‘Thank you’ said Orsini, reflecting on the informality of Cook who had once insisted on kissing his garnet ring, and addressing him as “your Eminence”. It seemed to him as if all her reverence had fallen away. The rotund woman struggled to maintain eye contact with the Cardinal. There was a long awkward silence.
‘I know it's Christmas, and you'll think it unchristian of me... But you can’t stay here’ she said. He gave out an extended sigh. 'The master is beside himself with confusion and worry, you've put him in an awful muddle.'
‘I know' he said. Her expression toughened.
‘Not only that but do you know that you’ve turned my life upside down? My life's become like a wild scene given by those actors you see prancing about on feast days: except this one's not funny. I can't laugh at this' she said pointing to herself, 'and I can't share these jokes - not with anyone.' Cook's voice cracked with emotion, 'the master’s shaken up. Doesn’t know what to make of it all. He came home wracking his brains about you and wondering what’s become of his friend the Cardinal. He thinks you’re dead, and now lives in mortal fear that the Pope's Inquisition will come after him.' Orsini chewed his lip, ‘the master's a sensible man, and I've no hope of telling him the truth' she continued, 'no hope of telling him half of it.' She stepped forward and looked at the young Cardinal that so reminded her of her deceased son, not only in looks but also in his recklessness. She flapped her arms and sighed.
'I'm sorry' said Orsini. Cook nodded.
'I still know who you are, but I hope you understand why it’s better if you go.’ Orsini agreed.
‘I've lost everything. Nothing else matters to me anymore, only her.'
‘The girl you mean?’ Orsini’s face lit up with elated hope.
‘Yes, of course, is she still here, hiding?’ He cast his eyes about the kitchen cupboards as if he could find Illawara. Cook shook her head as if to say that he should know better.
‘I sent them both on their way.’ He knew the truth before she said it and then reached forward to grasp Cook’s hand.
‘Did she say where she was going? Do you know where she is?’ She saw the desperation on Orsini's face and felt sorry for him. She gave out a groan.
‘That tall man with the Pox left her directions to the cursed island in the lagoon, and I don’t doubt for a minute that all this chaos is because of him’ she said, brushing crumbs off herself with her free hand. Orsini looked lost to her. ‘Don’t you know Poveglia? It’s the old plague island in Venice - far in the south of the lagoon’, his face drew a blank, ‘of course you wouldn't’ said Cook, shaking her head, ‘you’re Roman, you’ve not heard of it.'
Orsini pleaded with Cook, kneeling as he clasped her free hand in his.
‘He must want her to rendezvous with him. To take her away from me forever, to punish me?’ He then released her hand and laced his fingers together and tried to explain the various ways his life had become interlocked with Illawara's, and the Professor's, but she took no interest. Cook waved her hands in the air almost as an act of self-defence.
‘I know not his purpose unless it’s to engage in some dark arts with her there.’ A silence fell between the pair till it began to gnaw at them both. ‘It’s time to go.’ She said. Cook then attempted her fiercest look in vain: but Orsini kneeling below her, youthful but lost, reminded her so much of her son. She took a deep swallow before she spoke again: ‘go south over the lagoon until you find a ruined church on a barren island - the church of San Vidal. My father told me once that that’s the place, but he warned me never to go there.’ Orsini nodded but did not want to stand up. He wished to throw his arms around her but thought it inappropriate.
Cook then took him up to the spare room and unlocked the door, before standing back in haste. He entered to find the Henchman sitting in a corner with a stony face. The two men stared at each other for a while. The Henchman, who had witnessed Orsini’s transformation before the Professor sprayed him, squinted as he looked at the younger Orsini. Vague, dreamlike memories of the event stirred in his mind that he could not pin down.
‘What’s happened to you, your Eminence? Why do you look so... fresh?’ The Henchman puzzled and rubbed at his temples. Orsini tried to assess the full effect of the Professor’s Mystify and lied as a test.
‘Don’t you remember I told you that I left to bathe and rest in the hallowed waters of the Assumption chapel of the Blessed Virgin? Just north of this place – I’ve found the waters there most rejuvenating’ he said, with a stiff smile.
