The Blemmye’s personal needs were rather modest. However, he lavished many gifts on his mistress. The Blemmye was pitifully jealous of this female Blemmye. He kept her in such deep, secluded purdah that she was never glimpsed by anyone.
Hildegart and Sinan became the Blemmye’s most trusted servants. He gave them his alchemical philters to drink, so that their flesh would not age in the mortal way of men and women. Many years of energetic action transpired, led by the pressing needs of their Silent Master. As wizard and mother abbess, Sinan and Hildegart grew in age and cunning, wealth and scholarship. Trade routes and caravans conveyed the Blemmye’s goods and agents from the far reaches of Moslem Spain as far as the Spice Islands.
When Crusader ships appeared in the Holy Land, and linked the Moslem world with the distant commercial cities of the Atlantic and the Baltic, the Blemmye was greatly pleased.
Eventually, Sinan and Hildegart were forced to part, for their uncanny agelessness had aroused suspicion in Damascus. Sinan removed himself to a cult headquarters in Alamut, where he pursued the mystic doctrines and tactics of the Ismaili Assassins. Hildegart migrated to the Crusader cities of Outremer, where she married a wise and all-accepting Maronite. She had three more children by this union.
Time ended that marriage as it had all her other such relations. Eventually, Hildegart found that she had tired of men and children, of their roughness and their importunities. She resumed the veil as the female Abbess of a convent stronghold in Tyre. She became the wealthy commander of a crowd of cloistered nuns, busy women with highly lucrative skills at weaving, adorning, and marketing Eastern fabrics.
The Abbess Hildegart was the busiest person that she knew. Even in times of war, she received many informations from the farthest rims of the world, and she knew the price and location of the rarest of earthly goods. Yet there was a hollowness in her life, a roiling feeling that dark events were unfolding, events beyond any mastery.
Assuming that all her children had somehow lived… and that her children had children, and that they had lived as well… and that those grandchildren, remorseless as the calendar, had further peopled the Earth… Hildegart’s abacus showed her as a silent Mother Superior to a growing horde of over three hundred people. They were Christians, Jews, Moslems, a vast and ever-ramifying human family, united in nothing but their ignorance of her own endlessly spreading life.
The Dead Sea was as unpleasant as its name. Cursed Sodom was to the south, suicidal Masada to the middle, and a bloodstained River Jordan to the north. The lake gave pitch and bitumen, and mounds of gray, tainted salt. Birds that bathed in its water died and were crusted with minerals.
Arid limestone hills and caves on the Dead Sea shores had gone undisturbed for centuries.
Within this barren wilderness, the Blemmye had settled himself. Of late, the Silent Master, once so restless in his worldly quests for goods and services, moved little from his secretive Paradise, dug within the Dead Sea’s barren hills. Sometimes, especially helpful merchants from Hildegart’s pigeon network would be taken there, or Assassins would be briefed there on one last self-sacrificing mission. It was in the Blemmye’s Paradise that Sinan and Hildegart drank the delicious elixirs that lengthened their lives.
There were gardens there, and stores of rare minerals. The Blemmye’s hidden palace also held an arsenal. It concealed the many sinister weapons that Sinan had built.
No skill in military engineering was concealed from the cunning master of Assassins. Sinan knew well the mechanical secrets of the jarkh, the zanbarak, the qaws al-ziyar, and even the fearsome manjaniq, a death-machine men called “The Long-Haired Bride.” With the Blemmye’s aid and counsel, Sinan had built sinister crossbows with thick twisted skeins of silk and horsehair, capable of firing great iron beams, granite stones, red-hot bricks, and sealed clay bombs that splattered alchemical flames. Spewing, shrieking rockets from China were not beyond Sinan’s war skills, nor was the Byzantine boiler that spewed ever-burning Greek Fire. Though difficult to move and conceal, these massive weapons of destruction were frighteningly potent. In cunning hands, they had shaped the fates of many a quarrelsome emirate. They had even hastened the fall of Jerusalem.
