We actually had a plague doctor visit the tavern today.
I was a bit surprised. We haven’t seen one of them around in a long while, not since the dark times almost twenty years ago now, at least.
When he (I wasn’t sure at first it was a he, but figured it out later) came in, some of the other patrons seemed like they were going to make a big deal of it. I saw them stand, and, well, you know how people can be sometimes. They get superstitious, especially with something as novel as a person like this.
The whole place went silent and, for a moment, I was pretty sure those two guys were going to go grab the doctor and drag him kicking and screaming down the path to kick him back to town where he came from. Bula was on guard for it, though, coming around the bar with her long board held tight in her hands.
That settled the two back down quick, and, although they still looked peeved at the presence of the man dressed in black and covered in flowers, they said naught a word.
The doctor didn’t even bother taking off his mask as he took a seat near the fireplace. That just happened to be only feet away from where I had been perched with Lila, my old lute. Hadn’t even been bothering to play her, really, but for some reason I was feeling a bit nostalgic today and pulled her down from the wall where she’s been sitting the past year.
You ever get that way? Just feeling like you need to hold something you once considered dear, even if it’s for only a moment? I guess it’s because we go through cycles of emotions, and a craving comes on to touch the past in a way you couldn’t before.
Anyway, I put Lila down for a few moments and walked over to the man in black with the flowers, and asked him what brought him our way.
“A space of grace,” he said, his words almost inaudible behind the din of the crowd which had turned back to its food and drink and conversation. Well, that, and the way his face was hugged by the leather mask.
It was a strange reply.
“Grace is hard to find these days.” I meant it, too. One would be hard pressed to find people willing to lend an easy hand of help in these dark times we’ve fallen into. The news coming lately from Center has been troubling, to say the least.
“Aye, ‘tis.” He turned away for a moment as Bula came and asked what he’d like, her head bobbing at me as she strode back to the bar to pour his ale.
When he spoke again, I admit my stomach dropped a bit.
“Things might be starting again,” he said as he bowed his head lower. I couldn’t see his eyes anymore from behind the slots in the mask.
“Are… are you sure?”
He said nothing more, though, taking the flagon from Bula and draining almost all of it in one hold of his breath. When I asked him again, after he set it down on the table, he still refused to answer.
I saw his fingers turning paler, though, as he pressed them into the wood, trembling.
Gods, if the plagues begin again, what are we to do?
So many died last time, and the world is still trying to put itself together again. Many families were ravaged, wiped out in weeks. Even Bula’s brother lost two of his children in the fires of the fevers.
Lila’s still sitting nearby as I sit in my room here writing this. I haven’t played her for a long time, now, but maybe tomorrow I will strum her strings for the guests and give them a moment of joy with songs from the old days.
I could let them have a few moments of happy times before the rush of flames come anew.
Gods, please don’t let it be so…
