A Regrettable Arrangement

“…Alms have not been at all sufficient for the new postulants, and the Archbishop has yet to answer our query…”

Agnes caught the last of the conversation before knocking.

”You may enter.”

”You called for me, Abbess?”

”Little Agnes, yes,” Elinor responded, then turned back to Vicaress Cecily. “Sister Beatrice is not to be left alone tonight. Tomorrow, we will continue our discussion.”

Vicaress Cecily bowed obediently and then left the room.

”Sit,” Elinor said. “I have more materia medica for the apothecary. You will deliver it at first light.”

Agnes nodded.

”I don’t like to send our sisters into the village, but the apothecary can no longer come to our cellarer, and three more physicians arrived this week. To replace the three we lost last month. They’re in dire need of clean linens, herbs, and more vinegar.”

She paused before her next statement.

“And this will be the regrettable arrangement henceforth.”

Agnes nodded again.

“I should deliver our fine ale along with the supplies.”

Abbess Elinor glared at Agnes.

”My decision on the brewery is known. And it is final.”

”Oh, but Reverend Mother!” she protested and then hiccuped. “*Hic* Ours is the best ale there is, at least ten villages over! Alaric himself begged me to…”

Elinor shot her a look.

“Alaric…?”

Agnes covered her own mouth.

“You are not to speak to the apothecary. Or to any other man or woman for that matter,” Elinor said, but then softened her tone. “I don’t want my littlest sister to linger in the streets. It’s far too dangerous.”

”When the pestilence cannot touch me?”

”Other reasons, Agnes.”

”But the Vicaress said it herself. The congregation is growing. And I can find the means to...”

“These concerns remain above your rank…little one.”

Agnes bit her lip, but eventually lowered her eyes and bowed obediently.

”One last thing,” Abbess said, while continuing to write methodically over a leatherbound ledger. “The contents of the basket must… no… The contents of the basket…will… match the inventory note. Not one mysterious ounce, nor a single delinquent ingredient will be added. And I shall have no tampering. Is that clear?”

Agnes bit her lip harder and nodded.

“Yes, Reverend Mother.”

✨✨✨

It was early morning, yet the stench was already unbearable.

Mist still hung low over the thatched roofs and the damp roads. As Agnes walked closer to the village, all the black smoke that spewed from the homes and the random corner fires made the air heavy with soot and ash.

Too many birds foraged and scavenged about, undeterred, and even perhaps, beckoned by the foul stench of unburied remains. Crows cawed wildly from the stone walls that surrounded the village.

Fresh bodies had been piled up in shady corners overnight. Most of them were covered. Others, not so much. A grim sight for a young nun, even if the black veil partly obstructed her view.

Carts were already carrying corpses to the burial ground outside of the village walls. It was too easy for a small nun to become lost in the morning traffic of parish laborers. Abbess Elinor would not want her loitering about.

Thankfully, the apothecary’s timber cottage was only a few steps away now. The shutters had not yet opened for the day, but Little Sister Agnes had been given authority to enter before business hours anyway. She began opening the heavy plank entry door without knocking.

Then, she stopped short.

For right across the narrow stone road, she caught the dark and silent silhouette emerging out of yet another wretched house.

The Plague Doctor.

Tall, slender and angular, he was. Clad from head to foot in thick black leather covered with the sheen of some kind of oil. The wide hood kept his face as a mere shadow, and the thick black gloves made of hide covered up to his elbows. All in all, the getup made him look less like a doctor and more of an executioner. Still, his hands were large, with long and elegant fingers. A short walking stick preceded his every move, as if he preferred to not touch things if he could help it. The curved beak. The obscured glass eyes. He was a nightmarish man-sized raven in a cloak.

Imposing.

Sinister.

Inhuman.

He moved intentionally. Even as he dipped two long fingers into a pot of red ochre to draw the telltale red mark across the door, with slow deliberate strokes. Yet another cursed door to stay away from.

Agnes’s eyes panned around. So many other painted doors just like it. A few had been left unmarked, but the order seemed to follow no clear logic.

This one, and this one, this other one… but not that one. But, for what purpose?

The specter continued to move with random cruelty.

The markings reported: five have died here. Only one here.

Why?

Why…?

Agnes’s thoughts were interrupted when the enigmatic figure before her shifted slightly. Almost… imperceptibly.

It appeared that, right up until that moment, he, too, had stopped to ponder the hellish landscape containing all the suffering behind rustic wood and misshapen stone. His shoulders sloped under the cloak and the staff he carried lowered half a fraction.

This creature, this man, seemed…tired.

Then immediately, he straightened back up.

The half-bird man gave himself no time to dwell. Not one instant of exhaustion.

The house was branded. Time to move on. Agnes remained spellbound.

She must have been careless, because the specter turned around and caught her staring.

The damp street stretched silently between them. That massive beak curved toward her, almost accusatory, as rows of crows cawed from the walls.

Agnes clutched her basket of materia medica and quickly vanished behind the apothecary’s door.