Thirteenth Night

by Alan Gordon

  He shook his head. “No cheese. Nothing that comes from coition. But a scrap of bread would be most welcome.” I gave him the whole thing and he nodded his thanks as he tore into it. “The ignorant believe we live off the elements. The truth is, we depend on the charity of others in the winter.”

  “Where are your companions?”

  He shrugged. “Fled, I suppose. We lived at the sufferance of the Duke, and when he died, the food stopped coming. I think he kept his support a secret, given the way things are nowadays. That bishop bears us no love, and Perun would happily launch another Crusade in our direction. So, between the lack of food and the fear for our safety, the group just fell apart. Part of our history, it seems. We were a schism of a schism, anyways. Kept finding out that the elders who administered the consolamentum had committed fornication or some other mortal sin, so there’d be arguments over who was pure and who wasn’t. And we’d start over with a new round, and then the same thing would happen again. A small band of us settled here and dwindled down. Now, it’s just me and the wolves.”

  “And the dead man. Tell me about the screaming. When did you hear it?”

  He counted back on his fingers. “Nine days ago, in the early morn.”

  I calculated quickly. “Morning of the Feast of Saint John?”

  “I’m afraid that we do not recognize your saints, so I couldn’t tell you. When every local village can purchase a sainthood from the Church for their local legend, it makes the whole idea pointless.”

  “Yes, it’s who you know, isn’t it? But I would like to know when you found him.”

  “It was the morning of the day after the snowfall.”

  “Tell me as much as you can.”

  “As I said, it was far away. But it went on for a while. Then it stopped. When I got here, he was already dead.”

  “Did you see who did it?”

  “I must confess that I didn’t try. As I said, I am unarmed and not particularly adept at defending myself. I couldn’t do anything to help the poor fellow, so I decided to do nothing to join him.”

  “Sensible. What could you hear? Any words?”

  “It was not in a language that I recognized. But it went on for some time. Here’s where I found him.”

  The snow was greatly disturbed and heavily stained with blood. It was clear that the forest denizens had come afterwards to partake of the feast, but enough of an impression remained to show me where the body had lain. The footprints were too closely overlapping for me to get any kind of read from them. There were several deep holes dug in a snowbank nearby. I tiptoed around the edges of the scene, squatting to examine it.

  “Are you a huntsman?” he asked, watching me curiously.

  “Neither by choice nor by inclination, but recent circumstance has made me one. Where is the body?”

  “This way,” he said, and we walked a short distance through the woods. “He was already dead when I found him. He was stripped of his garments and appeared to have been tortured. I administered the consolamentum. It normally takes more than one of us laying on hands, but in an emergency…” He trailed off.

  “What is that, exactly?”

  “The imposition of hands, the ritual of blessing and acceptance, the forgiveness of the rebellion against Heaven that is within us all, allowing the forgiven to return there. If he wasn’t sufficiently pure, then metempsychosis will take place.”

  “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. In any case, that was all I could do. He could be brought into town to have the Last Rites administered if you would prefer.”

  “I’m sure your ministrations were fine.” He led me to a rough cairn, stones piled haphazardly over the body.

  “What happens to the body is irrelevant,” he commented as I stood before it. “But I thought it might have mattered to others. The ground is too hard to dig a grave in the winter. Normally, I wouldn’t build anything like this. It’s too much like that feast of stones that they call a church. But I thought it might keep the scavengers away.”

  I removed some stones from the head of the cairn. The man inside was maybe twenty-five, no more. A short life, ending in horror and pain, judging by his face. He had been beaten savagely, one ear hacked off. I removed more stones to find more signs of torture, slashes to the body, fingers missing.

  “Odd how little blood there is,” I commented, trying to sound dispassionate, failing miserably.

  “He’s very clean,” agreed Joseph. “He was like that when I found him. It was all I could do to drag him over here.”

  “Why didn’t you report this to the town?”

  “As I said, I don’t trust Perun. He’d hang me for the death of a squirrel if he could tie me to it.”

  “But you trust me. Why?”

  He shrugged. “You came looking for him. I assumed that you cared about him. Did you know him?”

