She said, “A person could actually fit into one of these. They are enormous.”
Godfrey gave Trisha a sideways glance. “Yes, my dear, they could.”
Trisha thought Godfrey’s voice sounded a little strange—not as composed as it usually was, but electrifying, almost manic. Trisha stepped closer to the jars and ran her hand along the outer glass. It felt very cold. She saw something moving inside the jar, but had to look for a couple of seconds to make out what she saw. She jumped back. There were hundreds—maybe thousands—of night crawlers in the jar. Trisha let out a small scream, and Godfrey laughed.
“Have you not ever seen a night crawler before? You are very sheltered, my dear Trisha.”
“Yes, Godfrey, I have seen many night crawlers as a child, but not in large glass jars in someone’s home. It just surprised me. That’s all.”
Five people waited in the room. Two of the men stood attentively by their wives—the women looked very pale and sick to Trisha—and one sorrowful-looking man stood alone. When Godfrey introduced them, Trisha learned that he had just lost his bride to an illness. Trisha stole a glance at the two women present. They seemed too weak to stand on their own; both leaned heavily on their husbands. She assumed they were all wearing black in mourning for the widower’s dead bride. She did not know for certain, though. Trisha had never seen any of these people before and felt distinctly uneasy.
The widower turned to Trisha and asked, “Do you want to see her?”
Trisha was startled. “See who?” Did he mean his dead wife? She blurted out, “Some other time.” Trisha didn’t even ask when his wife had died, but assumed that, since he had called her his bride, it had been fairly recent. Had his wife been sick—the way these two ladies seemed—or had it been unexpected?
Trisha realized that she, too, had been very tired lately; maybe she was coming down with something. She wanted to go home, away from Godfrey’s odd friends. As Trisha turned to leave the room, out of the corner of her eye she thought she saw a small hand emerge from the dirt in one of the large glass jars. Trisha knew she needed to get some rest. She politely, but quickly, excused herself and walked back down the long hallway with Godfrey following her.
He insisted that she stay. “What must my guests think of your quick departure?” Trisha looked carefully as she walked past the portrait of the lady in the purple dress. The lady now looked pale and lifeless, yet earlier she had looked very much the picture of health. Trisha walked faster, nearly running by the time she reached the door. She could hear a faint voice calling after her, “Get out before you die!”
On the buggy ride home, tears came to Trisha’s eyes. What had just happened? Maybe she was overreacting. She needed to get some rest. She told herself she would sort things out in the morning.
When she awoke the next day, she felt well enough to eat, dress, and attend to her correspondence. In her own house with her family, she felt safe. Safe from what, she did not know. But when the maid entered to announce a caller, Trisha began to feel sick again. As she descended the stairs, she saw Godfrey standing there, smiling up at her. She felt foolish.
As charming as ever, he said, “I have a gift for you. You ran out so quickly yesterday that I did not have a chance to give it to you.” Godfrey handed Trisha a small box, eagerly saying, “Open it—I’m sure you will love it. It has been in my family for years, and I want you to have it.”
Her hand touched his as she reached toward the box. A shiver ran up Trisha’s arm. She pulled away, but Godfrey gently handed her the coffer, making sure that she did not touch him this time. She slowly opened the elegant container and almost fainted. The box held the same brooch worn by the woman in the portrait. She dropped the box. “I can’t wear that!”
“Trisha, take it. I know it is a bit expensive, but I want you to have it. I can’t leave until I see you wear it. It would mean a great deal to me.”
Trisha thought wearing the brooch for a short time was a small price to pay to get Godfrey out of the house. She was going to have to slow things down. She needed to find out more about him and his family before getting married. Trisha would never wear the brooch again. She figured that she could just give it to someone less fortunate than she and claim it got lost or stolen. She nodded once.
Godfrey bent down and picked up the box. He took the brooch out and pinned it on Trisha’s dress. She immediately felt strange. She grew cold, and her hands felt stiff.
