The innkeeper raised himself weakly onto an elbow.
Is it perchance a soul awaiting judgment? he whispered. Does this reliquary offer a portal to Purgatory?
There is wisdom within, Leonard said, reckoning that this was true enough.
It mentioned yer name, the man whispered, collapsing back onto the divan. It seemed angry.
It wasn’t happy that I’d gifted it to you. I had to explain that I was no longer its master.
Master? Do I hold power over that small anguished soul?
Leonard looked to Sally for assistance.
We can put it in its place, she said. But first you must tell us: What day is it?
Jew magic
Bobolo, empowered by curiosity, uprighted himself.
What day is it? Is she mad? he whispered to Leonard.
Very much not so, Leonard assured him, though he had no idea what Sally was thinking.
The date, please.
The hosteller gave her a date in late August, year of our Lord 1280.
And when is the birthday of the world?
Bobolo looked crestfallen.
Is this a riddle? Because I am not so clever with riddles, Froga can tell ye.
Where is Pope Nicholas? How does one go about consulting him?
Ye wish to consult the pope?
No, Sally said. We want to consult a Jewish sage—and finally Leonard understood: Sally wanted them to get on with their business. Where would they find Abulafia, and how much time did they have before he had to visit the pope?
Is there Jew magic in this here reliquary? the innkeeper asked. I thought mebbe so.
Not at all, Leonard assured him.
Well, yer Jewish sage should be knocking any minute, Bobolo said, or I don’t know my Froga.
Bobolo did know his wife, Froga, for in with Froga walked a black-hatted, gray-bearded gentleman, who demanded that Bobolo lie down for pity’s sake. A circular yellow badge was sewn to his tunic.
Zedekiah Anaw, Bobolo said by way of introduction. Jew physician. I have very nearly died, he explained, on account of this little devil person here, which may or may not be the result of Jew magic. Can ye tell? In this reliquary here. He’s meant to be strapped to my wrist, but truly I am afeard.
The man applied his palm to the innkeeper’s forehead.
Thou ravest yet thou art not feverish! the man marveled.
Again with Isaac’s translation!
I assure ye, my mind is as clear as the Tiber! Bobolo protested.
Then ’tis none too clear! Zedekiah replied.
These here’re Manicheans from Cathay, Bobolo said. They sold me the demon for some pilgrims’ fare.
A quick look at Leonard and Sally confirmed Zedekiah’s diagnosis.
I would wish thou didst not excite thyself. Prithee, withhold thy speech until the morrow.
Perhaps he wants fleeming? Froga asked hopefully.
I do not put stock in bleeding, Mistress Froga, as well thou knowest.
He put his hand to Bobolo’s wrist, then to his chest.
Thy heart doth gallop. Mistress Froga, he said, standing now, I shall send to thee a boy with herbs. Thou shalt make of them a hearty infusion, according to instructions I shall give thee. If the raving increaseth, or if thou noticest a burning or ague, thou shouldst sendeth for me without delay.
I’m not raving, damn ye! Bobolo said.
Shh! Froga replied. Of course ye are.
When is the birthday of the world? Sally asked the healer.
Zedekiah considered Sally for a moment and half smiled.
What dost a Manichean from Cathay care for the birthday of the world?
We are looking for Abraham Abulafia. Do you know him?
Zedekiah Anaw was no longer amused.
This man of whom thou speakest doth not exist. His name and mystic activity are but a rumor intended to bring disrepute to our small community. Thou wouldst do well to return to Cathay, if this is thy suit. Good day, he said, and made to leave.
Isaac the Blind sent us, Leonard said before the man could reach the door.
Zedekiah stopped short and looked back.
What sayest thou?
My nephew is missing. His name is Felix. Isaac sent us to find him.
Zedekiah looked at the pair another long moment.
The birthday of the world is in six days’ time, he said, and again he smiled that half smile. If the boy thou seekest is Asher, thou shalt find him by answering this: What is purple, hangs on the wall, and whistles?
Whistles? Leonard said, his face ashen. Hangs on the wall?
