In the Arms of Immortals

by Ginger Garrett

  “People don’t save,” Mbube said. “People fight. You fight death.”

  He gripped her arms and faced her. “Show people to fight. Do not let darkness win.”

  “How can I fight? I can’t talk. I’m useless,” Mariskka said.

  “This true.”

  Mariskka waited for him to smile at his joke. He didn’t.

  “How do I fight darkness, Mbube? I’m no better than they are.”

  “When you girl, your mother took us church,” Mbube said.

  “That’s right. Except I didn’t know you went too.”

  “You heard Truth. Your heart knew what was light.”

  “That next week my mother was diagnosed,” Mariskka said. “The glow didn’t last long for me. The God you serve let a nine-year-old watch her mother die, Mbube.”

  “You hate light after that,” Mbube said. “You hate God.”

  “You don’t know what it is to grieve,” she said.

  “Hospice workers pull you from your mother’s bed. Make you sleep alone on couch. I hold you all night. Only then Mbube sorrow he cannot die. Mbube hurt so bad with you.”

  Mariskka reached out to embrace him. He had been there. God had not deserted her. Mariskka wanted to say she was sorry.

  Mbube raised his arms, crying out to the sky above. Lightning flew from his fingertips into her nostrils, shooting into every blood vessel, making her flesh glow blue. Mariskka looked down, seeing her body transparent from the lights within, her heart beating, the rivers of vessels sweeping her blood along. She felt the anger from that night as thick clotted scabs over her heart, peeling off and falling away. She screamed from pain, the tearing away of the anger, leaving her tender, raw heart exposed.

  Muscles all through her body that had been tensed for years let go, stretching, her palms flexing, her hands being opened fully for the first time since that day. She had not realized she had walked through her life with fists.

  The storm receded. The air around her smelled like a roll of new copper pennies.

  “You have the Blood now,” Mbube said.

  “That hurt!” she said.

  “Now you strong,” Mbube said. “His strength will hold.”

  Mariskka did what she had wanted to do that night in the hospice when her mother had died. She lunged to Mbube, wrapping her arms around him, burying her face in his stomach. His arms went around her and he comforted her at last. He said the words she had waited thirty years to hear.

  “All will be well. You never be alone.”

  A scream from the village startled Mariskka and she released him, turning to look upon the houses below.

  She turned back to ask him what to do.

  He was gone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Panthea entered the house from the kitchen, which would be lit and warm, servants working at any hour. A few were there, cleaning, counting, throwing scraps to the old dog chained to the wall guarding the larder. The dog was panting heavily, lying on its side, its jowls a waxy, grey colour. Its eyes followed her as she walked past.

  No one else dared look at her. They would be praying, she knew, that every plate was accounted for, and no foods gone missing except that which the guests ate. Many servants had their own home, where they could find their own meals, though the food was far inferior. Panthea had always told them to work harder, for a great appetite was wonderful seasoning.

  But tonight, she wanted them to linger. As she edged past, she studied them. All appeared in fine health, with no unusual worries. They had seen nothing to disturb them, although a servant girl seemed distressed that the dog would not eat his dinner. She stroked his head and coaxed him with a greasy bone, but he closed his eyes when she waved it too near, and did not reopen them.

  Panthea reached the back stairs of the kitchen. She preferred these to the main stairs in the manor. Only one person could fit at a time. She could climb to her father’s chambers without being stopped or spied upon.

  “Do not return to your homes,” she said, clearing her throat first so all would listen. “You may each eat the leftovers from the feast, and have a draught of wine or ale.”

  No one moved, as if their bodies were frozen from shock at her offer. She had no explanation. She only wanted people present and lights burning, and that was no explanation for a servant.

  “Return to work, and do not leave!”

  Panthea began climbing the stairs.

  The dull wax still burned in the sconces. The light was enough for safe passage but did nothing to set her nerves at ease. She had seen strange things and would not feel safe again until she had told the story to her father, who perhaps had one of his own. Armando would rise from her father’s side and sweep through the castle, making sure nothing evil lingered. He would suppress a smile, she thought, that a woman could be so skittish.

  In an hour, it would be over. She would feel safe again and laugh. This was what she meditated on as she climbed, counting each step, each footfall coming faster, unable to slow as she saw the light under her father’s chamber door and knew she was almost there. She didn’t care if she amused Armando.

  “Father!” she called out, shoving the door with a burst of speed.

  Panthea felt the whip of air move past from the door’s fast arc, catching the smell of the room, her mind fragmenting as her eyes took in the sight.

  The smell was death, a bad death. Her mind told her it was the smell on Damiano’s mouth, told her she had not dreamed. Her eyes were the only part of her still moving. Panthea’s heart stood still, her breathing stopped. Her eyes darted back and forth around the room. It was cruel that she could not remember how to shut them. She did not want to see this.

  Her father and his advisers all lay in the room. Black boils the size of eggs covered their exposed skin. Some of the boils had broken open and oozed a black fluid speckled with bright red clots of blood. She leaned against the wall, panting.

