Leonard did not know how to answer that.
A cat’s blink
Their voyage hadn’t been what you’d expect. There was no whirring “time tumbler” or kaleidoscopic sinkhole. There was just a circle, a mixing of letters in Sally’s head, a silent singing by Leonard of the clapping song, some general hopping and dancing, according to a well-established pattern, and a mysterious extra ingredient offered by Isaac, which Sally and Leonard could neither see nor hear.
It was over in a flash of light, yet it took an entire lifetime. As Leonard hurtled, motionless, through a still yet throbbing conglomeration of space and time, he became reacquainted with his most important moments. Banging a lollisucker on his babycage as a tall be-afroed man approached and said, Let’s see those little teeth, Lenny, they’re bothering you again, ain’t they?
His father? He might have cried to remember this, had he either eyes or time. His grandfather was there, younger than Leonard remembered, and dancing—yes, dancing—in the candlelight. Oy, he was singing, Oy, oy, oy! Yet he looked happy—because there, dancing with him, holding his hands and lifting her knees, was a redheaded woman who looked rather like Carol, only happy. Leonard’s mother? His mother? Leonard’s age, as he was now, dancing in joy. Little Lenny toddling over, breaking into the circle so he might dance as well.
His grandfather’s face, older now, bearing the news that would make Lenny hide amid his grandfather’s books, staining the leather with his orphan’s tears. And Carol, barely eighteen, saying, How can I take care of an old man and a little boy? Crying to Joseph, her boyfriend, when they couldn’t hear—Joseph, who was there, and then not, his oboe and music stand suddenly gone, Carol’s clarinet thrown now into the compost-masher—no time for that, she said, her face puffy, her expression hard. Leonard had forgotten about the boyfriend, he’d forgotten about the clarinet.
There was more: old book smell and helping his grandfather to the toilet, the angry feeling in his chest when he called the old man stupid, his stories and books and herring jokes stupid, his grandfather’s eyes slipping from blue to palest green, his grandfather calling him boychik and reminding him to tell his stories only to his grandsons. Awaking in a place as empty as the Desert of Lop when his grandfather died, then the birth two years later of Felix, like a second chance. All these memories and images swirled simultaneously and instantaneously, in less time than it would take for a cat to blink: and when Leonard opened his eyes, they were there.
Feet like oranges
Ye’ll be wanting pottage and ale, I expect, the man continued, leading them up an exterior staircase to the second floor of his hostellery.
Leonard didn’t know what pottage was but couldn’t imagine anything less appealing than dining at this establishment, unless it was the building itself, which smelled of damp, barnyard animals, and human effluence.
Yes, please, he said.
My Froga is standing o’er the blandreth now, a’stirrin’ and a’mixin’. But mebbe they don’t eat such where ye come from? Yer dressed so strange, whence is it ye hail? My pilgrims come from every part of this flat earth but I’ve never seen footing quite so, well, ye don’t mind me saying, quite so strange as yers.
He was referring to Leonard’s sailing shoes, with their whisper-quiet ground-suckers.
We are from Cathay, Leonard said, surprising himself. I assure you that in that land our clothes are of the highest fashion. Only the richest merchants and princes of the highest rank wear clothing such as ours.
Ah, the man said. Well, then. And what exactly do ye merchant, if I may ask?
Cathay noodles, Leonard said, then wished he hadn’t.
Not a product that has made its mark hereabouts, the hosteller observed.
Not yet, Leonard said grandly. Now I’ll thank you to forget I ever mentioned it.
I haven’t much of a memory for things I ain’t seen. So where be yer Cathay?
Well beyond the Levant, Leonard essayed, and full of wonders. You’ll be reading about it soon enough. We have all manner of custom unbeknownst to you. Our ladies’ feet are bound when young till they are the size and shape of oranges—we find it most becoming. We drink elegant infusions of sticks and grass. Plus, we have a wall that extends hundreds of versts around our land.
This lady’s feet seem well larger than an orange, the man mused.
I told you already, Leonard said. She is the wife of a rich merchant. She doesn’t need feet like oranges.
