. Here is some water. Drink, the summer is growing hot and you may not get another drink all day. You do not have the plague. I saw you. I saw you come suddenly from nowhere. You are no soy, spies do not come here where they know they will die.”
The man with no memory drank. When he could tell his benefactor was thirsty too, he stopped drinking and gave the man room to drink.
The old healer spoke up, “Traveler, do you know anything of healing? Of medicines? I do not. I’ve been doing this for too long. Now I see that sacrifices yield nothing, for the gods are not real.”
“And why do you believe that,” the soldier with the weary eyes, tattered tunic and beaten shield asked. “Did they promise you something?”
“Yes, Sokrates, they did!”
Remaining calm, tired but thoughtful, Sokrates answered, “And what was it they promised?”
The old healer would not answer, as if he knew better.
The traveler who did not know his name said, “I have seen creatures of great spiritual power, but their strength never meant they deserved to be worshipped.”
“You speak as if you know more than what you say. You say that you are a farmer, yet your hands are those of a politician, a records keeper or a very rich man. You carry a sword, but in you there is nothing but peace, so you are not a soldier. What might you be?”
“Sokrates, I am a simple farmer. Nothing more.”
“And yet, you wear the clothes of a Euboean and pretend to speak with the Athenian dialect, and still you do not sound like anyone, even any islander, I have met. If you do not remember your home, perhaps you can describe it.”
“I do remember. Just not the name.” A boy rushed past them, “Mater,” he screamed, and the healer followed. The man without a memory followed him. They walked in the path of the boy, who was running, then walking, then dead in the street.
“I have seen this before. Dying on their feet, mad with the fever. There is a well not far. It is full of bodies of the sick who sought relief in the cool water, but drowned.” The traveler who followed the healer knelt beside the boy. His eyes filled with tears.
But then, as he stood back up and wept, wiping tears of total despair, a vaguely familiar voice in his mind said, Remember who you are, husband. Try to remember.
It was urgent, this voice, very feminine, very concerned, as if she was watching him.
And Hippie remembered. He could hardly believe the last twelve or so hours happened, but here he was: Athens, in 429 B.C., the year Sokrates returned from Korinth, and he stood surrounded by dead bodies. He wept, because he could not help even one plague victim. His crying went from silent weeping to sobbing that wracked his body. All he could do was watch them die.
He could not take it anymore, but as he thought this, he noticed something he had missed in the darkness: people were vomiting on their hands and knees while suffering severe diarrhea at the same time. It was grotesque and foul, a living nightmare, but they could not help it.
“They will do this until nothing is left, then they will die,” the healer said. “And as I know this, I am yet powerless to stop it.”
Hippie prayed for them but realized that this was history and could not be changed. It was so far in the past from his time that it made watching the suffering and being helpless to even lend comfort one of the most intensely painful things he had ever experienced. He was close to his breaking point. “Who am I, Abba, that he would go to this length to make me quit,” he prayed. “I’m your servant. I’m a humble sinner. I ask you to forgive me and restore my body to my time. I know you don’t just sit and watch people suffer, I’ve always known that. I know that the plague of this time wasn’t your doing, but as bad as it is, I know that this sickness made the people ready for Hippokrates to study and administer real medical treatment. I know western medicine would not be the same without key historic events like this. But if I can’t help here, please let me go home. I’ve seen mothers, fathers, children, die by the hundreds just in my short time here. Please, no more.”
“To which god do you pray,” Sokrates asked.
Hippie turned to the healer and said, “I don’t belong here. I come from a time different from this. I can only help you by urging that emissaries be sent to find a man named Hippokrates. He could be found near Thessaly, although I am not sure if he will be there when your emissaries go. One should make his home there and wait. Between your perception and his determination to help people with more practical means than sacrifices to gods which are not real, you can help people better than making sacrifices. Find him, and you will change the world.”
The healer looked at him with awe, and Sokrates said, “You speak more than an oracle. How can you know these things, which are yet to be?”
“All I can say is, find the man. Not the general of the same name, but the man. He should be about thirty years old. He already thinks as you do. He will not come when the loimos is here, as he already knows that physicians treating the sick here die first. Be careful.”
“You speak of the future with more than I can understand. Do your words also come from the future?”
“Sokrates,” Hippie said, “in the future, try to remember that there may be only one God, that only one God created all of this, and that he leaves us all with freedom to choose our own beliefs and ways. That…maybe he watches, but perhaps does not always interfere or intervene. By being here, now, I may already have changed my own history. The Greek world, as it is right here, right now, will, in my time, two thousand years from now, be a strong influence on so many things and people that you would never believe anything I tell you.” He pointed to the Akropolis and said, “That magnificent building up there you call the Parthenon will survive wars, earthquakes and more. In my time, part of it remains standing, and just like Perikles and Hippokrates, we will remember you.” He did not dare to tell him how influential his own existence would be. If Sokrates knew that, he would change things. Sokrates was suffering. Hippie sensed guilt at surviving the war when so many had not. He was humble. He could not be told that his philosophical ideas would survive the ages.
