Plague Doctors: Beginning of the End-Chapter 18 - : The Condemned

The field stretched out in all directions, a vast expanse of overturned earth that had been ploughed but left unused, its potential untapped. The soil was dark and rich, yet it bore no crops, no signs of life—only the faint imprints of boots and the marks of hoes and spades. The sky above was a heavy gray, the clouds hanging low as though the heavens themselves were mourning.

Only three people stood in the field, their figures small and isolated against the barren landscape. Two men—one young, his face still soft with the remnants of youth, and the other middle-aged, his features weathered by time and hardship—and a woman, also in her middle years, her shoulders shaking with sobs. She clung to the older man, her cries echoing across the empty field, raw and unrestrained.

The middle-aged man gently pried himself from her grasp, his movements slow and deliberate, as though every step cost him dearly. He walked over to the younger man, who was struggling with a poorly made casket. The wooden box was crude, its planks uneven and hastily nailed together, a stark contrast to the solemnity of the occasion. The two men gripped the casket, their hands dirty and calloused from hours of digging, and began to carry it toward the hole in the ground.

The grave was shallow, barely six feet deep, but it was enough. The earth around it was piled high, the soil dark and damp, and the tools they had used—hoes and spades—lay discarded nearby. The men moved slowly, their steps heavy with grief, their faces streaked with tears that they made no effort to wipe away.

As they reached the hole, they began to lower the casket using sisal ropes, the coarse fibers digging into their hands. The younger man's breath hitched, his tears falling freely now, while the older man's face was a mask of stoic sorrow, his jaw clenched as though holding back a flood of emotion. The casket descended slowly, unevenly, until it finally came to rest at the bottom of the grave.

The younger man turned to the woman, who had collapsed to her knees, her hands pressed into the dirt as she wept. He ran to her, dropping to her side and wrapping his arms around her trembling frame. She leaned into him, her cries muffled against his shoulder, her grief too vast to contain.

In the distance, unnoticed by the trio, stood Alika. She lingered beneath the gnarled branches of a solitary tree, her presence hidden by the shadows. Her hand rested against the rough bark, her fingers digging into it as though seeking some anchor to steady herself. Tears streamed down her face, silent and unrelenting, but she made no sound. She dared not approach, dared not intrude on the private agony of the mourners.

"Say a prayer, Father, so we can get this over with," the young man said, his voice breaking as he held the woman. He could not stand the sight of it all, an empty funeral, his heart broken mother releasing cries that easily pulled a son to his knees. The sound of it all echoing down to his soul as he watched her in pain. He ached too, he had lost his sister, someone he'd grown up loving and cherished in all his life someone who loved him bu default from the blood ties to the experiences of life as siblings, a friend, and now she was gone.

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The middle-aged man nodded, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his sorrow. He gathered himself, his lips moving silently for a moment before he began to speak. "Our Father, who art in heaven," he started, his voice trembling, "hallowed be Thy name..."

The words of the Lord's Prayer spilled out, familiar and comforting, yet hollow in the face of such loss. He could think of nothing else to say, no words profound enough to capture the depth of his grief. When he finished, he reached for a spade, his hands shaking as he gripped the handle.

He began to fill the grave, each shovelful of soil hitting the casket with a dull thud that seemed to echo in the silence. The younger man joined him, the two working in unison, their tears mingling with the dirt as they buried the casket and the person it contained.

This hardly felt like a farewell, it was merely a sob party, no flowers or fancy decor for the event. It was merely a family coming to terms with the fact that their loved one was no more.

Alika watched from afar, her hand now covering her mouth as though to stifle a sob. Her tears fell faster, rolling over her fingers and dripping onto the ground. Sorrow engulfed her, a wave so powerful it threatened to pull her under, but she remained silent, her grief a private burden she could not share.

The field, once empty and lifeless, now held a new kind of emptiness—a void carved out by loss and grief. The three mourners stood by the freshly filled grave, their heads bowed, their hearts heavy. And Alika, hidden in the shadows, turned away, her tears still falling as she disappeared into the gray expanse of the day.

The field stretched endlessly, a barren expanse of overturned earth that seemed to mirror the desolation in the hearts of those who stood upon it.

The air was thick with the scent of damp soil and the faint, acrid tang of grief. The three figures by the shallow grave were motionless now, their heads bowed, their shoulders slumped under the weight of their loss. The middle-aged man, his face etched with lines of sorrow, suddenly stiffened. His eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, caught sight of a figure standing beneath the gnarled tree at the edge of the field.

Alika.

