In the Garden of Iden

by Kage Baker

  Whoosh, the fire went out. I was alone in a cold blue light that streamed in through the windows. I looked at the windows, and they were distorted, for the leading had sagged and thrown the bright diamond panes out of true. But they faded and were gone, lingering for a moment as thin gray lines crossing the face of the moon. I looked back into the room, but it had gone too; I was alone in an expanse of snow mounded over ruins, and there was no house, no garden, only moonlight and dark trees in the distance…

  I jerked upright in the midst of chattering mortal folk having their Christmas. I grabbed for a cup of wine. My teeth chattered against the rim. Sir Walter was standing, raising his hands for silence; he beamed around at all the guests.

  "My neighbors all! Ye have supped this night on many a rare dish, and sported even as folk do at Court. Yea, I am assured that they keep Christmas no better even at the Emperor's very Court—" The door at the far side of the hall slammed open, and one of the serving boys ran in.

  "My master!" he shouted. "Such portents, such signs and wonders! A great stag has been sighted, afar off, and he hath fire all along his horns!"

  There was startled silence. Then the buzz of comments started up, and Sir Walter cried above it:

  "Now what could this mean?"

  We heard pounding footsteps, and another servant burst into the hall. "Oh, sir!" he cried. "Such strange things are abroad this night! There has been a great cloud hanging over the wood, and it shouted with the voice of a man!"

  Before anyone could react to this, a third servant appeared. "Now Christ save us all! I have just seen, with mine own eyes, a tree that burned and yet was green! Surely this prefigures some fearful thing!"

  It did, too, because there came a tremendous crash, and both the great hall doors flew open. At the same time the blazing fire dimmed and went out, just as in my vision, and though I had seen Joseph throw something into it, I still scanned nervously, involuntarily. Something was approaching, each step a thunder that shook the house. There was a flare of light from somewhere beyond; it threw a vast shadow that rippled across the wall, moved closer with each heartbeat.

  Then it was in the doorway, silhouetted against the spectral glow: the figure of a knight, immensely tall, bearing in his hands a great double-headed ax. Several people screamed. Another flare of light, from a ball of green fire that hissed upon the floor. By its flickering light we could see the knight as he moved stiffly into the room.

  His armor was wound about with ivy and stuck with holly branches here and there. His helmet was monstrously high, higher for the branching antlers at the crest; the visor was down, and no face could be seen. More green lights popped and rolled before him as he proceeded down the length of the hall. The faces of the guests shone out like masks as the light passed them: frozen in astonishment, terror, or laughter. He came to a stop just before Sir Walter's place at table. The candles burned high there, outlining Sir Walter in a golden halo.

  "WHO IS LORD IN THIS PLACE?" cried a great hollow voice from within the helmet.

  "I am he," said Sir Walter, trying to sound dignified but coming across smug. "What art thou, apparition, that troubles our festivities? Whither hast thou come, and wherefore?"

  "I AM A SPIRIT THAT DOES NOT REST," boomed the voice. "AGE AFTER AGE I COME AGAIN, TO TEST MEN'S HEARTS: FROM OUT OF THE DEEP HILL I COME, UNDER THE STARING MOON."

  "Come, spirit, tell us thy purpose!" demanded Sir Walter. The knight took a step backward and swung his ax up high. The lights came up slightly; the blade winked as it rose.

  "I CRY A CHALLENGE TO THIS MORTAL COMPANY! WHO SHALL TRY ODDS WITH ME? WHO HATH A FEARLESS HEART?"

  Sir Walter slapped his hand on his sword hilt. "Why, who shall match thee but this hall's very master? I take thy challenge, phantom!"

  "NAY, LORD, THIS CANNOT BE," replied the knight. "BY LAW MORE ANCIENT THAN THE STANDING OAKS, I AM BID CHOOSE MINE OWN CHAMPION FROM YOUR GUESTS. WHO IN THIS PLACE SHALL STAND A CAST WITH ME?"

  He began to stalk along the tables, turning his helmet this way and that.

  "WHO HATH A VALIANT HEART?" he called. "WHO DURST HAZARD A CHANCE?" Nobody spoke up, though somebody was crying hysterically. Goodness, hadn't these people read their own literature?