I take yer point, then, the man said, but none the less, ye must know the lady’s outfit is, well, scandalizing. Pilgrim or no, merchant or no, she will be mobbed and defrocked, such will be the people’s outrage. I say this because ’tis my Christian duty to prevent violence and rapine. Yer Christians, I suspect? Ye’d have no cause to pilgrim were ye not.
In a manner of speaking, Leonard said, not quite ready to enter into theological debate.
Whatever heresy ye partake of, ye’ll need some pilgrim gear, if yer to travel about as romei.
Romei?
Pilgrims who come to Rome.
So they were in Rome, Leonard thought.
Have ye ought to trade for yer lodgings, perhaps in the lady’s scrip?
He was ogling Sally’s clutchbag. He apparently hadn’t noticed the inflatable pocket under Leonard’s tunic.
I note it was not taken from ye with yer other belongings on that dangerous route to Rome. I also note it is of uncommon size.
I assure you …, Leonard said.
Or perhaps that rare bit about yer wrist?
He was referring to Leonard’s navigator watch.
Sally spoke for the first time: We’ll exchange that rare piece of jewelry for thirty days’ stay in your fine hostellery. And porridge and ale for all that time …
We do have other victuals! the man protested.
And other victuals, Sally agreed, and clean clothing appropriate for romei.
Sally! Leonard protested. Carol gave me this watch!
And she’ll give you another when we bring Felix home, she whispered.
It is motioned by angels, Leonard said. Look! and he removed the watch so the innkeeper could see the second-counter pulsing.
Motioned by angels, the man murmured. Ye shall have yer exchange, and then some, for I am an honest man. Whom ye might call Bobolo, for such is my name. Bobolo Savelli, no relation.
With that puzzling aside, Bobolo showed them to their room.
Amazing!
You were amazing out there, Sally said.
I was? Leonard said.
Cathay? Infusion of sticks? Who knew you had such an imagination!
Rather than credit Milione, Leonard said, No, you were amazing! Trading the navigator watch like that!
I want Dwane to trace that guy thinking he’s us!
They smiled at each other in mutual amazement, then, embarrassed, looked about the room.
Bobolo had pointed out the fine straw mattress, a mere generation old, and the chamberpot, which he’d called a jordan, explaining, again mysteriously, that he hadn’t an outside necessarium with which to receive their exalted wastage. He’d taken time, too, to show them the back garden, where piebald dogs rooted through an uncontained compost heap, and also the dining chamber. Leonard had wanted to examine the bedclothes—he suspected they were none too clean—but was violently struck by the fact that it was a bed, and he and Sally were expected to share it.
Don’t go near that, Sally said. It’s covered with fleas—I can see them jumping from here. I have snugbeds in here somewhere—and she upended her clutchbag onto the rough planked floor, and out fell numerous objects, some of which Leonard recognized, including Sally’s police scanner. There, she said, handing Leonard a square of microsilk. The plaid one’s for you, the red one’s for me. Push the button so—and up puffed a single-unit snugbed complete with micropillow.
There was a knock. Leonard opened the door a crack.
Where we come from, Leonard said, only peasants sleep on beds. We are only
slightly insulted but we will need you to take this noxious bedding away.
Behind him, Leonard could hear the sound of snugbeds deflating.
Ascetics, Bobolo said approvingly. My best customers!
Oh, Leonard said, not knowing what Bobolo meant.
Here’s yer pilgrims’ gear, Bobolo said, trying to see around Leonard. The wearers did not die of any contamination, just yer normal afflictions, no fear.
Ah, Leonard said, taking the gear through the sliver of doorway.
The scallop means ye’ve been to Compostela, in case ye didn’t know.
We knew that, Leonard said. Why would you think we wouldn’t know that? and he closed the door.
The scallop Bobolo referred to was a tin seashell pinned to the wide, upfolded brims of their new hats. The clothes, rough woven, consisted of sleeved tunics, mantles, hose, and simple leather shoes in well-worn brown and black—Sally was to wear the same as Leonard, apparently. Accoutrements included a leather pouch for each affixed to a leather strap that was to cross their chest—scrips and baldrics, presumably. Also, plain wooden walking staffs with knobs at one end.