Thy good friend Isaac canst perhaps aid thee with the deciphering. Though he be dead some forty years, I am sure he shall oblige thee. Good day.
Felix is not in the river!
Leonard watched, unmoving, as Zedekiah “bade them adieu.” Sally had to grab his arm and pull him to the dining hall. The pilgrims were gone and all that remained of the victuals was some crusted pottage and a few slimy fish things.
I know the answer, Leonard said.
You do not, Sally said.
It’s herring, Leonard replied. It is.
It can’t be, Sally said. Herring isn’t purple.
It is if you paint it purple.
But it doesn’t hang on the wall!
It does if you hang it on the wall.
This is a dumb riddle. It doesn’t make sense.
It isn’t a riddle, it’s a joke pretending to be a riddle.
Herrings don’t whistle!
Okay, so it doesn’t whistle—that’s the punch line. It’s a herring joke, an old Jewish joke that makes no sense. My grandfather used to tell it. But I don’t know what it means. How can herring help us find Felix?
We’ll find Felix where there are fish!
Leonard looked at his beloved with all possible admiration.
You think so? he asked.
Definitely! We look for Felix where they catch fish, where they sell fish, where they eat fish.
Sally smiled, content with herself.
He doesn’t mean in the river?
Sally and Leonard looked at each other, stricken.
No, Sally decided. That’s not what he meant. Felix is not in the river.
Right, Leonard agreed. Felix is not in the river. Felix is definitely not in the river!
Dreams of revolutionary stew
It was early afternoon when Leonard lay down in his snugbed—it was still his habit to sleep days, and he was muddled about whether it was day or night, given that he’d traveled more than seven centuries and had relived his entire lifetime. He’d rest just a moment, he told Sally, and then they could decide where to find fish. Sally didn’t know whether to be angry or amused.
He awoke sometime later to the sound of Sally’s voice at the foot of the stairs.
We’d like to make a study of your fishing industry, he heard her say. We are fisherpeople in Cathay.
I thought ye were noble folk, Bobolo replied, equally loudly, recovered from his fit, apparently.
We are noble folk, Sally said, as if exercising great patience. Our people are noble fisherpeople.
Ye’ll want to go to the river, then. Where else would ye go?
And which direction is that?
Straight, Bobolo said. But ye’ll not get yer indulgences there. Fer them, ye’ve got to visit the churches.
Fish first, churches later, Sally said.
He awoke somewhat later to the sound of fierce rains. Something told him that the locals would not respond well to the rainshields Sally had packed in his inflatable pocket—the sound of their miniature engines, he imagined, would cause many to faint. They would have to rely on their pilgrims’ hats and cloaks.
Then he was dreaming—of revolutionary stew. It was everything Carol said it was! Succulent and nutritious, plump and steaming. He decided in his dream that when he awoke, he’d suggest Revolutionary Stew Pizza to his employers, Neetsa Pizza! But Sally—dear Sally! beloved Sally!—was shoving hi
s shoulder.
Get up! she said. Hurry!
Unthinking, Leonard pulled her to him—she would share his stew, what was his was hers, for now and ever more, even if it was made into pizza! Especially if it was made into pizza! But instead of enjoying the stew, she slapped his face—hard!—and pulled his afro till his eyes teared.
Get up! We’ve gotta get out of here! NOW!
Leonard became dimly aware of a hullabaloo downstairs, the sound of shouting and protesting in at least three Isaac-induced speaking styles. Sally yanked on Leonard’s arm, pulling at him to get him out of his snugbed. She was still fully dressed, her face exasperated.
Now! she said. UP!
Leonard blinked, looked around, tried to recall where he was.
She dropped Leonard’s clothes on his face, his inflatable pocket too; she might have been ready to cry.
We have to RUN! she cried, Come on! and was in the hallway, from which Leonard could hear—more distinctly now that the door was open—Bobolo’s wheedling voice:
It weren’t me put the little fella in the reliquary! It were the Manicheans!
Froga added stridently: We was only performing a service, yer honor, demonstulating what befalls the wicked in Purgatory, like!
