In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  “Mbube tell you story. Make laugh.”

  Mariskka took the bait. It would distract her. She nodded to him.

  “Animals see Mbube,” he said.

  “Animals can see you? All of the angels?” she asked.

  “Yes. One dog lift his leg and pee on Mbube. He not like strangers. No dinner for him that night. He missed Mbube but hit new couch.”

  Mariskka laughed, even though she didn’t mean to. It hurt.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “We hear animals. They talk much. Little ones most.” Mbube folded his hand and made the sign for rapid chattering.

  Mariskka laughed, not even caring about the pain. “What about cats? Can you hear them too?”

  “Cats say only, ‘Bring food next time.’”

  “Sounds like a cat to me.” She tried to turn her head to get a more direct look at him. “Mbube, do you like being an angel?”

  Mbube pulled his chin back, as if surprised. “New question for Mbube. Think.”

  A wind blew her hair from the back of her head into her eyes. She held out her hands over her forehead, trying to keep her eyes out of the blast. Mbube looked alarmed. Squinting, she glanced back. The vulture-angel was gone. In his place, a howling whirlwind spun, growing wider with each revolution.

  “Pages turning, Mariskka,” he said. “I no strength to stop story.”

  “What can I do?” Mariskka grabbed his arm as hard as she could. “Mbube, they’re all going to die. At least let me help them!”

  The Scribe stepped from the whirlwind and held out his hand to her. Mariskka felt nauseated.

  “You have no words in this story,” the Scribe said. “It is punishment for stealing another’s.”

  The whirlwind swept her away.

  When she came to consciousness, she staggered onto her feet and ran.

  It was coming.

  Chapter Eight

  Lazarro jumped out from the darkness, trying to grab the burning woman as she ran past. Gio was watching for him; she landed against him, shoving him away from her door.

  “Let her go, Lazarro! I painted her arm with a new thing called Greek fire—it burns without destroying anything. She will not be harmed!”

  The woman was too fast for him, running down the steep path, disappearing into the night, shielded by its twists and trees.

  He shook off Gio. “You could have killed her!”

  “Look at her, Lazarro. It would have been mercy,” Gio replied.

  “You have no mercy—do not speak the word!” Lazarro said.

  Gio was praying her hunger didn’t show. She wanted more of this anger from him. She wanted to make him so angry he could think of no prayer to say. Then, as he watched, she would take her sorrow into her hands and crush it until her plain dry fingers snapped and winds scattered the crumbled remains upon the volcano.

  He had the words of the Church and of God as his witness. She had nothing but his anger, and this mountain. The rocks here would be her testimony: that not all beautiful things keep their shape, that even red fire can turn cold and sharp. Others would come along, and seeing it of no use, sweep it from the path.

  She could be the one to sweep the past clean, leaving no memories behind. She could kill him, in any number of ways. A priest’s death was not unusual. They attended the beds of the sick every day, offering Mass and Communion. Or she could wait another year. Someday God would pronounce judgment on him. He would suffer as she did.

  “What have you got in there, Gio?” Lazarro was trying to see past her door.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Gio replied.

  “You concern me, Gio.”

  “How can you speak such perversion?” Gio said. She raised her arm to strike him and he caught it, forcing it behind her. It forced her nearer to him.

  He sniffed at her mouth. “What comes upon you? Why do you hate with such force? I did not wish for this life, but I embrace it for your sake. Why can you not do the same?”

  She spit in his face. “When you die, I will rejoice.”

  “I will never be your husband, Gio, but I will have your secrets. I will put an end to your hatred.” He forced her backward toward her door.

  She dug her heels in, trying to stop him. “No,” she screamed. “No!”

  He slammed her against the door, crashing it open, revealing everything to him. She had forgotten to pull the cover back up in the corner.

  He let her go, wandering into this forbidden cave. She curled into a ball, hiding her face in shame. Where could she go to hide? She could not leave this room, even if she had somewhere to run. Her life was poured out before her enemy here in the canvases and colours. Nothing was hidden from him.

  She forced herself to watch as he took them in, one by one. Once she had been subjected to long, humiliating scrutiny. She would not do this to her life’s story. She would stand with it, though her face felt hot and she wanted to vomit.

  It was agony to hear his breath.

  He was standing near her mortar and pestle. The pestle was heavy stone and as long as her hand. She could smash it on the back of his head, if she got close enough.

  “I just wanted to understand what I was selling, Lazarro,” she said, standing. She told him the truth. That was what made it so ironic, that he should hear the truth from her before he died, but not the truth he needed.

  “I thought if I practiced,” she said, “I could perfect them. It is why mine are so preferred among all the church painters.”

  Her fingers were closing around the pestle. She began to lift her arm just as he dropped his face into his hands. It startled her.

  “What have I done to you?”

  He lifted his face back up, reaching for one painting, running his fingers over the colours, tracing the river of blue that ran through all the other colours. She had worked at this for years and had not yet made it whole. It was the gentle face of a man, standing in a crowd of peasants who were begging him for bread. His hands were open.

