The Jewel in the Skull

by Michael Moorcock

  'Good,' said Count Brass, for I'm tired of resisting arguments that I should help this faction or that. Now - you seem exhausted, my lord Duke. Indeed, I have rarely seen a man so tired. We have kept you up too long. I will personally show you to your chambers.'

  Hawkmoon felt no triumph in having accomplished his deception. He told the lies because he had agreed with Meliadus that he would tell such lies. When the time came for kidnapping Yisselda, he would pursue the task in the same spirit.

  Count Brass showed him into a suite consisting of bedchamber, washing room, and a small study. 'I hope it is to your taste, my lord Duke?'

  'Completely,' Hawkmoon replied.

  Count Brass paused by the door. 'The jewel,' he said, the one in your forehead - you say that Meliadus was unsuccessful in his experiment?

  'That is so, Count.'

  'Aha ...' Count Brass looked at the floor, then, after a moment, glanced up again.' For I might know some sorcery that could remove it, if it troubles you . . .'

  'It does not trouble me,' said Hawkmoon.

  'Aha,' said the count again, and left the room.

  That night, Hawkmoon awoke suddenly, as he had awakened in the inn a few nights since, and thought he saw a figure in the room — an armoured man in jet and gold. His heavy lids fell shut for a moment or two, and when he opened them again the figure was gone.

  A conflict was beginning to develop in Hawkmoon's breast - perhaps a conflict between humanity and the lack of it, perhaps a conflict between conscience and the lack of conscience, if such conflicts were possible.

  Whatever the exact nature of the conflict, there was no doubt that Hawkmoon's character was changing for a second time. It was not the character he had had on the battlefield at Koln, nor the strange apathetic mood into which he had fallen since the battle, but a new character altogether, as if Hawkmoon were being born again in a thoroughly different mould.

  But the indications of this birth were still faint, and a catalyst was needed, as well as a climate in which the birth would be possible.

  Meanwhile, Hawkmoon woke up in the morning thinking how he might most speedily accomplish the capture of Yisselda and return to Granbretan to be rid of the Black Jewel and sent back to the land of his youth.

  Bowgentle met him as he left his chambers.

  The philosopher-poet took his arm. 'Ah, my lord Duke, perhaps you could tell me something of Londra. I was never there, though I travelled a great deal when I was younger.'

  Hawkmoon turned to look at Bowgentle, knowing that the face he saw would be the same as the nobles of Granbretan would see by means of the Black Jewel. There was an expression of frank interest in Bowgentle's eyes, and Hawkmoon decided that the man did not suspect him.

  'It is vast and high and dark,' Hawkmoon replied. 'The architecture is involved, and the decoration complex and various.'

  'And its spirit? What is the spirit of Londra - what was your impression?'

  'Power,'said Hawkmoon. 'Confidence ...'

  'Insanity?'

  'I am incapable of knowing what is sane and what is not, Sir Bowgentle. You find me a strange man, perhaps? My manner is awkward? My attitudes unlike those of other men?'

  Surprised by this turn of the conversation, Bowgentle looked carefully at Hawkmoon. 'Why, yes . . . but what is your reason for asking?'

  'Because I find your questions all but meaningless. I say that without - without wishing to insult . . .' Hawkmoon rubbed his chin. 'I find them meaningless, you see.'

  They began to descend the steps toward the main hall, where breakfast had been laid and where old von Villach was already serving himself to a large steak from a salver held by a servant.

  'Meaning,' murmured Bowgentle. 'You wonder what insanity is - I wonder what meaning is.'

  'I do not know,' Hawkmoon answered. 'I only know what I do."

  'Your ordeal has driven you into yourself — abolished morality and conscience?' Bowgentle said with sympathy.

  'It is not an unfamiliar circumstance. Reading ancient texts, one learns of many who under duress lost the same senses. Good food and affectionate company should restore them to you. It was lucky you should come to Castle Brass. Perhaps an inner voice sent you to us.'

  Hawkmoon listened without interest, watching Yisselda descend the opposite staircase and smile at himself and Bowgentle across the hall.

  'Are you well rested, my lord Duke?' she asked.

