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'PLAGUED' by Ernest Ford Our story unfolds in a small Derbyshire village town, as rain beat down to wash away any grime that persisted in clinging to the windows, of the quaint looking shop. There was one shop that seemed to stand out from the rest, perhaps not because of its medieval look but because of its interesting nature of trade. The sign above the shop read 'Peter Harris, Antiques,' and underneath, 'For Centuries'. The bell of the shop door rang and the 62 year-old antique dealer took one step outside, thrust out his hand to test the weather, then made a hasty retreat back into the shop. 'Not much dealing today', he told the pet parrot, that he kept on the premises as an excuse for someone to talk to - and to stop himself going insane. The rain beat heavier upon the window, which caused Mr Harris to give a deep intake of breath and exclaim, 'damn it!' The rumble of thunder could be heard in the distance, then as if from nowhere, a blinding flash of lightening disturbed the air and made the lights dip. You could tell that the parrot didn't like it, by the dreadful noise that it made and Mr Harris hoped that the noise wouldn't be heard next door. He tinkered about with small objects, dusting some by rubbing them on his waistcoat and moving others to make a better display. His true love in the antique business was his fascination for old goblets and wineglasses, and his collection was varied. He knew that some were only worth a pound or two but he also knew that at the extreme end of the market a real rarity could be worth £5000 or more. 'What about the one I found in the cellar yesterday?' he asked himself. As dust had accumulated on it and almost hidden it from sight, he had a feeling that it could possibly be valuable, although he hadn't yet had time to thumb through his research catalogue. Lifting up the display cabinet top, he reached in and withdrew the goblet that he had kept hidden, by covering it with cloth. Dust clung to it like matted hair and removing it, he ran the goblet under the tap then polished it until it shone. Mr Harris smiled knowing that he had found a treasure, then raised the vessel to his mouth, as if to pretend to do an action that must have been done many times before in the past. He didn't intend the goblet to touch his lips but in error it and what happened from then on, was out of his control. The room seemed to fill with swirling smoke and his body began to swirl around with it! The last thing he could recall was the squawking of the parrot, which reached a crescendo, then reverted to nothingness until he seemed to awake, still holding the goblet but with a younger hand. Peter Harris began to tremble as he noticed that he was now dressed in tight breaches and buckled shoes. The cottages and outbuildings were those of the 17th century and he noticed that on the front door of some of the houses a white cross was painted. 'Oh, no!' thought he, as it suddenly dawned on him just what was about. A sickly-looking urchin scurried past him, as if in a hurry to get to the edge of the village. 'It's time,' he kept repeating to himself behind chattering teeth. 'Come here boy,' demanded Peter Harris. The boy stopped upon command and returned to face him. 'What is going on here?' he asked. The boy blinked and couldn't understand that the learned gentleman was so ignorant about the predicament that the whole village found itself in. 'It's the plague, Mr Harris. We can't get out.' 'So you know my name,' mumbled the elder. 'Oh yes sir,' he cried. 'You are Mr Harris, the trader. You sell us everything we wear. Even the good stuff from London.' 'Quite!' said the elder, now fearing that the last batch of clothes he had sold to the villagers could have been contaminated by the plague from the south. 'Half of the people are dead now sir, but father says that you carry a cure around with you in that vessel,' said the lad pointing to the goblet. Mr Harris's eyebrow cocked a little as he smelled at it's content. By its smell he could tell that it was vinegar but still took a sip. 'What did you mean by it's time?' enquired Harris. 'It's time, sir,' the lad remembered his errand and tried to rush off, but was grabbed by the collar.'It's time for me to go to the well, Mr Harris.' 'What's at the well young'un?' Harris's curiosity was aroused. 'As we can't leave the village sir, we leave money near the well and the outsiders leave us food sir,' went on the urchin. 'We leave it in the bowl sir.' 'Bowl? What bowl?' 'The one by the well sir, at the edge of the village,' he remarked. 'But they won't touch it if it isn't in the bowl.' Peter Harris's curiosity was aroused a little bit further. 'And what is in the bowl?' asked Harris, 'besides the money of course.' 'Vinegar sir' came the reply. 'They won't touch any money that hasn't been left in the vinegar. They say it wards off the plague.' 'Is that why you drink it from the goblet?' he was asked. Harris threw the contents of the goblet down onto the dry earth as he watched the lad scurry away. The youngster quickly returned and in an agitated state tried to tell Mr Harris that he must hide. 'They are coming -- coming. Run! Run Mr Harris,' he spluttered out. Harris knew that something serious was afoot as the boy had returned without his purchase. The voices of angry men of the village were heard and then were seen approaching him. 'Here he is' yelled the leader. 'Murdering scum,' shouted another. 'It's he who has brought the plague to us.' The mob bore down on him heavily. 'I -- I --' was all that he was allowed to say, before he was pronounced guilty of bringing in the plague, on contaminated clothes which he had sold to the victims. He tried to explain that the disease could have been carried by a flea, that sucked both the blood of rat and humans, but each member of the mob preferred to believe that it had been carried by the clothes. 'You killed my whole family' cried a feverish-looking man, whose tears ran a channel down his grimy face. He made a desperate bid to grab at Harris's throat but was restrained by the other men. 'We need him in one piece,' said a man standing behind him. 'What for?' protested another. 'To hang him,' they all chanted. 'To hang him!' Peter Harris began to see the seriousness of the whole thing and the hair behind his neck began to bristle. Keep still Mr Harris,' said the voice standing over his prostrate body. He opened one eye. A cart was pushed in front of him and he was raised to stand upon it, but not before a rope was placed around his neck. The cart with the terrified tradesman was pushed beneath a huge tree and the end of the rope slung over its branch. All this put Mr Harris's mind into confusion, as he struggled against the baying mob. Things seemed to be happening too quickly for him to do anything about it and mockingly he was forced to drink a full amount of vinegar from the goblet, which had been forced back into his hand. A flashing light passed before his eyes and he knew at that instant that the cart had been moved. Lights were still flashing around inside his head 'when he heard the voice of another era talking comfortingly into his ear. 'Keep still sir,' said the ambulance man leaning over him. 'You've been struck by lightening in the electric storm.' Mr Harris's feeble hand grabbed his sleeve. 'Are you sure?' 'It must have been,' the ambulance man confirmed, 'what else could have left this burn mark behind your neck.' Peter Harris nodded. 'But I can't explain the smell of vinegar that's permeating the place,' said a bemused ambulance man. THE END Copyright reserved. No part(s) of these publications may be reproduced, transmitted, transcribed, stored in a retrieval system, or translated into any language in any form by any means without the written permission of the author. |
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Ernest Ford can be contacted at ernie@ernestford.fsnet.co.uk |