Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  “How long has he been in there?” Nella asked the man next to her. “The Bellarminian prince, I mean?”

  “Four days.”

  Four days. It was better than she had hoped. With the battle two weeks old, she had feared that he had been in the catacombs for just as long. If I had not left when I did, she realized, there truly would have been no chance for him. She looked down into her bowl of stew, trying to disguise the emotions that flitted across her face.

  A young boy rushed into the tavern. “Did you hear the news? The captain’s offered a reward to anyone who’ll go into the tombs and find the prince!” Nella’s head shot up.

  One of the men laughed. “If the soldiers quake with fear and refuse to enter, do they truly believe that one of us would? We have lived long enough in the shadow of the tombs to know its dangers.”

  Nella ignored him and crept silently out of the door of the tavern. She needed to see the captain.

  Nella silently waited outside of the captain’s tent as the guard explained her presence. She tried to steady herself but she could feel her emotions shifting from unease to terror, and she closed her eyes. Recipe for the removal of face marks, she thought. Roots of the iris florentina boiled until reduced by half. Purify for use of washing face. She felt her muscles relax and she continued: To make hair blonde like gold, mince the roots of ivy and make them like water in the alembic. Wash in the hair for a week until result is achieved.

  “The captain will see you now, Mademoiselle.”

  Nella, startled out of her thoughts, looked up at the guard. “Of course.” She hid her hands behind her back so he couldn’t see them shaking.

  “You said you had news about Prince Benedict?” The captain asked severely when she walked in.

  “Not exactly, Sir. I heard of the proclamation,” Nella said. “What if I were to do it?”

  “You?” The other man, who she had learned was called Lord Ribault, said in derision.

  “The prince is sure to be weak,” she said. “If not dead already.” She shrugged carelessly and tried to give herself a belligerent air, all while her insides clattered. “I have no family, no money. Nothing to lose. I can find the prince, for the safety of the kingdom.” My kingdom, she thought. Not yours.

  “What would the king say,” the lord hissed to the captain’s side, “if he found out we sent a girl to do a soldier’s job?”

  “It matters not who finds him, just so long that he is found,” the captain responded.

  “The king doesn’t have to know,” Nella said boldly, and then wondered if she had gone too far.

  The captain narrowed his eyes at Nella. “You are not from the village, are you?”

  “No, sir. I’m from the country. But my family died of the plague, and so I came here, looking for work.”

  The captain rested his chin in his hands. “So you have been here, ever since?”

  “Only in the camp a few days. I’ve been staying in Luzarche.”

  The captain glanced at Ribault, who was frowning. “Would you need any supplies—?”

  “Nell.”

  “Nell.” He repeated.

  “I shall need food and a torch,” she told them. “And some string to mark my way.” Persephone, who had followed her from the tavern, came close to her mistress and meowed. “My cat will also come.”

  Lord Ribault rolled his eyes. “Of course. Her cat wishes to come.”

  “And what do you want if you should succeed?” The captain asked.

  Nella thought. “My family’s farm— I lost it to creditors. I just want it back.” Asking for nothing would be sure to excite the men’s skepticism; asking for much might do so as well.

  Lord Ribault snorted in derision, the captain seemed almost hopeful.

  “Done. You have one chance. You will enter it at first light tomorrow.”

  It took three men to remove the stone from the entrance to the catacombs. “It will be left cracked open,” the captain told her. “A guard will stand by for two days. That is how long you will have. After that, I can make no promises.”

  “Of course.” Nella was not planning on coming back anyway. She took a deep breath, hoping with every step that she would not succumb to an attack. Not in front of them. She was not the first woman to thwart the military machinations of the enemy. Jael had done it. Judith had. She held the lit torch high and stepped down into the catacombs. The last step was almost three feet from the ground, and she carefully climbed down. She heard the men replace the stone and the light from the outside disappeared until only a small sliver remained. She turned back to the cavernous maze in front of her.

  The walls were covered with bones.

  Her breath shuddered. The firelight from her torch flickered against the skulls, casting ominous shadows upon the damp floor. She stepped on something hard, and lifted her foot to see a fragment of humerus that had been displaced from the wall. The ground was soft, and her footsteps left no echo. She shivered and took the ball of string she had brought with her. She tied one end of it around one of the skulls in the wall, hoping it was not dishonoring to the poor soul, and used it to mark a path of where she had been. Persi took a paw and hit the string.

  “No, Persi,” she whispered. Finding it difficult to unwind the string and carry the torch, she kicked the ball along the ground to unwind it. “Benedict?” Her soft voice drifted through the tunnel like smoke. She was reminded of Dante’s vision of hell: Lasciate ogne speranza, voi ch’intrate. Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.

  It seemed like she had been in the tombs for hours. The walls alternated between grisly mosaics made of human bone and split passageways covered in ancient paintings of a religious nature. She touched one of the paintings, that of Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch. Her finger came away covered in dust.

  “Benedict?” Now far away from the entrance, she had allowed her voice to grow louder. “Benedict?”

  She had turned down another passageway and found herself back where she started. She took a skull from the wall and placed it in front of the passage, and then walked back the way she came until she was back in the first hallway. She placed another bone in that entrance so that she knew she had already been there. “Benedict?”

