Chapter 7

The horse carried the man. Said man was out of his skull with shock and loss; he was aghast at how near to death's grip he had stood — mere inches and how it had so nonchalantly claimed his friend. If the sky was blue or grey was of no concern, because its veil swirled about him without care or concern for the wits of a now lone man in a dying land. "It is the end of the world" as the fat priest had declared from his altar.

'My comrade in arms is dead, ' Stefan's mind cried out in silent beats to the striking gait of horse hooves. 'Gregor was a stupid shit; Gregor was his friend. Gregor was an arrogant fop; Gregor was his protection at his right shoulder. Gregor was gone to putrid decay. Surely the planets should stop spinning around the heavens, and bow in admission to a man's grief.'

Surely the planets and the earth should stop. The earth and the sun couldn't decide whether his feet were ground-ward or his head was sunward. The goddess Gaia laughingly sped by him on the upticking breeze, reminding him that she served the sun and not him. She lived for the sun, and not the sun for her. The sun baked his insanity, causing it to rise like bread baking in an oven.

Stefan was the sun, burning with a fervor of righteous indignation, but not for her and her tempestuous ways. Gaia was a whore, and the sun a mighty prick whom she worshiped. He was the prick, and the whore a threat of pox, to all things masterful and strong.

The earth served the sun. The earth went around the sun, and the sun stood still. Gaia was a begging whore crawling on her knees at the feet of her master, seeking his mighty cock to pierce her.

Yet Gregor, that bastard, had fucked the whore, and she had cursed him with death. He fucked the goddess and he died; Gregor was the sun brought low to the horizon, and bled.

Gregor was dead and the earth went around the sun. Stefan's world of delusion collapsed with exhaustion, down to these two facts.

The horse shuddered underneath him, shaking loose the reins that Stefan had held loosely in his hands. He slipped and halfway fell to the ground in the deepening twilight. He wondered if he had contracted the plague, and the madness was descending upon him. He fell back into the grass and stone, letting darkness take away his consciousness.

A horse nickered in his face with the earthy breath of a grass feed stomach. Stefan moaned, trying to ease the stones that had become implanted in his back and side. His head pounded, which he found oddly comforting. The insanity had departed.

He ate and drank. He prayed for the first time since leaving the temple schools. Taking pity on the horses, he moved their bits, saddles, and bags, taking time to rub them down and letting them graze unfettered.

At midday he rode. For two days more he rode in silence putting great distance between himself and his dead friend.

Late in the morning of the next day, Stefan drew close to a small farmstead. He had passed several in the last day or so, but he had refused to stop and investigate. If the farmers were alive, they were avoiding the lone traveler as well.

This farmstead was different because from it a shout emerged, calling to him for help. Against his desires and want, Stefan paused. A young woman ran out of the sturdy wooden building, and bolted towards him with tears streaming down her face.

"Help me!" she hoarsely cried and she collapsed upon her knees before his horse. "Help me."

Stefan was unmoved. "How may I be of service," he asked in a formal, distant manner.

"My family is dead; my mother, my father, my little brother are dead. Please help me bury them," she sobbed.

"No," Stefan answered without further explanation.

"I beg of you, sir. If you have shred of decency in you, you will help dig a proper grave."

Stefan looked at the house, so much alike the house in which he was raised as a small child. A bit of his self-imposed armor cracked and he allowed himself to speak.

"You have survived the plague. If your family is in that house, you may not return unless you wish to die by the same fate."

"But, but... " she sputtered.

"If you wish to bury them, anoint your house with oil and turn it into a pyre."

The woman rose to her feet and reached out a hand to touch his leg with a plea.

"Don't touch me," Stefan snarled with menace in his voice and the young woman drew back in fear. "You may be infested with lice and fleas of the pestilence."

She took a step towards him again with disbelief, and Stefan went to draw his sword from its sheath. She withdrew her step with a look of absolute dread on her face.

"Are you going to strike me down?" she gasped.

Stefan was himself confused at his willingness to strike a defenseless woman. He shook his head briefly to clear the twisting fear and thought behind his eyes.

"I would only strike if you try to touch me. Touching me while blighted with the plague is a mightier weapon than my blade."

"Oh," the woman considered with a dawning light of comprehension, "What am I to do?"

Stefan forgot to hesitate, "I have a caustic soap that can purge your skin and clothes. It will burn like the demon fires, but if the creatures have not bitten you, you will survive."

The woman looked stricken, "Give me the soap that I may live!"

Stefan regretted saying anything, but felt by honor alone he was committed, "Go and fill the largest pail that you have with fresh water; in fact, fill two buckets and we can purge your clothes as well."

She gave him a wild look, and ran for the back of the house. In the meantime, Stefan dismounted and stripped the horses of their gear. He hobbled them, and let them roam on the cleared land. As he retrieved Mirela's pouch from his saddlebag, the young woman returned with two slopping buckets of water.

"Strip off your clothes," Stefan ordered in a neutral voice. The woman started to protest, but Stefan barked, "If you wish to live, maiden, then you will strip."

She stepped out of her clothes and shoes and held her back straight. Her young breasts were small and stood well on their own. They had none of the womanly sag of Mirela, Stefan noted with a touch of remorse. Her body was thin, but strong and the tuft of hair between her legs looked soft and downy; Stefan took note of all of her details, yet felt no heat for infested flesh.

"Are you done raping me with your eyes, and are now proceeding to strike me with violence?" she tried to challenge with steel, but fell short.

Stefan stepped towards her and peered closely at her. She choked back a cry, expecting the worst. Stefan reached behind his back, and as he brought his hand around, she let loose another fearful call; her eyes bulged in fear.

Stefan held up a thin cord of leather, ignoring her panic, "Bind up your hair as close to your skull as possible. Your hair is infested with parasites."

Instead of watching her, Stefan turned on his heel and rummaged through the little of Gregor's gear that had not been touched, and found the dead man's riding gloves, which were thick and rode partway up the forearms. He forced his hands into the soft leather, and returned to the naked woman who now stood with her hair trussed.

Stefan took a deep breath of trembling fear, and withdrew his dagger. The young woman was shaking as he stepped behind her, and reached over to grasp the leather tie. In two sawing motions he sliced through her hair at her skull, and drew away the hair that had grown down most of her back. He walked with the hair far from his body, and tossed it away.

She was feeling the back of her skull with great consternation, "What will people think when they see me without any hair?"

"If they have intelligence, they will say, 'Look at the survivor of the plague, lucky girl.'"

Stefan dropped the gloves and rummaged through the medicine bag until he found the harsh soap; it was a liquid. He poured half of it in the first bucket and other half in the second. Donning his gloves again, he picked up her clothes and stuffed them in one of the buckets.

Taking one of Gregor's personal cloths, he swirled it in the other bucket and held it up to her, "I warned you that this will burn. Once I start, I shall not stop until the task is done. You may cry, scream, and curse to your heart's content but every strip of your skin will be purged. Do you understand?"

She nodded.

Stefan began with her back, and her cries were piercing to his ears and painful to his soul. The pain was lucid. His resolve was steady, but his hands quivered, especially when he had to wash her most personal areas, and then again when he washed her face. She howled.

He washed her scalp twice, removing the nits with his gloved hands the second time. By that point, she could only gasp at the torment. Stefan wanted to vomit, but willed his body to obey. As she quaked in the heat of the sun, Stefan removed the soaking garments and hung them to dry on a tree branch, explaining that they would have to be washed again with a softer soap to remove the more caustic stuff.