The Vessel of Ra

by Catherine Schaff-Stump

  ©2017, 2019 by Catherine Schaff-Stump

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition: September, 2017

  ISBN: 9781794127654

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles, reviews, social media, and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests address Catherine Schaff-Stump, PO Box 89, Blairstown, Ia 52209.

  Your support of the author’s rights is much appreciated.

  Cover: J.Kathleen Cheney

  Interior art design: Michele Maakestad

  by Catherine Schaff-Stump

  Chapter One – The Apothecary

  Chapter Two – The Newlyweds

  Chapter Three – The Missing Binder

  Chapter Four – The Borgias

  Chapter Five – The Demon Khun

  Chapter Six – The Errand Boy

  Chapter Seven – The Birthright

  Chapter Eight – The Accord

  Chapter Nine – The Sinners

  Chapter Ten – The Widow

  Chapter Eleven – The Circle

  Chapter Twelve – The Ritual

  Chapter Thirteen – The Unbound

  Chapter Fourteen – The Survivors

  Chapter Fifteen – The Efrit

  Chapter Sixteen – The Awakening

  Chapter Seventeen – The Father

  Chapter Eighteen – The Theft

  Chapter Nineteen – The Negotiation

  Chapter Twenty – The Underworld

  Chapter Twenty-One – The Exorcism

  Chapter Twenty-Two – The Angel and the Sky

  Chapter Twenty-Three – The Sisters

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Venice, October, 1837

  This had been the best day of Lucy’s life, and since it was her last day alive, that was important. On October 31, the birthday of all Binders, she would turn sixteen. In three weeks, on that day, she would fight Ra. He would win, and Octavia would kill her.

  “There,” said Lucy. She gestured with a black-gloved hand toward San Marco.

  Lucy liked using the Italian name, although Badeker’s travel guide was clear about the Venice landmark being called Saint Mark’s Square―emphatically clear. The shadows and reflections of buildings twisted in the canal, shadow and reflection blurring into luminous puddles. Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes stung.

  The gondolier indulged her with his singing. He thought she was a child because she was a little person. People could only tell her hands and head were large if they looked closely. However, Binders felt wrong to people, so they often didn’t look too closely. She watched the gondolier’s strong back as he moved his pole through the murky water, maneuvering the boat across the Grand Canal.

  Lucy had decided to change everything.

  The canal flooded into the square, up toward the flickering street lamps. Even though her skirts kissed her ankles, they would still be weighed down by acqua alta, the fall flooding that invaded all of Venice. Many tourists stayed in boats or wore rubber boots, complaining about the wretched flood and the smell of the ocean. Lucy trailed her hand through the water. On the surface it looked clean, but underneath the canals laid rot and decay.

  The gondolier secured the boat and Lucy handed him florins, lopsided coins that filled her palm.

  “You be safe?”

  Lucy couldn’t quite tell if his words were a caution or a question.

  “Si,” she said. “I will be safe.” Even though she knew there were thieves and revelers out at night, they could not harm her. Ra was watching and he would never allow anyone else to hurt her.

  Overhead, Ra screeched and plucked a pigeon from the air, its feathers floating down like snowflakes. Other birds rippled away from the attack as Ra pinioned the unlucky bird on the top of a street lamp and gouged out its eye with a needle sharp beak. He flung himself and the bird’s corpse back into the sky, up to the roof of San Marco, where other pigeons were nonchalant, accepting the danger had passed and fate had been kind to them this day.

  She could not see Ra on the roof, but she felt his appetite as he devoured the bird. All day Ra had drifted in the sky, watching her give money to children, indulging in gelato, losing herself in the stone alleys of unknown neighborhoods. Now the day was over, the day in which Lucia Klaereon had been someone else, someone with a future.

  She waded from the boat and into the square. An Austrian soldier frowned at her.

  When Lucy had first arrived in Venice, she decided San Marco would be the place. She liked to see people live and live well, compared to the austerity of her life in Hathersage. San Marco was unlike any place she could ever have imagined herself. Among these crowds, she imagined herself jeweled and coifed, a normal girl. The idea made her warm.

