Plague Season
an excerpt

Anjo dreamed about the ships. Clouds the shape of puffball clumps floated in a bright blue sky high above the sea. The sea! Foam sprayed vigorously from the tops of cresting waves marching valiantly forward in ranks, bearing the ships whose deep brown prows parted them. The sea was proudly blue and united in its purpose, to hold the ships so that the wind could fill their sails. The wind blew strong and steady, and eddied or gusted just to show that its spirits were high. It filled the sails of the ships with a joyful exuberance that made those broad, bright fields of canvas snap with excitement, and clap in anticipation. The ships sailed dauntlessly forward, heroically intent on far horizons.

But where were the crews?

Anjo woke in darkness, feeling, as she often did after dreaming of the ships, that she had just missed something important. She also recognized the quiver in her stomach, the sense of something terrible just barely avoided. She breathed deeply to calm herself.

The rich vegetable odour of the jungle filled her nostrils, along with the smells of damp tarred wood, smoke, incense, mildew, and people that filled the air of the city, only slightly cooler now than it would be at midday. Of course, the sun would not fare well against the thick mist that rose from the city until quite late in the day, and even then Anjo always felt there must be a place far brighter, where the sun shone clear and clean, was not obfuscated by thick, wet air.

She licked her lips as she reached for the clay flask she knew stood close by her left hand. Her fingers closed carefully about its neck and nimbly pulled out the buttertree stopper and let it fall on its leather thong. Out of habit she shook the flask to assure herself how much liquid was within, tilted her head slightly and poured a trickle between her lips. She let the flavors flow across her tongue: earthy bladewort, bitter butterbark, tangy frogsclaw and spicy glowflower leaves. Each season called for a different infusion and she had not yet grown tired of the summer's draught.

© 2007 Meshon Cantrill