  Before Hawkmoon could reply, Bowgentle said, 'He has suffered more than we guessed. It will take our guest a week or two, I should think, before he is fully recovered.'

  'Perhaps you would like to accompany me this morning, my lord?' Yisselda suggested graciously. 'I will show you our gardens. Even in winter they are beautiful.'

  'Yes,' replied Hawkmoon, 'I should like to see them.'

  Bowgentle smiled, realizing that Yisselda's warm heart had been touched by Hawkmoon's plight. There could be no one better, he thought, than the girl to restore the duke's injured spirit.

  They walked through the terraces of the castle gardens. Here were evergreens, there winter-blooming flowers and vegetables. The sky was clear and the sun shone down, and they did not suffer much discomfort from the wind, muffled as they were in heavy cloaks. They looked down on the roofs of the town, and all was at peace. Yisselda's arm was linked in Hawkmoon's, and she conversed lightly, expecting no reply from the sad-faced man at her side. The Black Jewel in his forehead had disturbed her a little at first, until she had decided that it was scarcely different from a jewelled circlet such as she sometimes wore to keep her long hair from her eyes.

  She had much warmth and affection in her young heart. It was this affection that had turned to passion for Baron Meliadus, for it needed as many outlets as it could have. She was content to offer it to this strange, stiff hero of Koln and hope that it might heal the wounds of his spirit.

  She soon noticed that a hint of expression only came into his eyes when she mentioned his homeland.

  'Tell me of Koln,' she said. 'Not as it is now, but as it was — as one day it might be again.'

  Her words reminded Hawkmoon of Meliadus's promise to restore his lands. He looked away from the girl and up at the wind-blown sky, folding his arms across his chest.

  'Koln,' she said softly. 'Was it like the Kamarg?'

  'No . . .' He turned to stare down at the rooftops far below. 'No . . . for the Kamarg is wild and as it has always been since the beginning of time. Koln bore the mark of Man everywhere — in its hedged fields and its straight watercourses - its little winding roads and its farms and villages. It was only a small province, with fat cows and well-fed sheep, with hayricks and meadows of soft grass that sheltered rabbits and fieldmice. It had yellow fences and cool woods, and the smoke from a chimney was never far from sight. Its people were simple and friendly and kind to small children. Its buildings were old and quaint and as simple as the people who lived in them. There was nothing dark in Koln till Granbretan came, a flood of harsh metal and fierce fire from across the Rhine. And Granbretan also put the mark of Man upon the countryside . . .the mark of the sword and the torch ...'

  He sighed, an increasing trace of emotion entering his tone. 'The mark of the sword and the torch, replacing the mark of the plough and the harrow ...' He turned to look at her. 'And the cross and gibbet were made from the timber of the yellow fences, and the carcasses of the cows and sheep clogged the watercourses and poisoned the land, and the stones of the farmhouses became ammunition for the catapults, and the people became corpses or soldiers - there was no other choice.'

  She put her soft hand on his leathern arm. 'You speak as if the memory were very distant,' she said.

  The expression faded from his eyes, and they became cold again. 'So it is, so it is - like an old dream. It means little to me now.'

  But Yisselda looked at him thoughtfully as she led him through the gardens, thinking that she had found a way to reach him and help him.

  For his part, Hawkmoon had been reminded of wha
t he would lose if he did not carry the girl to the Dark Lords, and he welcomed her attention for reasons other than she guessed.

  Count Brass met them in the courtyard. He was inspecting a large old warhorse and talking to a groom. 'Put him out to graze,' Count Brass said. 'His service is over.' Then he came toward Hawkmoon and his daughter. 'Sir Bowgentle tells me you are wearier than we thought,' he said to Hawkmoon. 'But you are welcome to stay at Castle Brass for as long as you like. I hope Yisselda is not tiring you with her conversation.'

  'No. I find it . . . restful . . .'

  'Good! Tonight we have an entertainment. I have asked Bowgentle to read to us from his latest work. He's promised to give us something light and witty. I hope you will enjoy it.