Godfrey watched her closely, then rubbed her hands, saying, “You are as cold as ice; let me warm you up. We need to hurry the wedding, my dear. I was thinking that perhaps this Sunday?”
Trisha could not believe her ears. Her family would never accept this, and neither would she. She knew she had to protest. What would people think if she got married in less than a week? A hasty marriage would shame her family and friends. She knew she must say something, but nothing came out of her mouth. Trisha was thinking of a very long engagement, three to four years even. Frozen, she could not express her ideas. Even her body seemed stiff.
She looked down. The brooch seemed alive now, beaming with colors. The swirling colors looked like oil dropped into water. The colors danced and changed shape.
Godfrey looked into Trisha’s eyes. “There, my dear. Everything will work out for the best very soon.”
Best for whom? she thought.
He let go of Trisha’s hand and walked to the door. “You will be mine very shortly, Trisha.” When he had shut the front door, she tore at her dress, trying to remove the mystical brooch, but her hands would not work properly. She used her knuckles, wrists, teeth, but she could not remove the piece of jewelry.
Trisha ran up the stairs and into her bedroom, where Dorothy was straightening out the bed linens. Trisha tried to talk to Dorothy, but could not make a sound. When Dorothy asked her a question, Trisha’s mouth seemed to answer on its own accord. Trisha walked closer to Dorothy. She was sweating by this time. She wanted to ask Dorothy to help take the brooch off, but her mouth formed the words for her.
“Thank you for straightening my room.”
Dorothy turned to Trisha. “You are welcome, my dear. Where did you get that beautiful bauble? Goodness! You seem pale. Let me turn the sheets down for you.”
Could Dorothy not see the streaks of tears running from her eyes and staining her dress? Had this piece of gaudy jewelry put a spell on everyone? Could they not see what was happening? After Dorothy left the room, Trisha fumbled through her dressing table until she found a pair of scissors. She cut the brooch off her dress. Relieved and exhausted, she placed it on her dresser with the material still attached, changed into her nightgown, and slipped under the covers. Trisha only wanted to lie in bed and rest for a while.
When Trisha finally awoke, she did not feel any better. As a matter of fact, she felt much worse. She sat up in bed, but that took all her energy. She knew that she must be coming down with something. Something heavy rested on her chest. She raised her hand to touch it and noticed a grayish tint to her skin. Her hand shook with fear as she placed it on her chest. She had no doubt about what she felt. The brooch was pinned to her nightgown. She desperately tried every means she could think of to remove it, but only succeeded in exhausting herself. Drenched in sweat and unable to remove the brooch, Trisha fell asleep. She was dead tired.
Several hours later she awoke to the sound of a door shutting. A short time after that, she felt someone or something fiddle with the brooch on her nightgown. She tried to scream, but her words could not escape, and no sound came out.
She heard a female voice say, “Advarika, stop!”
Trisha’s eyes began to focus. There was just enough light to make out a lady in her room—and a creature on her bed, trying to remove the piece of jewelry. She did not know which scared her more. Advarika looked like a large raccoon, but the woman—she recognized the woman from the painting at Godfrey’s house and also in the chapel at her great-grandmother’s house: Mrs. Toddles.
The woman
said, “I see you now have Godfrey’s mystical brooch pinned to your nightgown.” The raccoon still fidgeted with the pin.
“Advarika, the brooch can’t be removed,” the woman scolded.
Trisha awkwardly pinned the raccoon’s wrists between her stiff hands and moved them away. Advarika let out a strange noise and then sat on the edge of the bed with his arms crossed. The woman winked at him.
“Trisha, follow me. I would like to show you something.”
Advarika grabbed Trisha’s hand, pulling her out of the bed. She tried to pull her hand away, but Advarika held tight. In her state, Trisha was no match for the raccoon. A hidden door opened in the wall as the three of them approached. The brooch on Trisha’s nightgown glowed brightly.
