Doomsday Book (Oxford Time Travel, #1)

by Connie Willis

Every century’s a ten, James.” “This century doesn’t have the Black Death.” “It had the Pandemic, which killed sixty-five million people. And the Black Death wasn’t in England in 1320,” she said. “It didn’t reach there till 1348.” She put her mug down on the table, and the figurine of Mary fell over. “But even if it had, Kivrin couldn’t get it. I immunized her against bubonic plague.” She smiled ruefully at Dunworthy. “I have my own moments of Mrs. Gaddsonitis. Besides, she would never get the plague because we’re both worrying over it. None of the things one frets about ever happen. Something one’s never thought of does.” “Very comforting.”

“Even her name was painstakingly researched. Isabel is the woman’s name listed most frequently in the Assize Rolls and the Regista Regum for 1295 through 1320. “It is actually a corrupted form of Elizabeth,” Latimer said, as if it were one of his lectures. “Its widespread use in England from the twelfth century is thought to trace its origin to Isavel of Angoulême, wife of King John.” “Kivrin told me she’d been given an actual identity, that Isabel de Beauvrier was one of the daughters of a Yorkshire nobleman,” Dunworthy said. “She was,” Gilchrist said. “Gilbert de Beauvrier had four daughters in the appropriate age range, but their Christian names were not listed in the rolls. That was a common practice. Women were frequently listed only by surname and relationship, even in parish registers and on tombstones.” Mary put a restraining hand on Dunworthy’s arm. “Why did you choose Yorkshire?” she asked quickly. “Won’t that put her a long way from home?” She’s seven hundred years from home, Dunworthy thought, in a century that didn’t value women enough to even list their names when they died.

The wave form didn’t tell Dunworthy anything, and he couldn’t tell from Mary’s reaction what she thought it meant. Badri hadn’t stopped breathing, his heart hadn’t stopped beating, and he wasn’t bleeding anywhere that Dunworthy could see. Perhaps he had only fainted. But people didn’t simply fall over, except in books or the vids. He must be injured or ill. He had seemed to be almost in shock when he came into the pub.

The pub had been empty, but the streets hadn’t been. He could see Badri in his mind’s eye, pushing his way through the Christmas crowd, barging into the woman with the lavender flowered umbrella and elbowing his way past the old man and the little boy with the white terrier. “Anyone he’s had any contact with,” Mary had said. He looked across at Mary, who was holding Gilchrist’s wrist and making careful entries in a chart. Was she going to try to get bloods and temps from everyone on these lists? It was impossible. Badri had touched or brushed past or breathed on dozens of people in his headlong flight back to Brasenose, none of whom Dunworthy, or Badri, would recognize again. Doubtless he had come in contact with as many or more on his way to the pub, and each of them had come in contact with how many others in the busy shops?

“Explain! Perhaps you’d like to explain it to me, too. I’m not used to having my civil liberties taken away like this. In America, nobody would dream of telling you where you can or can’t go.” And over thirty million Americans died during the Pandemic as a result of that sort of thinking, he thought. “I assure you, madam, that the quarantine is solely for your protection and that all of your concert dates will be more than willing to reschedule. In the meantime, Balliol is delighted to have you as our guests. I am looking forward to meeting you in person. Your reputation precedes you.” And if that were true, he thought, I would have told you Oxford was under quarantine when you wrote for permission to come.

I knew it,” Mrs. Gaddson said, steaming down the corridor toward them. “He’s contracted some horrible disease, hasn’t he? It’s all that rowing.”

“It’s an emergency,” Gilchrist said. He fumed through a long pause. “I know he’s fishing in Scotland. I want to know where.”

“Record your temp at half-hour intervals,” she said, passing round a yellow form. “Come in immediately if your monitor”—she tapped at her own—“shows a marked increase in temp. Some fluctuation is normal. Temps tend to rise in the late afternoon and evening. Any temp between 36 and 37.4 is normal. Come in immediately if your temp exceeds 37.4 or rises suddenly, or if you begin to feel any symptoms—headache, tightness in the chest, mental confusion, or dizziness.” Everyone looked at his or her monitor, and, no doubt, began to feel a headache coming on. Dunworthy had had a headache all afternoon. “Avoid contact with others as much as possible,” Mary said. “Keep careful track of any contacts you do have. We’re still uncertain of the mode of transmission, but most myxoviruses spread by droplet and direct contact. Wash your hands with soap and water frequently.”

He must have dozed off. He dreamed he heard a telephone ringing. It was Finch. He told him the Americans were threatening to sue for insufficient supplies of lavatory paper and that the vicar had called with the Scripture. “It’s Matthew 2:11,” Finch said. “Waste leads to want,” and at that point the nurse opened the door and told him Mary needed him to meet her in Casualties.