The Henchman inspected the youthful man in front of him:
‘Have I slept for a year?’ He said rubbing his head. Orsini gave a peevish expression. Cook could not keep a twinkle out of her eye. The Cardinal gruffed and changed the subject.
‘Do you know the island of Poveglia?’ The Henchman flinched.
‘Yes… your Eminence, a good place to get rid of waste.’ Cook, cringed without any doubt about what the Henchman meant by waste.
‘I see’ said Orsini, ‘I have a task for you, and you will be my guide’ The Henchman looked perplexed as Orsini walked towards him.
◆◆◆
The Henchman, still weak and groggy, had little time to protest before Orsini plonked his thin frame on the back of his saddled, blanketed and hooded steed. 'What are you doing?' The Henchman protested. But Orsini ignored him and spoke to Gino as he untethered him before he climbed up to sit astride the animal with the Henchman in his lap. The Cardinal tore off the rest of the covering, and Gino’s silver wings gleamed in the moonlight as his beast hoofed at the ground.
The Henchman’s jaws dropped open as Gino's wings began to stretch and flex. Orsini then reached over the bony shoulder of the Henchman to yank off the hood covering Gino’s head. The animal reared and whinnied in the pale light. Orsini clamped his hand over the Henchman’s mouth to stifle his scream of terror.
He then banged his heels into the side of his steed, and the animal understood his master. Gino then galloped forward, as the Henchman tried to free himself from his grip, but Orsini overpowered the scrawny man with ease. Gino raced towards the edge of the terrace before leaping over the railing to embrace the air with a powerful beat of its wings. The Henchman howled for his life as Orsini reached forward over him to seize his beast’s mane. His watery eyes bulged at the elevation as they climbed into the air. In the act of self-preservation, the Henchman clung to the beast’s neck, distraught and swooning at the rush.
Orsini joined his mind with his winged steed as the animal flew on. The Henchman clamped his eyes shut as he blurted out disjointed prayers that he thought he had long forgotten. Orsini felt invigorated with power as they climbed into the air above the soft shimmer of the city below, a master of his fears in his second flight. The Henchman howled once more when he opened his eyes again to find himself far above Padua, with immense views of Venice and its lagoon stretching out before him to the Adriatic. Orsini took on a wicked expression.
‘If you don’t calm yourself’ he said, ‘then I’ll toss you down to the rooftops.’ The Henchman then clutched with all his might to the beast, before turning to his patron with jutting eyes clouded with loathing and horror - his jaw trembling. Orsini was nonplussed and breathed in the crisp air. ‘Why not use those dinner plate eyes of yours to help me find the island?’ he said, relishing the fear he saw in his Henchman: a man that had always unsettled him. Orsini embraced the rush of wind all about him, as a being of the air, and saw in his mind Botticelli's painting of Venus with Zephyr blowing the Goddess ashore. He smiled: 'I'm one of your creatures now' he declared to the sky. The Henchman turned and wondered who Orsini spoke to, but did not care for the fear of death so gripped him.
Within minutes the pair flew high over the lagoon – peppered with ice in the moonlight - leaving San Marco’s piazza behind, emptied of people, in the cold Christmas air. Most people missed the spectacle above as they dozed in their chairs at home after too much food. The pair flew on. After some time, the Henchman attempte
d speech, and it took several efforts to get his words out. He lifted a shaking finger from the steed’s neck, all he dared.
‘I think that is the island there, your Eminence’ he stammered, ‘the one in the distance with, with… the ruined church.’ The Cardinal peered ahead, between Gino's wing beats, feeling like an eagle - as if his steed’s wings were his own: his Henchman little more than a tangle of branches to him, branches he would use to help him build his new nest somewhere in the future.
He nodded with satisfaction as he looked into his Henchman’s green, hollowed and petrified face - the thin man trembling and seeming at his wit's end - before he urged Gino into a lunging swoop. The Henchman turned from green to white and clenched his jaws in the accelerating dive, suppressing every instinct he could not to cry out but failed. The Henchman screeched with wild abandon unable to control himself as he saw the icy water rushing towards him. Gino tucked in his wings like a falcon as they plummeted. During the dive, the Henchman wet himself. He feared that Orsini and his beast would crash into the ice topped water, and all of them dashed to pieces before drowning in the lagoon. With a silent command from his master, Gino opened his wings moments before impact with the surface and swooped back up into the air like a bird of prey, topping out to their original height. Orsini laughed at the top of his voice.
