Dooms Day Book

“Yes,” he said, and pulled down so hard it seemed to tear his lungs open. Seven.

He should not have leaned against the wall. The stones were cold as ice. They had set him shivering again. He thought of Ms. Taylor, trying to finish the Chicago Surprise Minor, counting how many strokes were left, trying not to give in to the pounding in her head.

“I can finish it,” Colin said, and Dunworthy could scarcely hear him. “I can go get Kivrin, and we can do the last two strokes. We can both pull on it.”

Dunworthy shook his head. “Every man must stick to his bell,” he said breathlessly and yanked down on the rope. Eight. He must not let go of the rope. Ms. Taylor had fainted and let it go, and the bell had swung right over, the rope whipping like a live thing. It had wrapped itself around Finch’s neck and nearly strangled him. He must hold to it, in spite of everything.

He pulled down on the rope and hung onto it till he was certain he could stand and then let it rise. “Nine,” he said.

Colin was frowning at him. “Are you having a relapse?” he said suspiciously.

“No,” Dunworthy said, and let go of the rope.

The cow had its head in the door. He pushed it roughly aside and walked back to the church and went inside.

Kivrin was still kneeling beside Roche, her hand still holding his stiff one.

He stopped in front of her. “I rang the bell,” he said.

She looked up without nodding.

“Don’t you think we’d better go now?” Colin said. “It’s getting dark.”

“Yes,” Dunworthy said. “I think we’d best—” The dizziness caught him completely unaware, and he staggered and nearly fell into Roche’s body.

Kivrin put out her hand, and Colin dived for him, the torch flashing erratically across the ceiling as he grabbed Dunworthy’s arm. He caught himself on one knee and the flat of his hand and reached out with the other for Kivrin, but she was on her feet and backing away.

“You’re ill!” It was an accusation, an indictment. “You’ve caught the plague, haven’t you?” she said, her voice showing emotion for the first time. “Haven’t you?”

“No,” Dunworthy said, “it’s—”

“He’s having a relapse,” Colin said, sticking the torch in the crook of the statue’s arm so he could help Dunworthy to a sitting position. “He didn’t pay any attention to my placards.”

“It’s a virus,” Dunworthy said, sitting down with his back to the statue. “It’s not the plague. Both of us have had streptomycin and gamma globulin. We can’t get the plague.”

He leaned his head back against the statue. “It’s a virus. I’ll be all right. I only need to rest a moment.”

“I told him he shouldn’t have rung the bell,” Colin said, emptying the burlap sack onto the stone floor. He wrapped the empty sack around Dunworthy’s shoulders.

“Are there any aspirin left?” Dunworthy asked.

“You’re only supposed to take them every three hours,” Colin said, “and you’re not supposed to take them without water.”

“Then fetch me some water,” he snapped.

Colin looked to Kivrin for support, but she was still standing on the other side of Roche’s body, watching Dunworthy warily.

“Now,” Dunworthy said, and Colin ran out, his boots echoing on the stone floor. Dunworthy looked across at Kivrin, and she took a step back.

“It isn’t the plague,” he said. “It’s a virus. We were afraid you had been exposed to it before you came through and had come down with it. Did you?”

“Yes,” she said, and knelt beside Roche. “He saved my life.”

She smoothed the purple blanket, and Dunworthy realized it was a velvet cloak. It had a large silk cross sewn in the center of it.

“He told me not to be afraid,” she said. She pulled the cloak up over his chest, under his crossed hands, but the action left his feet, in thick, incongruous sandals, uncovered. Dunworthy took the burlap bag from around his shoulders and spread it gently over the feet, and then stood up, carefully, holding onto the statue so he wouldn’t fall again.

Kivrin patted Roche’s hands under the cloak. “He didn’t mean to hurt me,” she said.

Colin came back in with a bucket half-full of water he must have found in a puddle. He was breathing hard. “The cow attacked me!” he said, scooping a filthy dipper out of the bucket. He emptied the aspirin into Dunworthy’s hand. There were five tablets.

Dunworthy took two of them, swallowing as little of the water as he could, and handed the others to Kivrin. She took them from him solemnly, still kneeling on the floor.

“I couldn’t find any horses,” Colin said, handing Kivrin the dipper. “Just a mule.”

“Donkey,” Kivrin said. “Maisry stole Agnes’s pony.” She gave Dolin the dipper and took hold of Roche’s hand again. “He rang the bell for everyone, so their souls could go safely to heaven.”

“Don’t you think we’d better be going?” Colin whispered. “It’s almost dark out.”

“Even Rosemund,” Kivrin said as if she hadn’t heard. “He was already ill. I told him there wasn’t time, that we had to leave for Scotland.”

“We must go now,” Dunworthy said, “before the light fails.”

She didn’t move or let go of Roche’s hand. “He held my hand when I was dying.”

“Kivrin,” he said.