The Crystal Crux: Blue Grotto

by Allen Werner

  “He came,” the stones and pebbles around the Spaniard softly stirred and whispered. “He came.”

  Chapter 32 – The Happy Spider

  Guidus Salvatore sat with his back propped against the wall, legs stretched out comfortably across the bed, hands busy whittling a piece of basswood into a bird figure. The former Provost of Parthenope didn’t have many recreational pursuits but he had learned at an early age how to whittle.

  Umberto, the stableman at his parent’s estate near Florence was an accomplished woodworker. The man could have been a carpenter but his love for horses was intense. Umberto was rugged and fearless, large and unshaven, never bathing, always active, seemingly spending most his waking moments in the barns and corral, out in the field, training, shoeing and grooming the herds.

  Umberto, while extremely kind and goodhearted, had little use for society or the subtleties of human relationships. Unless their conversation or interest involved horses, he wasn’t much interested.

  In his youth, Guidus Salvatore had no interest in horses, hardly ever riding them, doing most of his traveling in coaches and carts. He was wealthy and pampered and avoided menial tasks. He did, however, enjoy roughhousing in the barns, chasing other scamps for fun. And he took a liking to Umberto. He watched him work with the horses and was awed by the poor man’s devotion to his craft. His husbandry of the beasts was adroit. They knew his voice and obeyed him, doing everything he instructed them to do, hardly ever raising his voice, often commanding them with simple hand gestures, even odd expressions.

  One day, while a day-long rainstorm persisted and muddied the fields, Guidus ran into the barn dripping water. He caught Umberto in a moment of idleness, sitting on a bale of hay, whittling. Guidus had seen whittled sculptures all around the outbuildings but never questioned where they had come from. Now he knew.

  Umberto took a curious interest in the ‘kid-who-hated-horses’ and invited him to take a seat beside him. That was the day the lessons began. From that day, the Italian proceeded to patiently school the boy on the art of whittling.

  Guidus knew next to nothing about anything involving physical labor. Umberto had to teach him all the basics, including how to sharpen a knife on a strop. “Always keep your knife sharp. You’ll never know when you’ll need it.”

  Umberto also taught Guidus how to choose the proper soft woods for whittling, the ones with the straightest grains. “When you are young,” Umberto philosophized, “everything in life is simple and flows in one direction. The straighter the grains, the more linear the lines, the more uncomplicated the project and your life. You whittle down with the grain. Simple.” He placed his blade on his current project and slowly cut off a thin shaving. “Even at my age, I am patient, taking my time. Never rushing. If you harry, the knife will glance and catch your fingers.” He showed Guidus some old scars. “Experience, lad. You will suffer a few of these, guaranteed. But without these, without scars and experience, you’ll never be the master of anything. Suffering the work is what makes you a man.” He continued to whittle. “Occasionally you will go against the grain. At times, it may be necessary. Going against the grain can cause the wood to split.” He paused, reflective. “You will find in life, as things get more difficult and you get deeper into the wood, it is easy to lose track of which way the grain flows. It happens even to the most skilled.” He started to whittle again. “Be patient, take your time. Listen to the wood. Read it.” He caressed his project. “It will show you the way. Those who are impatient will never learn and will always destroy everything they attempt to do. Don’t be like them. Don’t allow complications to get in your way. See your way through them. Be bold and creative, flexible. When something in the wood opposes you, work around it, work for harmony. Move around the problem. Don’t try to cut into it like a maniac.” He pressed the tip of the knife on a small dark knot. “These things are obstinate. You can’t break them. Pretend as though you foresaw them, knew they were there all along. Think. Find a way to incorporate them, as they are. In time, if you are truly skillful, the knots and troublesome grains will blend right in and be forgotten. People will look at the completed work and not even notice the hazards you faced and had to overcome. They will see only a skilled master and his art. The hindrances will be invisible to everyone else. Only you will know the truth. Your scars will remind you of everything you have been through and that is the real value in all you do. How much do you appreciate it? How much do you love it?”

