by Ann Benson
“Okay,” Janie said. “You’ve made me feel a little better. But now I’m wondering why this little guy has a name.”
“Because he’s unique—one of a kind, really. He has special capabilities that members of our group have designed specifically for the work at hand. Programs that are written just for this project, specialized communications devices, things you won’t find in your ordinary drugstore-type computer. As records come in from the various sources, they’ll automatically drop into the correct programs without your having to think about it. You’ll just keep an eye on the process.”
Hmph. Janie said, “But I like to think.”
“And you will. You’ll see what’s missing, what’s still needed. And when we’ve got everything entered, it has the evaluation programming too. And it’s got a secure communications port that no one will be able to break into.”
“From what I understand, that’s not really possible anymore.”
“It is if you have your own satellite.”
Janie stared. “Don’t tell me.”
Kristina nodded and grinned. “We launched it last year. And it’s been running perfectly since the day we put it into operation. Now, the units we’ve provided to you and everyone else are the only ones that can connect to our satellite.”
“You guys must have a mountain of money to be able to do this work.”
“Not really. But we are very judicious with the money we have.”
“Where does it come from?”
“Various sources. But I can’t be more specific than that.”
“You must have someone or something major behind you.”
“I can only tell you that we have some generous supporters who really believe in the work we’re doing.”
Janie found these deliberately vague answers to be terribly unsatisfying. They did little more than evoke an unwanted sense of suspicion in her. “They must,” she said.
“They do. And we’re hoping you’ll believe in the work, as well.”
“That’s something I can’t say one way or the other right now—I’m going to have to do some more of it first, I think.”
“In time it’s our guess that you’ll hop onboard for the whole ride, as quickly as everyone else seems to,” Kristina said. Her expression was almost challenging again. “But in the meantime, there are some things about this machine that I probably should explain. The first and most important thing is that we don’t want it falling into the wrong hands.”
“I feel stupid asking why, but why?”
“Because some of the information you gather may be a little bit ‘sensitive.’ ”
“I’m beginning to feel like this entire project is going to turn out to be ‘sensitive.’ ”
“It might. But that won’t become clear until we go a little further with it.”
“So I’m going to have to keep my eye on Junior, here.”
“We wish you would,” Kristina said. “Now, you should also back up the files every day. You can send all the files up to the satellite, and it will store them for you. But if you don’t send in an updated file to replace one that’s been entered within three days of the last update, it will dump those unattended files.”
“Oh, dear,” Janie said. “That’s rather ungracious of it. Even houseguests usually get a week.”
“If we were going to allow longer storage, we would have needed a fancier satellite. We decided it would be a good idea to use a nice little unit. The FCC believes that our satellite belongs to a conservation advocacy organization and that its intended use is the tracking of environmental data. That’s how we got the space allotment. So we bought a standard small tracking satellite and then gutted everything that it came with. Then we had our nerd-in-residence build it some entirely new innards.”
“You have a dedicated nerd?”
A proud young smile preceded Kristina’s answer. “We do.”
Janie shook her head. “I’m very impressed.” It was all very well thought out. Someone in this organization had both vision and will, Janie realized suddenly, to have set all this in place. This person was probably a terrific fund-raiser, to boot. And it was almost always the same story with entities or occurrences of this scope: One human being was the driving force behind it. Others might follow, some close enough to look like they were part of the leadership, but there was always just one leader.
Janie couldn’t help but wonder who it might be. Probably someone I’ve never even heard of, someone with quiet power and the balls to use it. She knew she would either worship or hate that leader if she ever met him. Or her.
“What next, then, now you’ve shown me where the leash is?”
“I guess you walk the dog.”
15
When Alejandro opened his eyes again in the morning, he saw Abraham’s manuscript lying on a table near the window, and at its side, ink and quill. To add to his surprise, there was a tray of inviting morning refreshments—a beautiful red apple, a slab of cheese, a loaf of crusty golden bread. Next to the porcelain basin were a pitcher of water and a clean white cloth.
Did I sleep so soundly that I was unaware of someone’s entry? It disturbed him to think that he had. And he realized with considerable chagrin that the treatment he was receiving as de Chauliac’s prisoner was equal in quality to the attention he had been given as King Edward’s guest at Windsor Castle. He means to have me grow used to it, Alejandro thought. He wants me complacent.
An easy task, he thought unhappily. I have become so resigned to the harsh uncertainty of living on the run that the simplest kindness undoes me entirely. His life had been harsh, sometimes almost unbearably harsh. But through it all, he had raised a child, against all the rules of nature, who would have him see to his own self-preservation before that of another man’s offspring. That he still had all his own teeth was a wonder to him, for a man with less will might be dipping his crusty bread in water before downing it and eyeing that wonderful apple with little more than wistful memories of the pleasure of chewing it. He was still strong and prepared to do what was necessary to survive. And though he was not the man he had once been, the strength lost had departed from his soul, not his body.
