Black Death by Ian F White

A man labours upon the gentle slope of a blustery hillside. He digs a grave; a large grave. He grips the rough-hewn haft of the crude spade with blistered hands. Senses deadened, feeling no pain beyond that in his shattered soul.

A plague sweeps Europe; the Black Death they call it. They say it has claimed the lives of one in every three.

At the foot of the heather-strewn hill lies a small collection of ramshackle wooden buildings. Smoke rises from a number of roofs to be swept away in long, grey, wispy trails by the unforgiving wind.

Two weeks ago, the Black Death reached our village. It took away the two people most dear to me.

The man on the hill pauses in his task to stretch and rub his lower back. He removes his dirty off-white shirt, folds it neatly and places it beside the cross and two blanket rolls—one large and one small. He gazes at them and then towards the village.

They were even denied their last rites—there hasn’t been a priest anywhere near our village for months.

A small group of villagers assemble below to watch the lone figure on the hill. They stand a while, then a few drift away, to finish piling sacks and crates onto rickety carts.

Everyone is leaving, except me. They can all go to hell.

The man lifts each wrapped body and lowers it gently into the grave. He arranges them together in the cold damp earth, and begins to throw the loose soil back into the hole.

Is there a hell? I hope so, because then there will surely be a heaven.

His grim work finished, the man grabs his shirt and spade and walks back down the hill toward the village. He approaches the group of villagers. They part and he passes through them without a word or gesture. They watch him head for the wooden building beside the blacksmith’s forge. He opens the door and enters the cottage.

My life, my world,  is over. I might as well be dead too.

He closes the door behind him.

The howling wind tugs uncaringly at the new wooden cross which marks the fresh grave among so many others.