The Black Death and Whatnot

A rat’s eye view of the Black Death

Words 958

London 1348
The rat slid under the door of the Inn, like a ribbon of black silk, evading even the landlord’s eagle eye. He scurried across the uneven flagstones before vanishing into an impossible gap between the floor and rough plastered walls.

Rufus took a moment, allowing his heart rate to regulate before speaking. “Morning my love," he spoke tenderly as he offered a tasty morsel of food to the nursing mother. Six pink, squirming creatures mewled as they sought nourishment from her sleek, black body.

“What’s happening out there,” she asked while munching on the food. "What is the news?”

“There’s food aplenty, Ruth, you don’t need to worry, those humans leave their garbage strewn everywhere.” He laid his well-fed body close to hers and closed his eyes. But before he slept, he whispered, “it is getting more perilous each time though, my dear.”

“I hope you are being careful, Rufus. While I’m feeding the pups I can’t leave them. We need you to stay safe."

“There’s talk of a plague, blaming the rats, they are.”

His wife sniffed. “People!" She spoke the word with venom.


A tankard full of cloudy ale missed Rufus by a whisker as he slipped back under the floorboards, the sounds of the Inn fading as he reached the nest.

“Near miss, Ruth old girl,” Rufus laughed as he shook the sticky ale from his fur.

“It’s getting too risky to even go out. I worry you'll not return one day."

“It’s not just the landlord I need to steer clear from, darlin,’ now it seems everyone is out for our blood. They are placing the blame for the sickness on us, but we are dying too. I’ve seen hundreds of rat corpses lying in the streets," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "I think the humans are deliberately poisoning us.”

“But aren’t they also dying in big numbers?"

Rufus looked thoughtful. “Yes, of course, you’re right. I’ve seen carts loaded with bodies." He began scratching vigorously. “Bloody fleas! They’re getting worse every day.”


“Rufus! Don’t come any closer!”

“Ruth, what’s wrong, sweetheart?” He stopped in his tracks when he saw his wife curled over her litter. Although he couldn't see her face, he knew she was crying.

“Two more of the babies have perished, Rufus,” she sobbed, "you know what it means. We're all going to die."

“I’m so sorry, love,” he comforted his wife but remained silent for a while listening to her sobs and the squeals of his remaining family. Then, as if he could see no alternative, he said, “We need to leave. Right now.”

“I can’t travel, nor help with the scavenging, not with the babies being so sick," Ruth sobbed.

So, several times a day, determined not to let his family down, Rufus would go in search of food for his family. His bright eyes flicked left and right, timing his exit for when the Landlord would be busy talking or pouring another tankard of ale. Preparing to run he paused and listened, something was different. There were no sounds of men swilling their drinks, cursing their fate, no complaints about the “bloody rats,” just a deathly silence. Rufus made his usual zig-zagging foray across the flagstones but no one shouted out or threw a shoe or a chair at him. The tavern was empty. He realised he had no need to risk the streets, and spying a piece of stale bread under a table, he dragged it, unimpeded, back to the nest.

The city became barely recognisable from the one Rufus had always known. Streets became empty thoroughfares and deathly quiet. The stench of rotting food, vegetation and deserted corpses, turned even Rufus' cast iron stomach.
One day, on his way home, he saw his best friend, Scrapper, lying dead in the gutter, his usual shiny coat, wet and bedraggled, with dead eyes which stared at nothing. Shocked, Rufus, returned to the Inn to reassure his wife. He'd tell her despite everything, all would be well as soon as soon as they were able to travel.

“We will get out of here, I promise," he spoke urgently, "until then, there is food aplenty." he added, hoping to reassure her at least they were not going to starve. But there was no reply from the nest.

“Ruth?” he whispered and moved closer. Cautiously he nudged her as she lay curled around her family. When she didn’t move, he cautiously reached out a paw to touch the cold, still bodies of his children. They had all perished, but not from lack of food, he thought, noticing the untouched bread.
“It’s the fleas,” he said. Seeing hundreds of them crawling and jumping all over his family, at last he understood what had been killing the rats. It was not the landlord’s poison. It had not been the traps. It had been the fleas all along. The rats had been innocently carrying them from house to house, spreading death and destruction wherever they went. For the first time in his life, he was afraid. Afraid to stay and yet afraid to leave.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered to his family as he prepared to get out of London. He slipped quietly from under the floorboards of the silent Inn and out into the darkness.

London remained eerily quiet for a long time and then, one day, from underneath the floorboards of the old Inn, another squirming litter of pink bodies lay suckling from their mother, and somewhere in the distance came the lusty cry of a newborn child.
Although the plague had taken thousands of lives, the people returned and so did the rats, because as Rufus always knew, where there are people, there is always plenty of food.