The two turned their backs so they could dress.
Notice anything funny about the way that man talks? Sally asked. No! Don’t turn around!
Well, Leonard said, blushing (because she’d seen that he’d been about to turn), his language was a bit odd.
No, silly. I mean that we understand him. Shouldn’t he be speaking Italian or Latin or something?
It’s Isaac, he said. He translates, in his own way.
Don’t you think it’s time you told me what’s going on?
Sally was right. Asking no questions, she’d traveled to this strange place and time, with no assurance that she’d ever return, and why? To rescue a boy she barely knew. Well, maybe she also wanted to meet Abulafia and get her powers back.
Leonard opened his mouth to explain, or rather, he half opened his mouth, or rather he was about to open his mouth, when the room began to shake and he was flung most urgently to the ground.
Okay, Sally said, her face white. I guess it can wait.
Just like Augustine
What time do you think it is? Leonard asked, after he’d dusted himself off.
Sally looked out the window. Judging from the position of the sun, I’d say midday. Twelve or one. Give or take. Depending on the time of year. And the weather. And our longitude and latitude.
Leonard resolved never to be amazed by Sally again. To be amazed by her amazingness was a betrayal, an indication that he didn’t think her always amazing.
Sally opened their door and listened.
There are people downstairs, Sally said. Let’s see what they know.
Can I kiss you first? Leonard asked.
Intelligence first, kiss later.
Downstairs, milling about, were pilgrims from every corner of the world. Lombards and Cumbrians, Russians too. An old English lady was describing, with much awe, the grill that roasted Saint Lawrence, while a spindly Hungarian described the stone that had hurtled the martyr Abundus to his sewery death. A sprightly Sicilian explained to a phlegmatic Croat that he’d visited the vernicle of Veronica twice, and received eighteen thousand years of indulgence for his sins. Several discussed the horrors of their journey. A redheaded Swabian described a narrow escape from a monster two cubits long—with a carmine cat’s head, the legs of a fish, the bifid tongue of a snake, and a hairy trailing tail! Another described having survived two avalanches, a flooded river, and an outsize case of vertigo.
There was little to distinguish the pilgrims’ dress, but they did wear a variety of badges—the Compostela scallop shell, also tiny keys, a medallion of a woman holding a cloth on which was imprinted the image of a man’s suffering face. Some badges were pinned, some sewn onto hats, others hung about the neck.
Greetings! Leonard said to a Frankish pair. How’s the pilgrimming?
We have been to three of the four patriarchal basilicas! the husband exclaimed. Tonight we go to St. Peter’s!
The wife nodded a gentle Frankish nod.
Do you know Abulafia? Sally said.
The pair shook their heads, puzzled—and why not? Leonard realized. Foreigners, here to see the holy sites of Christendom—what would they know of a Jewish mystic from Spain?
You are from? the Frankish wife asked.
Cathay, Leonard said.
Their eyes opened wide.
Beyond the Levant, Leonard said proudly. We’re Manicheans—and immediately the room hushed. He had no idea what Manicheans were, only that they hailed from Cathay.
You are heretics? the husband whispered.
Ex-Manicheans! Sally said loudly. Like Augustine.
Ah, the man said, relieved. Like Augustine!
Like Augustine! Leonard said, having no notion who Augustine was.
Not heretics! the Frankish woman said.
Not heretics at all, the Frankish man agreed.
So where are the Jews? Sally said.
Again, that strange look.
We wish to convert them, Sally explained, and again their Frankish faces cleared.
No idea, the Frankish man said, and no one seemed to know what to say.
Nice baldrick! Leonard said to the man. Nice scrip! he said to the wife.
The Frankish pair looked to each other for guidance.
Boy, am I ready for victuals! Leonard said.
The Franks smiled—they too!
Hey, look, there’s pottage!
