Past Imperative

by Dave Duncan

  18

  PATIENTS WERE WAKENED AT SIX O’CLOCK SO THEY COULD be washed and fed and have their beds made before the doctors’ rounds. Shaving in bed was bad enough, but other things were worse. Bedpans were the utter end.

  The nurse wanted to give Edward another needle, but he refused it, preferring to put up with the pain, rather than have porridge for brains.

  She was quite pretty, in a chubby sort of way, with a Home Counties accent and a brusque manner. She would tell him nothing except he’d had an accident and Doctor Stanford would explain. His dream kept coming back to him and the memories he’d had in his dream—he could remember remembering them, sort of. Bagpipe was in there somewhere.

  He was in hospital, in Greyfriars. He still could remember almost nothing after those awful images of dinner and him with no evening dress. After dinner…nothing, just fog. And nightmares.

  He was worried about Bagpipe. He asked about him, Timothy Bodgley.

  “No one by that name in the hospital,” the nurse said, and then just kept repeating that Doctor Stanford would explain. She wouldn’t even say how she was so certain that there was no one by that name in the hospital when she had not even gone to check. She did admit that this was Monday, and visiting hours were from two till four. “You’ve got a fine collection of stitches under that bandage,” she added, changing the subject clumsily, “but your hair should hide most of the scar.”

  “You mean it won’t spoil my striking good looks?” he asked facetiously, and was shaken when she blushed.

  He surprised himself by eating the greasy ham and eggs he was given for breakfast. The tea was cold, but he drank it. He had a private room, and that worried him. He had a broken leg—a badly broken leg—and that worried him even more. He could not enlist with a broken leg, so he might be going to miss the war. Everyone agreed it would be over by Christmas.

  He asked for a newspaper to find out what was happening in the crisis, and the nurse said that was up to the doctor.

  He was left alone for a long time, then. Eventually a desiccated, graying man in a white coat marched in holding a clipboard. He had a stethoscope protruding from one pocket. Right behind him came Matron, armored in starch, statuesque as Michelangelo’s Moses.

  “Doctor Stanford, Mr. Exeter,” she said.

  “How are we this morning?” The doctor looked up from the clipboard with an appraising glance.

  “Not bad, sir. Worried.”

  The doctor frowned. “What’s this about you refusing a needle?”

  “It doesn’t hurt too much, sir,” Edward lied.

  “Oh, doesn’t it? You can overdo the stiff-upper-lip business, young fellah. Still, I’ll leave it up to you.”

  A few questions established that the only real problem was the leg. The many-colored patches Edward had discovered on his hips and arms were dismissed brusquely. Eyes and ears, fingertips on his wrist and a beastly cold stethoscope on his chest…

  The doctor changed the bandage on Edward’s head. “Eighteen stitches,” he said admiringly. “Most of the scar won’t show unless you want to try a Prussian haircut.” He scribbled on the clipboard and handed it to Matron. “Get the blanks filled in now he’s conscious, will you?”

  He stuffed his hands in the pocket of his white coat. “You have a badly broken leg, Exeter, as I’m sure you know by now. In a day or two we’ll take off the splints and see if we can put it in a cast. Depends on the swelling, and so on. We may have to load you in an ambulance and take you to have it x-rayed, but we hope that won’t be necessary. You’re a healthy young chap; it should heal with no permanent damage. In a year you’ll have forgotten all about it. For the time being, though, you have to endure the traction.”

  “How soon can I enlist?”

  Stanford shrugged. “Three months.”

  “May I see a paper?”

  “If you take it in small doses. Don’t persist if you get a headache. Anything else you need?”

  “I’d like to know how I got here.”

  “Ah! How much can you remember?”

  “Very little, sir. Greyfriars Grange? Bagp…Timothy?”

  The look in the doctor’s eye told him before the man said it. “He wasn’t as lucky as you.”

  The ham and eggs rose and then subsided. Edward swallowed hard a few times and then said, “How?”

  “He was murdered.”

  “Murdered? Who by?”

