Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  "The next morning, a soldier whom I had helped informed me that we were lying on the place where Abraham dismounted and where he had taken his son Isaac as a sacrifice and ordered him to carry firewood. I knew then my death was near, for I believed that the cup from which I was to drink was the cup of my life and that Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice his son for God pretold God's willingness to sacrifice His son for man. I, too, like all that lives, was a sacrifice, and I hurried back to Jerusalem to prepare for my death.

  "Some few nights later, I was stricken with death chills. I asked to be taken to the Holy Sepulcher itself, that I might die near where our Lord was raised. The Hospitalers complied and carried me in a litter to the Sepulcher. The hour was very late, and no one was there but those who had borne my litter and a Canon Regular of the Holy Sepulcher, who had come to administer the last rite of extreme unction. That canon is now among you— Canon Gianni Rieti.

  "After Canon Rieti performed the rite, a spasm shook me. An unearthly green fire leaped up from the Sepulcher, and radiance shone. From out of that blinding light appeared, to my eyes alone, the figure of our Lord Jesus Christ—and he spoke to me in a voice that was the voice of Prester John, and I realized that the two were one.

  "Jesus said to me, 'Daughter, you have won the favor of our Father by turning away from evil and embracing good. Now, it is our Father's will that you return whence you came and live in the world as I lived. Return to your domain and rule your people as a true Christian.'

  "'I am old,' I protested. ‘It is time for me to die.'

  "'No, child. You are not old. Your sins are old. Your grace is young and needs to live in the world. Drink of my cup, and you shall have the strength to return to your people. Drink and live in the world as I lived—worship God as I worshiped Him on earth. Go and undo the wrongs of your flesh.'

  "A cup appeared overhead in a fume of censer smoke of such a savor as though all the spicery of the world had been there. I realized at once that this was the very cup from which Jesus had drunk at the Last Supper. I took the vessel in my hands and I drank a liquor of cold fire. Immediately, the cloud of heavenly censer enwrapped me—and when it cleared, I had been restored to my youth, and I appeared to Canon Rieti and to the other monks as you see me now.

  "The monks carried me at once to the Grand Master of the Templars, who lives close by, in Solomon’s Tower. He marveled at the miracle and surely would have disbelieved had not the canon and the monks testified to what they had witnessed with their own eyes. All the rest of that night, we knelt in prayer and contemplation. All who had been there and the Grand Master prayed with me. And in the morning, it was decided that I must indeed fulfill the command that Jesus had imparted from our Father, the Creator Himself.

  "I found a biblical scholar, David Tibbon, who is here among you, and I began that very day to learn the language and customs of our Lord Jesus Christ that I might live as he lived in the world and worship God even as he worshiped.

  "Worldly gifts were bestowed upon me by the Grand Master and awestricken Crusaders who knew me when I was old and now saw me made young. I refused all except for the few items I have brought with me as gifts for my household. Even the local caliph, who rules Jerusalem for his master Saladin, gifted me with my thrall, the Swedish Muslim, Falan Askersund. I accepted him, for to do otherwise would have insulted an infidel who had shown a glimmer of faith in our Lord. Within three days, I began my journey home with David Tibbon, Canon Rieti, my thrall, and the other monks and Hospitalers who had seen the miracle.

  "In Rome, the Holy Father, who had been informed by a vision of my coming, blessed me, and we knelt in prayer together. At his insistence and by his own hand, he drafted a writ, declaring his faith in my miracle. The very next day, I continued on my way—yet, despite our prayers and the pope's blessing, our ship was storm-wrecked. All the monks and Hospitalers accompanying me drowned but for Canon Rieti and his dwarf, Falan Askersund, David Tibbon, and myself. We salvaged our baggage from the wreck and, after praying for those whom God, in His Mystery, had recalled, we went on.

  "Now I am here, befuddled by the many deaths I have seen, awed that life lives only by what dies, and humbled that it is God's will that by living the full of our destinies we lose more than we are given."

  -/

  Guy Lanfranc and Roger Billancourt ride out from Castle Valaise under the huge, stained moon. The sky is cloudless, the air silvery, and they gallop hard through the empty main street of the village. Soon, they reach the forest, moving at a swift trot over the ancient Roman road that climbs into the hills. The stars gleam like ore in the black of the forest canopy.