  Ra swooped over her, his crop distended with the bird he had gorged. Lucy started, but she realized tonight, Ra couldn’t harm her more than she meant to harm herself.

  San Marco’s Basilica glowed. The water in the Grand Canal reflected lilies of light, flowers from the revelry in the square. Now, people celebrated in the water and in the square, although in acqua alta the two were almost the same thing.

  Ra’s eyes flashed at her from a lamp top. Lucy’s skirts flowered in the flood waters, petals in bloom. Her last act, yes, belonged only to Lucia Klaereon, her first independent decision contradicting what her father dictated. That alone was worth celebrating.

  Lucy turned from the revelry, feeling the sticky string of life trying to pull her back to the square, water twisting her skirt and petticoat. Ra goaded her. I know what you plan. You’re too afraid. You can’t do it.

  Now the moment was here, the end of the perfect day. She found although her solution was eloquent, it was also unfair. The happiness in her wilted. Her face contorted, sharp shadows making it all angles.

  “I will,” she said to Ra. “You will not have your way.” Lucy waded into the water and dived from the edge of a low stair into the canal. Water roared in her ears. What would her corpse look like? Her hair floated around her pale face like ink in water, uncurling, coming free from pins. Her gown and petticoat floated around her hands like rising and falling hills. Panic burned in her chest. She slipped farther away from the shimmering surface, an imperfect crystal that rippled and waved, obscuring her vision of the world above. Ghost gondolas coasted overhead like porpoises. She belonged to the drowned now.

  Water muffled her ears. The first air bubble left her, a prophetic globe, then another, the end of her future written in them as surely as in any gazing ball. Her chest spasmed. She spiraled down into the water, her gown binding her legs into a mermaid’s tail.

  Her life would no longer be an embarrassment to anyone. Ra would never use her against the family. Octavia wouldn’t have to kill her. She would leave this life and hope for better circumstances in the next.

  Drusus, at least, would notice she was gone.

  When Carlo was six, his father died and his grandfather, Paolo Borgia, moved glass cases and shelves into the living room in their family home, making it into his new apothecary shop. The French soldiers had taken over his old shop in the plaza near San Marco.

  That year, Sofia, Carlo’s mother, stopped walking. She sat in the front room in a cane wheelchair, mending shirts and dresses with precise stitches, waiting on customers, never talking about what happened to Carlo’s father.

  Paolo’s customers visited during the day, and Sofia sold them faultless tinctures for coughs and fevers, as well as potions for love, which none of the Borgias believed had any effect. Paolo handled more s
pecialized deliveries at night once Sofia went to bed.

  At ten, Carlo was officially apprenticed to his grandfather. There was much to do: gather needed ingredients from the swamps around Venice; plant, harvest and dry herbs; grind, powder, pulverize. Crush, mix. Carlo made a variety of elixirs, careful not to ask customers what they did with them.

  When Carlo turned fourteen, he was put in charge of the night deliveries. Paolo was too old to walk the dark alleys. On street corners, in kitchens, in barracks, Borgia concoctions were exchanged for money and food, for favors, for protection, for looking the other way. First from the French, then the Austrians, then the French once more, and finally the Austrians again. So it was the Borgia family had some small prestige among both Venice’s occupying forces and impoverished gentry. So it was Carlo Borgia was one of the few Venetians no one harassed when he walked the streets at night. He was a familiar figure, gaunt and tall, his unkempt brown hair barely tucked under a workman’s cap, a cloak wrapped around his skinny frame. Everyone treated him with courtesy and respect. No one was afraid of what he would do to them then. It was in the days after when the whispers began, the dangerous whispers. No one wanted to have anything to do with such whispers.

  Carlo was seventeen, returning from a delivery as it neared dawn when he rescued the English girl.