  “Don’t touch it!” she screamed, dropping the pestle as she pushed him away.

  “Is this what God is to you?” he asked. “Is this the face of your Lord?”

  “I do not see the face of your God,” Gio said, breathing hard. “You forget that He has forsaken me.”

  “If you did not believe that God sees you, you could not paint. Not these.”

  “Maybe I paint to forget that no one ever sees me. How long has it been since a villager looked me in the eyes? Do you know what that is like, Lazarro? To walk the streets and see every face turn away? Only the children talk to me, and I suspect some of them get a beating for it later.”

  “You never lacked faith, Gio. You lack courage.”

  The words stung her.

  “Some things cannot be spoken.” She hoped he did not miss the pain in her voice.

  “If you had told the truth, you would have been forgiven. I stood there waiting to give you Communion, to cleanse you of your sins. Even when you spat at Dario and his nobles and then fled, I waited. I stood there until the stars came out and rain fell. It was the only time I missed my Matins.”

  “They were all cowards. As were you,” Gio said.

  “I traded my life for yours. I am no coward.”

  “How many years have passed now? Twelve? Have you ever imagined how our lives would be different if I had told the truth that day?”

  “You would have a good place in the village, be secure, and be counted as a child of God. I would know peace.”

  “Perhaps I do lack courage, Lazarro, but you lack imagination.”

  “Before the winter is out, Gio, I will have you shouting God’s name in the streets. I will not live another year of my life seeing you in this darkness.”

  “I’ll do t
hat, Lazarro. Just before I marry a wealthy man and live in a fine house, bearing him glorious blond children and eating dainties by candlelight before we attend our evening Matins.”

  “That would please me.”

  Those words, on his lips, cut her worse than any before. He would wish her in another man’s arms? He had not the courtesy or courage to lie. Not even now.

  She pushed past him, whipping the covers back down over her paintings.

  “But why, Gio? Why keep this secret too?”

  “I accept what I am. That does not mean I must share it. It is what you are, who you have become, that I cannot accept.”

  “I will tell you what I am, Gio. I am the reason you are alive. I am the reason you have food and peace.”

  “You should have let them drown me.”

  “Maybe.”

  Gio’s hurt flinched, the blood stopping a moment, a pain ripping through her chest. She refused to show it in her face but moved a fist to her chest and pressed down, forcing herself to be slow.

  Lazarro’s voice became soft, cut by deep breaths.

  “I kept you alive for myself, Gio. I thought you would be able to make peace with our destinies, that we could continue in some new way. Please forgive me.”

  “Oh, I saw how easily you walked into your new life after my betrayal. I cannot trust you.”

  “Did you ever?” He stood to leave. His face was red. “I feel old, Gio. I will go and sleep.”

  Gio tried to stop him, rising and blocking the door, holding her hands up to him. She had more to say.

  “No, do not try, Gio. You cannot tell yourself the truth. I cannot expect you to speak truth to me.”

  She would not be made the villain. He needed to know she suffered because she was good. He needed to know there were still secrets to be told. Even if it killed him to hear the truth so late. She did not need a pestle to send him crashing to the floor.

  “Test me then,” she said.

  He stopped, listening.

  “The poor have no words, do they, Lazarro? You teach them through paintings, preaching the gospels on the church walls, using colour instead of words. That is why my paints are in such demand. Colour is the only common language of the poor. That is why I give them the best. In these colours they can see the world as even the emperor does.”

  “You do well to love the poor,” Lazarro said. His voice was weary, a priest who has said those same words too many times in response to meaningless gifts.

  Gio couldn’t breathe. Her face was flushing, her body sweating under her robe. This was too hard. The sting in her heart was coming too hard, too fast.

  “I can’t,” she said.

  “For once, tell me the truth. Tell me his name,” Lazarro said.

  “These paintings are the words I still cannot say. In them you can find the truth. I would not have to say the words that would destroy you. Perhaps I painted for you, in some way, for this night when you would come to my door …”

  Everything she had hidden was pouring out into the beginning of this confession, her shame lingering between them in the hot, dark room. If she could push herself to continue, there was freedom.

  “You haven’t changed, Gio,” Lazarro said, stepping toward the door. “All these paintings? They are one more secret you kept from me.” He pushed her out of the way and grabbed the door.

  “But there is more to say!” she cried. “Be patient!”

  She grabbed his robe, but he kept walking.

  He did not stop or slow, even as she stumbled. Gio realized she was holding onto the robes of a man finally dead to her.

  She let him go.

  He did not look back.

  The troubadour struck a harsh note on his lute, startling Panthea. She pushed Damiano away, stopping his lips from meeting hers.

  Damiano’s outline rose above her on the walls, the torches making strange shadows. He drew his sword, walking toward the unarmed troubadour.

  The troubadour smiled, not standing to defend himself but still playing, watching Panthea.