But who can blame me for allowing myself a moment of enjoyment? It was bad enough to spend so much of the night in unconscious, futile pursuit of reunion with the ones he loved, or running from the closing reach of some long-dead giant with vindictive intent, but then to open one’s eyes on the cold dirt of a hovel floor as he had done morning after cold morning—he could only believe that it was the stinging joke of the Christian God, who must have been staring down from heaven and laughing at the predicament of this wretched wandering Jew, pulling on the strings of fate, taking divine pleasure when he jumped and jerked like a puppet. To awaken in a clean bed, without mice scampering so close to his ear that he could hear the rustling of the straw and feel the tiny wind of their passage, their highways only a finger’s breadth from his very flesh—what luxury! He sat up on his elbow and looked around at his comfortable surroundings. If I am to be a prisoner, let it be under conditions such as these!
He cleaned himself, then filled his belly, chewing gratefully with intact teeth, and turned his attention to the manuscript. The papyrus began to fill with his beautifully rendered writings. Abraham’s words crossed the ages with miraculously fresh wisdom. When done with patience and careful thought, which he applied to it now, the deciphering went smoothly, and soon he found himself nearly smiling at his own cleverness.
Then he stumbled upon a passage that defied sense.
Take care of your bones, it read, not to let them break. There are those among you who lack—but what was this word? Enshrouded as it was in archaic symbols, he could not make its meaning out. Bones of back, was the literal meaning. In the context of the passage, it could only mean spine. Why such a detailed and specific admonition, when no other issues of personal health were addressed so minutely? And what had de Chauliac said that now tickled his brain when he read these wor
ds?
He left a space to accommodate the word when he would finally glean its meaning. Which I will, he assured himself. He was just tackling the first few words of the next passage when he heard a knock on the door.
There was no handle on the inside—de Chauliac had had it removed by the same clumsy carpenter who had filled the open window with bars, so the knock was a mere courtesy. His ever-present guards controlled all passage and after a few seconds one of them entered, his gaze downcast.
It made Alejandro angry, the way they refused to meet his eyes with their own. Why do they never look at me straight on, any of them? Am I simply an object to be escorted here and there, at the will of their master? It was discretion, perhaps, that led them to do it … surely in a household of such elegance, even the guards would be expected to behave in a discreet manner.
And then a stabbing realization hit him: They fear me. But not because I can harm them.
The guard offered up an armful of clothing, but still kept his eyes directed elsewhere. “For tonight’s entertainment,” he mumbled.
Alejandro stood motionless, silently challenging the man to look at his face. He wondered bitterly, What do they think they will find—some exotic beast, with vile and unthinkable habits? His resentment grew with every passing second. Do you fear that you will enter and find me with my manhood stiff in my hand, a look of ungodly pleasure on my face? Or shall I bare my teeth and show you the fangs your priests say all Jews have, dripping with the blood of Christian infants? He reached out and yanked the clothing away, and the guard quickly left.
He inspected the offerings in a cloud of discontent. De Chauliac had presented him a handsome suit of apparel, and an insulting notion entered his mind: One’s toys must always be displayed in the best possible state. There was a fine blue linen tunic, and a pair of elegant black breeches of a length to reach just below the knee. He held them up to himself; they looked to be a perfect fit. He wondered briefly if de Chauliac had sent a tailor in to measure him as he slept in the night.
But never mind, he thought with a smile, for when I escape, I will be most admirably attired.
Charles of Navarre accepted the proffered letter from Baron de Coucy’s page and then dismissed him with a quick wave of his hand. The red seal was one that he now recognized at a glance, for he had seen it on countless correspondences of late. Another communication from my “ally” in Paris. To think of the horses they had worn down with their daily letters! It was a sinful waste, but necessary.
He read Marcel’s words with eager interest.
Guillaume Karle arrived here last night, as you predicted he would. I find him to be an especially intelligent man, if slightly overzealous, but this passion is well directed toward insurrection and can serve us well. To my surprise he is accompanied by a young maid, who I suspect is a great comfort to him by the fine look of her, and what man could be blamed for treating himself to the attentions of a woman in times such as these? We must have our pleasures, after all. I am happy to report that he does not allow her to distract him from the cause of rebellion, his devotion to which seems unequaled among his fellows. It is my carefully considered opinion that with the proper persuasion, he could be quite successful in gathering an army of peasants to assist in our cause.
But I regret to tell you, although I suspect you will not find this declaration surprising, that he detests you with as much passion as he loves the notion of freedom. And if what he has told me of your escapades in the countryside is true, then I cannot honestly say that I find fault in him for feeling as he does. Perhaps, dear sir, it is time for you to reconsider the ferocity of your raids on the peasantry. Make trouble, certainly, for this is only to be expected. But do not slay them with such obvious enthusiasm. You must convince those nobles who support you to amend their behavior likewise.