  He had been alone for almost five full days. No food. No water. If she didn’t find him soon, all she would discover was his corpse. She had found several already. Complete skeletons, some still wearing the remainders of clothing. They too, had gotten lost and never returned. She looked at her torch, which was burning low. She had brought more, and knew she could always tear the edges of her clothes to burn. But even that could only last her for so long.

  And then the string ran out.

  She had known from the beginning that it eventually would, but she felt desperation settle over her as she dropped the last inch of string on the ground. She looked backward. Her feet and Persephone’s paws had made small marks in the dirt, and she hoped it would be enough to find her way back. Even if she did, she didn’t know how she would escape the tombs. They were still guarded by the Ruchartans.

  The silence was deafening, and she couldn’t think. With a trembling voice, she began to sing.

  Though he knew the stories of the tombs, a part of Benedict had laughed at the idea of his falling into insanity. But as the darkness prevented him from finding any way to keep track of time and his stomach growled from hunger, he had felt an almost manic form of panic. He had spent hours scratching at walls and calling out for help. Perhaps, he realized, he had been in truth calling out for days, and that was why his throat was so hoarse. Finally, he had given up, too weak from thirst and hunger to go on. He had crawled up to the wall and slept for hours, sometime waking and realizing that his plight was not a nightmare, but reality.

  And now, he realized, he was hearing things.

  I am young and fain to sing

  In this happy tide of spring

  Of love and many a gentle thing,

  I wander through green meadows dight

&n
bsp; With blossoms gold and red and white.

  With blossoms gold… It reminded him of Nella’s golden hair shimmering in the firelight, more delicate than any blossom. It was one of Nella’s songs, the one that had led him to her tower all those months before. Years before? He didn’t know. I am dying, he realized. I am hallucinating, and her voice is accompanying me to Paradise. He leaned back his head, eyes closed. He did not want to die, but it seemed like weeks since he had been left. There was no way out.

  Rose by the thorn and lily fair,

  Both one and all I do compare

  With him who, worshipping my charms,

  For aye would fold me in his arms

  The singing stopped, and he was sorry for it. He would have liked for the last words he heard to be about holding his love in his arms.

  Instead, he heard a shriek and a, “Benedict! If you are not alive I am going to kill you!”

  He opened his eyes to see a flicker of light before someone dove into his arms. The light didn’t last long, for it fell to floor and rolled away.

  He gasped. “Nella?” He felt the shoulders of the woman in his arms. He touched her head, but only found short hairs, which confused him. A cat meowed, and he was doubly bemused. Were cats supposed to welcome one into heaven? The idea seemed to have no theological basis. He doubted the Church would approve. The animal purred against his chest. Persephone? Ah, goddess of the underworld, he thought. Fitting.

  “Benedict?” the woman slapped his face. “Ben!” She held water to his lips, and he blinked, making out dim shadows from the torch on the ground. Someone should pick that up before it starts a fire. Fire? Maybe I am in Hades.

  “Ben!”

  No, he thought. If I was, Nella would not be here. “Nella? The torch!” he managed to gasp out, and she rushed away from him and picked it up. “It’s fine, Benedict. It’s fine. Here.” She pulled out a bag and tore a piece of bread from a loaf. “Take this.”

  Slightly revitalized from the water, he greedily stuffed the bread in his mouth. She gave him some more, and some slices of ham. He couldn’t each much, but what he could breathed new life into him.

  He felt stronger, though Nella’s presence still made him wonder if he was in his right mind. Perhaps he was hallucinating. “How did you get here?” he asked. He touched her face, trying to convince himself she wasn’t an illusion.

  “Cornelius sent me news that you’d gone missing in the battle. No one knew if you were dead or alive.” She sat on her knees, Persephone on her lap. The cat hopped onto Benedict, and he ran his fingers through her fur, finding the motion comforting. The catacombs had been dark and cold and hard; Persephone was soft and warm. He would have embraced Nella again, too, but she was still holding the torch.

  “I found out where the battle had been,” she continued, “and then where they had taken prisoners. I simply followed your trail.”

  “But how did you leave the tower?” he asked. “Are you…” he struggled, not exactly wanting to use the word “cured.”

  “I still have them,” she said quietly. “At first, they came often on the journey, though Cornelius helped. He came with me all the way to Zaretta, and then I was on my own.”

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” Benedict said, though he was glad that she had. “It’s dangerous coming alone, dangerous for anyone. If you wanted to stay safe, that was a pretty foolish way to do so.” But then the joy of her presence hit him again, and he couldn’t help laughing a little. He pulled her into his arms, forgetting about the torch. She made a worried grunt and held out her arm so that it wouldn’t burn either of them. “Can you put that down anywhere?” he asked.

  “There aren’t any sconces on the walls,” she told him. “It’s been very tiring, holding it for so long.”

  “Let me.” He took it from her to give her arms a rest.

  “I was so worried about you,” Nella said. “I started having the attacks again, even inside the tower. I supposed I realized that if they could happen anywhere, I might as well go anywhere. At least to find you.”