“Her name is Beverly Breen,” the woman told him in a faint voice, “226 Plover Way, Surbiton. I knew something was wrong. She kept saying we needed to take the tube to Northampton.”

In the bleak midwinter Frosty wind made moan, Earth stood hard as iron, Water like a stone; Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak midwinter Long ago. CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

They gave me the last rites. “There is naught to fear,” he had said. “You do but go home again.” Requiscat in pace. And slept.

the young woman set down her bowl and spoon and came immediately up beside the bed. “Spaegun yovor tongawn glais?” she said, and it might be “Good morning,” or “Are you feeling better?” or “We’re burning you at dawn,” for all Kivrin knew. Perhaps her illness was keeping the interpreter from working. Perhaps when the fever went down, she would understand everything they said.

“Pride goes before a fall,” the old woman said, seemingly determined to make Agnes cry again. “You were to blame that you fell. You should not have run on the stairs.”

Pride goes before a fall. The interpreter was obviously getting overconfident. Father Rolfe, perhaps, or Father Peter. Obviously not Father Rock.

None of them seemed concerned at all about the little girls getting close to Kivrin or to be aware that they might catch what she had. Neither Eliwys nor Imeyne took any precautions in caring for her. The contemps hadn’t understood the mechanics of disease transmission, of course—they believed it was a consequence of sin and epidemics were a punishment from God—but they had known about contagion. The motto of the Black Death had been “Depart quickly, go far, tarry long,” and there had been quarantines before that.

“His secretary said no one knows where he is. Can you believe that?” “Yes,” Dunworthy said. “I’ve been trying most of today—yesterday—to reach him. He’s on holiday somewhere in Scotland, no one knows exactly where. Fishing, according to his wife.” “At this time of year?” she said. “Who would go fishing in Scotland in December? Surely his wife knows where he is or has a number where he can be reached or something.” Dunworthy shook his head. “This is ridiculous!

There was no one on the streets, though whether that was from the quarantine or the early hour, Dunworthy couldn’t tell. Perhaps they’ll all be asleep, he thought, and we can sneak in and go straight to bed. “I thought there’d be more going on,” Colin said, sounding disappointed. “Sirens and all that.” “And dead-carts going through the streets, calling ‘Bring out your dead’?” Dunworthy said. “You should have gone with Kivrin. Quarantines in the Middle Ages were far more exciting than this one’s likely to be, with only four cases and a vaccine on its way from the States.”

“Thank goodness you’re here, Mr. Dunworthy,” he said. He had a sheaf of colored papers, too, which he waved at Dunworthy. “National Health has just sent over another thirty detainees. I told them we hadn’t any room, but they wouldn’t

listen, and I don’t know what to do. We simply do not have the necessary supplies for all these people.” “Lavatory paper,” Dunworthy said. “Yes!” Finch said, brandishing the papers. “And food stores. We went through half the eggs and bacon this morning alone.” “Eggs and bacon?” Colin said. “Are there any left?”

“Yes,” she said. “And Norwich. They were very understanding.” She leaned forward anxiously. “Is it true it’s cholera?” “Cholera?” Dunworthy said blankly. “One of the women who had been down at the station said it was cholera, that someone had brought it from India and people were dropping like flies.” It had apparently not been a good night’s sleep but fear that had worked the change in her manner. If he told her there were only four cases she would very likely demand they be taken to Ely. “The disease is apparently a myxovirus,” he said carefully. “When did your group come to England?” Her eyes widened. “You think we’re the ones who brought it? We haven’t been to India.” “There is a possibility it is the same myxovirus as one reported in South Carolina. Are any of your members from South Carolina?” “No,” she said. “We’re all from Colorado except Ms. Piantini. She’s from Wyoming. And none of us has been sick.”

He didn’t get to bed until after one-thirty in the afternoon. It took him two hours to get through to all the starred names on Finch’s list, and another hour to discover where Badri lived. His landlady wasn’t at home, and when Dunworthy got back, Finch insisted on going over the complete inventory of supplies. Dunworthy finally got away from him by promising to telephone the NHS and demand additional lavatory paper. He let himself into his rooms.

Without the carillon banging away at “It Came Upon the Midnight Clear,” one would have had no idea at all that it was Christmas Eve. No one carried gifts or holly, no one carried parcels at all. It was as if the quarantine had knocked the memory of Christmas out of their heads completely. Well, and hadn’t it? He hadn’t given a thought to shopping for gifts or a tree.