  Enshrouded by darkness, Roger thinks, If the barbarians are out, there will be the devil to pay. Two horsemen alone in the gloom of the night forest under a clear sky would be ideal targets for the Welsh, who love an ambush.

  Guy thinks of nothing. Only fury fills his chest and spills over into his brain, leaving him numb behind his eyes.

  The moon inches among the ragged trees as the riders hasten along the wends and curves of the hill road. At last, out of the igneous night, sparklights appear—the campfires of the siege party before Castle Neufmarche.

  The castle itself is dark except for the ring of torches at the pinnacle of the high tower, where the Neufmarche standard lolls in the night breeze above the bodies of three attackers who had been captured and hanged.

  The siege party have lit numerous bonfires on the opposite side of the castle from where they have secretly excavated a mine beneath both the outer and inner walls. The war machines, underlit by the bonfires, rear imposingly against the night sky. The plan is to distract the defenders with these mighty war engines that the attackers have been building over the last few weeks while the miners work underground on the real assault.

  Guy and Roger stop before the palisade of fire-hardened stakes that has been erected to stop sorties and succoring parties. The watch identify them and open the gate. Inside, they ride to the largest bonfire, where a tall flagstaff displays the Griffin banner.

  Once dismounted, they are confronted by a thick-shouldered, long-haired captain with a furious hawk's face. His grin shows several missing teeth. "Got muzzled by your mama, eh? And at the last moment, too. The burrow is complete, the timbers are tallowed. We'd have dropped those walls at dawn."

  Guy stares beyond the captain and sees the siege party's equipment gathered in heaps, many already wrapped in canvas in preparation for decampment. "What's all this?"

  "We go back to Hereford in the morning," the captain answers. "Word came before nightfall. The Griffin’s been struck. The Swan flies again."

  "That is a deception," Guy snaps.

  "Aye, is it? My scout has seen the Swan over your castle. The baroness is returned. The siege is called off."

  "Pay her no heed," Guy growls. "I am the master of the castle."

  In the fire shadows, the captain's eyes look malevolently gleeful. "A master who cannot fly his own device? No, methinks not. The baroness is returned. Her messenger declares she is the king's legate. And we dare not defy the king, for in the fullness of time we must return to Hereford. There, his will has more steel than out here on the frontier."

  "We'll pay you not a silver penny," Roger declares. "You'll go back lighter in the saddlebags unless you follow through with this war."

  "Oh, we've already been paid," the captain replies, enjoying the ironies of the situation. "When Branden Neufmarche learned of the baroness' return, he sent us coin enough to reward our men. Truth be told, he even offered to treble the amount if we would turn our strength on Castle Valaise."

  Guy and Roger reach for their swords and glance quickly about for treachery.

  "Stay your hands," the captain laughs. "We fear the king's steel more than we covet Neufmarche's meager gold. Your lives are spared. Though soon enough perhaps you'll be wishing otherwise. The king's penalty must still be paid, and now you've no neighbor who'll pay it for you. I daresay, by summer’s end, Branden N
eufmarche will see you landless. From baron to vagabond. There's a troubadour's song in this."

  Guy's arm lashes out to cuff the insolent mercenary, and Roger restrains him. He does not release him until he is on his horse. With as much stately dignity as they can muster, they depart before the remorseless smirk of the captain.

  Once clear of the palisade and open to vengeful attack by Neufmarche's men, they burst into a gallop that raises a silver cloud of moon dust behind them.

  -/

  Clare closes the door of the bedchamber she has given her mother and pauses a last moment to look in. The baroness is lying on her back in the bed, her pale face luminous even in the darkness.

  The story she has told in the garden has touched everyone with a wonder that only silence could contain. No one could say anything when she finished. She drifted from the garden like an apparition, and when she was gone, each person—the knights, the children, the servants—sat silently regarding the space where she had been.

  Clare was the first to rise, to follow her mother; then came Dwn and the other maids.

  Ailena had seemed asleep even as the maids undressed her and wrapped her in a nightgown: her eyes nearly closed, her arms limp. She had said only, "See that David Tibbon is comfortable. Clare, do that for me." Then, the maids laid her down, and her breathing went soft.

  Staring at her now, Clare sees a child with a face like a piece of the moon. My mother has become a child. The thought sets her heart frisking in her rib cage like a bird.

