The Plague strikes Eyam: 1665

Snippet published in Issue 2 of Pastel Serenity Zine - https://www.pastelserenity.com/fear

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Who would have thought such a quiet, innocent little town in Derbyshire would be the root of such evil forces and such a tormenting unravelling of events? These past several months have turned into a whirlwind of tragedy, horror and fear for us. News of the oncoming curse gradually whispered profanities through the air and seeped through the cracks of every cottage as the rumours of “did you hear about George Viccars?” “I hear he died of a disease”, “some say it might have been the plague” have spread through the village like wildfire.

It is now the 14th September 1665, it has been a week since George Viccars has died of this terrible disease that has contaminated our village. My thoughts scarper as I am abruptly pulled back into reality, rudely interrupted by the wailing cries of the maid of Hatfield Cottage, which was where George Viccars awaited his death. Her name is Betty Withers, who I often see dragging herself along the streets with a crazed look on her face, always chanting the same words as she is now, in a bewitched frenzy of whispers which occasionally break into piercing wails:

“It was the cloth. The creatures from the cloth. I saw with my own two eyes. I saw them crawl that day. I saw God’s punishment in action. He sent them from London in the cloth.”

Betty mumbles these words out frantically as she stumbles past me, her moth-bitten rags dragging across the wet grass behind her, drenched and dirty like a symbol of her diseased mind. She suddenly flinches; her body contorting like it is controlled by the wrath of a voodoo doll, and shoots her head round to look at me, her bloodshot eyes glaring through me as she grabs hold of my arm.

“What in God’s name – someone control this woman!” I shout as I try to free myself of her grip.

“No one listens. They all think I’m crazy. I saw George die. I saw those insects crawling over the cloth sent from London. I smelt the curse of God’s decaying parasites emanating from the cloth, the pungent smell of the oncoming path of death and decay. It’s the creatures. The creatures are doing it.”

Betty lets go of my arm and her frantic expression fades away like a forgotten memory. She goes back to dragging herself along the green and mumbling incessantly. Some call her mad, some say her mother got carted off to London to live in a lunatic asylum and that Betty is heading the same way. I myself am not sure of these bold declarations as I look at Betty now. I can’t seem to shake off the idea that she walks around with a sense of decorum and intellect amidst the endless madness that appears to escape her mouth.

I look down wearily at my husband James now as he peers up at me from the green, sat on the floor with his legs crossed like a vulnerable little boy. His cotton shirt hangs uncomfortably loose from his chest, sinking down low and weak, like the way his skin still clasps helplessly to his bony frame. I suddenly feel the urge to kneel down in front of him and stare curiously into his light blue eyes, searching for hope. From this close you can tell he is a poor, sickly man. His skin has turned into a feeble and colourless canvas, protruding veins are beginning to bulge intrusively through his skin in various places on his body. My heart sinks rapidly at the sight of his courageous smile still trying its best to beam up at me through the savage disease, a last battle to fight against the life being sucked out of him. I hardly dare mention the word ‘plague’ even though we are surrounded by it now. I feel as if Mother Nature would carry the word off my tongue with a smug grimace if I ever mention it out loud.

I have heard of stories of the plague that struck London dating back to the 1300’s, but to witness it happen in our village, our sweet little community-stricken village, is a concept that seems absolutely horrific and absurd. I am not prepared for what I see now.

A family carrying what looks like a dead creature from the darkest depths of hell across the green and into the churchyard where they have no choice but to bury it by themselves. I stand wondering in this instant why God must punish us like this. I walk closer to the family out of morbid curiosity and stumble two steps back in horror. Its whole body has been taken over by bulging black ulcers, a dreadful yellow tinge still putrefying the body as you can see visibly the very soul has been sucked out of this person.

Do you know what it’s like to see someone you love decompose in front of your very eyes? You cannot even begin to imagine, to comprehend the absolute agony that must take place for all the pour souls in the village who have to witness this, and bury their own family afterwards. The stench is another matter entirely, and having to associate this revolting smell coming from your own family member seems a bizarre prospect to have to face. Eventually the body will begin to turn black with the amount of hideous spots that encompass its whole surface

 

This is the barbarity of punishment in action. I become even more scared of God’s intentions. This is the absolute raw reality of what is happening in our village, there is no escaping from what will happen, and I know this is the fate which lies for my James, but I cannot allow myself to accept it.

