I am Mercy Read online

  “Where’s Cyrielle?” the lady asks.

  My voice is withheld. Papa told me never to talk to those of higher class; it could only cause me trouble.

  She looks confused by my lack of words. “We have to leave,” she says, frowning. She holds out her hand in an inviting gesture. I find myself stepping forward. I cover the few feet between us, and we’re both at the edge of the cliff. The waves spray a mist up to us, and I can feel the cold pricks of water at my feet.

  “Where are we going?” I ask, mesmerized by the water below. It sways violently, and a broken tree has fallen into its wrath. The thick wood crashes into the rock wall of the cliff and snaps in two before being washed out to sea again.

  “Frioul Archipelago!” The lady lets go of my hand and holds out her arms. The wind catches her dress and whips it around her body. She’s a mass of dark cloth as she sways slightly. She smiles as her lips move, though I can’t hear her words. Below us waves crash, but it’s like she has detached herself from this world.

  “Tiboulain, Aida de Luna.” And even though she whispers it, I hear her steady voice, as if her lips were at my ear.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “How do you know mine?” she asks. She brings her arms to her side again, and the long sleeves of her dress fall to rest at her feet. Her body faces the ocean, but her face is turned to me. She smiles.

  “But I don’t know your name,” I say. Her smile doesn’t fade.

  “Find Tiboulain.” Her feet wander to the edge of the cliff. She isn’t wearing shoes. As she loses her footing, she dives into the water. She falls with unnatural grace, pulling her arms in toward her body. I don’t see her face or hear a scream as she falls. I can’t even decipher when she makes contact with the water—the waves are so loud.

  “My lady!” I scream, kneeling at the edge of the cliff. I can’t see her down below. The waves crash against the hard rock; I see no sign of the lady. A body neither comes up for air nor is thrust into the onslaught of the rocks. Everything appears as it had, just before the lady jumped. She’s nowhere to be found.

  I cower from the edge and push myself away. The rock I had been using to support myself falls off the edge, into the water. My limbs quiver as I lose my balance. The scream that comes from my throat pierces my ears, and it’s everything I can do to call out for help in a place where I can never be heard.

  VII.

  I’m covered in my own form of morning dew. Sweat clings to the fabric of my thick clothing and my skin. My heart feels as if it’s still leaping off the cliff edge and I have yet to catch it. I push myself from the wall and extend my body across the hay mattress. Something near my head moves and I leap away. A small mouse scurries across the ground, stopping only for a second after hearing my movement before beginning its pursuit again and escaping out the door.

  “Are you all right?” Cyrielle stands at the doorway. A small frown is etched across her face as she looks down at me, frightened and awake.

  “I just …” I don’t want to tell her about my dream or how she was no longer pregnant with her baby, how she turned into a stranger who jumped from the cliff. “There was a mouse.”

  This seems to ease any stress from Cyrielle. Her demeanor softens, and she comes to me and offers her hand. I curl my fingers around her frail bones, but I don’t use her as a lever while I lift myself from the ground, knowing how much weight she already carries with the baby.

  “Mice scurry through here all the time. Don’t you have them back home? They don’t bother much, as long as we don’t leave out our food of course.” She smiles at me, and I follow her outside into the day’s sun. Her walk is slow as she sways with her stomach. Whenever I see her face, all I see are the tired eyes of a soon-to-be mother.

  Jermaine is out in the fields not very far away. He works to unharness a plow from a cow in their field. “He wanted to talk to you,” she says, not really looking at me.

  “Okay,” I say, but my feet don’t move.

  Cyrielle turns to me and smiles, skimming her hand across my arm, as she walks back into the house.

  As I approach Jermaine, I can hear him cussing under his breath while he struggles to harness the animal.

  “Cows are for milking, not plowing,” I tell him.

  He looks up at me, sweat dripping down his face. The hat he wears shades his face, so I can’t see his eyes.

  He laughs, taking off his hat to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead. “If I had a bull, I would certainly use it.”