In his restless travels, the Blemmye had collected many rare herbs for the exquisite pergolas of his Paradise. He carefully collected the powder from within their flowers, and strained and boiled their saps for his marvelous elixirs. The Blemmye had forges and workshops full of curious instruments of metal and glass. He had struggled for years to breed superior camels for his far-ranging caravans. He had created a unique race of peculiar beasts, with hairless, scaly hides and spotted necks like cameleopards.
The choicest feature of the Blemmye’s Paradise was its enormous bath. Sinan led his caravan men in a loud prayer of thanksgiving for their safe arrival. He commended their souls to his God, then he ushered the dusty, thirsting warriors within the marbled precincts.
Pure water gushed there from many great brass nozzles. The men eagerly doffed their chain-mail armor and their filthy gear. They laughed and sang, splashing their tattooed limbs in the sweet, cleansing waters. Delicate fumes of incense made their spirits soar to the heavens.
Very gently, their spirits left their bodies.
The freshly washed dead were carried away on handcarts by the Blemmye’s house servants. These servants were eunuchs, and rendered tongueless.
Through her long and frugal habit, Hildegart carefully sorted through the effects of the dead men. The Moslem and Christian women who haunted the battlefields of the Holy Land, comforting the wounded and burying the slain, generally derived more wealth from dead men than they ever did from their live protectors. Female camp followers of various faiths often encountered one another in the newly strewn fields of male corpses. They would bargain by gesture and swap the dead men’s clothes, trinkets, holy medals, knives, and bludgeons.
Sinan sought her out as Hildegart neatly arranged the dead men’s dusty riding boots. He “was unhappy. “The Silent One has written his commands for us,” he told her. He frowned over his freshly inked instructions. “The eunuchs are to throw the bodies of the men into the mine shaft, as usual. But then we are to put the caravan’s horses into the bath as well. All of them!” The Assassin gazed at her moodily. “There would seem to be scarcely anyone here. I see none of his gardeners, I see no secretaries.… The Master is badly understaffed. Scutwork of this kind is unworthy of the two of us. I don’t understand this.”
Hildegart was shocked. “It was well worth doing to rid ourselves of those evil foreign Turks, but we can’t possibly stable horses in that beautiful marble bath.”
“Stable them? My dear, we are to kill the horses and throw them down into the mine. That’s what the Master has written for us here. See if there’s not some mistake, eh? You were always so good at interpreting.”
Hildegart closely examined the spattered parchment. The Blemmye’s queer handwriting was unmistakable, and his Arabic had improved with the years. “These orders are just as you say, but they make no sense. Without pack-horses, how am I to return to Tyre, and you to Alamut?”
Sinan looked at her in fear. “What are you telling me? Do you dare to question the Silent Master’s orders?”
“No, you’re the man,” she told him quickly. “You should question his orders.”
Hildegart had not had an audience with the Blemmye in some eight years. Their only communication was through couriers, or much more commonly, through the messenger birds.
In earlier days, when his writings had been harder to interpret, Hildegart had almost been a body servant to the Blemmye. She had fetched his ink, brought him his grapes, bread, and honey, and even seen him off to his strange, shrouded bed. Then she had left him to dwell in his Paradise, and she had lived for many years many leagues away from him. As long as they were still writing to each other, however, he never complained about missing her.
The Blemmye gave her his old, knowing look. His eyes, round, black, and wise, spread i
n his chest a hand’s span apart. The Blemmye wore baggy trousers of flowered blue silk, beautiful leather boots, and of course no headgear. He sat cross-legged on a velvet cushion on the floor of his office, with his Indian inks, his wax seals, his accounting books, and his elaborate plans and parchments. The Blemmye’s enormous arms had gone thinner with the years, and his speckled hide looked pale. His hands, once so deft and tireless, seemed to tremble uncontrollably.
“The Master must be ill,” hissed Hildegart to Sinan. The two of them whispered together, for they were almost certain that the Blemmye could not hear or understand a whispered voice. The Blemmye did have ears, or fleshy excrescences anyway, but their Silent Master never responded to speech, even in the languages that he could read and write.
“I will formally declaim the splendid rhetoric that befits our lordly Master, while you will write to him at my dictation,” Sinan ordered.