  An adviser, a young, earnest man from the village council, rose from the pile, smiling at Panthea. He held out his hand to her. She shook her head no. He laughed and began disrobing, peeling away his robes and belt, standing in his linen undergarments, laughing at her.

  Turning, he ran straight for the window, throwing himself out. Panthea heard him land. There were no more sounds below after that.

  Panthea was swaying, unable to hold her balance. Her mind couldn’t hold her balance as it worked through these sights.

  Her father was in the center of them, his eyes still open, his arm reaching for the door. She wanted to run to him, to pull him free from the others, but he had the black marks on his body too and thick dark swellings on his neck. Dried blood crusted around his eyes, nose, and out through his ears. He could not be real, she thought. This was a stuffed doll or clever image, but it could not be her father, her fine, fit father who took life so lightly. Death would not have come for him this way. He had made amends with God years ago. He had built a church. This was a death for the poor, the forsaken, the damned. Death could not be so bold in her own home. Armando would not have let it happen. What happened here that Armando let death take them all and all at once? What could have overpowered a man like Armando?

  She did not see Armando among them.

  Panthea forced herself to look upon the bodies, some fallen on the floor in strange, contorted positions, as if they died from a fit, some still seated at tables, faces plunged down onto the ledgers spread before them. She tried to pretend it was not real—of course it was not—to find the courage to look at each one and mark his features.

  She backed away, careful to touch no one and nothing. When she felt the door frame’s edges, she turned to the hall and screamed.

  “Armando!”

  Gio flinched, whipping her head away from the light. She opened her eyes, still looking away, and tr
ied to turn her head to see what wonders were occurring now. She thought she had seen lightning strike the path and linger, consuming something between them.

  From the light walked a figure in robes. Gio squinted harder to see it, to see its face. It was the mute woman, and she looked beautiful. Her face was soft, the hardened lines gone from her mouth. She looked like the saints Gio had created pigments for. Always too bright to be mortal, always serene.

  The mute woman pointed down the path into the town and gave Gio a nudge.

  “What?” Gio said.

  The woman nudged Gio, gesturing down the path again.

  “You tried to force me to flee with you. Now you want me to go into town?” Gio did not understand. She did not want to be swept into this until she understood the danger. “I cannot go there yet,” Gio said.

  The woman walked in front of Gio, placing a hand over Gio’s heart, then placing her ear over that. Gio stood still.

  The woman drew back and pointed to her own chest, fluttering her hand fast over her own heart.

  The woman understood that Gio was too scared to move. Gio nodded yes.

  The woman slapped her.

  Pointing again to the town, the woman grabbed Gio by the hand and pulled, then shoved her down the path.

  Gio tried to scramble off the path, but the mute woman found a switch, whipping it across Gio’s ankles when she veered off the path.

  Too many people would calm themselves with violence. Gio knew neither of them belonged in a frightened city.

  Below a man was waiting, craning his neck at all angles, looking up in her direction. The sun was rising to her east, but there was not enough light to see him well.

  “You there! Are you the one they call Gio?” he called up to her.

  Gio did not see anyone else with him. She did not know if this was a sign for good or ill.

  “Yes,” she called back. She did not take another step. The mute woman held her switch still.

  “My wife is giving birth. But it is too early. You must come!” He was motioning to her with one arm, toward a shop she had never crossed the threshold of.

  His wife made pastries for the nobles, yellow flaky pastries with cheese and berry fillings, sprinkled with sugar, and set facing the glass window to the street. The sugar glittered against the dark berry colours, making the pastries look like jewels, rows upon rows of gems. She had longed to taste one when she was a child, but her parents could not afford this food. That baker had threatened her with a spoon when he caught her lingering. He said she dirtied the glass. Still, the shop had been magic to her, the best kind for a child, the magic you could eat, that would make your head swirl and your belly full. She had not known many foods that made her happy. Most just dulled the hunger enough so she could sleep.

  The baker was below her, impatient with her delay. His arms swung in higher arcs above his head and his tone was thin. “Hurry! Why do you delay? Have you no feeling?” he yelled. “My wife is in pain! I will pay whatever you ask, if that is what slows your steps!”

  Gio blew the bitter memory away with one exhale and started down the path, the woman behind her lurching forward, determined to stay close. Gio turned, holding out her hands, trying to stop the woman from following so close, but she did not obey. A strange mute woman wouldn’t be any safer in this town today than Gio would.

  The man yelled at Gio again.

  Gio gave up on the woman and raced ahead, hoping to lose her. The lumbering mute woman could not move fast; she looked to be in pain from her leg. Gio’s legs knew the paths here well. She was down to the man in but a few breaths. A crowd grew outside the baker’s house, keening relatives praying for this baby, the first for the baker’s young wife.

  He rushed her through the glittering pastries, pointing to a dark, narrow staircase in the back. Frightened husbands like him would offer their whole fortunes to save their wife, if they loved her. She would settle for a pastry.

  He pushed her hard toward the stairs. She stumbled, her cheek catching the stone edge of the wall. She began climbing, shaking off the humiliation. He must love his wife to be so worried, she thought. He could not mean to hurt her.