These words awakened Leonard entirely, but it takes time to get out of a snugbed: the microsilk, once inflated, conforms to the body’s shape, holding it, well, snugly for optimal sleep. Egress requires considerable wriggling if one lacks time for full deflation, which Leonard decidedly lacked, as he could hear a deep masculine voice downstairs exclaiming, WHERE BE THE MISCREANTS WHO HATH SOLD THEE THIS DEVIL’S PLAYTHING? I SHOULD LIKE TO HARM THEM—FOR EXAMPLE, WITH A HEAD VISE!
That’s right! Bobolo said. Ye don’t want to harm us, yer very highest Inquisitorial honor. It’s them ye want! A head vise’ll do it! They’re right up the stairs there, second door to yer left.
Right, Froga said.
Right, Bobolo amended.
Left, ye puttock! Froga said.
Left, right, said Bobolo.
Leonard had squiggled his entire top half from his snugbed, but his legs remained, and they were quite long. He could hear heavy boots begin to clomp ploddingly across the common area downstairs.
THE HEATHENS BE UP HERE? the deep-voiced man thundered from the bottom of the stairs.
Yep, yer honor—Froga’s voice again. I always said these people was strange.
At last Leonard had squeezed his feet from the snugbed.
I SHOULD LIKE TO MEET THESE STRANGE PEOPLE! exclaimed the man with the deep voice. I SHOULD LIKE TO FLAY THEM—FOR EXAMPLE, WITH A SCRAMASAX!
Leonard stumbled out of the room, holding tight to his pilgrims’ gear but dropping his inflatable pocket. He was surprised to see flashing red lights at one end of the hall.
This way! Sally hissed from the other end of the hall as heavy boots began plonking up the steps. PUM!… PUM!… PUM!
Run! Sally whisper-shouted. And Leonard did—away from the stairs and down the windowless hallway, barefoot, wearing only his crayon-colored sleeping togs, his heart pounding, his health meter thrumming, to the outer staircase, where Sally, dear, blessed, ever vigilant Sally, held open the door.
A familiar face
She’d left her police scanner behind, to distract their pursuers with its shooting red rays and low-level hum. As Leonard flew through the door to the outer stairwell, he heard the man, newly arrived upon the landing, say, WHAT IS THIS? A FIRE THAT DOTH NOT CONSUME? STAND BACK! WE ARE WITNESS TO A MIRACLE! DO NOT LOOK UPON IT! NO ONE SHALL LOOK UPON IT AND LIVE!
What happened? Leonard asked as they paused at the bottom of the external staircase, on the narrow cobblestoned street outside the hostellery. It was dusk, but they could still see a large group of pilgrims confrering by the hostellery door.
No time, Sally said, and they were running again.
Leonard was barely able to note his surroundings—which consisted chiefly of crumbling two-story buildings, and assorted bundle-bearing women who observed his sleeping togs with shock and amusement—but he did, as they raced headlong down the road, notice, peeping out from an alleyway, a familiar face, belonging to a man with a beard, a hat, and a yellow circle on his cloak.
Running and stopping
They ran in a zigzag pattern, Leonard following Sally in and out of dark alleyways, turning right, past towers and perfumed churches, and left, past fluted columns embedded between thick brick arches, and right, past wells and gardens and little houses and fly-ridden butcher shops, then left, past more churches, and strange ruined buildings, tiny bread shops, and spice shops, and fabric shops, all closing now (with loud cries from their owners of last-minute bargains), dodging horse dung and cow patties and other excretions, bumping into urchins and bawdy girls and sending street cats screeching and flying.
They didn’t hear their pursuer’s heavy boots behind them, but still they ran.
Till Leonard could run no farther.
Enough! he gasped, and pointed at the portico of a church. Sally doubled back, and they climbed two stairs into the portico and rested their backs against a marble column. It was fully evening now, but still warm.
You need to get your clothes on, Sally said after Leonard had stopped panting.
Thank you, Leonard said.
No need to be sarcastic! Sally said.
I mean, thank you. You saved me! You could have left me behind but you didn’t.