Trisha said, “I wish that I could not wear any clothes, and then this stupid pin couldn’t attach to my clothing.”
The woman looked at her solemnly. “Trisha, that would not be a good idea. The brooch would only attach itself to your skin.”
Trisha cringed at the thought and followed the woman through the open door.
Trisha had no idea that Alastair was keeping an eye on her, as well as the other three Hellandback children.
Great-Grandmother said, “I hope we haven’t gotten too old to keep our great-grandchildren out of harm’s way.”
They were much older now, slower in mind and body. They had been looking forward to their great-grandchildren coming to Scotland for years, and now they may have to end their adventures and life lessons early. Chris’s life lesson was the simplest of all, but very important to his very existence. It was for the very young, something as simple as weather, time, or space—anything that didn’t contain human emotion. Just the same, Chris’s adventure would change his future. The other three Hellandbacks’ adventures would be much more challenging. If things went terribly wrong, Great-Grandmother could always notify the children’s father. Patrick would not let any harm come to his children, but he would never let them visit again.
CHAPTER 19
Brittany had finally dozed off at Great-Grandmother’s hospital when she felt something moving on her sheets and woke up. If this is that stupid chicken, I will deal with it myself. I will not get Granmama up for that, she thought.
In the dim light, she could see that her standard hospital bedding looked more like thin, dirty sheets. She fumbled for the call button, but the bed seemed different, not the bed she had fallen asleep in. As her eyes adapted, she could make out the details in the room.
Several beds were lined up next to hers. She noticed a dank and musty smell to the room, but the worst part was the large rat resting on her leg. She had no call button, no light, nothing resembling anything she had ever seen before. She let out a scream that bounced off the nearby walls, and the rat went scurrying off the bed and under one of the neighboring beds.
A woman came running in. “Brit, what is wrong?”
Brittany pointed to the rat peeking at them from under the bed. She assumed it was the same rat. For all she knew, this place could be swarming with them.
“Oh, Brit, that’s just another one of our little friends. Are you ever going to get used to them?”
Brittany said, “And why should I have to?”
“Enough about the rats! It’s time for your shift. I’m beat. I found some bread and a small piece of cheese—which you better hurry up and get before our furry friends help themselves.”
Starving, Brittany got out of bed and snatched up the bread and cheese before any rats could. Brittany looked down at the wrinkled and dirty dress that she apparently had been sleeping in.
“Hurry up, Brit! I told them I would get you up and send you to help. I always keep my word. Now go.”
Brittany thought, Go where?
She stepped out of the room, into a very old hospital of some sort. At least she was still in a hospital, though it was not her great-grandmother’s house. This building looked much older, and the people talked with a thick British accent. The hallway smelled terrible; she could tell that there were dead bodies very close.
Brittany’s volunteer work at the hospital had been quite interesting the first week. After getting lost many times in the maze of hallways, she made a grave mistake and ended up in the holding morgue. She would never forget that terrible smell of decaying bodies. Brittany wanted to run out of this place, but she wondered from whom? And into what?
Suddenly, a man who had been working in the hallways grabbed Brittany’s arm and said, “Come on now. We need you to help on the first floor. What took you so long? You are usually up before dawn.”
Brittany’s hunger pains had subsided, and she could focus on her surroundings. She heard a man talking about the “black death.” Immediately Brittany put it together—she was in England, during the bubonic plague epidemic in the 1400s. She had done a report in school just recently. The plague had wiped out much of the population in London.
The Black Death had moved very quickly from one person to another. Victims of the plague would run a high fever, and their lymph nodes would swell. Red spots would cover their skin, then turn black. Continuous vomiting, headaches, and a swollen tongue made it a horrifying death. Many of the wealthy went to live in the country in Oxford, while the poor had to stay in London and take their chances living amidst the sick and dying.