  “I never saw him before in my life, and that’s the Lord’s truth.”

  He looked at me, perused me for any signs of dissembling. “I believe that. And now I am puzzled. Was I wrong to trust you?”

  “No. I am trying to prevent a great evil from continuing. Will you assist me further?”

  “If I can.”

  “Then tell no one else of this matter. I will return tomorrow to bring back the body. Will you be here?”

  “I’ll be here,” he said. “And so, I expect, will he. Will you explain your actions to me?”

  “Not now. You’re safer not knowing.”

  “That I believe more than anything else that you’ve told me. Until the morrow, then.”

  I hastily reassembled the stones and rejoined Zeus.

  * * *

  The last thing that I wanted to do when I returned to the villa was play another game of chess, but it is rash to ignore the summons of a Duke, no matter how young. I duly presented myself for another skillful drubbing at his hands, but he motioned me to be silent and dashed around the room, drawing the curtains and shutting the doors.

  “May I request a favor of you?” he whispered.

  “Certainly, Milord,” I replied, a bit apprehensive.

  “Would you listen to me recite?” he asked.

  Dear God, more amateur theatrics. I assented immediately and composed myself upon a cushion, prepared for obsequious praise. He stood solemnly before me and placed his right hand upon his breast.

  “Hard ways have I gone,” he declaimed. “Many sorrows have I suffered. Thirty winters and thrice half year have I passed in living here…” He passed from rote to role as the spirit began carrying him away. Altogether too young to be playing Our Savior, but hearing His words in a child’s voice was chillingly effective.

  He ran through each of the speeches in turn, then looked at me expectantly when he was done. “Was it all right? I took great pains to con it, but I’ve got all the words in the right order.”

  “You do, and you must let them speak for themselves. Listen to the words, Milord. The poetry will carry you if you allow it the privilege. And let me show you one useful technique.” I stood behind him and placed my hands on either side of his waist. “Say ah, and hold it,” I instructed him.

  “Ahhh—HUH!” he cried as I squeezed.

  “You see, Milord, the air is propelled from your lungs when you breathe from down here. You’ll be heard at every corner of the square if you do that.”

  “Will I? Thank you,” he exclaimed. “How did you know about that?”

  “A very harsh singing instructor during my youth,” I said. Which was true, as it happened. “I take it you are planning to assume the role of Our Lord?”

  “I’m going to try. Mother doesn’t want me to go out, but I am feeling well enough.”

  “A boy should listen to his mother, Milord.”

  “But I am the Duke,” he said, drawing himself up. “And it is important that the town see that I am there.”

  I looked at him. There was strength there, an iron will that woul
d prove formidable with that intellect. I bowed. “As you wish, Milord.”

  He sagged suddenly. “I don’t know if I can do it,” he whispered.

  “The role?”

  “The role. And the role. Being Duke. I can’t even bring myself to sit in the chair. It was his, not mine.”

  I glanced at the chair seated on the platform. “Allow me, Milord,” I said. He stared in shock as I calmly walked up to the chair and sprawled languidly across it. “Fetch me some food, Mark,” I commanded him.

  He was seized by rage. “Get off of there immediately!” he shouted.

  I leapt down and knelt before him. “Of course, Milord.”

  His anger melted as suddenly as it had emerged. “Why did you do that?” he asked.

  “When I sat in that chair and commanded you to get me food, did you do it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Yet when you commanded me to get down, did I not immediately comply?”

  “You did,” he said slowly, realization creeping across his face.

  I patted him on the shoulder. “The power isn’t in the chair, Milord. It’s in the Duke. The chair is merely a prop.”

  He looked at me, then the chair, then walked up to it and sat down.

  “How do I look?” he asked.

  “Like a duke,” I replied. “Like your father before you.”

  He smiled, and I took my leave.

  I sought out Bobo’s room. He sat up when I entered and was about to speak when I heard footsteps approaching. I glanced into the hallway and saw Viola bearing down on us.

  “A word with you, Feste,” she snapped.