  Finally he stopped and again lifted the ax high. Slowly he brought it down, down, down, and pointed at a very small boy, who sat wedged between his parents. Relieved laughter from all the adults as the tension broke.

  "THIS SHALL BE MINE OPPONENT," declared the knight. The little boy shrank back, his eyes huge in his white face.

  "Why, Edward, it seems thou must play the hero now," his father joked.

  Edward shook his head mutely and made himself even smaller; but rowdy grown-ups all over the room were shouting for him now.

  "I can't, Dad," he said in a tiny voice.

  "What, sirrah, wilt thou not?" His mother reached down and pinched him, hard, which brought him yelping to his feet; and his father hauled him up onto the table, telling him:

  "If thou'rt a coward, thou'rt no boy of mine!"

  I am always so sorry for mortal children.

  Well, the knight put down his ax and lifted Edward to the floor, where he stood shaking in his little holiday clothes.

  "NOW, EDWARD," admonished the knight. "THOU SHALT TAKE MINE AX"—he lifted the weapon and put it in the child's hands—"AND I SHALL BEND MY NECK TO THE BLOW. THOU SHALT PLAY THE HEADSMAN, AND TRY WHETHER MY HEAD COME OFF OR NO."

  "I dursn't!" gasped Edward, and there were jeers and catcalls from all around the room.

  "NAY, EDWARD, TAKE THOU HEART." The knight turned to sweep the room with his gaze. "WHAT THOU MUST DO, ALL THESE FEAR TO DO THEMSELVES." The noise subsided a little. The knight turned back.

  "STRIKE ONLY ONCE," he said. "CLEANLY, AND QUICK." Then, ever so slowly, he bent down, and the broad antlers raked the air in their descent. Edward made a little terrified sound; but he dragged the great ax aloft, tottering with effort, and let it come crashing down.

  A crack, a smash, and a shower of sparks. All the lights burned high at once, and the knight's head came off and shattered on the floor, spilling out sweets and trinkets and little sugared cakes. Nicholas rose up smiling and tousled.

  "A Merry Christmas, neighbors, to you all!" he shouted.

  I laughed so hard, there were tears in my eyes. All around me mortals whooped and applauded. Joseph closed his eyes in relief that all his special effects had worked. Little Edward blinked at Nicholas. After a careful survey of the grown folk, none of whom were watching him, he knelt and began methodically scooping loot into his doublet.

  Now I remember the detail of the boy, but then I saw only Nicholas in his pasteboard armor. Nicholas looked charming and silly and very sexy too, in a kinky sort of way. Somehow it all recedes from me as I write it down, like a fade-out in an old film. I remember that Nicholas came clumping back to his place at table, and that amid all the clamor we slipped off upstairs. There I played the squire, or maybe page is the better word, and helped my knight get naked in the darkness. Jolly Christmas pastimes then, I can assure you, as peach wool and green carapace scattered together on the floor.

  Yet the first memory that comes when I think of that night is the wary face of the child. I wonder who he was, and what became of him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  « ^ »

  The big surprise the next morning was that most of the guests were still there.

  Waking slowly in Nicholas's arms, my first drowsy scan of the house told me it was pullulating like a beehive. When we crept down cautiously in the first winter light, we saw rows of makeshift beds all along the gallery, most of which were still occupied by sleeping mortals.

  "What are they doing here?" I whispered. Nicholas shook his head in amazement. As we came to the stair landing, we met Master Ffrawney coming up with a tray, followed by Joan, whose expression was even more martyred than usual. Ffrawney smiled at us maliciously. Nicholas ignored his ill will and pointed in the direction of the gallery.<
br />
  "What means this?" he said. "Have these folk no homes?"

  "Oh, to be sure they do." Master Ffrawney leaned the tray on a corner post. "But snow is deep and bitter cold, or so Sir Walter wisely said last night, when he was far gone in wine. Further, he assured his many friends that the hour was late, and all those present solemnly agreed with him. Lastly, he said he was not such a starveling beggar as to bid his guests depart when his splendid house could accommodate them all. Whereupon beds were made, and those folk who could still walk went off to sleep in them. I am bound for His Grace's chamber now, to tell him that the folk who remained at table clamor for breakfast."

