The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

 Kevin M. Scrima

Ethnic Fiction—Professor Murabito

4/2/15

A story I am writing for my ethnic fiction class. Enjoy!

The Black Death and The Vegetable of Life

   The town of Cork in Ireland was mostly comprised of poor farmers and low-class workers who were illiterate and went starving half of the time.  

    It was April, and the sun was shining brightly. Cullen put on his brown leather shoes and stepped outside in the warm, Summer-like air. The morning birds chirped in the nearby trees, and one flew over the potato field that Cullen was walking toward. He kneeled and inspected one of the potatoes. His hand cupped what appeared to be a black potato. When he held it up, it crumbled into black mush. “Huh?” Cullen exclaimed as the black mush crumpled out of his hand. “I’ve never seen that before…” he said as he stooped to look at another nearby potato. “This one is black, too,” he observed, picking it up. He gave a gentle squeeze, and it turned into a wet, black mush. “Is this like a disease? There’s no way these are edible without getting sick.” He dropped the mush and wiped what remained on his hand against his worn pants.

   Cullen stood up and walked around quickly, observing as many potatoes as he could. He felt a sudden sense of urgency. The next potato he saw was black. And another one. And another one. He was counting, then estimating. There were still groups of brown potatoes, not tainted by the black. But there were more black then brown. “Oh no…” he muttered, feeling shock go throughout his body. “This isn’t good. Pa is gonna be upset. We are gonna go hungry by the looks of it.”

   Cullen ran back to the mud cabin. Outside, a basket-shaped orifice acted as a chimney. The window had broken panes stuffed with a wisp of straw. And there were rags that were filthy and nasty around the unfitting door and acted as outside walls. He opened the wooden door which had a hole at the bottom. The pig must have broken it. Inside, the walls were tottering, crumbling mud. He saw a chicken on top of his Pa who was sleeping on tattered rags. When Cullen neared the chicken it fluttered its wings and jumped off. He kneeled and shook Pa. “Pa, wake up!”

   His Pa grunted and grumbled. “Cullen, what is it?” he asked.

   “The potatoes,” Cullen said. “Something happened to our potatoes!”

   Pa sat up and opened his green eyes. “What? That can’t be…” he tried standing up then grunted.

   “Pa, let me help,” Cullen said, placing his Pa’s arm over his shoulder as his Pa stood. “Your ankle is still swollen from falling.”

   “Show me,” Pa said.

   Cullen led Pa out the door as he limped along. “They are black,” Cullen said. “And mushy. Look.” He reached down and grabbed a pile of black mush and showed him.

   “My…” Pa said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. This is unheard of.” He took a piece of the black mush from Cullen and rubbed his fingers against it. Then he looked around their potato patch. “They aren’t even potatoes anymore… they’re just… mush.” He dropped the mush and as he started to tilt over, Cullen supported him by placing his shoulder under his arm again. “It’s like an… evil plague befell upon the potatoes.”

   “It would appear so, Pa,” Cullen said.

   Pa said, “It reminds me of the old stories about the Black Death. Except it’s the potatoes and not the humans this time.”

   “Yes, they are black and dead,” Cullen said. “I wonder if this has happened to other people’s potatoes or just ours?”

   “Go find out for us, Cullen. I am in no condition for travel. I will stay and attend to things here once I wake up more and salvage any potatoes I can.”

   Cullen led Pa back to the mud cabin. “Yes, rest a bit.”

  Pa sat down on the dirty rags. The chicken fluttered toward the doorway but Cullen gently kicked it. The chicken bawked as it retreated back inside.

   “Just be careful,” Pa said. “I don’t know if what plagues the potatoes can harm us too. Wash your hands in the river and don’t touch your face.”

   “I will, Pa,” Cullen said. “Be back soon,” he said as he shut the wooden door. He ran to the dirt path toward the river up ahead. What is going on? Cullen wondered.  

   When he got to the river, Cullen kneeled, placing his black hands in the cold water, and began rubbing his hands together, getting rid of all the black dirt and mush. He then washed his face. What if the water is tainted too? he wondered. Would it be safe to drink? Are other foods or crops affected? There were so many questions popping up in his head.

   Cullen stood and jogged toward the Clachans, the small communal cluster. He admired the rolling green hills of the countryside as he made his way toward one of the well-known farms in the community.