And be stuck in this wretched place forever?
Leonard looked around. They were in the narrowest possible lane. Too narrow for a police caravan, or even for two to walk hand in hand. But there was something warm in the brick of the house across the lane, with its ancient well and garden visible in back, something lovely too about the fluted columns in front of this church—older than the church itself, he guessed. Something comforting about the dusky summer air and the sound, if one listened hard, of at least two babies crying.
It’s not so bad, he said.
You’re wrong, Sally said.
Leonard shrugged.
Did you see Zedekiah? He was outside the inn, watching.
You sure? Sally said. I don’t think so.
Leonard shrugged again, then told Sally to look away as he went behind a column to change into his pilgrim’s clothes. She sat down on a marble step, her toe tracing the cobblestones.
I dropped my inflatable pocket, Leonard said from behind the column.
Oh, great! Sally said. There goes our supply of grasshopper legs, and your change of clothes, and my string and hold-alls.
I didn’t mean to drop it, Leonard said.
But you did, Sally replied.
Yes, Leonard agreed, I did.
Now what’re we going to do?
Leonard didn’t know. The loss of Sally’s string didn’t seem a terrible thing—compared with flaying, say, or having one’s head clamped in a vise—but maybe that’s not what she meant. He joined her on the marble step.
What happened back there? he asked. At the inn? Why all the commotion?
Bobolo was charging coins to see the miracle of the navigator watch. Pilgrims were queuing down the road—you saw them, right? I guess someone decided it was dangerous.
Ah, Leonard said.
It was rapidly darkening, and quiet now, the street empty.
I let you down, Sally said.
What?
It was my idea to give Bobolo the navigator watch. I thought it was funny. I almost got us killed.
No way! It was a great idea!
Yeah? We’re missing half our stuff, we have no lucre, we’re in the middle of a city we don’t know, following a riddle we’re not sure we understand.
Leonard took her hand.
We’ll figure it out. We won’t let Felix down. We’ll find the river. We’ll find Felix.
And if we find a river? What then? Sally said to her leather slippers. How will that help us find Felix?
Leonard pondered that. Pythagoras had once addressed a river,
which spoke back to him: Hail, Pythagoras! it said. But Leonard was no Pythagoras, nor would Hail, Leonard! help them much.
Isaac said to look for signs, he said. We’ll look for signs.
I’m not so good at that.
Sure you are! You understood that we were in danger, right?
Where are we going to sleep tonight, Leonard? This place gives me the creeps.
We’ll find something. Don’t worry. How about we eat something?
Sally rummaged in her clutchbag.
All we have is some bridies and a few ham stix, she said.
We’d better wait, then, Leonard said.
It’s almost night. Where are we supposed to go?
Leonard didn’t want to worry Sally, but in his view, a lack of food, coin, lodging, and friends was the least of their worries: there was also the man with the boots.
We need to be somewhere where we won’t be conspicuous, Leonard said. A crowded place, where we won’t be noticed.
Can you ask your friend Isaac for help?
He doesn’t come when I call, Leonard said. He likes to surprise me.
There must be something you can do!
Leonard thought about how Isaac had contacted him in the past: on the telephone, in a dream, prancing on Leonard’s wall or screen. He wouldn’t speak unless or until he was sure Leonard was paying attention. Then he berated him for not listening properly.
I have to listen, Leonard said. That’s what I have to do.
Signs and wonders
I’ll start by practicing echemythia, Leonard said, Pythagorean meditation. It won’t take but a minute, and he scooched up a step or two till he was sitting on the portico floor, his legs pretzeled, his eyes closed. He began by imagining he was wearing white in a White Room; he took a deep breath, then another. And ignored, or tried to ignore, the mosquito on his neck, then twisted his neck a bit, to get rid of the mosquito, then slapped it, then slipped into silence. Deep silence, Pythagorean silence, except for the sound of some Franks, a man and a woman, approaching along the cobblestoned road.
They were evil, the woman was saying.
I’m not sure that they were, the man said.
A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World Page 14