  "Doth he think this is Whitehall Palace?" Nicholas was aghast. "His revenues will not feed all these folk the whole Christmastide, he cannot afford it."

  "Well, no doubt thou hadst told him so, hadst thou been there. But thou wast abed early, if I recall me." And he gave me an arch glance.

  "I must speak with him privily." Nicholas started back up the stairs.

  "Then thou must ask the youngest Ashford girl to get out of his bed."

  "Oh, sweet Christ!" Nicholas halted. He turned back and took the tray. "I'll bear him this."

  "As thou wilt." Master Ffrawney shrugged and turned to descend. "I'll go and see what manner of fare we have remaining."

  This was grim. With an apologetic look Nicholas left me. I picked my way through the bodies to Nef's door and slipped inside.

  They were sitting there listening to the radio, Joseph, Nef, and the unicorn.

  … the consequences of the Act of Supremacy were tremendous, and its proposed repeal is viewed as a token measure only by the Council. Of course, they have no idea yet of the extent to which Pole will implement the repeal. Roderick, can you give us the story from Court?

  Well, Decius, the cardinal appears to be having a temporary eclipse of his power over the Queen right now, because of course

  with the Christmas festivities the Queen and the Prince Consort are publicly together quite a bit, so the growing rift between them isn't as apparent as it was. The cardinal's doing most of his damage in the Parliament, though, and a few of the Council members are beginning to get an inkling of just how far to the religious right things are going to swing. Sir William Cecil, in fact…

  "Smart man. Cake?" Joseph held out a small plate. I inspected it gingerly and took a slice.

  "None of those awful people went home!" I announced. "Couldn't you have done something? They're going to eat us out of house and headquarters!"

  "What will be, will be. The little guy was in what you'd call an expansive mood last night. I guess he'll just have to send out for a few more sides of beef."

  "I won thirty-seven pounds last night," remarked Nef.

  "So, what did you think of my diversion?" Joseph leaned back and sipped wine. "What about those pyrotechnics, huh? What about that sleight of hand?"

  "Not bad. The piñata I liked particularly. Nicholas was a surprise too."

  "He's tall and real loud. Perfect for the part," said Joseph. I bristled, but Nef said thoughtfully:

  "Sir Walter will need more entertainment if all these people stay until Twelfth Night. I'll bet I could make a fortune at cards."

  How could millennia-old superbeings be so boring? I wandered over to the window and watched the snow fall. Spreading my fingertips against the glass, I tuned in and scanned.

  Many voices, inquiring about breakfast and sanitary arrangements. Dark voices belowstairs, complaining of the extra work. Master Ffrawney saying something high-pitched about the snow. And there, there it was, Nicholas's voice in earnest entreaty.

  "Sir, I tell you plainly that you waste your substance. What will you do? Where will you get more money?"

  "Why, with any luck I shall better my fortune." There was a faint defiance in Sir Walter's voice.

  "In God's name, sir, how?"

  "I have my plans." Now there was desperation. "I am revolving in my mind some several stratagems, any of which may bring me fortune enough."

  Nicholas radiated bewilderment.

  "By feeding peacocks to the Syssings and the Preeves the whole Christmastide?"

  "Um, no. But, Nicholas, I must think of myself! Gold I have had for many years, and the good name of my fathers; but mine own name is unknown, Nicholas. Thirty years have I spent in careful restoration of Sir Alexander's glory, ensuring that his name be not forgot. Were it not well now to add mine own glories to the name of Iden?"

  There was a long pause.

  "If I take your meaning aright," said Nicholas carefully, "you seek a life in the world again. Why, this is well; commerce suited you. I shall, if you wish, make inquiries as to companies seeking capital and mercantile argosies. You may buy and trade and so increase your revenues until within them you shall live as liberally as you please. Shall I ride forth, when the roads are clear?"

  "Yea. Nay. I would, and yet…" Sir Walter's voice grew small.

  "Sir, this is excellent good sense."

  "But it fretted my soul to be a merchant," Sir Walter complained. "It is no fit work for a gentleman. Sir Alexander won his glory with a sword, in the service of his king."