She stood there, her presence like a shadow against the pale bark of the tree. Her hand still rested against the rough surface, her fingers trembling as though seeking solace in its solidity. Tears streaked her face, silent and unrelenting, but she made no sound. She had not meant to be seen, had not meant to intrude on their private agony. But now, as the middle-aged man's gaze locked onto hers, she felt the weight of their collective grief crash down upon her.

The man dropped his spade, the tool clattering against the ground with a dull thud that shattered the silence. The younger man and the woman turned to him, their faces etched with confusion and exhaustion. They followed his gaze, their eyes widening as they, too, saw Alika standing there, her figure trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Alika's breath caught in her throat. She took a step back, her heart pounding in her chest, but her legs felt like lead. She wanted to run, to disappear into the earth itself, but she could not move. She was rooted to the spot, paralyzed by guilt and grief.

"You!" The woman's voice tore through the air, sharp and guttural, like the cry of a wounded animal. She lunged forward, her face contorted with rage and pain. "You did this! You killed my daughter!"

Her words were a dagger, piercing through the stillness of the field. The younger man, his face pale and drawn, chased after her, his hands reaching out to hold her back. "Mother, wait!" he cried, his voice breaking. But even he seemed too heartbroken, too drained to muster the strength to stop her.

"Father, help me stop her!" the young man pleaded, turning to the middle-aged man. But the father merely followed, his steps heavy and deliberate. His face was a mask of anguish, his eyes burning with a mixture of sorrow and fury. He, too, wanted to confront Alika, to demand answers, to unleash the torrent of pain that had been building inside him.

The three of them reached Alika, their presence looming over her like a storm cloud. The woman, her face streaked with tears, gripped Alika's blouse with trembling hands. "Give me back my daughter!" she wailed, her voice raw and broken. She shoved Alika, her movements frantic and uncoordinated, but Alika stood firm, her body rigid like a statue. She did not resist, did not fight back. She simply stood there, her head bowed, her tears falling silently to the ground.

"She was young," the woman spat, her voice dripping with venom. "She had so much to live for! But you—you couldn't let her have that." Her words were like acid, burning through the air. "You poisoned her heart with your demonic passions, but you couldn't stop there."

Alika flinched, her sobs quiet but unmistakable. She wanted to speak, to explain, to beg for forgiveness, but the words would not come. She felt as though she deserved this, as though the weight of their anger and grief was a punishment she had earned.

"Give me back my Dinah!" the woman screamed, her voice cracking under the strain. "She wasn't a witch like you! She didn't deserve to die like this. She could've had a family, found a good man who truly loved her. But instead..." Her voice trailed off, her strength giving out as she sank to her knees before Alika.

The father stepped forward, his face a portrait of despair. His beard, streaked with gray and black, was damp with tears. "Are you happy, witch?" he asked, his voice low and broken. "Look around you. No one came to mourn her. No one except us, her immediate family."

The young man, his eyes hollow and lifeless, added, "Not even my brothers and friends wanted to be associated with a 'gay witch.' Even the priest refused to come. She died dishonorably and was buried the same."

Alika's heart ached at their words, each one a blow that left her reeling. She wanted to disappear, to vanish into the earth and take their pain with her. But she could not. She had to face this, had to bear the weight of their grief.

"Tell me, witch!" the father yelled, his voice rising like thunder. "Are you happy? No one even wanted to sell us a coffin! Is this the love you promised her?"

Alika looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. "I'm so... so sorry," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

The man let out a bitter, sarcastic laugh. "Our lives are over," he said, his tone laced with despair. "We'll be lucky if they don't ransack our home, trying to prove we're also witches so they can burn us." They knew they could not tell the towns people about their knowledge of Dinah and Alika's union or they would be considered witches, another very least they would undergo a cruel exorcism to break the spell casted upon them by Alika's kind.

Alika's eyes widened in horror. "What? No, please," she said, her voice trembling. "Come with me. We can protect you."

"Like you did my daughter?" the man shot back, his voice cold and filled with hate. "Please, just leave. And never come back here. Ever."

His words cut through her like a knife, leaving her breathless and broken. She understood their pain, their anger. Dinah, their daughter, had been burned at the stake, accused of witchcraft by the townspeople? But Dinah had not been a witch. She had been Alika's lover, and Alika, a witch, had apparently brought this tragedy upon them all.

Alika looked at them one last time, her heart heavy with guilt and sorrow. She turned and walked away, her steps slow and unsteady. The field stretched out before her, vast and empty, a reflection of the void that now consumed her soul. She did not look back. She could not.

As she disappeared into the gray expanse of the day, the three mourners stood by the grave, their heads bowed, their hearts shattered. The wind carried their sobs across the field, a mournful dirge for a life cut short, for love lost, and for the unyielding cruelty of a world that had no place for her kind.