  A woman’s grunting was the first noise she heard. Gio’s heart began to calm. This was a world she knew. Reaching the top of the staircase, she entered into a room paneled with wood, the floors swept clean, a salty morning breeze coming through the open window.

  Sitting in a chair, a young girl was doubled over, her hands pressed against her stomach. She saw Gio and cried out, “I saw blood! I saw blood!”

  “Shh, love. We’ll be fine.” Gio tried to cut through the woman’s panic with calm, steady words. If the woman was going to deliver too early, the baby would die. The womb did not negotiate or respond to women’s entreaties. No magic or herb could stand in the way of its will, and no prayer could stop it from conceiving, either. Women lived, and many died, at its mercy.

  Gio rested her hands on the woman’s arms, whispering little words, trying to get a better look at her stomach. The woman, trembling, lifted her arms, letting Gio run her hands all along her body, feeling for her curves.

  “How old are you?” Gio asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How long have you bled?” Gio asked her.

  “It was the year after we married,” she replied. “It’s been two springs since then.”

  Gio was right. The woman was still a girl, with a girl’s reed-thin body and narrow pelvis. She was pregnant, yes, but Gio did not think she was delivering early.

  “When did you know you were with child?” Gio asked.

  “It was about four moons ago, at the beginning of summer,” she replied. A pain caught her, and she doubled over again, crying out.

  Gio laughed, shaking her head. It was so good to be back on familiar ground.

  “Daughter, you are not delivering early. You just did not recognize the signs of pregnancy. Have you no mother living with you here?”

  The girl shook her head.

  “My mother died giving birth to my youngest brother. The baker took me from my father just after that.”

  Gio stroked her hair. “Has no woman watched over you then?”

  The girl shook her head. “My husband does not like me talking to the women who bring us our berries. He says they bring disease.”

  “You had to learn many things alone, didn’t you?” Gio asked.

  The girl started to cry.

  “Shh,” Gio said. “You are further along than you know. The baby will be born, and healthy. If it is a daughter, what shall we name her?”

  Gio began moving the girl around the room, trying to walk off the fear and help the baby drop down.

  “No, no, my husband wants a boy.”

  “Of course he does,” Gio said. “But he’s had his fun and has no more say in the matter.”

  The girl tried to catch a smile before it began, but Gio saw it.

  “If it is a girl,” she said, grimacing as a contraction hit, “I’ll name her after my mother.”

  She stumbled, apologizing. The girl’s skin was burning under Gio’s hands.

  “I think I would sit now,” the girl said. “The hour grows late.”

  “What is wrong?” Gio asked.

  The girl landed on the bed and began undoing the strings at her bodice. “It is so warm in here! Has he no mercy?” Her tone was that of an old, angry woman.

  She ripped off the bodice with a jerk, breaking her bag of waters at the same time. Gio saw the fluid staining the bed, the girl’s legs kicking in it.

  “What are you feeling? What is this?” Gio asked. This was not how women behaved at a birth, even new mothers. Gio began to feel nervous.

  The girl was frowning, fanning herself for air.

  “Did he give you somet
hing before I arrived?” Gio asked. “Did you take something?”

  The girl did not answer but began removing her robes, grunting when a contraction hit. She bit at Gio when she tried to help.

  Gio had never lost control like this. She knew what frightened girls did at the first birth, and this was not it.

  “What is wrong? What is happening?” Gio asked her.

  Naked, the girl began weeping, holding her stomach, groaning as she pushed down, trying to find a position that stopped the pain.

  Gio saw purple shadows moving under the girl’s skin and thought she was losing her mind. Gio grabbed her, forcing to lie back, bringing a candle stand closer to look at her body. A dark pool began to gather under her neck and arms, settling too along the inner thighs. Like bread rising, dark rings rose and darkened.

  The girl screamed, causing Gio to drop the candle. The room dimmed. There was not enough light from a window to help Gio.

  This could be a strange new herb brought by a trading ship. Or the work of the Devil. Gio should not be alone now.

  “You need Lazarro,” Gio said aloud. She prayed the baker had stayed close enough to hear.

  The girl started laughing. “Yes, Lazarro! He is so handsome! Isn’t that evil of me to say? His voice is like the voice of a god calling down from the Pantheon! What a wicked girl I am. I went to hear Matins this morning before I went to the miller’s shop. I ran out of the almond flour yesterday and needed but a small batch to finish today’s work. I went early before my husband rose, so he would not discover my foolishness and be angry. But the miller was ill and would not come down! Now I have no flour. Gio, let us deliver my husband a child and he may forget about my error.”

  The baby was crowning and the girl talked on, feeling nothing. Gio began to panic. She had seen everything in her time, but never this. Why was this woman going mad? What were these shadows and swellings? Was she turning into a new creature—a witch, perhaps, or an animal? If it were a strange fever, the same awful death that took the Old Man, she would die, and Gio feared that most of all. Every woman who dealt in herbs did. A healer with a dead body was proof of one of two things: incompetence, or the curse of the Devil. The healer was beaten to death for the first and burned for the second.