by Dave Duncan
A nurse entered, bearing a vase of dahlias that had probably been growing in the grounds of Greyfriars Grange less than an hour ago. She lifted the suitcase from the floor onto the bed.
“If you want to go through this and take out whatever you need, sir, then I’ll take it away. Matron does not approve of luggage lying around in rooms.”
He muttered a response without looking. The book was The Lost World, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
He opened it at random and a bookmark fell out.
22
TWO FLIGHTS UP, THE PRIESTESS WAS PUFFING AND LEANing a sweaty hand on Eleal’s shoulder. They turned along another corridor smelling of incense and soap and stale cooking. Eleal was too numb for fear or sorrow. Mostly she felt a sense of loss: loss of her friends, her newfound family, loss of liberty, loss of career, loss even of her pack, which had been refused her. The distant chanting had died away into silence as if she were sinking into the ground, away from the living world. She reached an open door and was pushed inside.
The room was poky and plain, seemingly clean enough despite its musty smell. Bare stone formed the walls, bare boards the floor and ceiling. It contained a fresh-looking pallet, a chair, a little table, a copy of the Red Scriptures, nothing more. A beam of sunlight angled in through a small window, seeming only to emphasize the shadows. No lamp, no fireplace.
The priestess released her captive then and sank down gladly on the chair, which creaked—the bulges of her sweat-patched robe suggested a large body. She wiped a sleeve across her forehead. Her hair was hidden under her scarlet headcloth; her face was saggy, padded with chins and rolls of fat, and yet Eleal thought it was the hardest face she had ever seen.
“My name is Ylla. You address me as ‘Mother.’ ”
Eleal said nothing.
Ylla’s smile would have curdled milk. “Kneel down and kiss my shoe.”
Eleal backed away. “No!”
“Good!” The smile broadened. “We shall make that the test, then, shall we? When you are ready to obey—when you cannot take any more—tell me you are ready to kiss my shoe. Then we shall know that we have broken your spirit. We shall both know. You are entering upon a life of unquestioning obedience.”
She waited for a reply. Not getting one, she narrowed her eyes. “We can try a whipping now if you want.”
“What about Ken’th?”
Ylla laughed loudly, as if she had been waiting for the question. “Boys and old men pray to Ken’th. Men perform his sacrament willingly enough, but few would be seen dead near his temple!”
Few women went near his temple either, for Ken’th was god of virility. “Is he my father?”
“Perhaps. The goddess hinted at it. And it would fit with what your grandfather said. Women taken by a god aren’t much use afterward.”
That much Eleal knew from the old tales—Ken’th and Ismathon, Karzon and Harrjora. When the god withdrew his interest, the woman died of unrequited love. How strange that Piol Poet had never used either of those two great romances as the basis of a play! (She would never see a Piol play again.)
How strange to hear Trong described as her grandfather!
There was no hint of sympathy in the priestess’s stony face. “But don’t think that makes you special. A mortal’s child is a mortal, nothing more.”
Usually less, according to common belief. To call a man godspawn was about the worst insult possible. It implied he was a liar, a wastrel, and a bastard, and his mother had been as bad.
Eleal thought of Karzon’s shrine and that powerful, potent bronze figure. Ken’th also was the Man. What if she prayed to Karzon? She did not even know her mother’s name.
“If you are thinking of appealing to him,” Ylla said contemptuously, “then save your breath. Gods sire bantlings like mortal men spit. I suggest you don’t mention it. You are an acolyte in the service of Holy Ois, and older than most, so I must explain a few things.”
She folded her plump hands in her lap. “We get many unwanted girls, usually much younger than you, but most of us are temple bred. My mother was a priestess here, and her mother before her. For eight generations we have served the Lady.”
“And your father?”
“A worshiper.” Ylla showed her teeth. “A hundred worshipers. Don’t try to lord it over me for that, godspawn. In a year or two the Lady will bless you. You will be consecrated by priests, then, and thereafter you will serve her that same way. You will regard it as a great honor.”
“No I won’t!”
The fat priestess laughed, flesh rippling under her robe. “Oh, but you will! When properly instructed, you will be eager to begin. I am forty-five years old. I have borne eight children to her honor and I think I am about to bear another. You also, in your time.”
They would have to chain her to the bed, Eleal thought. She would rather starve in a gutter. She said nothing, just stared at the floor.
“Why do you limp?”
“My right leg is shorter than the other.”
“I can see that. Why? Were you born like that?”
“I fell out a window when I was a baby.”
“Stupid of you. But it won’t matter. It won’t show when you’re on your back, will it?”
Eleal gritted her teeth.
“I asked you a question, slut!”
“No it won’t.”
“Mother.”
“Mother.”
Ylla sighed. “You will begin your service by plucking chickens. By this time next year, you will be able to pluck chickens in your sleep. Scrubbing floors, washing clothes…good, honest labor to purify the soul. Normally we should start with your oath of obedience. However—”
She frowned. “However, in your case the Lady gave explicit instructions.”
“What sort of instructions?”
“Mother.”
“What sort of instructions, Mother?”