Brittany found the stairs and ran out into the streets. She turned slowly around, unable to close her eyes. Dead bodies lay everywhere in the street, on the sidewalk, mixed with dead animals. Some had been there for days; others had just died or were in the process of dying. Rats swarmed all over the dead. They seemed to be the only well-fed things left. The sheer number of rats made it clear that it would be totally impossible to rid the town of them.
Brittany remembered that a victim would die within a few short days of getting the symptoms. She quickly looked at her hand; she had no red swollen areas, and certainly no black spots. She gave just a small sigh of relief. She did not have the disease yet, but she knew it would only be a matter of time before she would contract the bubonic plague.
A snatch of a song drew her attention to an alley, where a group of children chanted “Ring Around the Rosy,” just as she had when she was a child. She had hated that song ever since she found out that it was really about the plague. She had read that the “rosies” were not a ring of roses, like she used to think, but a rosary. The “posies” were flowers used to cover up the stench of the dead and dying bodies. The “ashes” came from the burning of bodies, and “all fall down” referred to the people dying.
Brittany ran to the children and pleaded with them to stop singing that song, but they just continued as if she were not there. Shaking, she decided that she might as well go back to the hospital and try to help the sick.
Brittany raced back inside to talk with the doctors, but they would not listen to her. One of the doctors leaning against the wall said, “I don’t know what is causing these outbreaks of the sick, but I do know that it is contagious. You best keep your distance when examining the sick.”
The younger doctor said, “Does are protective clothing not help with the contaminated patients?”
“Yes, to some degree, but don’t think you are safe from this black death.”
Brittany tried to interrupt the two doctors, “Fleas, it is spread by the fleas on all these rats! Brittany pointed to several in the hallway as they scurried into rooms.
The doctors had too much to do; they had no time to listen to her strange theories on what had caused the epidemic. Most ignored her. A few ordered her out of their way. “Get out of my way, lass. This is no place for you.” One doctor tried to throw her out, but she managed to dodge him in the confusion as several more victims were brought in.
“If you so much as look at me, I will find someone to throw you out. Go play in the streets. This is no place for you.”
Brittany thought back to her science report, the research paper she got the A on. She was so proud of the grade. Now she realized
how petty she had been. Living through the bubonic plague was something to get excited about. Getting an A on a paper meant nothing.
Brittany knew that fleas living on rats drank the rat’s bacteria-filled blood. The bacteria multiplied in the flea’s stomach, so, when the flea bit another living thing, it left bacteria in the open wound. The deadly bubonic plague bacteria then infected the lungs, causing coughing—and allowing the disease to spread from person to person, like a cold.
Now Brittany was living this nightmare. She hoped she remembered to do everything to keep the disease at bay.
Frustrated, twelve-year-old Brittany took stock of what she could do. She looked at her filthy frock and tore a strip off the bottom. She tied it around her mouth and nose and checked her skin again for any open sores. Brittany did not want to change the outcome of history, but she was living it, and more than likely she would die here, taking care of these people. It was almost always fatal.
Brittany was hoping she was dreaming, but everything seemed so vivid. She could reach out and touch the doctors and patients. This had to be real. Brittany thought back about Granmama saying they were all going on an adventure. She said half out loud, “Adventures are supposed to be fun. This is so not fun.”
Great-Grandmother knew that these adventures were going to teach her great-grandchildren something about life. They could quit at any time, which was something she had forgotten to tell them.
Brittany knew the means of transmission of the disease. She knew the symptoms and the lame treatments they had attempted at this time in history. Brittany remembered cringing when she had read the treatments that they tried—bathing in human urine, using leeches, putting the dead animals in their homes, even smearing human excrement on their skin. They believed that vinegar could kill any germ, so they wiped down everything with the smelly liquid.
Well, this was her life right now. She did not know why it was, but she had better do her best with what she had. There must be something she could do to help the people dying all around her.
As she had been thinking, a dying man had crept closer to her. He pulled her skirt and said, “Take my son! He is so small—he needs to have a chance. I can’t go on any further.”