  Guidus was saddened to learn that Umberto had passed in his sleep a few years back. Umberto was an old man when Guidus knew him as a lad but still it was sad, a reminder of shared mortality.

  There were two beds and one window in the small room.

  Francis Whitehall sat on the sill of the open window, brown eyes peering west over the tops of the trees, drawn on high to the constellation of Cepheus. He couldn’t reckon why it seemed so pronounced tonight.

  The Griffin was numb, the apple he ate now consumed down to the core. He couldn’t stop himself from dwelling on the desperateness and terror his wife and child felt as their lives were being taken from them. There was a time when a clear night, such as this, would have brought exhilaration and anticipation. He would find a place to build a roaring campfire. Anne would join him. They’d whisper tales throughout the night of legends old and heroic.

  Yesterday, Anne Whitehall would have turned fifteen. Francis’ daughter knew the stars as well as he. She could identify and divine the secrets of the constellations. It had even become more common, as of late, for Anne to generate new stories, new fables, ones she had dreamed up to entertain her father. She was so creative in his eyes.

  The exiles from Capua had smuggled with them a tidy sum but not much else. The first thing they did when they stumbled across the Happy Spider, was purchase new/used clothes and bathe. The innkeeper’s wife had a bin of garments that had been surrendered in lieu of payment or simply left behind by former patrons. Much of it looked as though it had been sitting in the barrel for years, moth eaten and ratty, only a few items decent enough to wear. The men took turns sharing a tub of cold water out back, trying their best to scrub off all the blood, urine and feces caked into their skin. The clothes they had worn were destroyed, burned with a giant leaf pile.

  When first they came upon the Happy Spider, they were met by bold proclamations nailed to the building. These edicts read that anyone expressing support for Philip of Swabia or Pero de Alava, the former Lord of Capua, would be arrested and sentenced to the stocks. After experiencing the brutal strike against the keep in Capua, Francis and Guidus were confident that anyone arrested on these charges would not be in the stocks long. Their fate was predetermined.

  The innkeeper, Mario Lombardi was suspicious, or at least he acted that way the minute the two smelly wanderers entered. He came directly towards them and bid them raise their right hands.

  “It’s my duty to compel you to swear allegiance to Gherardus Fabbro, Otto of Brunswick and the Roman Catholic Church, and renounce Philip of Swabia and Pero de Alava.”

  Heady, Francis had already fashioned new personalities for them to bear. He and Guidus were simple, uneducated quarrymen come down from Carrara, an area known for its blue-grey marble, in search of work. They admitted to getting lost and turned around before being burgled by rogues. They’d seen rain and fog and had to trudge through a marsh. They were tired and didn’t want no trouble, just food and lodging and a road heading west.

  “Who be these fellows you want us to speak nay or yea for?” Francis coolly lied.

  It was then that Mario let his guard down as well as his raised right hand. He knew most people were uninformed and didn’t know spit about the activities of the nobles. Most didn’t care. And since there was no one else in the inn at the time, none but him and his wife, he whispered his frustrations. “Knights from Parthenope come busting in here the other day, some of them making a racket, pounding those pamphlets to my walls outside. They tells me to report any strangers wh
o come, especially those unwilling to speak allegiance to Gherardus.” He leaned in closer as if he had a secret. “Gherardus is the Grand Duke of Campania, this entire region.” He pulled back out. “There’s some trouble nearby, smoke and fire, people getting killed and all. Just tells me you men ain’t here for no trouble and we got no problem. It’s not as if I can arrest you anyway and the nearest guard stations at Grazzanise.”

  “Well, friend,” Francis smiled, “we come in peace. We bear no weapons and have coin. We could use new outfits and a bath.”

  “Then you shall have them.”

  It was a Sunday evening and a few weary travelers eventually filed in as the night wore on. The building itself faced south. The window Francis was resting in faced west but he could clearly see the winding road leading to the building, coming out of the trees like a snake. At the first, he had been apprehensive. Guidus was too. But this was their second day at the Happy Spider and of all the guests that came and went, none were soldiers, and the few who bore arms were common folk bearing crude weapons to protect themselves from bandits.