Hildegart obediently seated herself on a small tasseled carpet.
Sinan bowed low, placing his hand on his heart. He touched his fingertips to lips and forehead. “A most respectful greeting, dread Lord! May Allah keep you in your customary wisdom, health and strength! The hearts of your servants overflow with joy over too long an absence from your august presence!”
“How are you doing, dear old Blemmye?” Hildegart wrote briskly. She shoved the parchment forward.
The Blemmye plucked up the parchment and eyed it. Then he bent over, and his wrist slung ink in a fury.
“My heart has been shattered / the eternal darkness between the worlds closes in / my nights burn unbroken by sleep I bleed slowly / from within / I have no strength to greet the dawn / for my endless days are spent in sighing grief and vain regrets / the Light of All My Life has perished / I will never hear from her again / never never never again / will I read her sweet words of knowledge understanding and consolation / henceforth I walk in darkness / for my days of alien exile wind to their fatal climax.”
Hildegart held up the message and a smear of ink ran down it like a black tear.
The two of them had never had the least idea that the Blemmye’s wife had come to harm. The Blemmye guarded her so jealously that such a thing scarcely seemed possible.
But the mistress of their Silent Master, though very female, was not a Blemmye at all. She was not even a woman.
The Blemmye led them to the harem where he had hidden her.
This excavation had been the Blemmye’s first great project. He had bought many slaves to bore and dig deep shafts into the soft Dead Sea limestone. The slaves often died in despair from the senseless work, perishing from the heat, the lack of fresh water, and the heavy, miasmic salt air.
But then, at Hildegart’s counseling, the hapless slaves were freed and dismissed. Instead of using harsh whips and chains, the Blemmye simply tossed a few small diamonds into the rubble at the bottom of the pit.
Word soon spread of a secret diamond mine. Strong men from far and wide arrived secretly in many eager gangs. Without orders, pay, or any words of persuasion, they imported their own tools into the wasteland.
Then the miners fought recklessly and even stabbed each other for the privilege of expanding the Blemmye’s diggings. Miraculous tons of limestone were quarried, enough rock to provide firm foundations for every structure in the Blemmye’s Paradise. The miners wept with delight at the discovery of every precious stone.
When no more diamonds appeared, the miners soon wearied of their sport. The secret mine was abandoned and swiftly forgotten.
Within this cavernous dugout, then, was where the Blemmye had hidden his darling.
The Silent Master removed a counterweighted sheet of glass and iron. From the black gulf, an eye-watering, hellish stink of lime and sulfur wafted forth.
Strapping two panes of glass to his enormous face, the Blemmye inhaled sharply through his great trumpet of a nose. Then he rushed headlong into the stinking gloom.
Hildegart urged Sinan to retreat from the gush of foul miasma, but the Assassin resisted her urgings. “I always wondered what our Master did with all that brimstone. This is astonishing.”
“The Blemmye loves a creature from Hell,” said Hildegart, crossing herself.
“Well, if this is Hell, then we ourselves built it, my dear.” Sinan shrouded his eyes and peered within the acid murk. “I see so many bones in there. I must go in there, you know, I must bear witness and write of all this.… Why don’t you come along with me?”
“Are you joking? A mine is no place for a woman!”
“Of course it is, my dear! You simply must come down into Hell with me. You’re the only aide memoire available, and besides, you know that I rely on your judgment.”
When Hildegart stiffly refused him, Sinan shrugged at her womanly fears and rushed forward into the gassy murk. Hildegart wept for him, and began to pray—praying for her own sake, because Sinan’s salvation was entirely beyond retrieval.
At the fifth bead of her rosary, the brave Assassin reappeared, half-leading his stricken Master. They were tugging and heaving together at a great, white, armored plate, a bone-colored thing like a gigantic shard of pottery.
This broken armor, with a few tangled limbs and bits of dry gut, that was all that was left of the Blemmye’s Lady. She had been something like a great, boiled, stinking crab. Something like a barb-tailed desert scorpion, living under a rock.