The outside door opened and a knot of people, all taking down umbrellas and shaking out hats, came in, were order-of-serviced by Colin, and went into the nave. “I knew we should have used Christ Church,” the vicar said. “What are they all doing here?” Dunworthy said. “Don’t they realize we’re in the midst of an epidemic?” “It’s always this way,” the vicar said. “I remember the beginning of the Pandemic. Largest collections ever taken. Later on you won’t be able to get them out of their houses, but just now they want to huddle together for comfort.” “And it’s exciting,” the priest from Holy Re-Formed said. He was wearing a black turtleneck, bags, and a red and green plaid alb. “One sees the same sort of thing during wartime. They come for the drama of the thing.” “And spread the infection twice as fast, I should think,” Dunworthy said. “Hasn’t anyone told them the virus is contagious?” “I intend to,” the vicar said.

Spirit,’ ” Montoya whispered, standing up and starting along the row of chairs. She read her American Indian chant, after which the bell ringers, wearing white gloves and determined expressions, played “O Christ Who Interfaces with the World,” which sounded a good deal like the banging of the pipes. “They’re absolutely necrotic, aren’t they?” Colin whispered behind his order of service. “It’s late twentieth century atonal,” Dunworthy whispered back. “It’s supposed to sound dreadful.”

Dunworthy mounted the lectern and read the Scripture. “ ‘And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed …’ ”

‘… but Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart,’ ” Dunworthy finished and went back to his seat. The imam announced the times of the Christmas Day services at all the churches, and read the NHS bulletin on avoiding contact with infected persons. The vicar began his sermon. “There are those,” he said, looking hard at the priest from Holy Re-Formed, “who think that diseases are a punishment from God, and yet Christ spent his life healing the sick, and were he here, I have no doubt he would cure those afflicted with this virus, just as he cured the Samaritan leper,” and launched into a ten-minute lecture on how to protect oneself from influenza. He listed the symptoms and explained droplet transmission. “Drink fluids and rest,” he said, extending his hands out over the pulpit as if it were a benediction, “and at the first sign of any of these symptoms, telephone your doctor.” The bell ringers pulled on their white gloves again and accompanied the organ in “Angels from the Realms of Glory,” which actually sounded recognizable.

On that night Jesus left his heavenly home and went into a world full of dangers and diseases,” the minister said. “He went as an ignorant and helpless babe, knowing nothing of the evil, of the treachery he would encounter. How could God have sent His only Son, His precious child, into such danger? The answer is love. Love.” “Or incompetence,” Dunworthy muttered. Colin looked up from his examination of his gobstopper and stared at him.

And after He’d let him go, He worried about Him every minute, Dunworthy thought. I wonder if He tried to stop it.

“It was love that sent Christ into the world, and love that made Christ willi...

please rise for the benediction?” he said, opening the sheet of paper and looking at it. “Oh, Lord, stay Thy wrathful hand,” it began. Dunworthy wadded it up. “Merciful Father,” he said, “protect those absent from us, and bring them safely home.”

Gawyn’s feelings of courtly love for Eliwys are apparently not disturbed by dalliances with the servants. I asked Agnes to take me out to the stable to see her pony on the chance that Gawyn would be there. He was, in one of the boxes with Maisry, making less-than-courtly grunting noises. Maisry looked no more terrified than usual, and her hands were holding her skirts in a wad above her waist instead of clutching her ears, so it apparently wasn’t rape. It wasn’t l’amour courtois either.

um no?

“Father Roche rings the bell when someone dies,” Agnes said. “If he does not, the Devil will come and take their soul, and they cannot go to heaven,”

The carving on the side says, “Requiescat cum Sanctis tuis in aeternum.” May he rest with Thy saints forever. The tomb at the dig had an inscription beginning “Requiescat,” but that was all that had been excavated when I was there.

“He says in the last days God will send his saints to sinful man.

“You must thank God that He has healed you on this Sabbath day,” Imeyne said disapprovingly, and knelt beside the bed.

She had been wrong about not recognizing anything—she knew these woods after all. It was the forest Snow White had got lost in, and Hansel and Gretel, and all those princes. There were wolves in it, and bears, and perhaps even witch’s cottages, and that was where all those stories had come from, wasn’t it, the Middle Ages? And no wonder. Anyone could get lost in here.

Dunworthy asked at the admissions desk for Mary and then read the flyer. In boldface type it said “FIGHT INFLUENZA, VOTE TO SECEDE FROM THE EC.” Underneath was a paragraph: “Why will you be separated from your loved ones this Christmas? Why are you forced to stay in Oxford? Why are you in danger of getting ill and dying? Because the EC allows infected foreigners to enter England, and England doesn’t have a thing to say about it. An Indian immigrant carrying a deadly virus—” Dunworthy didn’t read the rest. He turned it over. It read, “A Vote for Secession is a Vote for Health. Committee for an Independent Great Britain.”