  “I will speak with you on the morrow,” I said to Bobo. He shrugged, and I accompanied the Duchess to her anteroom, where she turned and folded her arms.

  “I have been informed by my son that he is going to perform in the play,” she said icily. “And he told me that it was at your behest.”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “I counseled him on asserting himself as befits his position.”

  “When I need your counsel on raising my child, I will ask for it,” she said. “It’s too dangerous for him to be out there unprotected.”

  “He won’t be unprotected,” I said. “I’ll be there. Nothing will happen to him.”

  As a prophet, I turned out to be an excellent fool.

  FIFTEEN

  We enjoin you, my brother, to exterminate from your churches the custom or rather the abuse and disorder of these spectacles and these disgraceful games so that their impurity does not sully the honor of the Church.

  POPE INNOCENT III, CUM DECORUM

  “Be glad! Oh, be glad, for the Lord is risen!” cried the Bishop, and the congregation shouted, “Alleluia!” He raised his hands and beckoned to the rear of the church. The doors were flung open, and a boy clad in a white tunic and hose was led in, riding on the back of an ass bedecked in red robes.

  “Orientis partibus, Adventavit asinus, Pulcher et fortissiumus, Sarcinis aptissimus, Hez, Sir Asne, hez!” the choir sang raucously. The congregants reached in to stroke the flanks of the beast and passed the touch on to their neighbors for luck.

  The ass was led to the altar, as all asses inevitably are, and the boy got off and stood and faced the assemblage. He took an enormous breath and sang out, “Kyrie eleison,” in the purest of sopranos, holding each syllable for an eternity and embellishing it with such elaborate melismata that Jubal, Father of Music himself, would have wept in awe upon hearing it. The deacons responded with a trope of further praise, and the Bishop stood behind the boy and held his arms out from his sides as if in supplication. “Christe eleison,” sang the boy, and the choir sang it back to him as two subdeacons appeared on either side of the Bishop and carefully removed his vestments. “Kyrie eleison,” the boy sang again as they transferred the vestments to him, a midget bishop in oversized clothes. The Bishop himself removed his miter from his head and held it over the boy. “Christe eleison,” the two sang in unison, and on the last note, the Bishop placed his miter on the boy’s head, covering it entirely.

  As he did, cymbals clashed, horns blared, and the choir launched into a supremely discordant hymn. The Feast of Fools had begun.

  A rabble of satyrs burst through the doors, blowing on ram’s horns, beating on goatskin drums, squeezing bagpipes, playing every possible instrument that could be made from a goat or sheep. Men in donkey’s heads, bull’s heads, all manner of horns. I spotted Alexander wearing an elephant’s mask, appropriately enough. They hurled ordure into the congregation, which screamed with laughter and dismay. Women groaned as they were spattered, but their gowns were obviously not the good ones worn at Christmas Mass. A grotesque parody of a priest staggered in, wearing an enormous carbunkled nose and drinking from a jug. He whirled the censor like a sling, and whatever was burning in it gave off a foul stench. An old boot, I guessed. I saw the Bishop himself, rudely transformed with charcoal rubbed into his face, playing dice near the altar. Men danced in women’s clothes, women danced ring dances, leapt on the pews, and undulated suggestively. A football was introduced from somewhere and was booted from one end of the church to the other.

  I was having a wonderful time until I remembered that I had to stay in character. I then scowled disapprovingly at everything. But it was marvelous, I must say, and from a critical standpoint, it was only missing one thing.

  Me. Feste, Lord of Misrule.

  Black puddings made especially for the day were produced from a hundred pouches and handed around. I broke down and accepted one. The Mass was celebrated by the boy Bishop, his speech muffled by the miter. The deacons were portrayed in uproarious manner by the subdeacons, the subdeacons by the boys in the choir, and quite a few bawdy references were made to local townspeople. Some of the jokes were old enough to have been started by me and probably were. The crowd laughed at them anyway. All part of the tradition.

  Throughout, I kept my eyes peeled for the Duke, but Mark was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Viola nor her substitute. I decided to go outside and look for them.