  Pulling his coat collar up, he sidestepped merrymakers. Only the bravest tourists came to Venice. The wealthy English came here with the idea they would see an untamed city, the bits and pieces left of the Roman Empire. The English artists pretended to be broody and affected by things they knew nothing about. Carlo desired to push them in the canals after taking their money, buying bread with their affected coin. There were many children in Venice who would appreciate the bread. But since Carlo worked at staying unnoticed, the tourists stayed dry.

  A woman laughed, echoing and lewd. Carlo glanced in her direction, watching her and her companions hail a gondola to the side of the Grand Canal. She was painted white, artificial color splotching her cheeks, and wore a tall, powdered wig with the moon decorating its high apex, stars sprinkling throughout and down to her forehead. Glitter dusted her neck and almost bare breasts. She was grotesque, hardly a human being at all, as though she had fallen from the sky.

  A gondola glided toward the small party, the thin boat and eager driver ready. Carlo’s eye left the revelers and spotted a little girl beyond them. Slightly down the pier, the girl stood in a black dress with large, lacy sleeves. She stared at a bird, a hawk or falcon perched on a lamp above her. It flew at her and she leaped into the water, her feet breaking the surface of the canal, her body sinking, finally swallowed entirely by the water.

  Stillness froze over the scene. No one reacted for a shocked second, and Carlo wasn’t certain if he’d really seen the girl at all. Momentum pulled him forward as the falcon turned its beady eyes on him. Save her. Not a request; a command he heard inside his head. Since Carlo was inclined to save her, he peeled off his cloak and hat on the way to the water’s edge, cast off his shoes and dove into the canal after her. He would consider the talking bird after he had seen to the task at hand.

  Carlo’s fingers needled through the water as he kicked down toward the girl, surrounded by the cloud of her dress and petticoat. Carlo caught her around the waist and she draped over his shoulder like a shawl. He fought for the surface, his chest tightening, her dress floating across his vision, before they burst into the night like a buoy. The noise from the surface world smacked into his ears as he sliced his arms and legs through the water, back toward the canal’s edge. Was he too late?

  Revelers stood near the edge of the pier. They weren’t alone. Many Venetians had come, along with some Austrian soldiers.

  “Look!”

  “He’s got her!”

  “Break it up!” said an Austrian in uniform. “There’s nothing for you to see here!”

  When Carlo reached the canal bank, he carried the girl away from the submerged cobblestones in front of the crowd, which had gathered to see the girl drown. His chest heaved. On his hands and knees, he gulped in air.

  The Austrian soldier handed Carlo his cloak from where he had dropped it with his shoes. Carlo snatched it, his hands shaking from chill and adrenaline.

  “No need to be like that,” the soldier said.

  Carlo ignored him. He wiped his hands on the cloak and rifled through the inside pockets, finding a small bottle containing a clear liquid. He leaned close to the girl’s chest and heard nothing. Carlo frowned. Yes, he’d better do it. He tipped the bottle to her lips.

  A voice rang out from the crowd. “Don’t let him! He’s the poisoner’s son!”

  No, he was the poisoner’s grandson, but Carlo did not correct. It was more important for him to make sure he was getting the right dose down the girl, not too much nor too little. She was so small. He poured a tiny dribble down her throat and massaged her neck, forcing her to swallow.

  “Someone should get more soldiers.”

  “No, he’s an apothecary. He’s going to help her!”

  “Go for a doctor!”

  The girl inhaled and coughed. Water burbled from her mouth. Her eyelids fluttered as she tried to sit up. Then she fell back down. Her heart was beating for now.

  The falcon landed on Carlo’s shoulder, its claws sharp, digging and shredding his shirt and skin. Take her away.

  The obvious place to take the girl would be a doctor’s home, or Austrian headquarters so the military could identify her. Carlo wrapped the girl in his cloak, bottles inside clinking, herb packets rustling, the girl shivering. He planned to take her back to the apothecary.

  The soldier stepped in front of him. “Let me take her.”

  “You know where I live. If you want her, you can come for her.”