William Mompesson, our vicar, appears from the church now. He walks solemnly, a melancholy expression of quiet acceptance with occasional flickers of bewilderment encompass his face, as he approaches the family.

“My children, another soul has been taken by this horrible fate. I wish I could understand why God wills this to happen. I wish. But we must continue to keep the village sealed off. We must carry on with our duty to not let this horrific disease spread.”

The desperate agony in vicar Mompesson’s eyes is too much for me to handle, he seems to look right through me. I turn away from the tragic sight and look back out onto the village. There is a faint breeze in the air, and the trees sway lightly as if we are not surrounded by decay and misery. There is a quiet joy I get out of staring absentmindedly into the fields, I feel like it offers me an escape to the claustrophobia and the quarantine of the village. But it feels different now, and I start to panic about breathing in the air, an invisible thick burden seems to hang ominously, praying on your every breath. The village is so sick.

“Anne, would you and James like to accompany me to the well?”

Mompesson’s soft voice asks, as he appears by my side, placing his hand on my shoulder for comfort. He frowns sorrowfully as he sees the pained expression on my face. We both look down at James, who appears to be conjuring up the ability to speak.

“You go Anne, with the Vicar. My body is burning up again. God is punishing me again. Forgive me, forgive me!” James starts to rock his body back and forwards amidst his agony. I kneel down immediately.

“Stop, my love! Look around you at the beauty that is still here. Look at the trees sway in the breeze, look at the endless fields. Feel the air on your damned wounds.”

Mompesson kneels down beside me and speaks gently to James, placing his hand on his shoulder like an angel, a guardian, a protector. He is not afraid to touch the damned unlike everyone else. His soul knows no selfishness, his soul beams through his stature like a beacon of holiness.

“James, never forget your faith. God is still good. Look at the beauty that is always with you. Feel the pain like a man ready to conquer the darkest of days. We do not know why God has brought this upon us, but we know it is not without reason. Do not lose your head, my boy.”

With these words, James stops his moment of frenzy. He nods solemnly and looks out at the distant fields. Mompesson steers me around and arm in arm, we begin to make our way up the steep climb to the well.

“Vicar, why must we be surrounded by such tragedy? Why must God wish this upon our village?” I feel like a child incessantly questioning their parent.

“We must not question God so intently, Anne. It is easy to succumb to suffering in the face of such horrors. But succumb to it we must not. We must always keep our faith. Now let’s enjoy the view. Let’s not speak of our burden for a little while.”

Mompesson pats my hand gently and I smile faintly before he walks towards the well and I gaze over the stone wall at my surroundings. Stretched before me are multitudes of fields that lay peaceful and vast in all their glory. Birds fly through the sky gracefully in groups, consistently unaware of the peril of disease taking place underneath their wings. I gaze at one bird that separates boldly from its group, flapping its wings furiously in the opposite direction and then gliding slowly in a solitary manner as it has broken off. I stare at this bird in awe. I feel its freedom, its wings effortlessly moving with the wind, free from all restraints.

I look down at the stone wall that separates us from the other villages, the visible prison of our inevitable downfalls that we cannot escape. For we have given Vicar Mompesson our word. For the good of humanity we cannot let this ugly disease spread to other villages, to infiltrate other families, to cause never-ending destruction in its path. We have acted together selflessly to maintain the quarantine and even though I am proud of this, my heart aches to be angry.

I bring my dear James out into the open field because I believe it is the only solace he can seek now. I am not an ignorant woman, with our miniscule minds as a village we are constantly seeking to comprehend the reason for this punishment, but I do not turn a blind eye to the reality. James is dying and he will continue to decay rapidly right in front of my aching heart.

I move over to Mompesson now and intently watch him at the well.

“Bless our neighbours!” Mompesson exclaims as he gathers up bread that has been left in baskets by the side of the well. He proceeds to drop coins down into the well in payment and pours in a fair amount of vinegar in order to disinfect it.

“It is good to know that in times of darkness, the courageousness and kind nature of our neighbours shines through.” A great smile beams across Mompesson’s face, and for a moment all his wearisome frown lines fade, hope faintly glimmers in his eyes and he looks young and strong. In this moment everything seems as if it will be okay as I look into the face of our guardian, the man who has took matters in his own hands to save those villages surrounding us, our wonderful Vicar.

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