In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  The woman shook her head.

  Gio frowned, grabbing the woman, thrusting her hand into her robe, feeling her abdomen. “You could still give him children.”

  Forcing the woman’s mouth open next, Gio peered inside with the greatest of curiosity. “By the saints, you have all your teeth!” Yanking her mouth open wider, Gio pushed her face into the jaws. “What are these little spots of metal you have upon them in the back? Making them stronger, yes? It’s barbaric! I must try it.”

  The woman did not respond. Her body stiffened and she clamped her jaw shut, missing Gio’s fingers by a second.

  Shrugging, Gio turned to her work. “I have every remedy of Pliny, every remedy of the Arabs, too. Though we’ve made war with the Turks for so long, their healers have many good tricks. They are more curious, and no Church stops them from their inquiries.”

  Gio pulled a great brown crock from a dark corner, grunting as she dragged it into the light. “Of course, they are our enemies. Sometimes I fear the cures they tell us of will kill the patient.” Gio rummaged about on a worktable until she found a smaller jar and lifted the lid of the crock. Working quickly with a pair of wooden tongs, her hand darted in and out, dropping fat little squirming things into the jar.

  “But still, the villages have use for women like me. If my cure fails, they blame me. ’Tis better than blaming God.” Gio grabbed for the Old Woman’s arm, but the stranger jerked it back.

  “Give me your arm.”

  The Old Woman began to cry and shook her head, tucking her wounded arm under the other.

  “I want that arm!” Gio was losing patience.

  Gio slapped her hands in front of the newcomer’s face. Grabbing the bleeding arm, Gio settled it in her lap and went to work. The Old Woman did not move again.

  Taking a knife, Gio sliced away the sleeve up to the shoulder, exposing the length of the arm. Gio used her own dirty sleeve to wipe the arm down, pouring a little vinegar onto it. It did not remove enough of the dirt, so Gio spat right onto the wounds. The Old Woman’s mouth opened as if to groan, but when she saw Gio’s expression, she closed it again.

  Reaching in the jar, humming to herself, Gio retrieved a fat, angry ant, using a pair of wooden tongs to hold it just at its middle section, turning it, watching the snapping jaws in the firelight. Gio felt the woman starting to shrink away and clucked at the woman to be still.

  Gio leaned in until she was nose to the wound, lowering the ant into place, hind legs first, positioning it just so. As soon as she dropped the ant’s front legs into place over the cut, the ant’s jaws snapped shut on the wound, biting with fury. Gio felt the woman jerking from the pain. This woman was an odd one, Gio thought, and not just her clothes.

  Taking her knife, Gio sliced away the ant’s body, leaving the jaws clamped down over the wound, sealing the jagged edges together. Though Gio was concentrating, she was aware of the other woman taking more of an interest in the medicine. Gio had traded precious blue lapis pigment for this crock of ants. It was good to have them admired.

  One by one, she positioned the ants over the wound, letting them bite down to seal it, then slicing off their bodies. The woman had tears running down her face but was blessedly silent.

  Pushing back from her work at last, Gio groaned, stretching her back.

  “Come, a drink,” Gio said.

  A twig snapped outside and both women sat up straight, straining to hear. There was no other noise.

  “’Tis a man,” Gio whispered. “An animal would step on it and keep moving. I keep twigs all around my house for this reason. Is it a man who hunts you, who made those wounds?”

  The woman’s face was losing all its colour.

  Gio stood, pointing to her back wall. “There is a path behind my home, a sharp ascent up to the lands of the volcano; you must take it. Go slow, for at night you will not see the dangers. Unless the volcano is angry, and then you will be able to see but must avoid being burned to death. Follow this path up and around. When your feet begin to bleed, you will know you are halfway to the next village.”

  The woman shook her head, cowering, resisting Gio’s hands that shoved her to the door.

  “Without speech, I do not know how you could have made such an enemy.” Gio looked at her with suspicion. “Though perhaps you saw something worth killing for.”

  The woman shook her head. Gio suspected she did not understand much, but she seemed to be ignoring her now. It annoyed Gio. Her ants might have been wasted on this wretch.

  “I do not want to die either. Have you thought of that? I won’t let you stay here. Get out!”

  The woman dug her feet into the dirt floor. Gio’s temper flared; how many visitors had come here, thinking to force her into doing their will? She had not even let them past her threshold. This woman she had taken in and given a rare magic to, and she was defying Gio’s orders.

  Grabbing her leather wrap she plunged her hand into the fire, retrieving the burning femur, swirling it in a red crock at the fire’s edge, jabbing it with a thick dripping black wax at the woman. It caught the woman’s robes on fire and she panicked, swatting at the flames moving quickly through her soiled robes. Gio watched in satisfied horror as the mute woman tore open the door and ran into the night.

  “It worked,” Gio said, looking at the crock. She closed the door. “Of course, it could kill her. I should have thought of that.”

