plagues cause fear, suffering and anguish

 Imagine losing half of the people you know to a plague. It has happened before in 548 and 1347. How long would it take us as survivors of plagues to adjust to the suffering. Imagine multiplying your current suffering and anguish by 100 times. Such is the plight of plague victims and survivors.

Watched the movie Contagion recently. It stirred up a few racial memories of past lives.

we wrote before:

wildflowers

fiction
edward w pritchard

Wildflowers come in and out of fashion. In the 1960's we were flower children and beautiful girls picked flowers and twirled around dervish style in a joyous manner. Joyous girls picking colorful flowers is a distant racial memory of us all as a species.

Throughout human history during wars, after a large brutal battle, local townspeople bury the dead of both armies. As survivors of wars worked at the job of burying, civilians would gently drop flowers into the open graves. Dropping flowers on mass graves is a racial memory that we all carry deep in our subconscious.

Our ancient ancestors would have been intimately acquainted with wild flowers. They would walk through red and violet flowers while hunting or gathering and sleep on or near them at night. Perhaps they collected sweet smelling flowers to freshen their camps. The sweet smell of deep red flowers would be a respite to our ancestors. Close your eyes and smell the colorful sweet sweet fragrance of flowers carefully being dropped into shallow grave pits.

However, despite the terror of wars, nothing would be as horrific to humans as a species as the periodic massive outbreak of plagues. You as a rare survivor would watch those you love wither away in agony. You would remember the suffering of your family and friends the rest of your life.

Ring around the Rosie pocket full of posies. During the Black Death, the great plague of 1348, well to do Europeans lined their pockets with flowers. Wild flowers served as a nosegays to be pulled out and put on the face to ward off the odor of the dead. In time the posies in the pocket were clutched desperately during the Black Death in the hope to ward off deep red and purple rings of unknown invisible infections. Flowers, fragrant flowers clutched tightly in fear of creeping death is an ancient  subconscious memory of us all.

Fully 30 to 40 per cent of the citizenry of Europe died of the black death from 1348 to 1350. Maybe fifty million people. Before in 548 up to one hundred million people may have died worldwide in the plagues of Justinian. What terror must have been felt by those living at the time of the plague. Racial memory of plagues still exist. Plague is a memory so strong it survived the actual events waiting to  become alive again in the memories of all of the human species whenever or where-ever pestilent plagues should re-emerge.

An escape to the country, with its clean and pure air and beautiful wildflowers was the hopeful wish of  most during the black death. To escape crowds and return to large open fields of wildflowers, to escape to  our ancient pastoral life style would be our hope and prayer in the time of plagues.

Without warning or a known cause the Black Death devastated Western Europe twice. At the time of the Black Death in England then enjoying relative prosperity the average life span was forty years. What terror must have been felt by those living at time of the Black Death a more religious age than ours trying to escape the horror of the biological Armageddon sent by God. Lining ones pockets with posies, trying to ward off the invisible forces of a brutal early death our ancestors suffered and prayed, helpless against the invisible wrath of God. Rings, circular red and harsh purple rings on the bodies of plague victims, buboes under the arms, and in secret places, rings and rings of terror brought by rats. Rats creeping about our houses at night and fleas biting at us and living on and on victim to victim in our clothes are our racial memory of the ancient plagues.

Pick a wildflower and place it to the memory of our ancestors who lived with the terror of the Black Death. We are survivors of plague genetically. Deep in our subconscious might we remember the suffering of our ancestors by those who survived the plagues yet then witnessed their loved ones perish? First a strong person  begins to cough. C, C, coughing and coughing fills the house.Then our loved ones take to their bed with trembling fever. If you are loved, if you are lucky enough to be cared for; from time to time you will be rotated off your back as you sleep. It's wise not to sleep on your back if plague is active.  A day or two of  oozing leaking buboes and searing thudding pain to the ravished flesh slowly follows. Ruining sheets and bedding you wither away as you drift in and out of consciousness awakened only by your pains. If you lived in a town or city the dutiful night watch would seal you in your house; nailing the doors and windows closed. Hear the tap tap tapping of the hammers, as the night watch crew pounds in the darkness in a hysterical attempt to protect others from you. To remove the dieing from sight is the goal. Even the Priest wouldn't come to you to administer last rites. A bumpy ride in a cart follows; toward  the large open mass graves. If you weren't quite dead yet, if you are strong and willful, as the cart bumped and swayed you would be clinging to life among the corpses of your neighbors; methodically searching for a plan, a remedy, salvation for a few more hours of painful shallow breaths. If you can just survive until the cold weather strikes maybe the rats will move somewhere else. As you are awkwardly heaved into the open graves, amongst the scurrying copse rats, a  breeze carries to you a whiff of the smell of fragrant wildflowers. As you groan, your last groan for you aren't quite dead yet, your eyes espy the grave digger noting that you are still alive. The gravedigger crosses himself and reaches for his nosegay of wildflowers which he clutches to his face, to protect him from you as he reaches for the next rotted body to sling with his stiff and tired arms into the piles and piles of flesh. Your last thought is you didn't get the last rites.

Go about your business. Don't worry about unknown horrific infections savagely invading the persons of those you love. You will be a survivor. You have a fifty fifty chance of survival . We can handle anything. Don't fret, it will be light soon. 

Oblivious, I lay down to sleep; skipping my prayers, I prepare to dream and plan of the morrow.
end