  There was a playfully music downstairs. Simple Russo, they called him, had come with his five-string rebec and was singing merry tunes, trying to earn a few grateful coins. Mario maintained that it was an honor Simple Russo came two nights in a row. This was high entertainment for modest folk. Francis would never tell him how unimpressed he was. ‘Let them maintain their illusions.’

  Francis Whitehall had not prayed, not since the siege. There was too much rage still boiling in his blood. He wanted vengeance but was unsure how to go about it. Rugerius boldly pushing his way into Anthea Manikos’ apartment had become a focal point. It was at that precise moment he understood who his enemies were and where they had come from. He also knew why they were there. And then there was the grizzly bastard with the broken back, the one who had murdered his little girl. He could still feel the fear and remember the panic in the mercenary’s eyes as he pressed the bloody tip of the sword down into his forehead, straight through the skull, blood squirting up over them both.

  ‘Today the pain is mine. You are not forgiven.’

  The Griffin had had enough. He couldn’t bear this burden any longer.

  Guidus stopped whittling as he watched Francis fall to the floor and cry, heaping sobs, the first obvious tears the Griffin had shed for his family since it happened, his first breakdown.

  “Forgive me, Lord,” Francis wept. “Forgive me for whatever I have done wrong in Thy sight to earn such chastisement and grief. I don’t know how to bear this pain and press on.” The Griffin saw the man he murdered again, his blood on his hands. Francis trembled, his eyes open, looking down on the floor between his knees as if that bastard were lying there, fear and panic in his eyes. Humility overwhelmed him. “I was wrong,” Francis whispered. “I am not any man’s judge. I can’t be.” Francis couldn’t believe he was going to say these next few words but they came from his heart, his pure and noble heart. He trembled. “I forgive. I forgive.” The tears flowed and Francis went all the way down into a fetal position, cleansing himself of all the loss rotting his spirit.

  Guidus rose out of the bed and put a blanket over his new friend, his only friend. He patted Francis on the shoulder and left the room.

  It took Francis Whitehall nearly an hour to recover and come back out of the blanket and stand as a man again. Feeling even more numb than he did before, he returned to window sill and turned to face the stars.

  “Cassiopeia,” he whispered and smiled. “The queen. The first constellation Anne learned. And her favorite.”

  Two boisterous revelers, both intoxicated and staggering, exited the Happy Spider and sat down on a bench directly beneath Francis’ window. Francis was on the third floor of three and the men never looked up or took note of their surroundings. They had no idea he was there as they began to jabber on about mundane news items they picked up on their travels, most of which seemed rather uninteresting.

  Francis wiped his reddened face trying to rid himself of any evidence that he had been crying.

  And then one of the drunks got quiet. He thought he was whispering but drunk men often think they are doing things differently than they are.

  “Did you hear what happened in Capua?” The first said to the second.

  The second shook his head. “Now, now, don’t do it.” He shushed the first with a finger to his lips. “You’ll get us killed. I don’t want to be placed in the stocks again.”

  Francis’ hearing perked up and he wondered if these fellows were mercenaries from the army or stragglers who had escaped.

  “I heard there was witchcraft involved, enormous balls of fire raining down from heaven to kill the heretics. I bet that giant had something to do with it.”

  Francis shook his head realizing these men had not been anywhere near Capua when it happened, if that’s what they believed.

  The second was not interested and kept shaking his head, pretending not to hear the first.

  “I was in Cancello,” the first revealed. “Some men in uniform said they’d come up from Mondragone. They was talkin’ kinda funny, Englishmen I suspect. And they wasn’t afraid to talk or ask questions.”

  “I’m afraid to hear the rest. Stop talking.”

  “They said they believed the killing was a betrayal of some sort.”

  The second shook his head again, this time more earnestly. “I beg you, stop. I don’t want to hear this.”

