Author’s Note: This story explores an alternate history where the Black Death of 1347-1351 killed approximately 90% of Europe’s population, rather than the roughly one-third estimated in our actual historical timeline. This devastating divergence from our history creates a world where European civilization nearly collapses completely, forever altering the course of global development and preventing the rise of European colonial empires. What follows is a glimpse into this alternate world—a meditation on how humanity might rebuild after catastrophic population loss, and how the balance of global power might have shifted if Europe’s demographic and cultural trajectory had been so dramatically altered.

I. The Dying Time (1348-1351)

The bells had stopped ringing in Avignon three days ago.

Father Matthieu de Clairvaux stumbled through the papal palace, his sandals slipping on marble floors slick with waste. The stench of death had become so commonplace that he no longer noticed it. The Pope had died a week earlier, along with all but two of the cardinals. There would be no conclave, no white smoke, no new Holy Father to guide Christendom.

“It is the end of days,” whispered Sister Agnes, one of the few surviving nuns who had been tending to the dying. Her eyes were hollow, her face gaunt. “God has forsaken us.”

Matthieu had no words of comfort to offer. When the plague first appeared, killing perhaps a third of those infected, there had been hope. But then came the second wave, more virulent than the first. And then the third. Each mutation of the disease more deadly than the last, until entire villages disappeared overnight, until cities became tombs.

In the papal library, Matthieu gathered what manuscripts he could carry. Someone must preserve knowledge. Someone must survive.

From the window, he could see the River Rhône. Bodies floated downstream, too numerous to count. A few boats moved against the current, piloted by desperate souls seeking escape. There was none to be found.

---

In London, Lady Eleanor Berkeley watched as her husband’s body was carried from their manor house. The last of her family was gone now. Her three children, her parents, her brothers and their families—all claimed by the Great Mortality.

The men carrying the body were strangers, peasants from some outlying village. They would receive her husband’s gold ring in payment—if they survived long enough to spend it.

“My lady,” her steward rasped, his own face bearing the telltale black swellings of plague, “the king’s men have not come to collect the taxes. I do not think they will come.”

“And what of the king?” she asked.

“Dead, my lady. Along with all his children. They say the Scots king is dead too. And the French king. All dead.”

Eleanor nodded. She had suspected as much. In the three years since the plague arrived on English shores, the mechanisms of governance had slowly ground to a halt. First, the local courts stopped meeting. Then, messengers stopped arriving from London. Finally, the roads themselves became impassable—blocked by abandoned carts, wandering livestock, and unburied corpses.

That night, she wrote in her journal by candlelight:

I believe I am the last Berkeley. The plague has taken all others. Nine of every ten souls in England must now be gone. I have heard that some remote villages in the highlands remain untouched, but I cannot verify this. Tomorrow I shall leave this place, taking what provisions I can carry. I go north, toward the wild places. May God, if He still watches over this cursed land, guide my steps.

---

In a village outside Florence, Marco Rossi surveyed what remained of his world. Once a prosperous wool merchant, he now stood alone in fields gone to seed. His family, his workers, his neighbors—all gone. Of the sixty-three souls who had once lived in the village, only he remained.

For weeks, he had waited for officials from Florence to come—to count the dead, to establish order, to tell him what to do next. They never came. Finally, he had walked to the city himself, a journey of half a day.

Florence, once home to nearly a hundred thousand people, lay silent. Bodies decomposed in grand palazzos and humble workshops alike. The great Duomo, still unfinished, stood as a monument to ambitions that would never be realized. In the Signoria, he had found ledgers recording the death toll until the record-keepers themselves succumbed. The last entry suggested that over ninety percent of the city had perished.

As Marco wandered the empty streets of what had been one of Europe’s greatest cities, a realization came to him: civilization itself had ended. Whatever came next would be built on the bones of the old world, by survivors too few in number to maintain what their ancestors had created.

II. The Hollow Century (1351-1450)

The monastery of Saint-Michel-du-Val had once housed over a hundred monks. Now, only twelve remained, along with a small number of lay brothers and refugees who had sought sanctuary within its walls.

Brother Matthieu—once Father Matthieu of Avignon—had traveled for years before finding this remote place in what had once been called Burgundy. Names of regions, of kingdoms, meant little now. Europe was a patchwork of isolated communities, separated by vast tracts of wilderness where nature had already begun to reclaim abandoned fields and villages.

“The manuscript is complete,” said Brother Thomas, the youngest of their number at twenty-five. “I have copied the last of the texts you brought from Avignon.”

Matthieu nodded, examining the careful script. Their small library now contained copies of key works of theology, natural philosophy, medicine, and history. A fragment of civilization preserved like an ember among ashes.

“There is news from the east,” Brother Thomas continued. “A band of travelers passed through the valley last week while you were meditating. They say that in the lands once called Germany, warlords fight over the ruins. They claim one man—a knight named Friedrich—has united several cities along the Rhine.”

“Cities?” Matthieu asked, surprised. “Truly cities, not just settlements?”

“That is what they claimed. Places where a few thousand people live together, trading with other settlements. They mint coins with this Friedrich’s face upon them.”