  “Don’t know yet. Do you feel up to answering some questions for the police?”

  “I’ll try. I don’t remember very—”

  In strode a large, heavyset man. He must have been waiting by the door. He was dressed like a banker, but he had Roberto written all over him, and the look of a man who might have been a first-rate rugby fullback. Getting a ball past him would be like swimming up Victoria Falls, even now, with a staunch bow window stretching the links of his watch chain. His mustache spread out like the horns on a Cape buffalo, turning up in points at the end.

  “Five minutes, no more,” the doctor said.

  The policeman nodded without a glance at him. The doctor departed. Matron followed him to the door, but in a way that suggested she was not going far.

  “Inspector Leatherdale, Mr. Exeter.” He pulled up the chair. “I am not asking for a formal statement. You do not need to tell me anything, but I would appreciate hearing what you can recall of the events which led to your injuries.”

  Edward told what he could, mostly while studying the way the inspector’s hair was combed over his bald spot. His memories were so patchy that he thought he must sound like an absolute ass.

  “That’s the lot, sir. Er…”

  “Take your time. Even vague impressions may be helpful to us.”

  “Crumpets? Crumpets and strawberry jam on a deal table.”

  “Why crumpets at your age? Why not raid the sherry?”

  Edward started to smile and then remembered Bagpipe. “We tried that three years ago and were sick as dogs. It was a tradition, that’s all.” Never again, Bagpipe!

  “Anything else you recall?”

  “A woman with long curly hair?”

  The rozzer’s face was as unmoving as a gargoyle’s. “What color hair?”

  “Dark brown, I think. It hung in ringlets, sort of a Gypsy look. Very pale face.”

  “Where did you see her? What was she doing?”

  Edward shook his head on the pillow. “Screaming, I think. Or shouting.”

  “What was she wearing?”

  “Don’t remember, sir.”

  “But this might have been hours earlier, and you don’t know where?”

  “Yes. No. Yes it might have been and no I don’t know why I remember her.”

  “What more?”

  “A…A porcelain sink turning red, scarlet. Blood running into a sink. A stream of blood.” He felt a rush of nausea and bit his lip. He was shaking—lying flat on his back and shaking like a stupid kid!

  Leatherdale studied him for a minute, and then rose. “Thank you. We shall require a formal statement as soon as you are up to it.”

  “Bodgley’s dead?”

  The massive head nodded. “You fell down some steps. He was stabbed.”

  “And you think I did it?”

  Inspector Leatherdale went very still, and yet seemed to fill the room with menace. “Why should I think that, Mr. Exeter?” he asked softly.

  “Private room, sir. You said I didn’t need to tell you anything. Nobody would answer my questions.”

  The man smiled with his mouth but not with his eyes. “No other reason?”

  “I didn’t!” Edward yelled.

  “Five minutes are up, sir,” Matron said, sailing in like a dreadnought, clipboard ready and fountain pen poised. “Your full name and date of birth, Mr. Exeter?”

  “Edward George Exe
ter…”

  The inspector moved the chair back to where it had been without taking his eyes off Edward.

  “C. of E.?” Matron said, writing busily.

  “Agnostic.”

  She looked up with a Medusa stare of disapproval. “Shall I just put, ‘Protestant’?”

  Edward was certainly not going to support any organization that tolerated Holy Roly as one of its advocates. The Nyagatha horrors had been provoked by meddling, addle-headed missionaries, and that was another reason.

  “No, ma’am. Agnostic.”

  She wrote unwillingly. “Diseases?”

  He listed what he could recall—malaria and dysentery in Africa, and all the usual English ones he’d caught when he came Home: mumps, measles, whooping cough, chicken pox.

  Then he saw that the policeman was still standing in the doorway, watching him.

  “You want to ask me some more questions, Inspector?”

  “No. Not now. We’ll take a statement later, sir.” His mouth smiled again. “Normally I would ask you to keep yourself available, but I don’t expect you’ll be going anywhere for a day or two.”