And I beseech you to reconsider your pursuit of Karle himself, for it will not do us any good to have him dead or in chains. It will benefit us greatly, at least for the moment, to bring him to our side against those who would deny you your claim. If you are fighting both him and the supporters of the king, your forces will be unnecessarily divided.
Of course such a respite must be reconsidered from time to time, and if after you have claimed your rightful place you find him too much of a threat, you should do what is needed to ensure your position.
There were other bits of news, but none of it nearly as important. “I am pleased,” he told the Baron de Coucy later, “with the doings of Marcel.”
But he does not do these things out of any loyalty to me, Navarre thought. He does them because he thinks that when all is said and done, he will still rule Paris.
Such arrogance from a man of his bourgeois birth was not to be permitted. When I am king of all France, perhaps I will let him keep it. If it pleases me.
The light of the sun had never seemed more benevolent, nor any pallet of straw so much a comfort.
Kate turned her head toward Guillaume Karle, who still slept. She traced the outline of his jaw with her finger, and on feeling her delicate touch he opened his eyes. The corners of his mouth curled in a little smile, and he pulled her close to him.
Contentment flooded through her, and she thought, Could there be more joy than that which I know right now?
“What a sweet night it was,” he whispered softly. “The sun came far too quickly for my liking.”
“And here I was, just thinking how beautiful its light is today.” She laughed softly. “It would seem we are already at odds, and over a matter we cannot hope to influence.”
He kissed her lightly on the forehead and said, “A matter that will take care of itself, regardless of our thinking on it. The sun will leave and return again, without concern for either of our wishes.” And then his smile faded. “There are other matters that will not resolve themselves so easily, I think.”
As soon as those words left his lips, Kate found herself acutely aware of the passing of time, of the tragic and inevitable death of each precious moment. The night was already gone, the day marching inexorably forward. They would emerge from their straw womb and go about the lives they had known before, their doings on this day oddly unaffected by what had passed between them in the night. There was a rebellion to be seen to, a father to be found. No night of first love would grab those two hanging swords, put there by God Himself, out of the air above them, and then fling them away.
And when Père was found, she knew that he would not fail to recognize the difference in her. She felt it herself, with terrible and confusing keenness. Could she keep such a change from showing on her face? Not with the help of the Blessed Virgin herself. He would know with one look that she was no longer entirely his daughter.
He cannot think that I will eternally be his child. He must know that it cannot be.
When Karle got up on one elbow as if to rise, Kate clutched at his arm.
Please not yet, she thought desperately. “Must you leave my side so soon?”
He lay back down again and pulled her close to him and whispered into her ear. “Were it only mine to choose, I would never leave your side. But one cannot slay dragons while languishing in the arms of the lady one wishes to protect.”
“The dragons will wait.”
“But they must still be slain.”
She pulled him closer. “They will wait.”
And now the rays of that beautiful sun were lengthening again as it made its way toward yet another rendezvous with the horizon. A heavy silence hung between Kate and Karle as they progressed once more toward Rue des Rosiers, and Kate found herself having to almost force each leg to move forward, for her steps were weighted with confusion and regret. What strange new body has my soul occupied? she wondered to herself. In one day, it has acquired a will of its own, one quite foreign to me.
But what luscious disobedience, what sweet shame! She was unusually aware of her own womanly parts as she walked, for the first time used as God had intended. As God intended! she repeated in her m
ind.
Why, then, was it a matter of shame?
She was filled with questions she had never thought to ask before. When a man and woman lie together, did the homunculus always pass from him to her, and plant a child? Surely not, she reasoned, or women would always be with child! But what if it did? Where did those homunculi go, if not welcomed into the female womb? Is there a special place in the hereafter for the unused contribution of a man to fatherhood? It seemed only sensible that there must be. And what should a lady do if her lover wishes to know her, but her menses are upon her?
She yearned, briefly, for a reunion with her departed mother, or even her old nurse, or the midwife Mother Sarah, any one of whom would have an answer for this question and would deliver it with a kindly wink and the glint of understanding in her eye. Père had said, in their infrequent and strained discussions of womanly matters, in his sweetly bungling attempt to be both mother and father to her, that the Jews had strict laws governing the activities between a man and a woman in their bed. “In this the Christians are more sensible,” he had reluctantly admitted. “They hold no restriction but that the man and woman must be wedded before their God.”
She keenly felt the sting of that one sacred restriction, in light of her own blatant disregard of it. And suddenly she felt unaccountably fearful. Would she burn in hell for this? Please God, no! Have I not suffered enough by Your whimsy?