The Henchman, with his chest heaving, and clothes soaked at the groin, detested Orsini then with a passion he had rarely felt, even for his worst enemies. He had not become so petrified and vulnerable since he was a tiny boy: when his drunken father used to beat him within a strip of his life - as his drunk listless mother looked on. The Henchman could not abide being made to feel that way. He never thought he could be made to feel that way ever again: and he hated Orsini for it. The Henchman knew himself to be a helpless hostage upon the beast as they flew on, as the Cardinal’s arms straddled him like the brutal grip of his father.
◆◆◆
Consensus arrived in the underground temple after Illawara had stepped forward to offer her blood as a sacrifice. The conversation moved onto the business of practicalities. The Professor and Lucia had already divided the money they had between them earlier. Lucia settled on giving more of her finances to the Professor by way of investment and compensation for events, although three of the Soul-lanterns and Orb Weavers were hers as they had agreed.
The Professor’s Soul-lanterns and potion carry cases fitted into his custom-made leather backpack he had commissioned while waiting for Levin to complete his work: anticipating carrying out his plans on his own. Lucia had discarded all that she did not need for her journey but used her wheeled case with the iron trappings to hold her dagger and crystal ball, wrapped in its black velvet, Hekate's book, her Tarot cards, Soul-lanterns and her unguent along with other essentials she knew a woman needed. Only Lucia's box wrapped in its starry fabric remained.
During their stay on Poveglia, the Professor had taken the risk to question Lucia about the mysterious box, and the sorceress had stated that Poveglia was a fitting place to leave memories behind.
Hermes, glad to be of value, helped everyone else ready the new ceremonial preparations of the dusty Hermeporta - a device not used for an age. The Professor and Illawara avoided awkward exchanges with one another: both knowing no good could come from an argument between them. The Professor read the silent language between the younger pair and imagined Hermes had filled in the gaps for Illawara as far as she was concerned.
Raven, the gondolier, slumbered on, turning from time to time in his sleep, although each pair of traveller’s burned to know what the other would be doing. Illawara sat to one side, chin on her knees, as Hermes and Lucia swapped techniques over ceremonial practices. Illawara did not know what to expect, still unsure if she wanted to leave Italy at all. Hermes knew far more than he had said, but did not want to frighten Illawara with any more truths - that he would leave to her parents. Lucia's eyes sparkled as she and Hermes finalised ceremonial details, keen to seize her chance at power, and yet concealed her real plans. The Professor thought the less everyone knew about his schemes, the better.
The four came together as the incense burned and solemn words were said, complicit in their secrets - complicit in the necessity of their deceits. Soon the air grew thick with the heady, intoxicating smoke of incense taking the edge off their collective anxiety.
The Professor ascended the dusty sandstone steps of the Venetian Hermeporta, and his mind flashed with images of his and Iona's discovery of the Hermeporta in Turkey: the first he had seen in his life. He carried the circular and faceted quartz crystal in his hands, polished to splendour after centuries of neglect, and reached the gleaming stone up into the waiting jaws of the sandstone serpents. When the Professor wedged the crystal in place, the space pulsed with energy and the eyes of the stone snakes crept open to give off a sickly red glow. The Professor glanced back down at the others and the sleeping Gondolier that stirred more in his sleep and wondered if Illawara’s blood offering would be enough. 'This Hermeporta is weak' the Professor whispered to himself.
‘It’s time’ said Lucia, looking at the boyish Illawara and reaching out her hand. Illawara stepped forward, nervous, but knowing what she needed to do. ‘Give me your hand’ said Lucia, before Hermes brought a small bowl forward that had laid discarded on the ground.
