I SURVIVED THE BLACK DEATH. DID YOU?

THE Black Death, or Black Plague, swept through Europe in the mid 1300's killing between 40-60% of the population. Some villages, monasteries, and towns suffered upwards of 80% population loss. No one is quite sure how many people died but most agree it was around 50 million people in Europe alone and as many as 200 million world wide. It was a horrendous catastrophe that still haunts the minds and genetic memories of Europeans.

IS THIS THE ORIGIN OF ZOMBIES?

Really, I'm not kidding. The modern day enthrallment with zombies began in Europe in the late 1970's. Most accounts about the subject indicate that zombies originated with African cultures that practiced Voodoo. I have another view, however. I believe our version of the walking dead came from the Black Death.

Here is my theory: in those times, in Europe, the common dominant religion was Catholicism. People considered hell to be a very real place. And who can blame them, for many of them lived in the equivalent of hell on earth. The only way to avoid going to hell after death was to first be baptized and upon imminent death to be given last rights by a Priest. Also, at the time of the Black Death, there was essentially no understanding of the source of the plague or its cure. There was a great deal of what we call superstition.

I think in that terrible, hideous time of overwhelming death it would not be uncommon to see legions of the near-dead stumbling, groping, staggering down the streets trying to make it to the local Catholic Church or Cathedral in hopes of some miracle cure or at the very least to die under the hand of a Priest offering last rights. The near-dead were covered with black buboes (open pustulating wounds), they reeked of diarrhea, they vomited blood and other fluids, and frequently had darkened hands and always were dreadful in appearance. Can you imagine what it must have been like to see these souls staggering down the streets? They must have appeared like our modern version of Zombies!

I REMEMBER

I have seen myself in dream-like visions as a boy during the Black Death. My parents had already perished. My brother and I were the only survivors. Perhaps these "visions' were genetic memories or perhaps I received them by some other means but they were so precise and repetitive that I tend to believe I was the soul they depicted. So pronounced and vivid were the images that I have written a poem about it. I wonder though, do we live past lives? Did you live during the Black Death? If so, perhaps this is the origin of your fear/connection to zombies.

IT'S OK. YOU CAN DO IT.

I know many of you run at the first hint of the word "poem". But this is different. I think you'll be able to "get it" without too much problem. The scene is in a city...I get the sense it is in France somewhere. Perhaps Paris. The first snowfall of the year is happening. The city is quiet. Zombies are staggering down the streets to die in heaps before the alters of churches. Come with me into this dark vision.

GARGOYLES
By Mistermercury
A dream of the Black Death that ravaged Europe.

Frozen stones wept sheets of water
Vomited from gargoyles
Looming on the walls.

My brother and I, in desperate embrace,
Shivered beneath a hidden arch,
Filthy in our rags,
Praying the Holy Mother
Would save us.

When the bells stopped tolling
The Fathers whom we had loved,
Fled Death,
And with kicks and whips and black tongues
Screeched us away from their carriage.

Terrified souls staggered down the streets
Like a putrid river
And washed up a writhing
Blood, vomit and pus soaked flotsam
Beneath the sacred altar
To moan and die in heaps.

We climbed above them into a cavern of timbers
And found a blind man with rope-calloused hands
Who fed us apples, dried fish, and crusts.

He gently bathed us with a cloth
Before a small hearth,
Flames flickering our skin,
Warm water pooling in the basin at our feet;
And clothed us in clean garments.

An owl called beneath the eves
And I was afraid.
She is our friend,
She protects us, he said.
We slept that night beneath her wings
Safe in his bed.

In the morning standing among the gargoyles,
Their hard stone eyes gazing upon a muted city
Somber in cold dirty white
And twisting smokes,
The man laid his hand upon my shoulder,
And I wept.
I wept for the dead.
I wept for God.

After a time he gently asked,
What do you see boy?
It snowed during the night sir.
Are there people in the streets?
Only a few dogs.
(ravaging the dead)
And do you see God?
God, sir?
Yes, do you see Him?
Confused, I said,
No, I do not see Him.
I looked to my brother,
He shook his head,
Eyes wide.
He did not see God either.

There was silence,
Then the man spoke,
God is certainly here.
I looked more closely,
But did not see.
There was no God here
Or anywhere.

The man looked out over the city
A breeze touched his whisping hair,
And with milky eyes
He saw things
We did not.

God is here boys.
He said in a quiet voice.
He is in all of this.
Ah, well…
Enough for now.

He took our cold hands
Leading us inside
Where he told us stories of a farm,
A dappled gray horse,
His mother,
Green heavy vines,
Juice running down his neck…

My brother and I slipped into those
Warm summer fields
And slept,
Gently dreaming sweet visions of earth.

The sun risen, we stepped up into the bell tower
And our friend spoke,
Let us ring the bells
For those who are consumed with fear
And cannot see,
Perhaps we can give them hope.

My brother and I pulled the ropes
And flew into the air
Laughing.

Many blessings, Mistermercury