  I smile, but he doesn’t return the gesture.

  “Cyrielle said you wanted to speak to me?”

  “Yes.” He looks to the sky and frowns. “Looks like it’ll rain again.”

  I follow his eyes and see that, although it is the middle of the day, the bright sun is hiding behind the clouds. Windblown trees sway in the humid air, warning us of an approaching storm. I hadn’t noticed it before, but the ground is already wet—it must have rained, while I slept.

  Jermaine leads the way back to his home, leaving the cow in the field to be harnessed once I’m gone.

  “Aida, can you tell me more about what’s happening with your sister?”

  He’s far in front of me, his body strong from working, his pace much faster than mine. I try my best to walk beside him but find myself looking at the ground, so I don’t lose my footing on tree roots or rocks.

  “Margo?” I ask.

  “Yes, she’s six years older than you, right?”

  Jermaine and Cyrielle’s cruck house sits atop the hill that overlooks their pasture. It’s larger than the home my family lives in even though we house more people, but Jermaine inherited his cruck house.

  “Five years.”

  He stops walking and turns to look at me. “Doesn’t she have a daughter that’s four years old?”

  I nod my head and am finally able to catch up with him. Margo married when she was young, just like any normal girl. We girls grow up, dreaming of the fine young man who will come to our doorstep with an offer to convince our father to let us marry. Margo’s dream came true. Anton saw her in town one day, and soon after he found our doorstep. It wasn’t long before he recognized me as the girl he had tried to have killed. This was after the wedding, however—and after Margo was pregnant. If Anton had known I was Margo’s sister sooner, I’m almost sure they would not have married.

  “When did she have the baby?”

  I think back to the day Joelle was born. I wasn’t there, but I remember Mama rushing home to tell the news. She had been staying with Margo and Anton in their village; when the baby was born healthy, it was all Mama could do to run home and tell us.

  “I think it was six months after the marriage.”

  Jermaine looks cross at me. “But it takes nine months …”

  “I know,” I say. A drop of water lands on my hand, and I see the sky is already threatening to rain. I step toward the cruck house again. “She won’t admit to anything against Anton.”

  Jermaine grips the top of my arm lightly, just enough to stop me. “That’s a lot to accuse a man.”

  I look into his eyes and wonder what he sees—whether I’m the friend Cyrielle sees or if he’s just pretending to like me for his wife’s sake. He doesn’t wander from my white-eyed gaze, and part of me is amazed by his bluntness.

  “You don’t know Anton like I do.” I wanted to sound strong when I said the words, but instead my voice wavers over his name.

  Neither of us says much of anything for a while. We just stare at each other. It’s very rare that I hold my gaze with someone this long. Usually they look away, disgusted by my features, or I hide my face, so I don’t get rejected in the first place.

  “Why do you want to know about my sister?” I ask suddenly. And still he does not waver. His dark eyes bore into my light ones, and I wait—always wait—for the onlooker to be afraid of me.

  “Some disease is spreading in the villages. No one has found a way to wane its efforts. Anyone who catches t
he pestilence could die as soon as the next sunrise.”

  I lose my breath. I knew Margo’s life could have been at risk, but could she really be gone as soon as one day? “You think that’s what Margo has?” And this time I’m the one who breaks the stare. I had left my sister; I could return, and she could be gone without there ever being a goodbye.

  “Yes.”

  “They’ll find something that will help.” But even as I say the words, they sound unsure. I’m lying to myself. They never find a cure. The village doctors just experiment on our bodies and say it’s for knowledge when they are really just killing us.

  “No, Aida. You don’t understand. We aren’t its first victims. It’s already gone through countless villages.”

  I nod my head and feel my eyes water. I fight back the tears.

  “People have been fleeing their homes to find safety, but it follows them. Whatever it is, it’s following the carriers. Rumors are that it’s wiping out half the population wherever it hits.”