“Come with me, Traveler, we must get water. Your words have truth, but bear a danger you seem unaware of. I have seen pitched battles with the casualties suffering far less than what I have seen here. If you know how to stop it, if anyone thinks you do, and you refuse, they will kill you.”
Outside of the Northeast gate, he said, “Here the Eridanos has not yet passed through the hands of men. Drink—then tell me how a man can remember what has not happened. You either know or are the cause of this plague, or you know how to stop it. You speak as if the cause is invisible and you talk as an oracle. I am not frightened by you, and regard you curiously as a man who wishes he could help, as I have seen your tears. But if I count you as friend instead of enemy, you must tell me more.”
Hippie decided to be honest. The story left Sokrates speechless. I must never speak this tale then?”
“Not one word of it, Sokrates. You said we need to get water?”
“I will be fine on my own, the Spartans are too far distant and they have not approached the city because of the plague. when you go from here, be mindful of a small encampment of Spartans nearby but do not worry, they dare not act. Do not worry for me. You must leave. If you are struck by the plague, the consequences could be great indeed.
We must take leave of each other, which makes me both sad and angry, as you have given me a burden. I shall see what thoughts may come from it that are safe to share. I feel as if I have known you longer than I have; on the battlefield men share a terrible closeness that never gets spoken.” He grabbed Hippie’s forearm and said sadly, “I wish that you could stay, traveler from so far, but we are in danger of causing events far worse than what you have seen here and I understand. Khaire.”
Vincent Anta’s Home
Date, time unknown.
***
On the floor, as usual, with his walking stick beside him, Sandy almost said, here we go again, but Hippie was strangely dressed, and was smelly and filthy.
Robin, sneering once she saw him move and knew he was still alive, said flatly, “Where’ve you been, doing a remake of Jason and the Argonauts?“
Hippie said, “Don’t be so unkind. He was right. I didn’t know what real suffering was. I’m only starting to know it now. I’m afraid of what happens next.”
“What?” Robin asked. He got up, looked at her with an expression she had never seen on his face and said, “The Plague of Athens. Look it up. I was in the middle of it. I’m gonna shower.”
None of them could believe that Hippie had been where he claimed, but the evidence was on his side. Robin was a keen forensic historian. She had a fairly good idea that his traveling cloak was from some time and place in Mediterranean antiquity, but couldn’t nail it down any closer. Sandy didn’t want her to handle it, so until it was washed in heavy detergent and hot water, Robin settled for a large catalog of photos of surviving items from ancient Greece and found drawings of the clothing, which were similar, but of the few photographs of molded surviving swatches, the results were even more insufficient. She asked Sandy to cut off large samples to send to a lab at the Universities of Maryland for C-14 analysis and Johns Hopkins Isotope and Geochemistry department for pollen and particle identification.
Sandy masked, gloved and did this only under the condition that she be allowed to dispose of the rest of it in a red plastic Biohazard bag and take it to the hospital.
When everything settled down, Hippie noticed that Shannon was either not there or was sleeping, and in the pit of his recently emptied stomach, he had a terrible feeling that she had, for some reason, left.
He asked everyone where she was. Zelda, the most wise and observant of them all, said, “She left. Sherry picked her up. She said she couldn’t take any more of you endangering yourself and trying to protect you while you don’t care. She said to tell you she loves you and will always pray for you, but asked that you never contact her again.”
Stunned, he sat down. What?
They were so perfect together. He begged her to stop protecting him, but she refused, and now, her solution was to leave him?
He leaned forward and buried his face in his hands. Where he thought he had no tears left, there were suddenly more. His body shook with the sobs of a soul crushed, ruined, trying to escape.
He just cried, silently, his body being the only sign of his smothered sobs.
Laughter came from the corner where the Fat Man had been. He was back, this time with a bucket of fried chicken, coleslaw, potato wedges and a mammoth fountain soft drink. He stopped laughing long enough to stick a chicken breast in his mouth and start chewing, bones and all. With his mouth full, he said, “Welcome back, Mister Christian. I understand that you have learned a lesson. Tell me about it, please.”
“I have nothing to say.”
More laughter, followed by a chicken leg and a loud crunching of bone, “Mister Christian, you are overlooking the reality of your predicament. Reconsider.”
“It’s a sin to talk to you. And you can’t break my faith. You reconsider.”
“I understand you heard from an old friend. Did she help you?”
Husband. “Eve. She told me to remember.”
Uproariously laughing, the fat man spat cole slaw everywhere like a whale surfacing and blowing.
“What’s so funny that you spit on my floor,” Zelda demanded.
The Fat Man ignored her. “Mister Christian, your ignorance never fails to surprise me just as much as your brilliance always does. You have answers to questions you don’t even have the sense to ask. And, I don’t appreciate what you did while you were in Athens. You sinned far worse than you know, and if you consider talking with me to be sinful, do not worry about that; what you did back there was worse. Yes, you changed history, but don’t be so arrogant. You only did so much damage, no more. You believe, I presume, that you can thwart my plans. That is a mistake. You may not like me, but you must respect me. The cost of failing to do so is far worse than what you experienced in Athens.”