  “I don’t deserve you, Nell. You had more bravery to come in here than any of those soldiers in the Ruchartan army.”

  “They wouldn’t come, even though the captain wanted someone to come in and find your body. There are rumors that you’re still alive, despite all of his efforts to proclaim otherwise. Your presence in the tombs is an open secret among the villagers. Not that any of them think you’re still alive,” she clarified.

  “Your hair,” he said abruptly. Now that he was in his right mind, the sight of her shortened hair suddenly penetrated his brain. “What—?”

  “I was robbed on my way,” she responded. “I had to find another way to get the money I needed.”

  “Nell!” he was horrified. “Did they hurt you?”

  “Not badly. I just got a bruise or two. They kicked Persi, though, poor thing.”

  He shook his head in wonderment. “You’ve defeated it all, Nella.”

  “No I haven’t.” she smiled sadly. “They still come. The—the attacks. Even when I don’t think I’m frightened, they’re there. I’m afraid they always will be.”

  “Even if that is true,” Benedict said as he moved a strand of her short hair behind her ear, “You have not let it hinder you. You’ve made your way despite it. That is what I mean by defeating it. It has no power over you anymore.” He laughed. “You’re here. Nella, you’re here!”

  “Yes, I am.” She smiled, and he thought it was the more beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  Then another thought hit him, and the smile left his face. “Only, we’re still lost.”

  X.

  Nella held up the torch and looked behind her. “I think I could perhaps find my way back, but I don’t know how we would escape the village without being recognized.”

  “They say there are other ways out.” Benedict seemed stronger now that he’d eaten, but she still insisted that he rest for a while. He’d acquiesced to her request but not for long, and he now got to his feet.

  “I know,” she nodded. “I had planned on finding one of them.” They began to walk down the dim corridor until the wall split into two different directions. Both Nella and Benedict stood there and contemplated which way to go.

  “I couldn’t see the paintings before,” Benedict said, looking at the murals on the wall. “Are there many of them?”

  “All over. Most of the walls are made of bones, but—” She stopped and turned to Benedict. “The murals—they only appear whenever the passageway splits, or there’s another corridor off of the main one.” Her light flickered in the middle of hall, shedding illumination scantly on both murals inside the cavernous openings. “Do you think they could be directions, like a signpost?”

  Benedict took his torch and moved into the left passage. “Let’s look.” He held up his light to the wall. “What is it, do you think?”

  Nella cocked her head. An old man was holding up a small child, as a beam of faded yellow sunlight split the painting. A halo adorned the infant.

  “Is it the story of Simeon and the Christ child?” she asked.

  Benedict rubbed the left corner of the mural, and she was only just able to make out the figures of a man and woman, also with halos.

  “If this is Joseph and Mary, I believe so,” he said.

  “Do you see anything? Any numbers or letters?” she leaned closer to the wall to examine it, but found nothing. “Perhaps there are some sort of directions in Latin. Or maybe Greek.”

  “No.” Ben rubbed some more. “I’m afraid I might damage it if I attempt to clean it anymore. Any signs might have faded.”

  Nella sighed. “Let’s look at the other one, then.” This painting was less difficult to decipher; the man surrounded by lions could only be Daniel.

  “Perhaps it’s a cipher from the pictures themselves,” Benedict suggested. “Using the beginning letters of the stories. Or the books of the Scriptures they are found in.”

  They spent a goo
d half hour scribbling the dirt and dust, trying to make sense of it before giving up and choosing the story of Simeon and Jesus on a whim.

  The made their way down the hall in silence until they came to another turn.

  “There are two more pictures ahead!” Benedict, in front, called to Nella.

  Nella scratched the top of Persi’s head and followed. “What are they?”

  “Samson and Delilah,” Benedict answered. “What’s the second?”

  Nella took her torch into the other hall. “The Feeding of the Five Thousand,” she called. She met Benedict back in front. “Which do we choose?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Samson and Delilah seems ominous,” Benedict finally said as they both stared at the painting. “Perhaps we should choose the other?”

  “That seems logical,” she agreed. Benedict took Nella’s hand and they walked down the short, twisting corridor. They came to a small room full of old wooden coffins before they came to another hall. Nella had gotten so accustomed to the sight of bones it no longer struck her as especially morbid.

  They quickly reached another split, this time to halls containing two stories, both of a more optimistic nature: That of the baptism of Jesus, and that of the prophet Samuel anointing a young David.

  “I don’t know,” Benedict said simply.

  “Perhaps we should pray?” Nella looked up at him, the thought coming to her suddenly. Surely God would listen to Benedict, a prince.

  “I have been praying,” Benedict said with an unamused laugh. “But we can pray together.”

  I will pray that you will learn how to do so yourself. She thought of Cornelius’s words and nervously cleared her throat. “I have not spoken to Thee in many a year,” Nella began. “I know not if I should speak in Latin, or quote the Scriptures, or fall to my knees.” She knelt upon the ground, just in case. Benedict knelt beside her. “But I do believe that Thou art good, and holy. For the sake of my people, for the sake of Benedict, I ask Thee to lead us.” She opened her eyes and looked at Benedict, who squeezed her hand. They both stood.