  I imagine my family in half. Margo is gone; Dondre is gone, and maybe I’m gone as well. Just like that the world decides too many of us are living and chooses the pestilence as the quickest way to dwindle our sheer mass.

  I look up at Jermaine. Maybe at the end of all this he will be gone as well, and all that will be left of his small family would be Cyrielle and the baby.

  I close my eyes, daring them to release the moisture that shows my weakness, when I’ve tried so hard to be brave. My eyes don’t brim over, but I have to suppress the shudder that erupts in my lungs. I gag on my own breath, every muscle in my body tense.

  “Aida,” Jermaine says.

  I feel his hand touch my shoulder, a kind, tentative gesture, and I’m jealous. Cyrielle is so lucky to have such a husband. I open my eyes and look at the man my best friend loves.

  “I have to ask you to leave, for the baby’s sake. You could already have what your sister is suffering from.”

  I cough out my cry and choke myself. I can’t be here—I knew that. From the moment I stepped through the door of their home and saw Cyrielle carrying her unborn baby, I knew I didn’t belong. I should have slept on the streets and saved myself this rejection.

  A raindrop falls on my cheek and I take a deep breath. I hold back every emotion and try to look brave as I nod toward Jermaine. He looks back at me, unsure, but I find the strength to smile.

  “I’ll go say goodbye to Cyrielle,” I say.

  His eyes are pleading, and I know he wants to explain to me why I must go, but I walk away because I already know the answer—I’m unsafe.

  Their house is only a few paces away. Cyrielle reaches the threshold before I do as she rushes to hug me. I try to stop her, to pull away so I don’t spread whatever Margo has to Cyrielle, but her grip is final. I can feel her crying into my shoulder, and I wrap my arms around her frame, hugging her baby also. She mumbles something, but I can’t make out the words. I stop trying to listen after I realize she’s crying because she knows I have to leave. I comfort her, but I don’t tell her everything will be okay like I had for my brother.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  I try to ignore the words, but I hear them anyway. She repeats herself and acts like she’s the unwanted one, when really it has always been me who no one would even look at.

  I hold Cyrielle from me and smile at her. She wipes her tired eyes and wraps her arms around her abdomen again. I don’t say a word to her, and I don’t know if it will make our parting easier, but I do so anyway. I lay my hand on her stomach and wish the baby health. She places her hand on top of mine.

  “Aida, you don’t have to leave. We can figure something out,” she says.

  She looks so worn. I only hope that once she delivers the baby she will grow to be strong again.

  I hug her one final time and it is brisk. Her fingers trail down my arm as I pull away. Just steps away Jermaine stands, staring at me like he has no idea what to do. I open my arms to him, and we hug in the way a brother and sister might.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. This time it’s Jermaine who doesn’t speak. I walk away from both him and Cyrielle. I wrap my arms around myself, as the wind grows stronger. Rain builds in the atmosphere, and I wonder how long it will be until the Heavens pour.

  VIII.

  The air is a mist, but it still finds a way to swallow me. Every drop of rain is just a dull ping to my senses. It coats and envelops me, making me sick with the thoughts of entrapment. Midday and the sky is dark. Clouds coat the air and trap me inside this village.

  A man I don’t know lies against his house on the side of the path. His tunic is covered in mud and when I walk by it’s like he doesn’t see me. His eyes are closed but his mouth is moving, forming words. There’s no sound, not even rain. The air is still in the sleet-covered day, no wind in the sky. I count each rise and fall of the man’s chest, so sure they are numbered just as Margo’s. Curiosity grounds my feet close to the dying man.

  His head falls back against the wood of the cruck house, and my breath leaves me. Along his neck a large tumor erupts. Its dark color looks garish, even compared to his soiled clothing. Something seeps from the wound that swells around his throat.

  At the sound of my breath the man seems to hear me. He picks up his head and looks at me. I don’t fear his gaze—it’s too dark for him to see my irises, but his eyes seem fixated on me. He scans me, beginning at my face, lingering on my bodice, until he trails down to my feet and back again.

