“You can make a plea to Saint Dismas,” said Brother Hylas from beyond the door some little time later. “He may protect you. He protects thieves.”
“Saint Dismas?” Sant-Germainus repeated.
“Our patron. We have taken good and slaves when it has been necessary. Saint Dismas aids us, in the name of Christ. His likeness stands near you. Lift your oil-lantern and see him. You know he is the thief because his hand is struck off. We have made him our protector, and our guardian.” He laughed and repeated “He protects thieves.”
Sant-Germainus felt himself go cold. “Then I must suppose your Brothers are going to steal or capture the cargo and crew of the ship—as much as is left for the taking.”
“Of course: we are thieves in honor of our saint. How else could such a place as this survive on this island? What God sends us, we gladly accept, in the name of our patron.” He laughed. “Jesus paid for our sins, and we are redeemed through our faith. Saint Dismas is our provider, and as is his wont, he sends us plunder when we are in need. As to how we live, we live how we must.”
“Holy criminals, in other words?” Sant-Germainus asked.
“Some might say so,” Brother Hylas said, sounding both proud and amused. “We have often done deeds worthy of salvation, for which we give eternal thanks.”
“And the men from the ship—?”
“They will be fed and given water if they will surrender and be sold. If they will not, then the sea shall have them, and God may spare them or leave them to the Devil.”
“As has happened to many another?” Sant-Germainus guessed aloud.
“As you say,” Brother Hylas chuckled. “You will have the right to choose if you will be slaves or drowned.”
“All of us?”
“Yes. All of you.” Brother Hylas paused. “In a month, ships will set out from Rhodes, and they will come here. We will exchange you seamen for the food and drink and oil the merchants of Rhodes bring us. There are enough of you that we may also get some gold.”
“I see,” said Sant-Germainus. “What will you do with us between then and now?”
“Set you to work,” said Brother Hylas, as if it were obvious. “There is much to be done to this monastery, and to the harbor in the inlet below. You shall not be kept as hogs, to root and wallow all day. You shall labor as oxen labor.”
Lowering his head, Sant-Germainus tried not to give way to ironic despair. After all the sea and pirates could do, that it should come to this! How fitting, he thought, that Captain Argourus would be captured by these Brothers! A pirate seized by thievish monks! He hesitated before he spoke again, for he would have to find a way to keep himself away from the rest of the men in their captivity—he and Rutgeros. He decided to take a risk. “You and your Brothers—do you accept ransoms as well as slave-prices?”
“If ransoms can be got,” said Brother Hylas. “Why?”
“I am a merchant with many ships. The one on which I sailed, the Morning Star, was taken by pirates, and the crew and oarsmen put to work on their ship, which now lies on the south side of this island. They did not kill me because I have gold in Constantine’s City, and in Tyre and Alexandria, which they planned to demand in ransom, and I am the blood relative of a rich widow of Roma: Domina Clemens. If you will keep me and my manservant, and the oarsmen and sailors from the Morning Star safe until spring, I will arrange for a handsome payment to you, through this woman, and supplies as well, as much as anything Captain Argourus could gain you.”
“Gold in far places is gold on the moon,” said Brother Hylas.
“My ships stop at Naxos; I can send word to my captains when shipping resumes. Until then, I will see that my crew and my manservant do nothing against you.” As he said it, he shivered a little, knowing how much his men had already been pushed, and how difficult it would be too keep them in order.
“Why should you do this?” There was an edge in his question that revealed how great his doubts were.
“They are in danger from sailing on my vessel. I should do my utmost to see they do not suffer greater harm.” He would have to dispatch a letter to Olivia as soon as any ship put in to the harbor; once Olivia knew he was in the hands of these monks, she would order a half-dozen of his ships to come after him, ready to deal with the monastery and its monks.
“Do you have gold to offer while we wait for shipping to resume?”
“I have a dozen jewels,” countered Sant-Germainus. “The pirates did not find them because they did not know where to look.” He knew Rutgeros would have the hollow brass sea-guide with him, and its concealed contents.
“And these are true jewels, not ones counterfeit?” Brother Hylas made no effort to conceal his interest.
“They are true jewels.” Sant-Germainus had made them himself in his athanor. “If you will accept them, and spare my men, I will arrange for you to receive more.”
“What is to stop me from taking your sea-guide from your servant and keeping the jewels for our monastery?”
“Only that this is the season of the Nativity, and your god sent us to you,” said Sant-Germainus. “My manservant will point out the Morning Star crew when he and the others return.”
“Brother Theron will have to decide. He rules here,” said Brother Hylas, his voice sounding already half-persuaded.
“He would be a fool to refuse jewels, gold, and provisions,” said Sant-Germainus.
“He would be a greater fool to keep worthless men about,” Brother Hylas countered.
Sant-Germainus was silent for a short while, letting Brother Hylas reflect. Then he said, “Twenty gold coins for each of the oarsmen and crew, forty for my manservant, and fifty for me. It will be delivered on the first ship of my trading company to reach here from Ravenna in the spring.” He knew the amount was double what they would fetch in a slave-market, and larger than many ransoms paid in the last decade. “And ten silver Emperors for every day you keep us here.” The amount was not so much that it would tempt the Brothers to hold onto them, but enough to make housing and feeding them worthwhile.