In her silent life, cloistered deep within the smoking, stony earth, the Blemmye’s Lady had fed well, and grown into a size so vast and bony and monstrous that she could no longer fit through the narrow cave mouth. Sinan and the Blemmye were barely able to tug her skeletal remnants into daylight.
The Blemmye pawed at a hidden trigger, and the great iron door swung shut behind him with a hollow boom. He wheezed and coughed, and snorted loudly through his dripping nose.
Sinan, who had breathed less deeply of the hellish fumes, was the first to recover. He spat, and wiped his streaming eyes, then gestured to Hildegart for pen and ink.
Then Sinan sat atop a limestone boulder. He ignored her questions with a shake of his turbaned head, and fervently scribbled his notes.
Hildegart followed the laboring Blemmye as he tugged at his bony, rattling burden. The Silent Master trembled like a dying ox as he hauled the big skidding carcass. His sturdy leather boots had been lacerated, as if chopped by picks and hatchets.
Ignoring his wounds, the Blemmye dragged the riddled corpse of his beloved, yard by painful yard, down the slope toward the Dead Sea. The empty carapace was full of broken holes. The she-demon had been pecked to pieces from within.
Hildegart had never seen the Blemmye hurt. But she had seen enough wounded men to know the look of mortal despair, even on a face as strange as his.
The Blemmye collapsed in anguish at the rim of the sullen salt lake.
Hildegart smoothed the empty sand before him with her sandaled foot. Then she wrote to him with a long brass pin from the clasp of her cloak. “Master, let us return to your Paradise. There I will tend to your wounds.”
The Blemmye plucked a small table knife from his belt and scratched rapidly in the sand. “My fate is of no more consequence / I care only for my darling’s children / though born in this unhappy place / they are scions of a great and noble people.”
“Master, let us write of this together in some much better place.”
The Blemmye brushed away her words with the palm of his hand. “I have touched my poor beloved for the last time in my life / How pitifully rare were our meetings / We sent each other many words through the black gulfs and seas amid the stars / to understand one sentence was the patient work of years / her people and mine were mortal enemies amid the stars / And yet she trusted me / She chose to become mine / She fled with me to live in exile to this distant unknown realm / Now she has left me to face our dark fate alone / It was always her dear way to give her life for others / Alas my sweet correspondent has finally perished of her generosity.”
The Blemmye tugged in fitful des
pair at his lacerated boots.
Resignedly, Hildegart knelt and pulled the torn boots from her Master’s feet. His wounds were talon slashes, fearsome animal bites. She pulled the cotton wimple from her head and tore it into strips.
“I promised her that I would guard her children / sheltering them as I always sheltered her / That foolish vow has broken my spirit / I will fail her in my promise, for I cannot live without her / Her goodness and her greatness of spirit / She was so wise, and knew so many things / Great marvels I could never have guessed, known, or dreamed of / What a strange soul she had, and how she loved me / What wondrous things we shared together from our different worlds / Oh, how she could write!”
Sinan arrived. The Assassin’s eyes were reddened with the fumes, but he had composed himself.
“What have you been doing?” Hildegart demanded, as she worked to bind the Blemmye’s bleeding, toeless feet.
“Listen to this feat of verse!” Sinan declared. He lifted his parchment, cleared his throat, and began to recite. “‘With my own eyes, I witnessed the corpses of the massacred! Lacerated and disjointed, with heads cracked open and throats split; spines broken, necks shattered; noses mutilated, hair colored with blood! Their tender lips were shriveled, their skulls cracked and pierced; their feet were slashed and fingers sliced away and scattered; their ribs staved in and smashed. With their life’s last breath exhaled, their very ghosts were crushed, and they lay like dead stones among stones!’”
Hildegart’s bloodied fingers faltered on the knot of her rough bandage. The sun beat against her bared head. Her ears roared. Her vision faded.
When she came to, Sinan was tenderly sponging her face with water from his canteen.
“You swooned,” he told her.
“Yes,” she said faintly, “yes, that overcame me.”
“Of course it would,” he agreed, eyes shining, “for those wondrous verses possessed me in one divine rush! As if my very pen had learned to speak the truth!”
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