  Hawkmoon noticed that Count Brass's eyes looked at him acutely, though his manner was hearty enough. Could Count Brass suspect his mission? The count was renowned for his wisdom and judgment of character. But surely if his character had baffled Baron Kalan, then it must also confuse the count. Hawkmoon decided that there was nothing to fear. He allowed Yisselda to lead him into the castle.

  That night there was a banquet, with all Castle Brass's best laid out on the large board. Around the table sat several leading citizens of the Kamarg, several bull breeders of repute, and several bullfighters, including the now-recovered Mahtan Just, whose life Count Brass had saved a year before. Fish and fowl, red meat and white, vegetables of every kind, wine of a dozen varieties, ale, and many delicious sauces and garnishes were heaped upon the long table. On Count Brass's right sat Dorian Hawkmoon, and on his left sat Mahtan Just, who had become that season's champion. Just plainly adored the count and treated him with a respect that the count seemed to find a trifle uncomfortable. Beside Hawkmoon sat Yisselda, and opposite her, Bowgentle. At the other end of the table was seated old Zhonzhac Ekare, greatest of the famous bull breeders, clad in heavy furs and with his face hidden by his huge beard and thick head of hair, laughing often and eating mightily. Beside him sat von Villach, and the two men seemed to enjoy each other's company a great deal.

  When the feast was almost complete and pastries and sweetmeats and rich Kamarg cheese had been cleared, each guest had placed before him three flagons of wine of different kinds, a short barrel of ale, and a great drinking cup. Yisselda, alone, was given a single bottle and a smaller cup, though she had matched the men for drinking earlier and it seemed to be her choice, rather than the form, to drink less.

  The wine had clouded Hawkmoon's mind a little and given him what was perhaps a spurious appearance of normal humanity. He smiled once or twice, and if he did not answer his companions jest for jest, at least he did not offend them with a sour expression.

  Bowgentle's name was roared by Count Brass. 'Bowgentle! The ballad you promised us!'

  Bowgentle rose smiling, his face flushed, like the others', with the wine and the good food.

  'I call this ballad "The Emperor Glaucoma" and hope it will amuse you,' he said, and began to speak the words.

  The Emperor Glaucoma

  passed the formal

  guardsmen at the far arcade

  and entered the bazaar

  where the ornamental

  remnants of the last war,

  Knights Templar

  and the Ottoman,

  hosts of Alcazar

  and mighty Khan,

  lay in the shade

  of temple palms

  and called for alms.

  But the Emperor Glaucoma

  passed the lazar

  undismayed

  while pipes and tabor

  played

  in honour

  of the Emperor's parade.

  Count Brass was looking carefully at Bowgentle's grave face, a wry smile on his own lips. Meanwhile the poet spoke with wit and many graceful flourishes the complex rhyme. Hawkmoon looked about the board and saw some smiling, some looking puzzled, fuddled as they were by the drink. Hawkmoon neither smiled nor frowned. Yisselda bent toward him and murmured something, but he did not hear it.

  The regatta

  in the harbour

  set ott a cannonade

  when the Emperor

  displayed

  stigmata

  to the Vatican Ambassador

  'What does he speak of?' grumbled von Villach.

  'Ancient things,' nodded old Zhonzhac Ekare, 'before the Tragic Millennium.

  'I'd rather hear a battle song.'

  Zhonzhac Ekare put a finger to his bearded lips and silenced his friend while Bowgentle continued.

  who made

  gifts of alabaster,

  Damascus-blade,

  and Paris plaster

  from the tomb

  of Zoroaster

  where the nightshade

  and the oleaster bloom.

  Hawkmoon hardly heard the words, but the rhythms seemed to have a peculiar effect on him. At first he thought it was the wine, but then he realized that at certain points in the recitation his mind would seem to shudder and forgotten sensations would well up in his breast. He swayed in his chair.

  Bowgentle looked hard at Hawkmoon as he continued his poem, gesticulating in an exaggerated way.

  The poet laureate in laurel

  and orange brocade

  chased with topaz

  and opal

  and lucent jade,

  fragrant of pomander,

  redolent to myrrh

  and lavender,

  the treasure

  of Samarcand and Thrace,

  fell prostrate in the marketplace,

  'Are you well, my lord?' asked Yisselda, leaning toward Hawkmoon and speaking with concern.