“It is a goodly sum,” said Brother Hylas. “And a promise easily made. It might not be so easily kept.”
“Speak to the men from the Morning Star and they will tell you what I say is true. They know my ships and the wealth I may draw upon.” He kept his tone level and his words unhurried.
Brother Hylas waited a while, considering. “If we do this, how do we know you will not summon fighting men rather than pay us?”
“I am a merchant, but I am also an exile. If I summon fighting men, they might well turn on me as much as you.” It was true as far as it went; he took a deep breath, and added, “I have money enough to pay the amounts I have mentioned. Any ship of mine wintering on Paros or Naxos will be able to give you a first payment. You needn’t release any of us until the full sum is paid.” He would need to find a way to feed discreetly during the time they waited, but he had endured far worse in times past; he would be able to manage.
“Brother Theron might agree, but he might not: it is his decision.”
“Then swear to me you will speak with him,” said Sant-Germainus, “so that he may decide.”
“If you lie, you will roast on a spit,” said Brother Hylas.
“If I lie, I will deserve such a fate. A lie at the dark of the year is a double lie.”
Brother Hylas was satisfied with this answer. “Very well. I will tell him.” He hesitated. “You cannot escape. Even if you broke out of that hall, you cannot get out of the gate, and if you do, you are still on this island.”
“I am aware of that,” said Sant-Germainus drily.
“Then you will know that any falsehood will bring retribution, and quickly.” Brother Hylas coughed importantly.
“I have more lives than mine to consider; I will not endanger us all,” said Sant-Germainus. “I will do what I must to keep every one of my men from harm.”
“And the pirates? Will you protect them, as well?”
“The
pirates must make their own terms with Brother Theron,” Sant-Germainus answered, grimness in his voice.
This time Brother Hylas took longer to speak. “If that is what you wish,” he said, drawing his words out, “then Brother Hylas may agree.”
“A mercy upon all of us,” said Sant-Germainus with only a hint of sardonic intent.
“We are Christians here. We revere mercy, for love of God. We are thankful for Him and all He provides us,” said Brother Hylas, apparently sincerely, going on, “I will now fetch a lamb to slaughter, so there will be food when my Brothers and the men from your ship return. If I bring you wood, will you build up the fire?”
“Will you allow me to slaughter the lamb?” Sant-Germainus asked quickly, a surge of energy running through him at the prospect of blood, even lamb’s blood. “To give thanks for my deliverance from the storm?”
Brother Hylas laughed again. “You want to slaughter the lamb? I should warn you, it is nearly grown; one of the last from spring.”
“No matter,” said Sant-Germainus, adding with deliberate obfuscation, “It will suffice.”
“I shouldn’t give you a knife. Brother Hylas will have me whipped if I do.”
“Do not fret,” said Sant-Germainus, as if improvising a plan. “I will break the neck and hang it to bleed. I’ll use a nail to open its throat.” A nail would account for the nip of his teeth in the animal’s neck. “There are nails in your benches. I will work a loose one out.” He had not checked for loose nails but was confident he could find one or two.
Again Brother Hylas thought over his answer. “I don’t see any danger in it. If you make the meat useless, I will tell Brother Theron and he will give you cause to regret it.”
“When it is blooded, I will give it to you to gut,” said Sant-Germainus, thinking back to the Year of Yellow Snow, when he had lived on less savory blood than lamb’s. “The meat will be untainted.”
Brother Hylas pondered the possibilities. “I will let you blood the lamb,” he said, and was unaware of the sense of relief that washed through Sant-Germainus. “After that, you may turn the spit while I prepare the fish. Bread, fish, and lamb is a fitting meal for any Christian, particularly at the Nativity.” So saying, he trudged away from the door, humming as he went.
Sant-Germainus returned to the long table and sat on its edge, his mind intent on the many things he would have to arrange in the next day or so if he, Rutgeros, his oarsmen and crew were to survive until their ransom could be brought. He did his best to ignore the hunger pangs that flared in him at the thought of lamb’s blood; he had more urgent plans to make before Brother Theron returned. For an instant he recalled himself as a living youth, going at the dark of the year—the anniversary of his birth—to the sacred grove of his people, to drink the blood of his god so that he would become one of them upon his death, twenty-five centuries ago. With an impatient gesture, he banished that recollection from his mind. With an oath in a language only he remembered, he rose and began to look for a nail he could pull out of the table or bench to account for the holes that he would make in the throat of the lamb.
In a short while, Brother Hylas opened the door. “Come. I’ve got the lamb for you.”
“Very good,” said Sant-Germainus, and followed him to the barn at the edge of the monastery wall.
“I should watch you kill him, to be sure you keep your word.”
Little as he wanted this to happen, Sant-Germainus feigned indifference. “If you think I have any way to harm the meat, then watch.”
“I have work to do in the larder,” said Brother Hylas, and shoved Sant-Germainus toward the pen where a small sheep bleated. He pulled the gate open and shoved Sant-Germainus inside. “I’ll be back in a while. If the lamb isn’t dead and blooded, you will answer for it.”
