Infected Sardinian

I embarked from Barcelona with great fortunes and promises of fertile land blessed by the words and documents rigorously proposed by my wife of Valencia.

The captain and shipmates were shockingly generous of the fare. My wife informed me of a new pestilence that might have plagued Sicily and could spread throughout King Ferdinand’s possessions in Italy. I gave her a shrug and kissed her swelling belly.

Our new province in Alghero bustled with fellow Aragonese and some Spaniards cheering on our recent victories. On the distant hills, the shrill cries of the Sardinians beg us to offer amnesty and shelter. 

A Sardinian woman with the shining eyes of Aphrodite staring onto the blood moon approached me and asked for a sip of wine from a bottle I carried in my hand. My wife protested until I poured a small pond in my hand for the strange woman to sip with her puckered lips. Her curled hair shivered as a terrified mutt. My wife dragged me away the moment the wine of my hands ran dry.

I along with several more recent arrivals stood in front of our ship for a daily role call to become accounted for our new homes. The piers and docks were empty as a graveyard. Rats and felines hunt each other in a constant death match. The Sardinian woman approached me again. 

Her goddess attributes had faded into horror: hands blacker than the hooves of lucifer, a face cursed with a checked face, eyes in a yellow as fresh vomit. She pleaded my to share another sip of wine. Her hair shivered again, with black seeds pouring like hail onto the docks.

Pestilence! My captain reached for his sword but other Sardinians and Spaniards alike flocked towards us with carved fingers and teeth. I ran to my estate, avoiding the infected fingers and gazes. 

I opened my door. My wife sways gently on her rocking chair with sunken eyes dark as the celestial skies. Her hands and shoulders char into horrid black lessions. Her belly becomes mishappen, bearing I’ll fated fruit.
Featured photograph by scarabeo150


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