  “They said the tide would not rise that evening so they were forced to stay in Mondragone.” He whispered this time. Francis had to lean over and out the window and stretch his hearing. He barely made out the words the first spoke.

  “The War Queen could not leave.”

  Francis sat all the way up, his thoughts spinning. ‘The War Queen is the ship that brought Anne back from England.’

  “What’s so special about The War Queen?” Asked the second.

  The first coughed. “Everyone knows the War Queen is the Rose’s ship. It’s famous. And the Rose is a friend of the Lord of Capua.”

  There was a long pause and neither man said anything more.

  Francis was on eggshells.

  Finally, the second spoke up. “Well, what does that matter?”

  “It matters because the Rose himself is still here in Italy. He got word of the burning at Capua. He’s got a small army with him, a hundred men or so, so I hear.” The first giggled. “He’s pissed and asking questions, taking on recruits. Nobody was joining up with him, least of all me.” He bumped the second, shoulder to shoulder. “Seems the Rose ain’t fit to leave these shores until he finds out what really happened.”

  “I know what happened,” the second responded before belching and wavering to his feet. “My flagon is empty. I need more.”

  The first rose with him and together, singing a song that did not match the song Simple Russo was playing, they went back inside The Happy Spider.

  Francis looked to Cassiopeia with hope swelling in his heart. He imagined the queen’s stately figure dressed in a gown of silver, her scepter pointing the way west towards Mondragone.

  ‘The War Queen.’

  Guidus came back in the room.

  Francis rushed so quickly to his side, he shut the door for him.

  “What is it?” Guidus asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Francis Whitehall shook his head. “I’ve seen a queen. I hope and pray you have slept enough because we leave immediately.”

  “What has changed? Where are we going?”

  “Our salvation is in the stars, Guidus. Merle Gilmore. The Rose.”

  Chapter 33 – Two Cuts Before I Go

  Viridian breathed back to life. A deep and sudden gasp of desperateness lifted her chest, swelling her lungs. Like saucers, her big brown eyes popped open and consciousness came quick. She was lying flat on her back in her apartment at Villa Jovis, clear silk sheets caressing her naked brown skin, black mane combed neatly over her head, flowering ou
t over the pillow. She couldn’t move at first. Lightheadedness kept her pinned to the mattress.

  Suddenly, before she could relax, Viridian realized she was not alone in the room. Her eyes darted left and then right. Eula and Zita stood watch on either side of the bed. They weren’t sisters but could have passed for such. Both were four-foot even, long dark hair tied up in similar buns above their heads, both wearing identical white linens, hands neatly folded before them.

  “What happened?” Viridian labored to ask, her mouth and lips parched, a metallic taste lingering on her tongue. ‘Blood.’

  Zita, standing to her left, was quick to answer. “We don’t know, my Lady. Menfolk carried you in. They was laughing. You were naked and covered in blood.”

  Eula interrupted, not wanting to be forgotten. “We washed you, my Lady.”

  Zita took a noticeable step closer and continued. “Yes, my Lady. We washed you up and Medicus Alessandro treated your swollen face. You have a cut and a bruise.’ Zealous to make her point, Zita almost went to touching the wound but stayed her hand at the last moment. She wore a genuine look of concern. They both did.

  Viridian now remembered all that had transpired. She could see Rugerius, his enormous fist rounding into view an instant before it struck her. She hit the white marble and everything turned red.

  Viridian gathered from the place Zita was attempting to point, that that was where the disorientation was emanating from. She thought to feel the swelling for herself but was as quick as Zita to stay her hand. “Fuck him,” she snarled under her breath. “Fuck Rugerius.”

  Tentative, Viridian eased up into a seated position, the purple bed sheets slipping quickly from her chest. They felt constrictive anyway and the girls were accustomed to seeing her naked. Everyone was.

  Eula produced a glass-and-pewter goblet filled with water from a stand beside the bed. “With your permission, my Lady, Medicus Alessandro added a simple to quiet the humours.”