“That for the next fortnight you are to be kept under the strictest confinement. I don’t know if we can even take you to the altar for the oath—I’ll ask. And guards on the door!” The old hag looked both annoyed and puzzled by that.
“The Filoby Testament!”
Ylla stared. “What of it?”
Eleal had blurted out the name without thinking and wished she hadn’t. “It mentions me.”
The woman snorted disbelievingly. “And who told you that?”
“A reaper.”
Ylla surged to her feet, astonishingly fast for her size. Her thick hand took Eleal in the face so hard she stumbled and fell prostrate on the pallet, her head ringing from the blow and a taste of blood in her mouth.
“For that you can fast a day,” Ylla said, stamping out, slamming the door. Bolts clicked.
The room faced east, offering a fine view of the slate roofs of Narsh. The wall beneath it was sheer, and although the stonework was rough and crumbly, Eleal had no hope of being able to climb down it. It was quite high enough to break her legs. Upward offered no hope either, for her cell was a full story below the cornice—they had thought of that.
Below her lay a paved courtyard, part of the temple complex, enclosed by a row of large houses in high-walled grounds. She could see through the gaps to the street beyond, where people went about their business, enjoying freedom. She could even see parts of the city wall, Narshwater, farms, grasslands. If she leaned out as far as she dared, she could just see the meadow with the mammoth pen.
To north and south Narshflat became Narshslope, rising to join the mountains of Narshwall. She had a fine view down the length of Narshvale. Indeed she thought she could see to the end of it, where sky and plain and mountains all converged. It was a small land and a barren one. She wondered why Joalia and Thargia would bother to quarrel over it.
Later she saw the mammoth train leave and even thought she heard faint trumpeting. She was too far
away to make out the people. The mammoths themselves were small as ants, but she hung over the sill for a long time, watching them go.
Farewell Ambria! Farewell Grandfather Trong, you cold, proud man! Farewell Uthiam and Golfren—and good luck in the festival! May Tion keep you.
Remember me.
If she listened at the door, she could hear her guards muttering outside, but she could not make out the words. A choir of students practiced for a while in the courtyard below.
Not long after noon, Ylla returned, bringing some burly assistance in case it might be needed. She made Eleal strip, and gave her a red robe too large for her, a skimpy blanket, a jug of warm water, and a pungent bucket. She even confiscated Eleal’s boots, leaving her a pair of sandals instead. Eleal stooped to pleading over that—walking was much harder for her without her special boots. The priestess seemed pleased by the pleading, but refused to change her mind.
Then she departed, taking everything Eleal had been wearing when she entered the temple, even her Tion locket, and leaving her a sack of chickens to pluck—eviscerated sacrifices, caked with blood and already stiff.
The rest of the day went by in boredom, fear, anger, and despair in various mixtures. The prisoner raged at her split lip, the goddess, the priestess, the fat priest, the chickens and all their feathers, Dolm the reaper, the Filoby Testament—whatever that was—her unknown father, her unknown mother, Trong and Ambria for deserting her and betraying her and lying to her. She refused to open the book of scripture. She seriously considered throwing it out the window, then decided that such an act of open defiance would merely provide an excuse to whip her. By late afternoon she knew that whippings would not be necessary. A few days of this confinement and she would be willing to kiss every shoe in the temple.
A year of it and she would be ready for the naked men in the alcoves.
23
THE DAHLIAS WERE MERELY THE LEADERS OF A PARADE OF flowers that staggered Edward. They came from his old housemaster Ginger Jones on his own behalf, with another on behalf of all the masters, from the president of the Old Boys’ Club, from Alice, and from a dozen separate friends. The word must have spread across all England, and he could not imagine how much money had been spent on trunk calls. The nurses teased him about all the sweethearts he must have. They set vases on the dresser and then ranked them along the wall he could see best, turning the drab brown room into a greenhouse. He could hardly bear to look at them. It was Bagpipe who needed the flowers, wasn’t it?
Somewhere in that floral parade, someone smuggled in a copy of the Times. He suspected the plump nurse with the London accent, but he wasn’t sure. It was just lying there on his bed when he looked.
Mr. Winston Churchill had ordered the fleet mobilized. Some holiday excursion trains had been canceled. France and Russia were preparing for war with Germany, and there had been shooting at border points. He found his own name, but there was nothing there that he did not already know. In normal times the yellow press would make a sensation out of such a story, a general’s son murdered under his own roof by a house-guest, complete with nudge-nudge hints about public school pals. Just now the war news was sensation enough, but the press might be one more reason why there was a policeman outside his door.
The Times made his eyes swim, so he stopped reading for a while. He had just picked up The Lost World when he heard another voice he recognized, and all his muscles tensed. Had he not been tethered he might have rolled under the bed or jumped out the window. As it was, he tucked his book under the covers in case it might be snatched away from him, then waited for a second visitor who would not be restrained until formal visiting hours.