  She closes the door and nearly trips over the lanky legs of the Muslim Swede and needs both hands to keep from dropping her oil lamp. He lies in the passage with a block of wood for a pillow and only a thin quilt between him and the hard flags.

  His turban has been removed, and his long, gold hair spills over his chest. Across his lap sits the curved saber in its scabbard, his hand upon its hilt. Gazing into his celestial blue eyes, Clare feels her organs sliding over each other with surprise. She burbles an apology, and he says nothing.

  Earlier, when the servitors moved in her mother's chests, she had caught him prying at the bolts on the clasp-plate of the bedchamber door with a thick knife, loosening the latch. When she told her mother, the young woman smiled and said, "He has sworn to Allah that he will not be separated from me until his thrall is fulfilled."

  Down the hall, she finds the chamber that has been prepared for the Jew. The door ajar, she sees within the room the old man standing by the window, hands open before him. The top of his body moves back and forth in prayer. She walks away quietly.

  Around the corner, she glimpses a shadow dash into one of the doorways. A moment later, a squat figure waddles out, the dwarf wearing a child's nightgown. "Mistress Chalandon," he greets her with a deep bow. "I thank you for this fine sleeping attire. Your maid has told me that it is all she could find that might fit me. I understand that it was once worn by your grandson and, before him, by your brother, the good baron Guy."

  "You are welcome to it, kind sir," she replies in an awkward fluster, appalled that her maid has given a useful item to such a loathsome creature.

  "Forgive me—you may not know my name. I am Ummu." He bows again and clicks, and his monkey prances into the hall and imitates his bow. "And this is Ta-Toh. We are both your humble servants."

  Clare smiles uneasily. "Are your quarters to your liking?"

  "Most decidedly, gracious lady," Ummu replies and steps closer into the yellow glow of the oil lamp. "My master the canon will be greatly pleased to rest his head here after many months with only the naked earth for a bed. He is this moment speaking with the padre in the chapel or he would warmly bless you himself. The baroness, I trust, is sleeping?"

  "Yes." Clare’s voice squeaks, and she must clear her throat of trepidation to speak audibly. "I have given her back the bedchamber that was hers when she lived here last."

  "Her tale in the garden enthralled, did it not?" The dwarf’s large eyes gleam in the oily light. "You know, I was there with the canon in the Sepulcher when the Grail appeared. It came down from a luminous cloud, just as she told. But she was too modest to speak of the angels. They swarmed about her in motes of sunfire, writing Hebraic sigils in the air—the names of God."

  Clare backs away from the dark-faced little man whose large eyes burn with ardent watchfulness. Her voice fails her, and she makes a gesture of good night.

  With a sharp cry, the monkey leaps up her leg and onto her extended arm, its primordial visage shrieking with devilish joy.

  A scream cuts through Clare. She flares away so abruptly that she slams into the wall and spills oil. The flame sputters, and darkness narrows in.

  "Ta-Toh!" the dwarf cries angrily, then reassuringly to Clare, "He mistook your extended hand for a beckoning."

  The monkey flies back to the ground, and Clare retreats backward into the arms of her alarmed maids, who have come running at her cry. Falan, too, appears, unsheathed scimitar in hand. He stands aside for the maids, who huddle past with their mistress braced between them.

  The dwarf shrugs and cossets the nervous monkey. Falan's severe face relaxes, flicks a smile, and he sheathes the scimitar.

  -/

  Maître Pornic's spidery body rises from before the altar, where he has been kneeling in prayer with Canon Rieti.

  Gianni Rieti crosses himself and rises, too. The chapel is illuminated only by several tall candles and broken moonlight in the rose window. The two clerics appear as little more than shadows to each other.

  "I will speak to the baroness about keeping you here as the parish priest," Gianni says generously. The elderly cleric’s simplicity and faith deeply impress him. Too often, he has encountered worldly ecclesiastics. This small man in the coarse cassock seems more a rustic than a priest and reminds Gianni of the gentle friars who reared him. "You are better suited to tend this flock than I, a stranger."

  "I have my place in the abbey. I will go there." Maître Pornic peers up resignedly at the taller man. "Has she changed the Mass?"

  "The Jew reads from the Pentateuch, in Hebrew. He calls it the Law. The Law that Jesus knew."