  The Austrian stepped to the side and bowed, clicking his heels together. The crowd let Carlo pass. Carlo moved forward, the girl in his arms, the bird on his shoulder. Revelers, workers, and soldiers crossed to the other side of the street. His footsteps led him home. Wide streets narrowed, narrow streets thinned to alleys, and the alleys ended in courtyards ringed by houses. Carlo shifted the girl’s weight to one hip and his free hand fumbled with a doorknob. The bird lifted off his shoulder and landed on a balcony near a lantern, the flame reflecting in its black eyes.

  “What are you?” Carlo asked.

  The bird did not reply and Carlo almost dropped the girl as his grandfather opened the door.

  “You brought home another stray,” Paolo pronounced. “Let me take her.” He scooped the small body from his grandson and took her inside.

  Carlo stood by the dying embers in the fireplace. Water dripped onto his shoes. Peppo, the family’s small greyhound, wandered from his basket to glance at the new arrival.

  “Clear the table and we’ll put her there,” said Paolo. “Where did you find her?”

  “She jumped in the canal,” said Carlo. “She’s in shock. Look at her skin.” No one else had this skin color, bleached white with a blue tint.

  Paolo considered. “She might use arsenic.”

  “You think she tried to poison herself?”

  “Some women use arsenic to lighten their complexion. This skin is paler than even theirs.” Paolo’s voice drifted off as he listened to the girl’s chest. “Beating, yes. Lucky.”

  “I gave her something.”

  Carlo pulled a basket off the wooden table, leaving his mother’s tablecloth covering the top. “Mandrake. She wasn’t breathing, so I tried it.”

  Paolo placed her on the table like she was bone china. “Better to try something than nothing.” He lifted her eyelids. “Unconscious.” He pulled a suspender strap over his shoulder. “I’ll wake your mama. We’ll need her help. You change your clothes and salvage what you can from inside the cloak.”

  Peppo followed him into his room. Carlo reached down and scratched the dog’s head. Peppo watched from the bed as Carlo peeled off his wet clothes. While he dried his hair with a towel, he heard
his mother maneuvering into her chair. He hoped his grandfather knew what he was doing, waking up Mama.

  The rapping on his window made him start. Peppo barked. The falcon sat on Carlo’s sill. Carlo let the drapes fall over the glass. Peppo stood, paws on the window ledge, and growled. Carlo heard his grandfather wheel his mother into the living room.

  “Santa Maria,” she breathed. “Who is this?”

  “A girl Carlo rescued from drowning,” his grandfather said.

  In the bedroom, Carlo finished buttoning his shirt. “Peppo, it might be better for all if you eat the bird now.” He glanced through the curtains, stroking the greyhound. The bird watched the window from a railing across the square.

  Carlo moved into the living room, rolled up his sleeves, and opened his cloak, removing bottles and packets. These potions and tinctures would be hard to recreate.

  Sofia, in her nightgown, hair braided over one shoulder, squinted at the girl. The streak of white, which ran through the middle of her hair, glowed in the firelight. “Why isn’t she with the Austrians?”

  Carlo shrugged. “Bringing her here seemed like a good idea at the time. I thought we could help her.”

  “Poor thing. I think she’s English, yes?” Sofia smoothed hair away from the girl’s brow.

  “How can you tell?” Carlo asked.

  “I know what she is,” said Paolo. “She’s an arsenic user. Arsenic pales the skin.”

  “Her people will be looking for her,” Sofia said. “Outside with you both while I change her.”

  “Can you change her by yourself?” Carlo asked.

  “You think I’m going to let you help?” Sofia pointed toward the door.

  Paolo and Carlo stepped outside. The sky was brightening to pink and gray. Neighbors came out to sweep the night away into the streets, giving polite nods and waves to each other. They could hear the clatter of Austrian boots as a patrol marched by. Paolo tamped tobacco into a pipe he had grabbed off the table on his way out the door.

  The falcon flapped above them and landed on the arch leading into the courtyard.