  19

  A BLEAK DAWN WAS BREAKING, BUT EVEN THE BEGGARS were still asleep, huddled in doorways and corners under their dusting of snow. Somewhere back in the temple precincts doomed cockerels screamed defiance at the coming day. The troupe had assembled as instructed, and they were the day’s first business for the temple.

  Inside the long hall, night had not yet ended. Even the many candles glittering upon the altar before Ois could not brighten that big, cold place. Off to the sides, in the shadows, a few fainter glows showed where lamps burned under some of the innumerable arches. Those few bright alcoves amid so much dark somehow reminded Eleal of Sister Ahn’s scattered teeth.

  Shivering with cold and apprehension, she knelt between Trong and Ambria, seeking comfort from their huge solidity—although even Ambria seemed cowed today. The floor was cold and hard on the knees. They knelt in a circle, all of them except the missing Gartol Costumer; twelve counting Eleal. She had been placed with her back to the door, facing almost straight at the goddess. She clutched a gold coin, the first real gold she had ever held. The cold of the floor was seeping into her bones.

  In the center of the circle stood a silver bowl, containing a feather, two eggs, and a white pebble. The priests had placed them there with great ceremony to begin the ritual.

  The image of the Lady was the largest Eleal had ever seen, but it was a picture, not a statue. It filled the end wall, the full height of the temple, crafted from shiny white tiles, but her nipples gleamed scarlet, like rubies. Darker tones shadowed her belly and the undersides of her great breasts; her face was barely visible in the high darkness. At her feet an old man warbled holy writ in continuous monotone. In time he would be relieved by another, and another, until the entire Red Scripture had been pronounced. Then they would begin at the beginning again. So it had always been. He was not always audible, but he never stopped.

  A half dozen or so priests had chanted a service to the Lady. Now a drummer began a low, menacing rhythm while a new group executed a strange, posturing dance. They were all young, obviously, and their shaven heads showed that they were priests, despite their curious close-fitting garments, which left arms and shins bare. In the candlelight the cloth seemed almost black, but it was red, in honor of the Lady. Eleal was fascinated by their ritual, very measured and deliberate, more like stylized gymnastics than any dance she had ever seen.

  One of the illuminated alcoves blinked in the corner of her eye. Then a second. She leaned back slightly to see. A man was walking along the wall, followed by a priestess. He obscured another lamp, and stopped. A woman rose beyond him, apparently from a seat inside the alcove. She opened her robe. He walked on and she sat down again—unwanted, rejected. Eleal shuddered, tasting a sourness rising in her throat. Ambria hissed angrily and she turned her face back to the ceremony.

  In a moment, though, the man progressed to where she could see him without moving her head. Her eyes insisted on straying in his direction. She watched how he found a woman he fancied and paid the priestess. The priestess walked away, he entered the alcove and began to undress.

  The acrobatics ended in a flurry of drum strokes. Again Eleal returned her attention to where it belonged. A priest approached and gestured; the actors scrambled to their feet. There was a pause. She felt even smaller now, standing between talk Ambria and taller Trong. She studied the goddess to keep her mind off what was happening in that alcove. The Lady was emerging from darkness as daylight began to seep in through the high windows. The stone face bore a curious expression eyes almost closed, scarlet lips parted, a hint of tongue showing. It was not a merciful face. It gave no clue why a mighty goddess should be so wroth at little Eleal Singer.

  Drums thundered, making her jump. They sank into an irregular, disturbing beat.

  “State your age first….”

  A priest and a priestess had entered the circle and placed themselves in front of Golfren. The voice, however, came from outside, from an older man standing behind him, muttering instructions. Then Golfren spoke, his voice higher-pitched than usual:

  “I am twenty-six years old, my name is Golfren Piper. I am married and childless. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.” A coin clinked.

  The priest behind the little priestess put a hand on her shoulder and guided her along to stand before the next supplicant.

  “I am twenty years old, my name is K’linpor Actor. I am married and childless. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.” Another clink.