  "The bread and the wine?"

  "Yes, there is still that. I bless the bread and the wine, and we share it."

  "Even the Jew?"

  "No, not the Jew. He declares his faith in God but says the Messiah is yet to come." When he sees the old priest recoil, Gianni is quick to add: "You must not think there is anything sacrilegious about the ceremony. We worship as Jesus himself worshiped."

  "Our Lord and Savior passed authority to Peter, who founded the Church," the abbot protests. "As Christians, we are bound to God through the Church and our worship in the Church. This woman transgresses the teachings of the apostles."

  "Jesus himself has spoken with her, padre. She has drunk from the Grail, even as Christ himself and his disciples drank."

  "Your witness alone gives me the strength to believe this young woman's story," Maître Pornic says tiredly, stepping down from the altar and sitting in the front pew. He gestures for the canon to sit beside him. "You saw the Grail appear in the Sepulcher, my son?"

  "Yes, padre, I did," Gianni answers and sits close enough to see the holy man's face in the soft darkness. "I will confess to you now, I was not worthy to witness such a miracle. I am a worldly man."

  "You are a priest."

  "My desires impelled me to the priesthood, padre—to escape the wrath of men who despised me."

  "You were forced into the priesthood?"

  "By my lust, padre. I have always been lustful, since manhood first came upon me. And the women—" Gianni shakes his head ruefully. "The women have always been drawn to me. I could never resist them. In my native Turin, the men of those women intended to castrate me. I sought sanctuary in the Church, and the good fathers received me."

  "What of your family? They let you flee to the Church?"

  "I have no family but the Church. I was an infant left on the altar and reared by the holy fathers. The fria
rs are the only parents I have known. When my troubles threatened my life, I returned to them. They arranged for my ordination, but that did not quell my lust."

  Maître Pornic's face bows before this sinful admission, so that only the silver halo of his tonsure is visible in the darkness. He asks in a whisper, "You profaned your vows?"

  "Yes, padre—many times. My penance required me to go to the Holy Land, to fight for the return of the Sepulcher. Yet, even there I followed my lust instead of the Cross. There were many beautiful women among the palazzi of the Latin Kingdom, and they desired me—and I them. I was more discreet than I had been in Turin, but God saw each of my many amorous devotions. I coupled with maids and princesses, young brides and twice-over widows. And all with such chill spiritual composure, as though this is what God has brought me into the world to accomplish."

  Maître Pornic looks up with the staring eyes of a startled animal. "You are blessed! God has given you such vivid lust to be your Cross. Your lust must crucify you! You must hang in torment on the nails of your desire. You must suffer the pangs and convulsions of animal passion day and night, without touching woman's flesh, in deed or in thought, and without laying hands on yourself. You must hang in the rage of desire until you go mad. That madness is Satan in you! When you face the Evil One, he will have his way with you. But if you persevere, if you accept your lustful anguish as an adoration of God, the madness will eventually pass—and in its place you will possess a wreath of flowing radiance, here—" He presses a splayed hand against Gianni’s chest. "Light flowing round and round, a flowing light of infinite grace and beauty."

  Gianni Rieti stares hard in the darkness at the wise face that has shed its peacefulness and stares back at him even harder, a keen devil.

  "I did not think such things were possible," he admits. "But then I was called down into the Sepulcher late one night to administer the viaticum. Frankly, I was selected because I happened to return to the chantry late from a midnight tryst and no one else was awake. I went down into the Sepulcher with the Eucharist and found there an old and enfeebled woman, nearly dead, lying on a litter in the crypt. She was surrounded by several Hospitalers and Templars, who had already performed last rites without the benefit of the oil or the Eucharist. I knew she must be some important personage to be there in the crypt itself, but I did not know who she was. When I gave her the viaticum, she could barely swallow it and nearly choked. In fact, her breathing did stop, and I thought her soul had taken flight. Then, she shivered awake and cried out. That instant, the crypt burst into flame and a great trumpet blared! My eyes were blinded, my ears deafened. When I could see again, the old woman was standing and above her a luminous cloud descended. In fear, I retreated with the other knights, and we watched from the stairs as the Sacred Chalice appeared out of the burning cloud. We fell on our knees, all of us crying out as one. The old woman received the Grail and drank from it, just as she told us this night. She drank from it—and she was changed."