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Prologue to YA book
Prologue
December 20, 1664
The boy felt terrible. This was the coldest he’d ever remembered it. The Thames had frozen over, and people had taken to skating on it, but still he was forced to come to the tannery to work at his job. His father wasn’t well, and the boy’s job, menial and meager as it was, helped to keep their family from starving.
Despite the cold weather, the boy felt feverish. His head ached as if an animal was trying to work its way from the inside out. Each shovelful of dog feces the boy scooped onto the riverbank made his arms feel as if they might snap off. Suddenly, the world slipped sideways and the boy found himself sitting in the pile of waste. He was aware his foreman was screaming at him, but he had trouble making sense of the words. He was yanked up by one arm, wrenching his shoulder, and causing a sharp pain to shoot from his shoulder to his neck and into his pounding head.
“If you want to lie down on the job, you can go home and not be paid for the day!” The foreman’s jiggly face was red and spittle flew from his pudgy lips. The boy didn’t understand why he was being yelled at since he was the one who fell into the pile of feces. “Go on,” the foreman screamed as he pushed the boy towards the foggy street, “get yerself out of here!”
Summarily dismissed, the boy slowly wandered home. What could he tell his parents? He would come home smelly, sick, and unable to help pay for this evening’s meal.
“What are you doing home, boy?” his mother asked, shifting the baby from one hip to the other as she continued to push the rod down into the steaming tub of clothes.
The boy, unable to stand a moment longer, fell to the floor as the world faded to black.
When he awoke, the boy found himself on the small hay bed he shared with his older brother. Doctor Hodges was leaning over the boy’s naked torso and shaking his head.
“I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good,” he proclaimed to the gathering family. “I’ve found the marks of God on him.” Gasps bounced off the walls of the room.
“Please don’t tell no one, Doctor Hodges,” pleaded his mother, “I barely got enough washing as it is, if peoples found out we’ve brung the death to St. Giles . . .” the mother’s voice trailed off.
The boy’s thoughts drifted as he realized they were talking about him. The plague? Him? As he began to pray to God, he again felt consciousness slip away.
December 20, 1664
The boy felt terrible. This was the coldest he’d ever remembered it. The Thames had frozen over, and people had taken to skating on it, but still he was forced to come to the tannery to work at his job. His father wasn’t well, and the boy’s job, menial and meager as it was, helped to keep their family from starving.
Despite the cold weather, the boy felt feverish. His head ached as if an animal was trying to work its way from the inside out. Each shovelful of dog feces the boy scooped onto the riverbank made his arms feel as if they might snap off. Suddenly, the world slipped sideways and the boy found himself sitting in the pile of waste. He was aware his foreman was screaming at him, but he had trouble making sense of the words. He was yanked up by one arm, wrenching his shoulder, and causing a sharp pain to shoot from his shoulder to his neck and into his pounding head.
“If you want to lie down on the job, you can go home and not be paid for the day!” The foreman’s jiggly face was red and spittle flew from his pudgy lips. The boy didn’t understand why he was being yelled at since he was the one who fell into the pile of feces. “Go on,” the foreman screamed as he pushed the boy towards the foggy street, “get yerself out of here!”
Summarily dismissed, the boy slowly wandered home. What could he tell his parents? He would come home smelly, sick, and unable to help pay for this evening’s meal.
“What are you doing home, boy?” his mother asked, shifting the baby from one hip to the other as she continued to push the rod down into the steaming tub of clothes.
The boy, unable to stand a moment longer, fell to the floor as the world faded to black.
When he awoke, the boy found himself on the small hay bed he shared with his older brother. Doctor Hodges was leaning over the boy’s naked torso and shaking his head.
“I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good,” he proclaimed to the gathering family. “I’ve found the marks of God on him.” Gasps bounced off the walls of the room.
“Please don’t tell no one, Doctor Hodges,” pleaded his mother, “I barely got enough washing as it is, if peoples found out we’ve brung the death to St. Giles . . .” the mother’s voice trailed off.
The boy’s thoughts drifted as he realized they were talking about him. The plague? Him? As he began to pray to God, he again felt consciousness slip away.
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