Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1) - Connie Willis Page 0,257

shut against the jouncing landscape and the throbbing. The stallion, given its head, was obviously going home, and he knew he should tell Colin that, but the illness was closing in on him again, and he was afraid to let go of Colin’s waist for even a moment, for fear the fever would get away from him. He was so cold. That was the fever, of course, the throbbing, the dizziness, they were all the fever, and a fever was a good sign, the body marshaling its forces to fight off the virus, assembling the troops. The chill was only a side effect of the fever.

“Blood, it’s getting colder,” Colin said, pulling his coat closed with one hand. “I hope it doesn’t snow.” He let go of the reins altogether and pulled his muffler up around his mouth and nose. The stallion didn’t even notice. It plodded steadily ahead through deeper and deeper woods. They came to another fork and then another, and each time Colin consulted the map and the locator, but Dunworthy couldn’t tell which fork he chose or whether the horse had simply kept on in the direction it had set.

It began to snow, or they rode into it. All at once it was snowing, small steady flakes that obscured the path and melted on Dunworthy’s spectacles.

The aspirin began to take effect. Dunworthy sat up straighter and pulled his own cloak about him. He wiped his spectacles on the tail of it. His fingers were numb and bright red. He rubbed his hands together and blew on them. They were still in the woods, and the path was narrower than when they started.

“The map says Skendgate is five kilometers from Henefelde,” Colin said, wiping snow off the locator, “and we’ve come at least four, so we’re nearly there.”

They were not nearly anywhere. They were in the middle of the Wychwood, on a cow path or a deer trail. It would end at a cottar’s hut or a salt lick, or a berry bush the horse had fond memories of.

“See, I told you,” Colin said, and there, past the trees, was the top of a bell tower. The stallion broke into a canter. “Stop,” Colin said to the stallion, pulling on the reins. “Wait a minute.”

Dunworthy took the reins and slowed the horse to a reluctant walk as they came out of the woods, past a snow-covered meadow, and to the top of the hill.

The village lay below them, past a stand of ash trees, obscured by the snow so that they could only make out gray outlines: manor house, huts, church, bell tower. It wasn’t the right village—Skendgate didn’t have a bell tower—but if Colin had noticed, he didn’t say anything. He kicked the stallion ineffectually a few times, and they rode slowly down the hill, Dunworthy still holding on to the reins.

There were no bodies Dunworthy could see, but there were no people either, and no smoke from the huts. The bell tower looked silent and deserted, and there were no footprints around it.

Halfway down the hill, Colin said, “I saw something.” Dunworthy had seen it, too. A flicker of movement that could have been a bird or a moving branch. “Just over there,” Colin said, pointing toward the second hut. A cow wandered out from between the huts, untied, its teats bulging, and Dunworthy was certain of what he’d feared, that the plague had been here, too.

“It’s a cow,” Colin said disgustedly. The cow looked up at the sound of Colin’s voice and began to walk toward them, lowing.

“Where is everybody?” Colin said. “Somebody had to ring the bell.”

They’re all dead, Dunworthy thought, looking toward the churchyard. There were new graves there, the earth mounded up over them, and the snow still not completely covering them. Hopefully, they’re all buried in that churchyard, he thought, and saw the first body. It was a young boy. He was sitting with his back to a tombstone, as if he were resting.

“Look, there’s somebody,” Colin said, yanking back on the reins and pointing at the body. “Hullo there!”

He twisted around to look at Dunworthy. “Will they understand what we say, do you think?”

“He’s—” Dunworthy said.

The boy stood up, hauling himself painfully to his feet, one hand on the tombstone for support, looking around as if for a weapon.

“We won’t hurt you,” Dunworthy called, trying to think what the Middle English would be. He slid down from the stallion, clinging to the back of the saddle at the abrupt