“I didn’t get to read her her motto,” Colin said. “Would you like to hear it?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Where was Father Christmas when the lights went out?” He waited expectantly. Dunworthy shook his head. “In the dark.”

It had gone everywhere except Bohemia, and Poland, which had a quarantine, and, oddly, parts of Scotland. Where it had gone, it had swept through the countryside like the Angel of Death, devastating entire villages, leaving no one alive to administer the last rites or bury the putrefying bodies. In one monastery, all but one of the monks had died.

being myself as if among the dead, I, waiting for death, have put into writing all the things that I have witnessed.” He had written it all down, a true historian, and then had apparently died himself, all alone. His writing on the manuscript trailed off, and below it, in another hand, someone had written, “Here, it seems, the author died.”

“Rule Three,” Ms. Taylor said. “ ‘Every man must stick to his bell without interruption.’ It isn’t as if we can put somebody else in halfway through if one of us suddenly keels over. And it would ruin the rhythm.”

The rain had subsided to little more than a fine mist, and the anti-EC picketers were gathered in force in front of the Infirmary. They had been joined by a number of boys Colin’s age wearing black face plasters and shouting, “Let my people go!”

protestors on TX

One of them grabbed Dunworthy’s arm. “The government’s got no right to keep you here against your will,” he said, thrusting his striped

face up to Dunworthy’s face mask. “Don’t be a fool,” Dunworthy said. “Do you want to start another pandemic?” The boy let go of his arm, looking...

‘The Lord shall smite thee with a consumption,’ ” she intoned, her voice resounding through the corridor as he fled, “ ‘and with a fever, and with an inflammation.’ ” And He shall smite thee with Mrs. Gaddson, he thought, and she shall read you Scriptures to keep your morale up.

more vivid than the physical world they inhabited. “You do but go home again,” Father Roche told me when I was dying, and that’s what the contemps are supposed to have believed—that the life of the body is illusory and unimportant, and the real life is that of the eternal soul, as if they were only visiting life the way I am visiting this century, but I haven’t seen much evidence of it. Eliwys dutifully murmurs her aves at vespers and matins and then rises and brushes off her kirtle as if her prayers had nothing to do with her worries over her husband or the girls or Gawyn. And Imeyne, for all her reliquary and her Book of Hours, is concerned only about her social standing. I’d seen no evidence that God was real at all to them till I stood there in the damp church, listening to Father Roche. I wonder if he sees God and heaven as clearly as I can see you and Oxford, the rain falling in the quad and your spectacles steaming up so you have to take them off and polish them on your muffler. I wonder if they seem as close as you do, and as difficult to get to.

When they came in the third time, Bloet sat down across the hearth and stretched out his legs to the fire, watching the girls. The three gigglers and Rosemund were playing blind-man’s buff. When Rosemund, blindfolded, came close to the benches, Bloet reached out and pulled her onto his lap. Everyone laughed.

Mr. Latimer had told her that the contemps had read the future in the Yule log’s shadows. She wondered what the future held for them, Lord Guillaume in trouble and all of them in danger. The king had forfeited the lands and property of convicted criminals. They might be forced to live in France or to accept charity from Sir Bloet and endure snubs from the steward’s wife. Or Lord Guillaume might come home tonight with good news and a falcon for Agnes, and they would all live happily ever after. Except Eliwys. And Rosemund. What would happen to her? It’s already happened, Kivrin thought wonderingly. The verdict is already in and Lord Guillaume’s come home and found out about Gawyn and Eliwys. Rosemund’s already been handed over to Sir Bloet. And Agnes has grown up and married and died in childbirth, or of blood poisoning, or cholera, or pneumonia. They’ve all died, she thought, and couldn’t make herself believe it. They’ve all been dead over seven hundred years.

She pointed to the distorted shadows the fire cast on the walls as it flared up. Rosemund’s, oddly elongated, ended at the shoulders. One of the redheaded boys ran over to Agnes. “I have no head either!” he said, jumping on tiptoe to change the shadow’s shape. “You have no head, Rosemund,” Agnes shouted happily. “You will die ere the year is out.” “Say not such things,” Eliwys said, starting toward her. Everyone looked up. “Kivrin has a head,” Agnes said. “I have a head, but poor Rosemund has none.” Eliwys caught hold of Agnes by both arms. “Those are but foolish games,” she said. “Say not such things.” “The shadow—” Agnes said, looking like she was going to cry. “Sit you down by Lady Katherine and be still,” Eliwys said. She brought her over to Kivrin and almost pushed her onto the bench. “You are grown too wild.”