The Mesmerist(38)

“Great calamity!” a voice rings out. “Mysterious sickness strikes London. Daily Telegraph and Courier. Great calamity!”

I turn around to see a shabbily dressed newspaper boy shouting at the top of his lungs. Balthazar raises a hand in the air, and the boy approaches. I stare at him. He looks like one of hundreds I’ve seen in the East End—undernourished, holes in his shoes, and a face that shows the scourge of a hard life.

Balthazar reaches into his coat pocket and gives the boy a shiny coin. His eyes widen. “That’s a gold sovereign, sir. That there’s a gold sovereign!”

“Keep it, my child,” Balthazar tells him.

The newspaper boy swallows, and his tiny Adam’s apple bobs up and down. He finally notices Emily, Gabriel, and me and then turns back to Balthazar. “Sir?” he says, looking up at the strange man before him. “Is this a trick, sir?”

Balthazar smiles and plucks a newspaper from the boy’s bag. “Be on your way now,” he says. “Buy some food for your family.”

The boy looks at the coin again. He sniffles. He’s going to cry, and I am afraid I will too if he doesn’t leave soon. “Bless you, sir,” he says, looking up at Balthazar. And then he drops his newspaper sack at his feet and rushes off.

Emily smirks. “Got another one of them there coins?”

Balthazar shakes his head. “Come,” he says. “Over here.”

We move away from the commotion on the street and huddle under the awning of a bakery. Balthazar snaps open the paper so the front page is revealed. I lean in closer to read:



THE GREAT CALAMITY

TO THE INHABITANTS OF LONDON AND ITS ENVIRONS



* * *



It is deemed proper to call attention to Symptoms & Remedies of what has been deemed The Great Calamity.



SYMPTOMS OF THE DISORDER

Giddiness, nervous agitation, slow pulse, cramps in fingers and toes, a moist, blackened tongue, irregular respiration, weeping red sores.

Victims describe a rosy rash prone to itch, which then spreads to the whole body. Some are disguising the malodorous aroma that accompanies the disease by wearing pouches of fresh herbs and posies. Children in Whitechapel and Bethnal Green have taken to repeating a rhyme that describes the illness.





I pause, struck still. A rhyme that describes the illness. I look to Balthazar, who arches an eyebrow. I take a breath and continue reading down the page.



The patients’ garments should be burned. Those suffering from the disease should be put to bed, wrapped in hot blankets, with poultices applied to the feet and legs to restore their warmth. Twenty to forty drops of laudanum may be employed in a severe case.

Bishop Frederick Wainsthrop says that the sickness is caused by communists, immigrants, and Gypsies. “They are the harbingers of this catastrophe,” he has said, “and are surely spreading the disease as quickly as would vermin.”



The hateful words stick in my brain . . . as would vermin.

A memory comes to me. It is of Deepa, the Indian girl I befriended back home. She was a foreigner too, and was set upon daily by ruffians—?and I did nothing. Nothing!

“A rosy rash,” I say. “And posies to hide the smell. Like the boy’s song.”

“And also spoken by the ghoul,” Gabriel adds. “And the burning of garments is surely the ashes.”

There is a pause.

“And every one of them falling down dead,” Balthazar finishes.

Emily nudges me. “What’s it say?” she demands. “C’mon, then.”

I tell Emily the news we have read. She shakes her head. “So there’s blokes going round saying it were foreigners who caused this sickness, eh?”

A knot forms in my stomach. “Yes, Em. People are blaming them for the disease that’s going around. It seems even their businesses are being attacked.”

“A root of bitterness has grown in people’s hearts,” Gabriel says solemnly.

“That ain’t right,” Emily says.

“It’s not,” Balthazar agrees. “It is surely Mephisto, spreading lies and hatred, trying to divide the city in two.”

Come to me and save your city.

The air suddenly becomes cooler, and I wrap my cloak around my shoulders.

We set off on our way again and pass two raven-haired children selling kindling from a basket. Their skin is olive-colored. Will they be set upon too?

The clip-clop of hooves behind us compels me to turn around.

It is a man driving a wagon with a team of mules up the High Street. Bells jangle in their harnesses. He pulls the reins and comes to a stop. I watch him step from his seat. I am not sure what I am looking at, for he wears a mask, like a bird’s head, and a long black cloak. Gloves rise up his arms. Not any part of his skin is showing. The hooked beak is sharp and ivory-colored, and the eyes behind the mask glitter in the grimy yellow light. Even from where I stand several feet away, I can see flies buzzing around the cart. The sound seems to grow in my ears until it is as loud as a swarm of angry bees.

“A plague doctor,” Gabriel whispers.

“A what?” Emily asks.

“That’s what they called him in ancient times,” Gabriel says. “It was the Plague of Justinian, in the sixth century.”