Page 11 of Vertigo Peaks

She could see the girl, propped up on pillows, her face ashen and eyes clamped shut. For a moment, Valerie thought she was dead. The arms were drawn up and crossed on her chest, which was devoid of any motion. Valerie’s hand went up involuntarily and covered her mouth. The smell became almost too unbearable that she had to blink back her tears, her heart hammering against her chest.

They took another step, then another, until they stood beside the bed. This was not a face of the living; it was a face preparing to depart this hollow world. The veins on her fluttering eyelids were purple and blue, the corners of her mouth were curled as in a smile. Valerie had never seen a face so peaceful before. Without trouble or misery.

“How has she been doing, Mrs. Harris?” The doctor knelt beside the bed, reaching into his bag of bottles and bandages and other herbal treatments. Mrs. Harris sat on a chair at the foot of the bed, her fingers laced together on her lap and head hung low.

“Not getting any better.”

The woman looked at them, eyes fixed on Ethan, burning with an anger that seemed to consume her from within. It was an anger born from helplessness, of watching her child wither away under the relentless grip of illness, an anger that found its way to her husband, for his muscles tensed beneath her gloved hands. She understood her rage, the likes of which had begun rooting in her body, the desperate need to find someone, anyone, to blame for the fast, agonizing decline of her daughter.

It was the plague. It was the beast. It had taken more lives ever since the townspeople confronted and accused them on that day. The doctor had informed them about the symptoms—fever, hysteria, loss of appetite and memory, lethargy, a strong dislike of light. The symptoms usually lasted for a fortnight before claiming the body. There was no cure or relief. The plague spread fast, by a bite the doctor believed, and the victim was not aware of the disease until it took them to bed. Already too late.

“It’s not enough,” Mrs. Harris said, her voice wavering at first. “These bottles, medications, balms of yours…They’re just delaying the inevitable, aren’t they?”

She grimaced at the bowl of bandages, a vein bulging on her forehead. The doctor lifted the thin sheet and placed the girl’s hands on her side. If Valerie thought the smell was horrendous, the girl’s wound was much worse. She followed the trail that climbed up the opening of the girl’s dress. It was as if someone used her body as a canvas and splattered black ink all over her chest and chin. It was like looking at a leaf, the veins curling and uncurling on the skin. Two small drops of blood had dried around her neck. A muffled sound came from her throat, but nobody noticed.

The same puncture wounds, gaping and swollen, and the same rash. Though her rash had subsided quickly, the puncture marks were stubborn, and the itching had only gotten worse.

He sighed, his shoulders slumping lightly. His words hung in the air like a bad omen. “Mrs. Harris, I understand your frustration. We’re doing everything we can, but this is a difficult case.”

Mrs. Harris pointed a finger at her and Ethan, sounding unexpectedly rancorous, looking at their leather gloves, the thick shawls, and feathered hats. “It’s difficult for us. Not foryounow, eh?”

Later in the afternoon, after Valerie asked Ethel to fill up her basin and bring fresh towels then cleaned her wound alone, she sat in the parlor, cradling her teacup and taking a sip every now and then. A hush as thick as cobwebs had descended over Vertigo Peaks. The only light came from a log burning in the fireplace, casting long shadows that danced on the oak-paneled walls. The wind blew the snow and a distant smoke perched over the peaks.

She had been pondering if this was her end: miserable and excruciatingly gruesome. Who was she if not Mrs. Vertigo? What use would she have if she did not marry Ethan Vertigo? She was a nobody. Whether his ship hit the rocks or rang the sirens, she could not desert it. She was bound to remain in this town, at the skirts of Vertigo Peaks so long as she lived.

“The doctor wants to see you, madam.”

Ethel was standing at the doorway, a troubled look on her face.

“Please let him in,” she said. Her heart beat faster at the thought of him kneeling over patients, dead after dead, working his hands in a futile attempt. Even so, why did he want to see her? It had been weeks since he treated her wound from the attack. She had not asked for his services ever since. Valerie swallowed hard. Did he know about the puncture marks on her neck? Did she scratch it accidentally in front of him? No, it could not be. She was careful to cover the wound, not to touch it in front of people in an alarming way. She ran to the mirror to see if there was a stain, the slightest implication of blood, but the fabric was clean.

Ethel announced him as he took a few quick strides in her direction. He opened his mouth then closed it again, seeing Ethel waiting by the door for an order.

“You may leave Ethel.” She turned to the doctor. His nervous hands held his chest tight, and a feverish look passed his eyes. His hair was tousled and if Valerie had not seen him a couple hours earlier, she would have thought he had been in some kind of a brawl. She gestured to one of the cushioned chairs and sat across from him, waiting for him to catch his breath.

The air, thick with the smell of snow and smoke, pressed against her, the silence broken only by the rhythmic rap of his boots against the wooden floor. “Are you going to tell me what happened, doctor?”

He tilted his face back, revealing his sweat-streaking and weary features, looking at her with a fearful eye. She was about to ring the bell and ask for help when he spoke, a raspy whisper. Valerie’s head snapped up, her eyes darting across his face like a startled animal’s.

“She’s dead, Mrs. Vertigo. I-I could not save her. She died screaming,” he said, looking at his hands. “Her heart stopped beating beneath my palms. I did not know what to do. I could only watch as she went stiff.”

The girl was dead. All the color drained from his face. He burst out crying, his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking violently. His composure crumbled before her eyes; the man she had known to be serene by nature had vanished. Finally, he stopped sobbing and lifted his head slowly, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. The tears were replaced by a dark, indecipherable pain.

“Forgive me, madam—” He stuttered. “I did not mean to trouble you with my duties, or rather, my failures. It is not the reason why I am here,” he said, pulling out a small piece of paper from his waistcoat and examining it. He looked at the paper for a moment, then his features hardened, a steely glint in his eyes. Valerie’s heart lurched. She held her breath, her blood heavy like lead in her veins. As he unfolded it, his face leeched even further, as though the paper was sucking the lifeblood out of him.

He whirled towards her, his eyes wide with fury she had never witnessed before. He held her gaze as an object of scorn, but before she could ask him what the note said, a thunderous banging from the front door erupted the silence. The snow outside had seemed to recoil, then resumed its assault with a renewed force. Valerie jumped in her seat and the doctor shot her a panicked glance. A minute later, Ethel appeared in the doorway again, out of breath.

“A lady wants to see you, madam,” she said. “I told her that you are busy at the moment, but she insisted on talking to you.”

“Well, go on then. Call for the lady,” Valerie said, raising a brow. Ethel was still lingering in the doorway. Her face reddened; she hid her hands under her apron then adjusted her cap. “Who is she, Ethel?”

“Erm…The lady…Madam…” Valerie noticed her surreptitious glance down the long hall, as though she wished the lady to appear behind her so she would not have to embarrass herself for uttering the words. When nobody came for her rescue, she shrugged her shoulders. After clearing her throat, she said, “The lady refuses to come inside the house or give her name unless you talk to her first.”

Then, suddenly, she added these words: “The lady looked incredibly morbid and hysterical, madam, much too sick I think.” Valerie pursed her lips but tried to keep a posture of repose in front of the doctor who was now watching her with a mixture of anxiety and weariness.

“What do you think, doctor? Ethel says the lady looks sick. Is the plague…the disease contagious? Should I let her in?” Her words trailed off in a whisper. The doctor stood up, his face still austere, yet gave her a sympathetic smile and walked to the door with her.

“The disease seems to only affect the bitten person, madam. I have not yet come across any evidence that it is contagious.”

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