Matthieu considered this. It had been nearly a century since the Great Mortality. Perhaps, in some places, recovery had begun.

“Did they speak of Rome? Of the Pope?”

Brother Thomas shook his head. “They said Rome is a ghost city, inhabited by a few hundred souls at most. They had heard no word of any Pope. The Church, as we knew it, is gone.”

Matthieu crossed himself. He had suspected as much, but to hear it confirmed still felt like a blow. Without the unifying force of the Church, without kings and nobles to maintain order, what would become of Christendom?

“We must preserve what we can,” he said finally. “Knowledge, faith, the old ways. Others will do the same elsewhere. Perhaps, in time, these islands of civilization will reconnect.”

---

In what had once been England, Eleanor Berkeley’s great-granddaughter Catherine stood atop a crumbling castle wall, looking out over the patchwork of forests and fields that stretched to the horizon.

At sixty-eight, Catherine was the oldest person in the settlement that had grown up around Berkeley Castle. The community numbered just over three hundred souls—many descended from the handful of survivors Lady Eleanor had gathered during her journey north a century before.

“Riders approaching, my lady,” called one of the watchmen.

Catherine squinted. A group of perhaps twenty men on horseback approached along the overgrown road from the south.

“Raise the flag,” she ordered. “Let us see if they are friends.”

The years after the Great Mortality had been chaotic. Bands of survivors roamed the countryside—some seeking community, others taking by force what they could not produce themselves. Catherine’s grandmother had established the code by which they still lived: welcome those who came in peace, repel those who threatened their survival.

The riders halted at the edge of the cleared land surrounding the castle. One rode forward, carrying a banner Catherine did not recognize.

“I am Sir William Hastings,” the man called out. “Emissary of King Robert of Winchester. The king seeks to reunite the people of this island under one crown.”

Murmurs spread among the defenders on the wall. None of them had been born when there was last a king in England.

“We have no king,” Catherine called back. “We govern ourselves by common consent.”

“As do many settlements,” the emissary replied. “King Robert does not seek to rule you directly. He offers protection from raiders, assistance in times of hardship, knowledge from the libraries we have preserved. In return, he asks for a portion of your harvest and young men and women who wish to learn the old skills—masonry, metallurgy, medicine.”

Catherine considered this. Over the years, travelers had brought tales of other growing settlements across the former England. Some had attempted to recreate the feudal order that had existed before the plague. Others had formed councils of elders or followed charismatic religious leaders.

“Your king may send three representatives to discuss terms,” she decided. “But know this: we have survived a century without kings. We will not easily surrender our independence.”

III. The New World (1450-1550)

Friedrich IV, ruler of the Rhine Confederation, stood in what had once been the cathedral of Cologne. The building, never completed even before the Great Mortality, had been partially restored under his grandfather’s rule. It symbolized their ambition: not merely to survive in the ruins of the old world, but to one day equal or even surpass its achievements.

“The emissaries from Venice have arrived, my lord,” his adviser, Heinrich, informed him.

Friedrich nodded. “And the Burgundians? The delegates from London?”

“All have arrived as requested. This will be the largest gathering of rulers since before the plague.”

Two hundred years had passed since the catastrophe that had nearly ended European civilization. From the ashes, new political entities had emerged—not kingdoms or empires as before, but smaller confederations of cities and towns, centered on the few places where enough knowledge and organization had survived to rebuild.

The Rhine Confederation was the largest and most powerful of these new states in the north, comprising some fifty thousand people spread across two dozen settlements along the great river. Venice, which had suffered less than most due to its isolation and strict quarantine measures during the plague, had gradually reestablished itself as a maritime power, though with perhaps a tenth of its former population.

Other entities represented at the gathering included the Burgundian League, the London Compact, the Barcelona Maritime Republic, and the Papal State—a small territory around Ravenna where a bishop claimed the mantle of Pope, though his authority was recognized by few.

“What of the eastern delegations?” Friedrich asked.

Heinrich hesitated. “We have received word that they will not attend. The Khanate’s representatives say their master sees no benefit in alliances with the western realms.”

Friedrich frowned. The rise of a powerful Mongol state in the lands once called Russia and Poland was concerning. Unlike the devastated realms of Western Europe, the Mongol Empire had continued to expand after the plague, absorbing weakened Eastern European populations and pushing ever westward.

“Then we must be even more unified in our response,” he decided. “The old divisions of Christendom cannot be afforded now.”

---

In a small settlement in what had once been Portugal, Diogo Mendes completed his final preparations. His ship—a caravel of new design, incorporating both European and Moorish techniques—was loaded with provisions for a long journey.

“The Council has approved your expedition,” said António, the settlement’s elder. “Though many think it folly.”

Diogo shrugged. “The world is changed. We must adapt or perish.”

The Great Mortality had transformed Europe, but it had also changed the relationship between Europeans and the wider world. With European populations decimated, the balance of power had shifted. North African Berber states had expanded into Iberia. The Ottoman Empire had pushed deep into the Balkans. And reports from occasional traders suggested that civilizations across the ocean—in the lands European explorers had just begun to encounter before the plague—had continued to develop without the interruption that had devastated Europe.