  The scenery for the play had been finished just in time. Paradise hung on the steps of the new cathedral, the sheet flapping noisily in the wind. The mouth of Hell was truly impressive, the features fearsome, the gaping maw hung with damask. All of the townspeople as well as those from the surrounding farmlands had assembled in the square, the ones in back standing on wagons. Younger children perched on shoulders, the older and more daring clambered onto the roofs of the shops and offices. Those who could not cram into the church gathered as close to the scenes as they could, awaiting the beginning of the play.

  The saturnalian band spilled back out onto the streets, scattering the crowd before them. The choir quickly assembled on the cathedral steps near Paradise, and the revelers gradually quieted as a single ram’s horn was blown repeatedly in the center of the square.

  I sought out Viola and found her at the side of the old church, fussing over Mark, who was clad in a beautifully tailored gold dalmatic. “Are you sure you aren’t too cold?” she asked.

  “Mother, please,” he protested futilely, as all boys have done to their mothers from time immemorial. She tucked a scarf around his neck, which he deftly discarded the moment her back was turned.

  I maneuvered my way back to the square to find a good vantage point and ended up on one of the lower steps to the cathedral. A voice at my shoulder whispered, “What do you think, pilgrim?” I turned and nearly jumped out of my skin. A man was smiling at me, the smile framed by a black mustache and triangular beard.

  The Bishop laughed. “My apologies for startling you, but you’ve been looking so serious. This is a joyous day. Partake of the joy, and you will share in the holiness.”

  “I’m sorry, Holy Father. Your traditions are different than ours, and with that beard you look quite Satanic. Where did you get it?”

  “An anonymous gift, left outside my doorway. The note wished me well and asked that I wear it for the Feast. Rather becoming, don’t
you think?”

  I bowed and excused myself. I was quite flustered by the experience. My invisible enemy was playing tricks again. I wondered how close he was.

  I noticed Sir Andrew standing on a step nearby, watching the proceedings intently. I walked over to him.

  “I’m looking forward to your triumph, Sir Andrew,” I said.

  He started upon being addressed, then relaxed. “You are too kind, Herr Octavius,” he replied. “I decided that Lucius was fully capable of handling the job. I really wanted to see it for myself, rather than hide behind Hell and hear about it afterwards.”

  “And who will tell Lucius?”

  “He is young. When he has apprenticed long enough, he may stand here and feast his eyes. I love this day. Don’t you?”

  “We do not have such spectacles where I come from.”

  “Then you really should. The one this year is so important, coming after Orsino’s death. I must say Sebastian has surprised me. He’s kept his vow, stayed sober, and speaks his part beautifully. And he helped organize everything after Fabian … Well, I’m sorry Fabian couldn’t see this. But it will be quite a day for Sebastian, mark my words.”

  “And for the Duke, I hear.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “He will be assuming his place in the role of Our Savior after all. So Sebastian will miss the performance. But I agree he certainly is due credit for everything else.”

  “Mark’s playing Jesus?” exclaimed Sir Andrew. “I had no idea. I’ve been so wrapped up in my preparations, I haven’t been outside my laboratorium for days. How utterly splendid. But I hope he’s not outside prematurely. I fear for his health in this cold.”

  “He seemed hale enough when I saw him.”

  “Well, I wish someone had told me,” he said, frowning slightly. “We cut the fuses specifically to time the flash with the last word of Sebastian’s speech. If Mark doesn’t follow the same cadences, it won’t work as well.”

  “I’m sure Mark knows that. He’s a bright lad.”

  “Of course. Look, it’s starting.”

  An Angel of the Lord ascended slowly into the air, two burly farmers carefully turning the windlass. The whining boy of a few days past had been transfigured into a thing of glory. The winds that were whipping up the square caught his wings and sent him spinning around, to the amusement of the crowd. The farmers caught his feet and twisted him until he was facing forwards. He gulped, took a breath, and screamed, “All harken to me now!” The ensuing silence astonished him. Emboldened by the realization that he commanded the square, he continued in full, jubilant voice. “An estrif will I tell you of Jesus and Satan. Of when Jesus was to Hell to bring thence His own and lead them to Paradise. The Devil having such puissance…”