  Eleal caught a glimpse of the older priest, the one on the outside. His red robe was sumptuously embroidered and begemmed, it bulged over his belly. He carried a lit taper in a soft, plump hand, light gleaming like wax on his shaven head and doughy jowls, sparkling on his jeweled fingers.

  The priestess was very young, little more than a child, yet her head, too, was shaven. A cord around her neck supported a golden vase, dangling between her small breasts. She was barefoot, seemingly wearing only her robe—and that was so thin that the bumps of her nipples showed through it. She must be frozen.

  The priest behind her was a large youth, one of the gymnasts, still breathing hard from his exertions. His hairy shins and forearms contrasted oddly with the shiny smoothness of his head and face.

  “I am forty-five years old, my name is Ambria Impresario.” Ambria’s splendid voice was hoarse and uncertain this grim morning. “I am…I have been married twice, Father…”

  The outside priest muttered questions, directions. The little priestess turned and began to walk away. The young priest grabbed her arm and pulled her back. When he released her, she stayed where she had been put, like a chair, but her hands and head twitched oddly.

  Eleal clenched her fists against her thighs to stop them shaking. She was next after Ambria. She felt the gold coin sticky on her palm.

  “I am forty-five years old, my name is Ambria Impresario. I am widowed and remarried and have borne one child. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.”

  Suddenly the priestess started to laugh. The young priest behind her grabbed her shoulders and shook her until she stopped. Then he pulled her along to stand in front of Eleal. Her eyes were vacant, her jaw slack. Drool shone on her chin and darkened the bodice of her robe.

  The priest outside the circle had arrived also. Eleal sensed him at her back and caught a whiff of a scent like lilac.

  An actor must not falter over such simple lines: “I am twelve years old,” she said clearly, “my name is Eleal Singer. I am unmar—”

  “If you are a virgin, then you must specify.”

  Her teeth chattered briefly. She swallowed. “I am twelve years old, my name—”

  A thunderstorm rumble from Trong drowned her out. “Her true name is not
Singer but Impresario. She is my granddaughter.”

  Eleal cried, “What?” very shrilly. The sound seemed to soar like a bat up into the dark recesses of the roof. The drums rumbled.

  The priest made an irritated sound. “Explain. Quickly!”

  “I had a daughter,” Trong growled, staring fixedly up at the goddess. “She shamed herself, and then died. I have reared the bastard in obedience to holy scripture. Her name is Eleal Impresario.”

  His face was hidden from Eleal’s vantage by his silver mane. She looked up at Ambria in disbelief. Ambria nodded, smiling sadly.

  Again the idiot priestess started to laugh. Her husky keeper shook her, but she continued. He shook her harder—viciously, like a floor mat, her head lolling back and forth, the gold vase thumping to and fro on its cord. He finally managed to stop the fit, but he retained a hold on her after that.

  The older priest was sounding annoyed at the interruptions to his ritual, but was obviously determined to proceed in proper form. “Name her by the father’s trade.”

  “I don’t know it!” Trong growled, sounding as if this disclosure was hurting him badly. He was so upright himself, it was hard to imagine him having raised a wanton child.

  “Your daughter would not name the man?”

  “She could not! She disappeared for a fortnight. When we found her, her wits had gone and the damage was done. She never spoke a rational word after.”

  The priest grunted. “Use the Impresario name.”

  Eleal was one of the family! But joy was debased by a surge of anger. Why had they never told her so? Why had Ambria once threatened to throw her out as a stray?

  “Make your appeal!” the priest snapped.

  Eleal pulled her wits together and spoke the words rapidly. “I am twelve years old, my name is Eleal Impresario. I am a virgin. I revere the Lady and beseech her to have mercy upon me.” She dropped her coin in the vase and was surprised to hear it plop into liquid.

  The moronic priestess sniggered, her eyes moving vaguely and somehow wrongly. Her muscular attendant looked seriously worried now. She hung limp as a towel in his grip. He moved to dangle her in front of Trong. The drumbeat was growing faster, urgent.