The Reverend Roland Exeter was a cadaverous man, invariably dressed in black ecclesiastical robes. His elongated form was reminiscent of something painted by El Greco in one of his darkest moods, or a tortured saint in some Medieval church carving—a resemblance aided by his natural tonsure of silver hair, a homegrown halo. His face was the face of a melancholy, self-righteous horse, with a raucous, braying voice to match. Celebrated preacher and lecturer, Holy Roly was probably better known than the Archbishop of Canterbury. Alice called him the Black Death.
He strode into the room clutching a Bible to his chest with both arms. He came to a halt and regarded his nephew dolefully.
“Good morning, sir,” Edward said. “Kind of you to come.”
“I see it as my Christian duty to call sinners to repentance, however heinous their transgressions.”
“Caught the early train from Paddington, did you?”
“Edward, Edward! Even now the Lord will not turn his face from you if you sincerely repent.”
“Repent of what, sir, exactly?”
Holy Roly’s eyes glittered. He was probably convinced of his ward’s guilt, but he was not fool enough to prejudge the criminal matter with a policeman listening outside the door. “Of folly and pride and willful disbelief, of course.”
There had been no need for him to come all the way to Greyfriars to deliver the sermon again. He could have written another of his interminable ranting letters.
“I don’t feel up to discussing such solemn matters at the moment, sir.” Edward’s fists were clenched so hard they hurt, but he had tucked them under the sheet. This was not going to work. The two Exeters had exchanged barely a dozen friendly words in the two years since his parents died. Fortunately, the guv’nor’s will had stipulated that Edward be allowed to complete his education at Fallow, or Roly might well have pulled him out. Roly had had no choice there, but his idea of pocket money for a public school senior had been five shillings per term, probably less than any junior in the place received.
Also fortunately, Mr. Oldcastle had provided generously and regularly. Edward was resolved to have his affairs audited as soon as he reached his majority, for he strongly suspected that his parents’ money had long ago vanished into the bottomless pit of the Lighthouse Missionary Society. Meanwhile he must endure his minority for almost another three years.
Holy Roly’s wrinkles had twisted into an expression of mawkish pity. “You see that you have thrown it all away, don’t you?”
“Thrown all what away, sir?”
“All the advantages you were given. You don’t imagine Cambridge will accept you now, do you?”
“I understood that every Englishman was innocent until proven guilty.”
“Then you are a fool. Even if you do not get your neck snapped on the scaffold, all doors are closed to you now.”
There might be a hint of truth in what the old bigot was saying, but he was obviously enjoying himself, preparing to heap hellfire on an immobilized sinner. His voice descended to an even more melancholy range. “Edward, will you pray with me?”
“No, sir. I have told you before that I will not add hypocrisy to my shortcomings.”
His uncle came closer, opening the Bible. “Will you at least hear the Word of God?”
“I should prefer not, sir, if you don’t mind.” Edward began to sweat. Normally at this point he excused himself as politely as possible and left the room, but now he was trapped and the bounder knew it. That might be the main reason he had come.
“Consider your sins, Edward! Consider the sad fate of the young friend you led into evil—”
“Sir?” That was too much!
“The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians,” Roly announced, opening the Bible, “beginning at the thirteenth chapter.” His voice began to drone like an organ.
Blackened sepulchre! He had not come to ask after his nephew’s health, or to ask what really happened, or what he could do to help, or to display faith in his innocence. He had come to gloat. He had been predicting Edward’s perdition since the day they met and now believed it had happened even sooner than expected. He had to come and drool over it.
How could two brothers have been so unalike?
Edward closed
his eyes and thought about Africa.
He thought of Nyagatha, high in the foothills of Mount Kenya, amid forest and gorges, glowing with eternal sunshine, as if in retrospect the rainy seasons had been suspended for the duration of his childhood. He savored again the huge dry vistas of Africa under the empty sky, the velvet tropical nights when the stars roamed just above the treetops like clouds of diamond dust. He saw the dusty compound with the Union Jack hanging limp in the baking heat, scavenging chickens, listless dogs, laughing native children in the village. He recalled the guv’nor handing out medicines in the sanitarium; the mater teaching school in the shade of the veranda to a score of wriggling black youngsters and three or four whites; tribal elders arriving after treks of days or weeks to conclave in the black shadow of the euphorbia trees and listen solemnly to Bwana’s advice or judgment; visiting Englishmen passing through the district, drinking gin and tonic at sundown and amusing themselves by talking to the boy, the future builder of Empire. It had all seemed quite natural—was not this how all white people grew up?
Above all he remembered the leggy, bony girl in pigtails, who bossed him and all the other children of every color—who chose the games they would play and the places they would visit and the things they must do and the things they must not do, and with whom he never argued. He remembered again his horror when she had to go Home, to England, to the mystical ancestral homeland her parents had left before her birth.
“Edward?”
Hospital and pain returned. “I beg your pardon, sir. What did you say?”
Holy Roly closed his eyes in sorrow. “Why can you not see that prayer and repentance are your only hope of salvation, Edward? He will make allowance for your doubts. Lord I believe; help thou mine unbelief!”
His sepulchral, ivy-coated bleating was probably comforting the ward next door. It was giving his nephew prickly heat.
“I appreciate your kindness in coming all this way to see me, sir.”
Hints were wasted on Uncle Roland.