  “What’s a pretty lady like you doing out alone?” When the man smiles, he closes his eyes again.

  His voice is rough and worn, and I imagine fluids accumulating in his throat, cutting him slowly from the world until no air is left.

  I step back half a foot—subtle, so he doesn’t notice—and begin to plan my escape. Instead my feet catch on something and a rock stumbles under my footstep. The man opens his eyes again and stares at me. I don’t know why, but I hold my breath, as if inhaling might provoke him to attack.

  He sits forward and winces in pain. I expect him to lie back again, but he uses the support of the wall to force himself to his feet. He moves each of his limbs with care, but I can still hear his moans of agony as he stands.

  “You here to make a shilling?” he asks. The man stumbles toward me, coughing with each breath. I wait for him to fall to the ground, to succumb to his illness, but he doesn’t.

  “What?”

  He sighs, turns to the pouch tied around his waist, and opens the pockets, searching. “Can’t you see I’m dying, girl? I can neither afford nor take part in your services.”

  And that’s all I need to know. I’ve seen the young girls he speaks of, the ones who sell their virtue to gain just a bit of money. But that makes them worthless. By selling herself, a suitor will never want her, will never look at her. Papa warned me of this, told me that he’d whip me before I could think of taking part in the act.

  “I’m not—” But I don’t know what to call it. I’ve only seen the girls on the streets, waiting for men to call upon them, until they sneak away where no one will find them.

  “You don’t want me anyway.” He points to the dark tumor on his neck. He tries to act normal, to smile off his death, but I can see the tense muscles that lie beneath his skin, how he holds himself so that the skin around the tumor doesn’t stretch or pull.

  I nod to him and realize he’s looking at me. I avert my eyes like I’ve learned to do when someone looks upon me and wait for him to sit again, for my feet to find motion.

  “Well, I guess this is it, huh?” He coughs at the end of the sentence and chokes on his words.

  I wait for him to quiet again before I speak.

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “The separation of the dying and living,” he says in kind, simple words, like his death doesn’t matter.

  I look at his body, the clothes that hang over his bones, and his tunic—stained with a dark substance that looks like blood. His forehead is
moist with droplets, but I’m not sure if it’s the air’s sleet or the man’s sweat. “God’s giving His mercy.”

  I look at him, confused. “So He’s not giving mercy on your soul?”

  He smiles, and he seems genuine. “That’s the best part. He’s giving me mercy by letting me die.”

  He steps close to me, and I back away, not wanting the man to get a better view of my eyes. The sky above is still darkened by clouds, and I hope the cover engulfs me in its safety.

  The man doesn’t step any closer, but he hunts through the pack at his waist. He coughs and instead of getting better he sounds worse as the seconds tick by. With his last cough I see a dark substance at his lips and know he is rejecting his own blood. It drips down his chin, and he wipes it away with his hand. Finally he holds out two coins.

  “Take them.” He opens his palm to me. “This won’t be much use to me anymore.”

  Before I have a chance to say anything, he takes my hand and uncurls my fingers, places the two coins in my grasp, and releases me again. I stare at him for a long moment, my eyes glued to his bloodstained hands. I blink back tears, as I step from the man once again.

  “Thank you,” I say, and when I turn, I hear the man cough, no longer holding back his agony as he vomits.

  ~~~

  When I see the walls of my home come into view, I can barely hear the horror that comes from within. From a distance I can only hear a whisper, a choking sound; but as I come closer, and the space between me and Margo closes, I can hear her struggling for breath in between coughing fits. Dondre sits outside, leaning against the door frame, looking inside every now and then. His face is ashen and I wish he didn’t have to see this.

  “How is she?” I ask, as I come closer.

  Dondre’s head shoots up and he stands to his feet, brushing away tears that streak his face.

  “What are you doing here?” He clutches his fists at his side and stands firmly. He’s copying Papa—or at least that’s what I tell myself to explain his aggression.