  Smoothing her hair, Panthea waited in the garden, pressing her palm against her cheek where Armando had touched her tonight. For another woman it would be simpler. She closed her eyes and imagined how easy it would be. But God had given her a mind and a will. With her mother gone, who could trust her father to arrange such things? He had stayed in this little village because it kept her memory near, and because it was his nature to be satisfied. Why should Panthea trust his choice for a husband?

  Yes, Armando wanted her, but she had seen her father move through his own passions as often as the seasons change. None had lasted. None had brought anything to the family but heartbreak. At least if she married for money, she would not be disappointed. She would have money. Money lasted. Gold would still be gold, even when she was gone and her heirs no longer remembered her name. But to believe that love lasted—this was the foolishness of her kind.

  Panthea felt fire burning in her veins at the memory of her mother. Her years had been cut short by an indifferent God, one who demanded their love and obedience, neither of which they could give with consistency, but then He let mothers die no matter how hard their children fought to save them. Had not Panthea prayed? Had she not memorized every Latin prayer and done penance for her mother when she was too weak to walk even to the balcony? Panthea had paid for all her mother’s sins, great sins, and sins of no consequence, small sins, all sins, a hundred times over and, still, she died. God would accept no ransom from Panthea for her. Her father had done evil and no one, not even God, ever called him to account.

  A troubadour wandered into the garden. He had the blond hair of her northern cousins, and shoulders that were too large for his profession. Panthea wondered who hired him and wondered again why he accepted. Her father had no interest in these songs, and the troubadour looked far too big for this work of plucking tiny strings. Her mother would have loved to trouble him about it.

  As the troubadour began his tune, his fingers glided over his lute strings and the soft chords bubbled up through her memories of her mother, quieting the pain. Panthea felt her shoulders soften and took her first deep breath of the day.

  Panthea reclined on the bench, reaching for the fan her servants placed outside for her, the one with an ornate ivory handle that burst into a peacock’s full plumage. The roses around her were still in bloom, sweetening the night air. Red leaves of October fell like a curtain between her and the guests dancing in the feasting hall. October was magic, a month for conjuri
ng, as distant memories and thoughts of days ahead met side by side, and the people danced in the space between them. Through a thick glass window, Panthea spied as a married couple near her father’s age held each other and kissed.

  “I have been sent to remind you of such love,” the troubadour said to her.

  She fanned herself out of embarrassment, looking at him, this stranger, but thinking she knew this voice.

  “Speak again, friend. Who has sent you?” Panthea asked.

  “Do you not know?” he answered, beginning a new, second tune.

  “Answer the lady plainly.” Damiano stepped on the porch, and her mother’s face was swept away into the darkness of her heart once more.

  The troubadour held her gaze, not acknowledging Damiano. His fingers were working this new tune now, a song that made her search her memories once more. She remembered that a lullaby had been sung over her from her cradle days and that wolf bane was tied above to drive spirits away. These were days of songs and sleep, and warm arms that carried her into rooms of wonder. There were flames of candles, and silver spoons to grab at, and her mother’s dark curls to bury her face in when it was all too much. He had been there, she realized.

  It was not her mother’s voice that had sung to her on lonely nights, those nights of feasting when her cries could not fetch her mother and the shadows made frightening shapes against her walls. It was this voice.

  “You were my servant once!” she cried.

  “I am your servant still,” he replied. Something about his expression told her she was right but that it was not the complete truth. He looked too young, too strong, to have served her as a child. He grinned at her while she worked this through in her mind. He was more than a servant, and he had known her since birth, but she could not place him exactly. She knew this: He had once felt familiar somehow, like home, but since she had grown and become bitter, his memory had faded. It was as if her hard heart had sent him away, forced him to keep his distance, even if only in her memories.

  Damiano threw a coin, striking him in the shin. “Go on your way,” Damiano told the troubadour. “Fine words do not make the riches a true lady requires.” Damiano held a hand out to Panthea. “If it is songs you require, Panthea, I will buy a hundred minstrels,” he said. “If you were but mine.”

  “I do not see how your promises are of worth. There is no one else to play for her tonight, and none who knows what soothes her,” the troubadour replied. “I will stay.”

  “Your kind are always underfoot these days, a curse of this age,” Damiano said, his hands curling into fists. He had so little restraint. She liked that. Anything could happen with this man.

  “Why trouble yourself, Damiano? No harm ever came of a song,” Panthea said.

  The troubadour sang:

  To live within the courts built of love

  Is better than a feast with wickedness

  Better to live just one day with love

  Than to give a thousand days to another.

  Damiano clapped once, signaling the end of the performance. The troubadour continued. Damiano took the fan from her hands. He began fanning her, letting each feather graze her skin slowly, across her shoulders, down her arms.

  Love will be your light and shield

  Love can lead you to the path

  that you will walk without fear

  Love asks only this:

  Yourself, and nothing more.

  She struggled to sit up straight. The troubadour grew red in the face, and Panthea wanted to apologize, though she was doing nothing. She wondered if that was what she should apologize for.

  “You remind me of someone too,” Panthea said, turning her attention back to Damiano. She wanted him to continue, she wanted to feel these wicked things, but not with this troubadour near. “Perhaps the garden air is magic tonight. It plays tricks on my mind.”