“I will,” agreed Sant-Germainus, and set about alleviating his ravening esurience. Only when the sheep was hanging from a rope did Sant-Germainus call out for Brother Hylas to finish the task of butchering the animal. While he waited, he thought again of the irony that had brought him to this place, at this time of year: among the centuries that had passed since his death at the hands of his enemies, few of them had marked the anniversary of his birth so pointedly as this one. No matter how he might end up leaving the island, this first night on Dhenoussa would remain unique and vivid in his memory until the end of his undead life.
WEEPING WILLOW, by T. A. Bradley
1
I wasn’t entirely sure that I was doing the right thing, as I signed the last of the pages in front of me. Something about it still felt very wrong. After all, it was my wife, Ronnie, who had wanted the house so badly. Nothing I said could dissuade her. As I slid the completed forms across the table to the realtor and handed her my closing check, I wished that Ronnie could be here. I wished, with all my heart, that Christopher Randolph had not been drunk. I wished that he had not been fiddling with his CD player. I wished that he had not jumped the curb and run into the telephone pole that stood in front of our house. And most of all, I wished that that stupid splinter of wood that he’d sent flying hadn’t ripped into my wife’s femoral artery.
“Congratulations!” said the realtor, extending her hand. “You got yourself a fine fixer-upper. Congratulations!” She was pumping my hand as if she were trying to get an old well restarted. It brought me back from my wishing.
“Thank you,” was all I said. She smiled, then handed me the keys. Her face was literally aglow with the thoughts of the commission on this one. A tidy sum, I suspected, for a house that just sold for four hundred and twenty-seven thousand.
“Now, if there’s anything else you need…anything we at Carlton’s Realty can do to help you get settled, you just call.” She handed me a folder of papers and brochures. “Here’s the start up package. Your electric, phone, cable, trash…all taken care of and up and running.” She shot me another salesman smile. “Everything you need to settle in has already been done. O’course, you can always change things whenever you want…but you’re all set.”
It took about twenty five minutes to get to the house, five of which was negotiating the long winding driveway. The house sat on twelve acres of wooded land, one of the things that Ronnie had loved about it. There was also a lot of work to be done to the house and the property. Another thing Ronnie loved. She was the handyman, not I. I was more the call-in-the-pros type.
The lawn was totally overgrown. Patches of grass and weeds stood two to three feet high in places. A gnarled tree limb stretched across the driveway just short of the front porch. It laid there like an oversized snake, its mottled bark flaked away in places. Shelf fungus was starting to take over and the large white discs scattered along its length stood out like skin cancer. Had it come down another three feet to the left it would have taken out the whole corner of the house. I rolled up to it, my old CJ7 skidding to a stop on the thinned out gravel.
The first thing I noticed when I climbed out of the jeep was the sweet smell of the flowering trees. A stark contrast to the death and decay that surrounded the property. The house was in no better shape than the lawn. Probably a lot worse. The roof had definitely seen better days. Here and there, shingles had fallen away, giving the house a balding look. The paint was puckered and flaking and the glass was missing or broken from most of the windows.
It was a large house and was going to take quite an investment in time and money to get it back to where it should be. But standing there in the driveway, I couldn’t help but see what Ronnie had seen in it. I tried to imagine what it used to look like two hundred and ten years ago when it had been built. Sprawling and majestic. The stone foundation perfectly pointed; the wood siding clean and blemish free and the gables flawlessly peaked above the surrounding trees.
I jingled the keys in my hand as I clattered up the wooden steps to the front door. A light breeze whirled across the porch sending dry leaves skittering in front of me. Turning the tarnished brass handle and pushing lightly, I stepped inside. The musty odor
of disuse assaulted me immediately.
“Well, Richard Anthony Millay, here we are. Here you are,” I said. “What do you think, Ronnie? Are you happy? It’s what you wanted.” I moved into the room, the naked floorboards creaking and groaning in protest. “You do know, of course, my dear, that it’s going to take a professional cleaning crew just to get all the dust outta here, don’t you?” I looked around, then smiled to myself. “I’d be willing to bet that you don’t even care.”
I slowly made my way around the house, taking mental notes about what I thought needed to be done first, just to make it livable. I considered moving into one of those short term rental places, like the Ambassador Suites or something similar, while the place was being worked on, but I decided that that would probably make Ronnie very unhappy. So I made the best of what was.
It took three months of solid work and I can’t begin to tell you how many contractors, but the place was finally shaping up. The lawn was green and living at an acceptable height. The weeds were pulled and sprayed; all the windows and shingles had been replaced and the floors refinished. Nine of the eleven rooms were totally complete. The other two, one on the third floor and a small sitting room off the kitchen still needed some plaster and paint.
One of the first things I did was to get my office in shape. I was a copywriter which meant being able to work comfortably from home. I chose a large room on the second floor which overlooked the back of the house. There was a weeping willow that stood some thirty yards from the house that was visible through my office window. I had always liked the look of those trees, which is why I chose that room.
The Vampire Megapack: 27 Modern and Classic Vampire Stories Page 6