Hippie prayed, silently, for strength and guidance. He was in danger and he knew it. “What did you do to Shannon?”
“I am sure I don’t know what you are talking about. She made a decision and she executed it. I had nothing to do with it. I liked her, Mister Christian. I wanted the two of you together. Have you not ascertained yet why you had such a powerful mental connection to each other? Have you really not figured out why you could practically talk to each other without using spoken words?”
Hippie remained quiet. His head was down, he was exhausted and drained of all hope, gradually losing who he was.
Almost with pity in his voice, the Fat Man said, “Why the long face, my son? This is not the end for you. No, you have such potential, so much to live for.”
Weaker now, Hippie whispered, “I’m not your son.”
“Not directly, no. But you do belong to me. In time, I can tell you. Right now I must allow events to unfold that will subsequently allow me to tell you things that presently I cannot.”
“Do me a favor,” Hippie said, “When the time comes, spare me your lies.”
The Fat Man had a mask of crimson fury and he vanished, leaving the sound of thunder behind that shook the house.
Terrified, Sandy said, “That’s it. I quit. I’m moving out and I’m never going to see you again, and I don’t want any more of this—this madness!”
Hippie lost consciousness and since he had showered, Sandy asked Robin to help her get him to one of the sofas in the pit group. “He didn’t deserve what you said, Sandy. He came here first to try to keep us out of this. Vince was in a tight spot and couldn’t hold off the investigation at Springwood. But Hippie did try to warn us. Somehow, you’ve gone from a crush on him and worrying about him to thinking only about yourself. That’s not right, sister. You aren’t leaving. Look out here through my window. Come on, get up here.”
Sandy looked through the window by the monitor and Robin said, “I see this every day. I use it to ground myself. To remember what’s happened to so many people since that day he came to warn Vince off. We did the best we could. But look at what happened.”
Across the narrow road that had a T-intersection with the road they were on, ice gleamed in the moonlight. Adirondack snowplows had piled it so high that it still stood ten feet or better, making the street resemble a bobsled run.
“Don’t forget why we’re in this. He said it would be hard. Remember that. We’re stronger with you than without you.”
“But what’s going to happen next? what will happen to him next? He’s being destroyed from the inside out. I can’t stop that, Robin. I don’t know how to handle this.”
“With faith, Sandy. With real faith. Like he would tell you. His faith is stronger than ours but it’s being tested, and I can’t believe what I’ve seen tonight, but he needs us. He chose us for a reason and we have to get those gateways closed and finish this with him.”
Zelda had said it from the kitchen and now held a tray with coffee and a small cream pitcher and sugar substitute, spoons, and cups on saucers. She set it on the bar and said, “You’re both going to stay awake tonight. I know you. Sandy, I think you’ll take his vital signs every hour. I know you. Now, anything with the coffee? Toast, croissants, a sandwich? You need your strength.”
Robin smiled and turned back to her keyboard and mouse. Sandy was incredulous. “How do you do it? Stay strong?”
“Faith,” Zelda said. She poured Sandy some coffee.
Robin said, “Uh-oh.”
“What now?” Sandy asked, ready to cry.
“Snow tonight. Winter storm warnings were up and I missed them. Damn.”
Rolling his eyes, Vince entered the room. “How much, Robin?”
***
All you have to do is dream…
Hippie was back in Athens. Sokrates was trying to tell him something but he couldn’t hear. Bodies were everywhere, splitting open, their bowels bursting out from their coiled positions.
Husband, stop. You torture yourself for something you had no control over. Remember who you are. You cannot allow the forces of evil to change your beautiful spirit. It is what I love so much about you. I changed and allowed evil to rule everything. Emotions I should have fought took over. I killed. I destroyed. I terrorized. I should have been stronger. If you save me from my grave, I will be different. Across time, I see now that you haven’t changed. Your faith, your love, your kindness, they speak to my heart. Come to me, husband. You know the place.
But he didn’t know. And it filled him with anguish when he was sure he could take no more of it. He awoke crying. Sandy came to him in the dimmed light and put a comforting hand on his chest. “What is it, Hippie? John, what’s wrong? Let me help you.” He put a hand on hers and whispered hoarsely, “I brought back the plague. Fever dreams and all. And I’m dying of thirst.”
Oh, no… Sandy looked over at Robin who swiveled her chair. Their eyes met and Robin’s eyes said, we’re doomed.
“It doesn’t exist here. It’s an ancient form of enteric fever. We can’t defend against it anymore. Our bodies don’t know how,” Hippie said. “Anyone who leaves here now will kill millions, and I’m telling you, it ain’t no way to die.”
“Okay. We’re in quarantine,” Sandy said. “Remind me, Robin, never again to ask ‘what’s next,’ okay?”