by Christina Ladd
(540 words)
Once when the plague ravaged the land, there was a man who was buried alive. It was the custom in those times to attach a bell to the corpse, and when the man awoke, he rang the bell unceasingly until he was dug up.
His friends and family expressed great distress and regret over their mistake. “It must have been terrible, to lie in your grave.”
“Not so terrible,” said the man.
“It must have been terrible, to be so close to death.”
“Not so terrible,” said the man.
“It must have been terrible, to be so alone.”
“Not so terrible,” said the man.
The townsfolk were then suspicious of him. But then they saw that he had taken to wearing the bell that saved him around his neck. No matter where he went, everyone could hear him coming. Ring, ring, ring.
Ah, they told themselves. He was afraid but trying not to show it. And they were comforted by his talisman.
Sometimes, the man would go out into the graveyard, and look at the place where he was almost entombed. The townsfolk were suspicious, but then they saw how pale his face had grown, how dark his eyes.
Ah, they told themselves. He is trying to master his fear. And they were comforted by his bravery.
Sometimes he would walk, deep in the night, his bell ring, ring, ringing. At first the people were suspicious, but then they saw his slow gait, his bewildered, hungry stare.
Ah, they told themselves. He is learning how to be among us again. And they were comforted by his alienation, for they too felt that he was no longer quite one of them.
Eventually, the plague returned. There were many sick, and the man went to tend to them, for the plague had no hold on him. The sound of his bell going from house to house was the sound of great kindness, and the people were comforted.
At the end of the plague, when people again could step out of their homes and taste the fresh air, they realized that they still heard the ringing. They went toward it, for now they were well enough to help.
There they found the man, his skin pale, his eyes dark, and his mouth all over blood. In his arms was a woman dead of plague, her boils gouged with teeth marks.
“It’s not so terrible,” said the man.
They set on him with staves until he stopped moving. They stuffed his mouth with wild garlic, and then they burned him in the square. The fire raged all day and all night, until his body was ash. But the bell he wore around his neck survived the flames. And even after the winds had scattered the man’s ashes to the four corners of the world, the bell was still hot to touch.
The blacksmith lifted it with his tongs, and the priest caught it in a bucket of holy water. They brought it steaming to the village crypts and interred it behind three locks and three bars and three icons of the Virgin. But even then, on clear days, some could hear a strange sound from below the earth.
Ring, ring, ring.
END
Christina Ladd (she/her) is a writer, reviewer, and librarian who lives in Boston. She will eventually die crushed under a pile of books, but until then she survives on a worrisome amount of tea and pizza. You can find more of her work in Vastarien, Speculative North, Strange Horizons, The Dread Machine, and more, or on Twitter @OLaddieGirl