  Hawkmoon shook his head. 'I am well enough, thanks.' He was wondering if in some way he had offended the lords of Granbretan and they were even now giving the Black Jewel its full life. His head was swimming.

  insensate,

  and while choral

  anthems told

  his glory,

  the Emperor,

  majestical,

  in slippers of gold

  and ivory,

  upon him trod

  and throngs applaud

  the mortal god.

  Now all Hawkmoon saw was the figure and face of Bowgentle, heard nothing but the rhythms and the vowel rhymes, and wondered about enchantment. And if Bowgentle were seeking to enchant him, what was his reason?

  From windows and towers

  gaily arrayed

  with garlands of flowers

  and fresh bouquets

  the children sprayed

  showers

  of meadow-rue,

  roses and nosegays

  of hyacinth into

  the crossways

  where Glaucoma passed.

  Down to the causeways

  from steeples and parapets

  children threw

  violets,

  plum blossoms, lilies

  and peonies,

  and, last,

  themselves

  when Glaucoma passed.

  Hawkmoon took a long draft of wine and breathed deeply, staring at Bowgentle as the poet continued with his verse.

  The moon

  shone dim,

  the hot sun swayed

  and still delayed

  the noon,

  the stars bestrewn

  with seraphim

  upraised

  a hymn,

  for soon

  the Emperor

  would stand before the sacred ruin

  sublime

  and lay his hand upon that door

  unknown to time

  that he alone

  of mortal man may countermand.

  Hawkmoon gasped as a man might when plunged into icy water. Yisselda's hand was on his sweat-wet brow, and her sweet eyes were troubled. 'My lord . . . ?'

  Hawkmoon stared at Bowgentle as the poet went relentlessly on.

  Glaucoma passed

  with eyes downcast

&
nbsp; the grave ancestral portal

  inlaid with precious stone

  and pearl and bone

  and ruby. He passed

  the portal and the colonnade while trombone

  sounds and trumpets blast

  and earth trembles

  and above

  a host assembles

  and the scent of ambergris is

  burning in the air.

  Dimly, Hawkmoon glimpsed Yisselda's hand touching his face, but he did not hear what she said. His eyes were fixed on Bowgentle, his ears were concentrated on listening to the verse. A goblet had fallen from his hand. He was plainly ill, but Count Brass made no move to help. Count Brass, instead, looked from Hawkmoon to Bowgentle, his face half-hidden behind his wine cup, an ironic expression in his eyes.

  Now the Emperor releases

  a snow-white dove!

  O, a dove

  as fair

  as peace is,

  so rare

  that love increases

  everywhere.

  Hawkmoon groaned. At the far end of the table von Villach banged his wine cup on the table. 'I'd agree with that. Why not "The Mountain Bloodletting'? It's a good-'

  The Emperor released

  that snow-white dove

  and it flew

  till none could sight

  it, flew through the bright

  air, flew through fire,

  flew still higher,

  still flew higher,

  right

  into the sun to die for

  the Emperor Glaucoma.

  Hawkmoon staggered to his feet, tried to speak to Bowgentle, fell across the table, spilling wine in all directions.

  'Is he drunk?' von Villach asked in a tone of disgust.

  'He is ill!' called Yisselda. 'Oh, he is ill!'

  'He is not drunk, I think,' Count Brass said, leaning over Hawkmoon's body and raising an eyelid. 'But he is certainly insensible.' He looked up at Bowgentle and smiled. Bowgentle smiled back and then shrugged.

  'I hope you are sure of that. Count Brass, he said.

  Hawkmoon lay all night in a deep coma and awoke the next morning to find Bowgentle, who acted as physician to the castle, bending over him. Whether what had happened had been caused by drink, the Black Jewel, or Bowgentle, he still could not be sure. Now he felt hot and weak.

  *A fever, my lord Duke,' Bowgentle said softly. 'But we shall cure you, never fear.'

  Then Yisselda was there, seating herself beside his bed. She smiled at him. 'Bowgentle says it is not serious,' she told him. 'I will nurse you. Soon you will be in good health again.'