  “I am your servant, mistress Panthea,” the troubadour said. “He cannot rid me. But I cannot remain with you for long. You have hardened your heart to my voice, and the voice of the Father. I came to tell you only this: Love can still save you. It is all that can save you.”

  Damiano began to speak in a language she did not know. The troubadour did, however, and answered with a short, bored reply.

  The air around Panthea grew thick, as if she were being crowded in. She couldn’t get a clear breath; a veil of this thick air shrouded her on all sides.

  A cold hand touched Panthea’s shoulder.

  Panthea cried out, lurching from her seat. Damiano lowered his sword, his confrontation interrupted.

  Armando gave no attention to the other men as he stood before her on the balcony. He had a strange look on his face. In his hand was a necklace she had not seen since she was a child. It looked to her like a noose.

  “My years in the desert passed quickly because of you, Panthea. I dreamed the stars were our children, and the moon a lantern you had set out to call us in. You were with me wherever I went. I fought the infidels because that was my job, my duty, but I turned aside every reward, choosing instead to make this house great, giving you a dowry so large that everyone would know.”

  “Know?” Panthea said.

  “That I didn’t deserve you. No man could. You have to choose to love me, Panthea. This I cannot win. I cannot make war for you.”

  “My mother would want me to go to Florence, to marry there,” she said. Her words were soft. She had imagined digging her heel into his heart at this moment, relishing the feel of spurning him one last time, but the moment was here, and he softened her rough will. He softened every hard edge she had, and she wanted to be that soft woman. She needed him to teach her how.

  “The law says I can do with you as I please.”

  Panthea looked up from the necklace he was holding. This was what she wanted. She wanted him to grab her and she could rest her face on his chest and just breathe, letting him worry of the stories for the guests who were still waiting, and the strange men in the garden. He was so close to her heart. All he had to do now was take it.

  He wasn’t saying anything.

  “And what would please you?” Panthea said. He just needed to say the words.

  “It would please me to give you your freedom,” he said.

  Her chin was quivering. She wanted to shake him.

  “All I will ask is this: for one night, be mine, in name only. Do not make your choice until tomorrow.”

  He stepped behind her, lifting the necklace to her face before settling it around her neck.

  It was a double strand of pearls the size of plump berries, connected by gold loops, running toward a double pendant of looking-glass opals, reflecting the light in new ways at every hour in pinks, blues, golds. The greater opal was on the bottom, the lesser one nestled on top, each connected to the other by a thousand delicate cast strands of gold, no bigger than a hair, weaving a complex pattern from which neither could ever break free without destroying the entire piece.

  Her mother had worn it as she died, wearing it with grace and sorrow, resting cold fingers on the cold stones, thinking of her life as the lady of this manor. Death had come for her as it had all the others, but it came too early, and all the gold in the world had not saved her.

  Panthea, just a girl, had not known whether to blame this house or this gold for the death, and so she wanted neither. She wanted another house, and new gold, gold that came without memories. She could never be her mother. The woman was too great, too lovely and kind. Panthea had inherited so little from her. She did not want to disgrace her, living a poor second life in this place.

  But there was another vo
ice within that did not listen. Do not be afraid to love, it said. Sometimes, when Panthea was quiet and still, she heard this voice in her heart and wondered if it was the voice of God or of her mother. She did not truly know either. She did not know what their voices would sound like.

  Armando had been to her what her father had not, a strong, shadowing presence in the days of grief, an assurance that she would have a place in the world, a good place. How could she let herself imagine it must be elsewhere, with some man, any man, who could give her more? What more did she need? Why did she allow that thought to take root and grow?

  She remembered when it had first entered her body, presenting itself as a delicious distraction, a moment’s sin that would be undiscovered. Lust, this craving for what she couldn’t have, what she didn’t need, felt rich and slick in her mouth. It made her taste salt and roll her tongue across her lips as it slid down, shooting darts of pleasure through her arms and down her legs. It thrilled her, and no one knew. But the pleasure was too brief, and she invited it to enter again. She feasted upon these little secret thoughts, each one making her taste what she shouldn’t, each one making her stomach leap with pleasure, and her legs feel light and weak from the thoughts.

  Joy did not feel like this. Joy was a steady, quiet presence. It offered no rich, dark thrills. Joy showed on her face and others knew. It had no second life, no secrets she kept close.

  But the distractions turned to torment, each demanding more and more of its own, each leaving her weak for another, each burn making her cry when it faded. She became consumed with the pleasures and hungers. She had let one thought in and it became legion. Now she could not bear joy, could not bear to come into the light, for she was a greasy, hidden slave of pleasure. No one would be able to overpower these sins. Nothing of this earth felt as good.

  She wished she could go back in time and set that moment right, turn away that unhappy thought, train her mind to see without fear what could yet be if she but stayed true. And she had stayed true—she had not acted on any of these thoughts, not in her physical life. No matter. Her heart was decayed, and her spirit was in shadows so that her body did not want to be true, though it was. Everything had been given over. A thought given time changes everything. She wished now for it to end, but there was no way out. Her thoughts owned her life.