'Is it clean?' said Illawara,
'Yes' said Hermes, 'I got rid of the dust.' The Professor looked on, tense, as Lucia gripped Illawara’s hand and raised her sharp dagger. Lucia sliced open the skin of her finger and milked her blood into the vessel that Hermes held. Illawara winced, clamping her teeth on her bottom lip, as she stifled her pain. She felt her blood dripping like scarlet rain as it fell into the bowl below.
◆◆◆
Orsini brought his protesting steed down to land upon the desolate island outside: the beast’s wings created disturbances in the air, twisting the mist into miniature tornadoes that rippled across the barren ground. He dismounted and reached up to help his Henchman get down. He noticed then that the man’s groin had become drenched, and the reason for Gino's discomfort. The Henchman’s face looked crippled with shame and loathing as he glared at Orsini. The young Cardinal paused, registering the cause before he brought the shaking man down. Orsini stood his Henchman on the ground, as Gino tried to shake himself dry of the man's cooling urine. The beast’s skin seemed to steam in the cold air. It seemed to the Cardinal as if the Henchman had become a little boy in front of him. The Henchman gave him a peculiar look that he struggled to identify. A look he had not seen in the man before. A sense of dread crept up Orsini's spine as his Henchman stared at him in malevolent silence. The scrawny man looked like he belonged to the island as if he were one of its soulless creatures. The Cardinal broke off his gaze and scanned the land looking for a place to tie his steed.
‘It looks like we're not alone’ he said, spying the small rowing boat pulled ashore, and the gondola frozen in the ice. The Henchman did not say a word as he shook from head to toe. ‘We’ll have to search for them. I’m guessing they must be inside that church somewhere’ said Orsini, before reaching into Gino's saddle bag and retrieving some rope. He turned in the mist before he spied a withered shrub. Orsini walked his steed forward in the moonlight, looped the rope through the buckles of Gino's saddle and tied it to the trunk of the bush. The Henchman said nothing and followed Orsini like a spectre as he walked towards the church of San Vidal. The Henchman felt through his damp clothes as he walked and rested his hand upon his sheathed dagger - ready to strike.
◆◆◆
Illawara pushed her fingertip into her mouth to staunch the bleeding of her wounded finger, tasting the iron of her blood. She crouched down and hugged her knees to rest. Holding one side of the bowl each, Hermes and Lucia approached the Hermeporta in gliding synchronicity: bearing Illawara’s offering before the ancient device that did not stir. Together they rose above the incense streaked air. Hermes began to hum a prayer that rose out of him from the
depths of his memory - a prayer Lucia had seen written but not heard. Together, in their act of worship, they poured the libation into the liquid mercury of the Hermeporta and stepped back. The red of Illawara's blood swirled into silver as it rippled across the mercury pool. The rippling mercury reached to the sides of the vessel and returned to the centre.
Everyone paused.
Nothing happened.
The pair looked at each other and then looked back at the Professor and Illawara who then exchanged glances with one another. Lucia and Hermes returned to the pair and waited. Nothing, jus silence. The serpents did not move. Some time passed.
‘We’re stuck here’ said Illawara, almost with relief, looking about her. Lucia said nothing and just watched Illawara. Hermes stared at the device, and the Professor looked down to the Gondolier that seemed to be waking on the floor. No one spoke. Illawara then sighed with relief. Lucia's mind raced, and the Professor started to think about his plans, his years of sacrifice and work, which would come to nothing. Then a flicker of light flashed from the crystal within the serpent’s jaws. In an instant, Illawara felt her whole body get hot. Then she looked at her wounded finger and turned her hand in the candlelight. Lucia saw Illawara's finger heal – the cut vanishing from sight. Illawara shrieked before she swooned forward onto the dusty ground. Everyone turned to look at her. The Gondolier then awoke from his sleep, disoriented before he rubbed his eyes.
Then, as if possessed Illawara rose to her knees with her arms outstretched and her fingers forked forwards towards the Hermeporta.
‘She’s in a trance’ said Lucia and Hermes in unison, knowing the nature of the state from their experiences. Illawara’s hair grew lank and sweaty as her eyes started to glow. When she spoke, her voice sounded deep and ancient, crackling and dry as if worn by the sands of time. The Professor shuddered at the horrible contortion of her voice.
Beyond the Raging Flames Page 45