  “You think we have met once before?” Damiano asked. It seemed of great interest to him. “What do you remember?”

  “Oh, it was just a foolish thing to say,” Panthea said. “I have been few places but here.” She tried to keep him talking until she knew what she should do. “I would like to hear some of your adventures.”

  Damiano did not look like he wanted to tell those tales.

  “Have you had many loves?” Panthea asked. Those would be delicious stories. Besides, she did not know how other girls in the world fared. Perhaps there was more to be gained than she knew to ask for.

  “I have had only one love.” Damiano sounded offended.

  Panthea tried to speak, but he waved her off.

  “I have pursued many, though. I have spent my days pursuing young women. I even cared for one once, a girl with your colouring. I showed myself to her, and I think she found me attractive. She made no attempts to keep me away, and I returned night after night, refusing her sleep until she agreed to submit. But her father interfered, sealing the chamber off from me. A priest stood guard over her every night, night upon night, saying his prayers every hour, waiting for me, trembling in fear that I might actually challenge him.”

  “Why did you not ask her father for her in pledge?”

  Damiano grinned and drew her hand to his mouth. He kissed the tips of her fingers, one by one. “Her foolish father had already pledged her to a man far beneath her station. She was destined to spend her life washing, scrubbing, sweating, birthing in dirty rooms alone, the jealous hours pulling at her beauty until she was stretched and worn. She would die having neither beauty nor wealth. It was a terrible thing to watch, Panthea.”

  His words were burning in her mind.

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  “Panthea, can I watch as a beautiful girl makes such a mistake?”

  “You rescued her?”

  “Her betrothed met an unhappy accident late one night returning from the market. It was festival season, so everyone assumed him to be drunk, and his horse was quite powerful. But there was a price.”

  “For whom?” Panthea asked.

  “Her father was with the lad and had only stopped behind to get a stone out of his horse’s hoof—this I did not know. How could I? I cannot see all. I cannot see around corners or read minds. People are a constant surprise to me. Who can say what one will do next?”

  “What happened to the father?” Panthea felt alarm for the unknown man.

  “Oh, I would not harm him. She loved him. Do you believe me?”

  The troubadour was listening, Panthea could tell by his face. He looked angry.

  “What happened to the father?” she asked.

  “He saw me. I was leaning over the boy, only trying to revive him, of course. The sight so terrified him his heart gave out.”

  “The lad was in such awful condition?”

  Damiano looked away.

  “You could not save either of them?” Panthea’s voice grew higher, straining.

  The comment enraged him. “Can I raise the dead?” His hand pulled back to beat her, still holding the fan, but catching himself, he landed the blow with slow care, the feathers prickling her cheek.

  “And of the girl? What did you do with her?”

  “Nothing. I left her alone. She was too deep in mourning to entertain me further. She clung to the priest for comfort.”

  Panthea tried to push him away, but he steeled his arms against hers and would not be moved.

  “I did not care for that adventure,” she said.

  “You know nothing about the world beyond your own, Panthea.”

  “If you want to win your little war with Armando, you should offer better stories. I should not like to visit that one.”

  “Then let us begin an adventure that pleases you,” he said, leaning to her for a kiss.

  With flames screaming all around her, burning her fac
e and hands as she clawed through them, Mariskka kept grasping for anything to slow her fall.

  She was aware of the muted voices of men, and that she was no longer moving through a dark cloud. She listened with her eyes closed, trying to recognize their voices before she moved.

  “No move.”

  It was Mbube.

  “Where am I? Am I in the hospital?” she asked, trying to raise her head. He pushed her forehead back.

  “No move. Still 1347.”

  She groaned, clenching her eyes shut, trying not to burst into tears like she was four. “I want to go home. To my apartment.”

  “You injured. Too hard to send you back here again.”

  “I don’t want to come back. That’s the point.”

  Mariskka realized that another angel was leaning over her too. This one had broad, heavy wings made of the feathers of a vulture, dark and thick. They looked oily. She stuck her tongue out in disgust. The vulture-angel showed his sharp teeth, clicking them together in anger.

  Mbube spoke in another language and the vulture-angel closed his mouth, spreading his wings, glaring at her. Underneath his wings, his feathers were pristine, shimmering with colours she did not know.

  “He not look like what he is,” Mbube said to her. “He not made beautiful, but he bring healing.”

  The vulture-feathered one frowned as he heaved Mariskka’s burnt thigh onto his lap, beginning his work.

  “We must quiet now. He have many places go tonight. He angry at you delay him. He think of hurting children.”

  Something stank. Mariskka tried to figure out what it was. She looked first at the vulture-angel, accusing, then her eyes moved down to his work. A flap of skin, grey and bubbled, was hanging from her arm. The vulture-angel pressed a hand to her cheek, forcing her to face another direction. His touch was soothing.

  She eased her face back, trying to draw deeper breaths so she didn’t faint. There was no pain, but her thigh looked like sausage without a casing. Mariskka felt tears on her cheek again, for no good reason. She had seen plenty of patients who looked like bad sausage. None of those patients had been her, though.