Midday victuals, arranged on a long wooden table surrounded by low benches, consisted of a slimy water-thing (eel, according to Sally) and a sloppy stewy thing, which someone, with apparent approval, referred to as pottage (as in Hey, look, there’s pottage!). Ale was served in glasses that, apparently, were to be shared, and the food was served not on plates but on large pieces of heavy brown bread.
To communicate with the serving wench, the Frankish couple referred to a small book, from which they retrieved useful phrases such as Is this eel quite fresh? And I believe this eel to be not quite fresh. And Perhaps I can parley with the manager?
You got food in your clutchbag? Leonard whispered.
For emergencies, she whispered back. We’re already too conspicuous, thanks to you!
Me! Leonard whispered back. You could have been a bit more discreet!
Me! Sally said, almost in full voice. You told everyone we were heretics!
The two might have continued had there not come from the front of the building a bone-shattering, heart-quaking shriek—a shriek so loud and momentous that had Felix screamed thus, the earth and heavens, and time and space besides, would have frozen for all eternity.
The men jumped to their feet, Leonard among them; the Frankish woman began to cry. Before anyone could investigate, a scraggly servant in a knee-length tunic arrived panting at the door. Be not afeard! he said. Everything is absolutely, perfectly fine, it is dandy, A-one, and absolutely right as rain—though he hardly seemed to believe it, ashen as he was.
He smiled and ambled over to Leonard, more quickly than casually.
Would ye be Messer Leonard? he then asked softly in his ear. I was told to look for the man with the ebullient hair.
Leonard nodded.
Would ye be so kind, Messer Leonard, as to come with me? he asked. Superfast, sir, as in right now?
The rest of the pilgrims, satisfied that all was well, asked that the pottage be passed.
The devil within
Though not invited, Sally followed Leonard into a small room a few paces from the hostellery’s entryway. There the innkeeper lay limply on a couch, his face yellow, his pageboy hair clammy and stuck to his forehead. A woman wearing a pillbox hat secured to her head by a white chin strap was massaging Bobolo’s large, naked feet. She seemed unbothered by their stench, which quite overpowered the smell of pottage. Squeezed in the hosteller’s hand was Leonard’s navigator watch.
What is this devilry ye have sold me? he gasped.
Ye said it were motioned by angels.
So it is! Leonard said.
A devil resides within!
Leonard stooped to take the watch from Bobolo’s hand.
The innkeeper had somehow managed to summon the Brazen Head. It was sitting atop a golden throne, wearing a tinfoil crown and eating jujuberries. It was excessively fat today, and shirtless. Every few moments it spat a jujuberry, which bounced off the bald head of a dejected jester. The Head was smirking, no doubt about it.
Without thinking, Leonard pressed the Speak to Me button on the watch’s underside.
We don’t need you, he said to the Head. Go away.
Which meant the Brazen Head was free to speak. His voice was high-pitched and louder than you might think:
Where are you, Leonard! We’re going to find you! It doesn’t matter where you are, we’ll find you!
Leonard pressed the Go to Sleep button, but not before Bobolo fell to the floor in a faint.
Damned pilgrims, the woman muttered, and set about reviving Bobolo with vigorous slaps. It took their combined strength to get him back onto the couch. The young servant, shaking, was sent to fetch brandy—for the wife, not the husband, whose soul eventually rejoined them with groans, sighs, and a series of voiceless bilabial plosives: Pah … pah … pah!
What is it, husband? the wife asked, kneeling by his side. Do ye wish an audience with yer father confessor? Do ye wish to apologize to yer wife for dying a poor man, and a puttock besides?
Weakly, the man pushed his wife’s face away.
Leave me, wagtail! Return to yer coven. I’ll not be needing anything from ye.
The wife squinted at Leonard and Sally, then left the room, her skirt swishing against the floor. Bobolo reached for Leonard’s hand. From the strength of the man’s grip, Leonard judged he would make it.
I do not wish devils in my home, he whispered.
No, no, Leonard said, kneeling down. This is no devil. I swear it.
A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World Page 13
