‘The food baskets were empty,’ said Dowling.
‘Animals,’ I replied.
‘Animals,’ Dowling repeated, catching sight of something. ‘There is a pool or a pond over there, with trees around it.’
But they were not trees.
Around Shyam pond, someone had erected steel cages, each one made of thick iron, the shape of a birdcage hanging from a seven-foot wooden pole. And in each one a man, crouched with knees up to chest, for there was little room inside the dreadful contraptions. Twelve of them stood in a great circle about the green water.
Flies enveloped the first, crawling about the dead body inside with great intent. The flesh already peeled from the skin of its cheekbone, revealing a pocket of ripe, squirming maggots. The next few were also dead, in varying stages of decomposition. In the fifth cage was a woman, her green dress sodden and rotting. She too had been in here for several weeks at least. A great, black cockroach emerged from her yellow hair, an unnatural sight triggering unusual cramps within my stomach.
I heard someone groan, then saw a movement from across the pond. Not all of these people were dead. I rushed about the circle. A thin man lifted his chin and squinted against the white sky. His eyes were dull and unseeing, lips cracked and dry. The next two were living too, though barely.
‘What black deed is this?’ I exclaimed, bile rising in my throat. The fog clung like a shroud, hiding what other atrocities? I fought to stop
myself from running back the way we came.
‘Someone did this to deter others,’ Dowling’s voice sounded unusually shrill. ‘We are in the centre of the village.’
‘Well, at least we must release those that still live.’ I grasped for the lock of the nearest cage.
‘We keep that locked,’ a voice called from our right. Out of the fog stepped a man of ordinary height, lank brown hair streaked upon a long, suspicious face. Some kind of festering sore enveloped half his bottom lip. The muscles about his mouth were hard and tense. ‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Buxton,’ I replied, remembering the name we saw in the records the night before. ‘My brother is Robert Buxton.’
‘Robert Buxton,’ he repeated, thoughtful. ‘You look young to be his brother.’
‘Aye.’ My mind froze. ‘I was born at Colchester.’ Else he could check his own church records for evidence of my birth. ‘I have not seen him for several years. I came when I heard his life might be in danger.’
He stepped towards me and stared deeper into my eyes. I felt my soul writhe beneath his gaze. So this was what the devil looked like. ‘How did you get in?’
‘We came through a valley, past a large rock.’
‘I see.’ He nodded, sombre. ‘I wish you had come about the main street, for then we might have given ye the opportunity to turn back.’ He nodded at Dowling. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am his uncle,’ Dowling growled. ‘What is this atrocity?’
‘These are sinners that sought to expedite the Devil’s work,’ the man replied. ‘I am Thomas Elks and this is my parish. These wretches attempted to leave our boundaries though they vowed against it.’
The mists still rolled about our ears, a deathly thing, and I found myself wondering if we wandered into a world of ghosts. This Elks spoke with strange graces, like he was the guardian of this earth.
‘You are the Reverend?’ asked Dowling.
‘Mompesson is the Reverend,’ Elks replied. ‘He stays in the church.’
‘The church door is locked,’ Dowling said, suspicious.
‘Aye,’ said Elks. ‘He locks himself inside.’
What sort of Reverend locked himself inside a church and his parishioners out?
‘These vowed not to leave this parish, you say,’ Dowling stepped towards him, ‘then changed their minds. For that you have done this to them?’
Elks scratched at his chest. ‘When the plague struck our village, every man agreed we would remain within the parish boundaries so we don’t carry the plague further into the country. It was Mompesson’s idea.’
A light breeze blew across the pond, and the cages swung from the top of the poles, creaking.
‘You deny them decent burial,’ Dowling hissed betwixt old teeth. ‘Thou shalt fear the Lord thy God, and serve him, and shalt swear by his name. Is it you that does this terrible thing?’
‘The Devil hath tempted them to run amok,’ Elks explained, as if to a child. ‘He hath persuaded them to listen to his voice, and now sends them forth to spew death upon the masses. Mompesson decreed they will hang here until the evil hath vanished from their bodies, and in the meantime the sight of their poor, black souls may deter others from succumbing unto the same temptation.’ He stepped closer to Dowling so that the two men stood nose to nose. ‘No man may leave here.’
As he spoke, a light breeze blew the mists away across the fields, unveiling a large, square contraption upon a grassy green square in front of a small church. It looked like a cage with bodies in it. Elks saw me stare.
‘That is the cage,’ he said. ‘For those who must wait their turn.’
It was indeed a cage, fabricated of flattened iron bars, no more than four feet tall and eight feet long. Six men sat cramped within it, including four familiar faces. Dowling strode forward with furious stride, gripping the bars like he would pull them apart with his bare hands. Two of the six men staggered to their feet and thrust their own dirty fingers through the gaps. I reached Dowling’s shoulder just as the shorter of the two pushed his face up as close to the bars as he could manage. Thick streaks of dirt coated his face like he had dragged through mud. He cast a pleading gaze upon us both, desperation writ deep upon his filthy brow.
‘You must leave,’ he whispered, hoarse. ‘Else ye shall be brought down to Hell, to the sides of the pit.’
‘Are those not the men we saw leave Colchester yesterday?’ I asked, for indeed I was sure I recognised their distinctive tan shoes.
‘They insisted upon entering before any could explain the consequences of it,’ Elks spoke with a soft voice that belied his steely gaze. ‘They said their mission was to bring God into our lives, to share with us their medicines, and then begone. I said unto them as I say unto you: no man may leave here.’ The shorter cleric buried his face in his hands like he feared Elks’ judgement. ‘Then they said it was their duty to take away the sick, unto the Pesthouse at Colchester.’
‘A noble quest,’ Dowling observed.
‘A proud quest,’ Elks corrected him, cheeks reddening. ‘And everyone that is proud in heart is an abomination to the Lord, whatever may be
their expressed intent. Bring God into our lives, indeed. So God is not here already?’ His voice thundered and the prisoners cowered. He lowered his brow and cast his wrath upon Dowling and his wanton mouth. ‘We swore an oath that no man would leave here, that we would trust our own lives unto God, and under no circumstance would we assist the evil plague in its quest to roam further abroad. We swore an oath unto God, and we will abide by it whatever the temptation.’ He breathed loudly in and out of his nose, face suffused with blood, mouth clamped firmly closed.
‘I understand that,’ I said, praying Dowling would hold his tongue. ‘It is a noble thing, and one that any man should respect. I assume my brother took the oath.’ I fervently hoped so, anyway.
‘He did.’ Elks replied, the scarlet of his face subsiding to a gentler pink. ‘Before he entered the Kingdom of God.’
I let my lower jaw drop an inch and did my best to appear mortified.
Elks narrowed his eyes. ‘Your brother is dead. He died two days ago. Did they not tell you in Colchester?’
‘No,’ I answered with cracked voice. ‘I came to support him in his hour of need.’
‘I am sorry you arrived too late.’ Elks stared. ‘Rest assured he died a good man.’
I found a tear from somewhere and smeared it across my cheek.