“You seek knowledge, not conquest,” António reminded him. “We have neither the numbers nor the strength for empire-building.”

“I understand,” Diogo assured him. “But consider what we might learn. The Aztec Empire, the Inca—civilizations with medicine, engineering, agriculture. Their knowledge, combined with what we have preserved of our own, could help us rebuild faster.”

António nodded. The humbling of Europe had changed perspectives. Where once European powers might have approached the wider world with dreams of conquest and conversion, the realities of their diminished state had fostered a different attitude. Survival required cooperation and the exchange of knowledge.

“Then go with our blessing,” António said. “And return to share what you discover.”

---

In the Berkeley settlement, now a town of nearly a thousand people, Catherine’s great-grandson William studied the documents spread before him. Maps showing trade routes connecting the various new states of Europe, records of harvests and populations, and—most precious of all—books salvaged from the time before.

“The delegation from Winchester brings interesting proposals,” said his adviser, Mary Cooper. “King Robert’s grandson suggests a formal union between our peoples.”

William considered this. In the two centuries since the Great Mortality, the scattered settlements of the island had gradually reconnected. The London Compact now encompassed most of what had once been southern England, while the northern regions remained a patchwork of independent communities and small federations.

“Not as subjects, I hope,” William replied.

“No,” Mary assured him. “They speak of a Great Council, with representatives from each settlement based on population. A return to the Parliament of old, they say, though with greater powers for the localities.”

William nodded slowly. The catastrophe of the plague had destroyed the old order, but from its ashes, new forms of governance had emerged. Without enough people to maintain complex hierarchies, more egalitarian structures had developed in many places. Women like his ancestor Lady Eleanor and councils of common people had taken leadership roles that would have been unthinkable before.

“And what of the ships reported off our western shores?” he asked.

Mary’s expression grew serious. “Explorers from across the ocean, it seems. Their vessels are unlike any we know. The reports say they bear symbols matching the descriptions in Diogo Mendes’ journals.”

William felt a chill. The Portuguese explorer had never returned from his voyage, but his first reports, sent back with a returning crew member, had described sophisticated civilizations across the Atlantic. Civilizations that, unlike Europe, had not been devastated by the plague.

“Then it begins,” he said quietly. “The reconnection of worlds. Let us hope we have learned enough wisdom in our diminishment to approach it differently than our ancestors might have.”

IV. Epilogue: The Great Conjunction (2023)

Professor Elena Berkeley-Smith adjusted her ceremonial robes as she prepared to address the Global Historical Congress in New London. As the foremost historian of the post-Mortality period and a direct descendant of Lady Eleanor Berkeley, she had been chosen to deliver the keynote address on this momentous occasion.

“Distinguished representatives,” she began, looking out at the assembly. Delegates from every major world civilization were present—the Aztec Technocracy, the Inca Federation, the Ming Directorate, the Songhai Commonwealth, the Ottoman Republic, the Rhine Confederation, the Americas Union, and dozens of smaller states.

“Today marks seven centuries since the Great Mortality nearly ended European civilization. The plague that killed ninety percent of Europe’s population reshaped not just one continent, but ultimately the entire world.”

On screens behind her, images appeared—reconstructions of deserted medieval cities, maps showing the collapse and slow rebirth of organized societies in Europe, and the altered course of global history that resulted.

“The Europe that emerged from the ashes was fundamentally transformed. Without the population to maintain feudal hierarchies or support expansionist ambitions, new social structures emerged—more egalitarian, more localized, more focused on knowledge preservation than territorial conquest.”

She advanced to the next series of images—the first diplomatic contacts between diminished European states and the unaffected civilizations of the Americas, Africa, and Asia.

“When global contact was reestablished in the 16th and 17th centuries, the balance of power was shaped by Europe’s diminished state. With European powers focused on rebuilding rather than expansion, contact between civilizations developed along different lines. Trade networks gradually formed between the various cultural centers of the Americas, Africa, Asia, and Europe, leading to the multipolar world of roughly equal civilizational centers that we know today.”

The final images showed the gradual development of the current world order—a global federation of independent states, united by shared knowledge and cooperative development, but maintaining distinct cultural and governmental traditions.

“Our world today—with its global cooperation on climate, technology, and resource management, its cultural diversity, its balanced development—is the product of that catastrophe. From humanity’s greatest tragedy came, perhaps, its greatest opportunity for a different path.”

Elena paused, looking out at the assembly.

“As we commemorate this anniversary, we are reminded that history turns on pivotal moments. The Great Mortality that killed ninety percent of Europe’s population in the 14th century fundamentally reshaped our world. From that devastating catastrophe emerged the foundations of our current global balance—a world where no single civilization dominates, where diverse cultural and governance traditions flourish side by side, and where cooperation emerged from necessity rather than conquest.”

She closed her notes and finished with the traditional words spoken at all historical congresses since their inception three centuries earlier:

“From the ashes of the old world, we built not a replica, but something new. May we continue to learn from both our triumphs and our tragedies.”

Feature Photo by Daniel