  "So he did, sir, but men live otherwise now. Any knave with a pistol may drop a knight-at-arms, and the tourneys are all for show. Take heart! Lords win honors by their wits these days, and doubt not that you shall do the same. Be thrifty! Send your neigh-bors home now, and you shall feast them in greater splendor on another day."

  "But I promised them supper, Nicholas," said Sir Walter miserably.

  A long, long exhaled breath from Nicholas.

  "Sir, what shall they eat? There is no more beef slaughtered and dressed. Who hath fowls to sell us, even should we buy? The snows have filled the ways to your farms."

  Another long pause, and then a snuffling sound. Sir Walter was crying.

  Creak creak creak. Nicholas pacing furiously.

  "We shall make broth," he said, "out of the leavings. And put in some unlikely herb, or some color to make it strange. And you shall tell them it is a dish from the Court of the Emperor, that it is the Spanish fashion to sup but lightly after a feast day. Doctor Ruy will not naysay you."

  "I could do that, couldn't I?" said Sir Walter through his tears.

  "Aye, and—and—offer that they may, nay, ought to be purged and bled by the doctor, which (you shall say) is also the fashion of the Court after a great feast. I warrant they'll get them home in haste then."

  "Thou hast brains, boy, thou hast." A honk, as Sir Walter blew his nose on the sheet.

  "And you shall make them promise of great cheer in some time to come."

  "Oh, good."

  "And so honor is served, with no ruin to your purse thereby."

  "Nicholas, thou hast ever done me good service. 'Tis only a pity—"

  Pause. "Sir?"

  "A pity thou art so inclined to Gospelling. It suits not with the time, I fear."

  Dead silence. Then:

  "I may cut my coat to follow fashion, sir, but not my conscience." Nicholas's voice was rigid.

  "Well, but thou dost neither. I shall have new livery made for thee, what say you? Not so much black. It puts folk in mind of Lutherans."

  "When you can afford new livery, sir, you may do what you list."

  "I shall, then. Go thou now, and send Jack that I might dress me."

  "Sir." Nicholas was withdrawing, coming down the hall in a glow of anger. I left the window.

  "Sir Walter can't send out for more beef," I told Joseph abruptly. "He doesn't have enough money. He and Nicholas were just fighting about it. Can't you do something to help? Prescribe fasting for health reasons, maybe?"

  Joseph sighed. "I can try. He needs to be fine-tuned after all that whoopee last night anyway. All right, I'll pay him a visit."

  "Great!" I ran from the room so I could catch Nicholas halfway down the hall.

  "My love! My father fears that immoderate merriment may do Sir Walter harm, and hinder careful physick. He
will counsel him to send his neighbors home."

  "My master is already so persuaded, but if thy father's word will strengthen the argument, be it so." Nicholas leaned against the wall and folded his arms. "I never heard that wits came with wrinkles, but as he loses the one, it seems he loses the other too."

  "Oh, love." I put my arms around him, so sorry to see him unhappy, and moodily he held me. As we stood there, a smell came floating up the stairs, a greasy rank smell.

  "What reeks so?" I said in distaste.

  "Suet pudding from last night. They fry it for breakfast," he replied. "We must get these folk out of the house ere we have nothing to feed them."

  "You could make a mess of thin pottage," I said mischievously. "Color it with saffron and tell folk it is a rare dish out of Spain."

  It was a stupid slip. No older, experienced operative would have made it. Nicholas glanced down at me with suspicion in his eyes. Only for a moment, but the suspicion was there.

  "Why, so I had resolved to do," he said. "Dost thou listen at doors, Rose?"

  "Nay, love, I have been with my father!" I buried my face against him to conceal my dismay. "Sweetheart, have courage! All will be well."

  All was well, too, thanks to Joseph. When Sir Walter's guests heard that forthcoming meals were going to consist of leftovers and purges, they found courteous excuses to brave hip-deep snow back to their own homes. Only a few folk lingered, minor gentry so impoverished that even a purge sounded like fun to them so long as it was free. They made a less unreasonable demand on the larder while still allowing Sir Walter to play the host, so everyone was happy. Besides, the more inedible portions of the festal food could be recycled endlessly, if the cook kept grating cinnamon on it to disguise the smell.