Free Damiano's Lute by R. A. MacAvoy

sound of festival, it seemed. In a moment they would be dancing.
    â€œMother of God,” whispered Damiano to himself. “Is one fury interchangeable for another?”
    Then the sound of bone against flesh broke through the music. A year ago this would have caused the young man to stop, or at least to drop a beat. But now his fingers continued their course while he glanced up to see the man in the apron laid low by the biggest of the flagellants. With a noise of childish outrage the woman of layers bounded across the dust of the square and kicked the flagellant in the middle of his horsehair and ashes.
    This was not the first time Damiano had played for a dance which became a melee. His policy was to continue playing, while backing away from the ring of trouble. In this situation he found it most advisable to scrape along the row of ruined shops on the left of the main street. Following this course, he would eventually put the flagellants between him and the merry madmen (who were certain they were not going to get the plague) and seek Festilligambe in peace.
    He was fingering a spirited bransle (what else do you play when the audience is brawling?) when a round, soft, little noise behind him caused him to turn his head.
    This was the doorway of mother and baby, but mother was presently out in the sunshine, engaged in pulling someone’s hair. Baby lay alone in the darkened goldsmith’s shop, dressed in white christening robes, coated hands and feet with a precious, glittering dust, and coughing.
    â€œMother of God,” groaned Damiano once again, and for a single instant he entertained the idea of taking the child with him. But in his twenty-three years Damiano had never so much as held an infant in his arms, and all he knew about their care was that he was fairly certain they could not eat grass.
    Avoiding the tiny mite, he set his instrument within the shop, in the safety of a dark corner, and then he went back out to find his horse.
    â€œFestilligambe,” he called, trying to be melodious as well as penetrating. There was no answer.
    His next cry was less modulated, but still he heard no reply, except from the brawl in the square. A silver tankard rolled, clanking, past his feet. He ignored it.
    All these houses marched down to the street, and of those which had stables below, all were open and empty. The packed earth would hold no imprint. “Festilligambe!” bellowed Damiano. There was a scuffle of feet behind him.
    It took Damiano a good two seconds to understand that the flagellants were chasing him. For one more second he stood his ground, belligerently resentful that they would try to get him involved in an argument between two breeds of lunatic. Then he sprinted.
    Had he been less outraged, or had he understood the situation a bit quicker, he might have escaped, for his opponents were weakened by their mutual abuse. But four pairs of hands gripped his tunic and his feet were kicked out from under him.
    â€œDamn the lot of you,” roared the furious musician, suspended by his shirt three feet off the ground. His fist connected twice, on what felt like hard pieces of anatomy. “I’ve had just enough idiocy!”
    Then his head was lifted from behind, by the hair. The expressionless features of the chief flagellant looked down upon him. “Corruption,” the man stated. “Human flesh is corruption, and the worm is its end. You are a sinner and partake of the nature of the beast. You must be freed from your corruption.” There was a tinkle as of tiny bells, as the tips of a cat jingled together.
    Then Damiano was no longer furious, but frightened.
    With sweat prickling all over, Gaspare backed away from the dead man he had come so close to touching. There was no doubt in his mind what had killed this fellow: those horrible round lumps like oak galls on the neck, the pus-y, discolored face and the general attitude of being left to he where it fell…
    He did