“No offense was taken, Your Eminence.”
They rode to his manor in companionable silence. All Meloku needed to know now was what she had been sent here to do. Companion had told her to get this far, and promised that her next instructions would be coming from the amalgamates themselves – though what the amalgamates could possibly want out of a dismal plane like this, she had no idea.
But, for tonight, Companion kept its peace.
9
Niccoluccio packed hastily – more hastily, he knew, than he should have. It was already noon. The thought of one more night alone in this graveyard was enough to make him break out in a sweat.
He took what was left of the bread, brick-hard though it was. He traded his worn old boots for a pair left in the infirmary. He could have found a better fit in the dormitory, but the last thing he wanted was to reenter that mausoleum. He was tempted to dress in the triple-furlined coat and ostentatious hat hanging in Prior Lomellini’s cell. But anyone seeing him on the road would assume him to be far above his actual station. Any travelers he met would more likely than not be robbers and brigands. Only devils thrived in Hell.
He shrugged into his own fox-fur coat. He’d brought it into the calefactory. It had been a gift from his parents, the only artifact of his wealthier upbringing he’d been allowed to keep. He pushed aside the monastery gates and left them open. He sidestepped the frozen corpses of the sheep.
Throughout the frenzy of dressing and packing, he’d managed to push the most pressing question from his mind. It crept up on him. What would he do when he reached civilization? The rational thing would be to make contact with the ecclesiastical hierarchy, let somebody know Sacro Cuore’s fate. Then what? How would he live while waiting for a response, if indeed a response was forthcoming? He couldn’t depend on charity. No doubt the churches would be inundated with orphans and widows.
Assuming, of course, that anyone lived at all. The pestilence had wiped out Sacro Cuore. Niccoluccio had no reason to suppose it had been any less virulent in the secular world. Only a thread of hope kept him believing that Rinieri had been wrong, that God’s final judgment hadn’t fallen upon the world. That thread was stretched thin.
By occupying his thoughts like this, he kept himself from realizing that he’d left the monastery grounds until they were well out of sight. A chill settled on his bare scalp. His footsteps came to a stop.
He spun a slow circle. Nothing but trees and a smattering of snow. The silence here was as deep as in Sacro Cuore. Strange. Throughout his years there, he’d begun to imagine Sacro Cuore as the quietest place on Earth.
Niccoluccio had last been this far from the monastery two years ago, and not for long. Coming back was like dreaming of childhood places. The half-forgotten shapes of trees remained as they had been. He remembered each curve in the trail only as he came upon it.
Then, over the next slope, was Sacro Cuore’s lay community: a cluster of cob homes shaded by the hills and trees, and opening into tilled fields to the north and west. He walked faster, grateful for the sight. Gradually, his pace slackened again. The last time he’d been here, dark clouds of hearth smoke had twisted through the air. Today, there was nothing. No smoke. Not a single fire.
The trail vanished under snow near the village. Last night’s storm had snapped three thick branches off the trees at the edge of the clearing. Nobody had come to gather them as firewood.
He reached the closest home. Its goose house was empty. When he knocked, he received no answer. There were no tracks in the fresh snow, but indentations in the mud underneath that might have been footprints.
The door didn’t open easily. It was lashed to a stone set in its base, and hadn’t been fitted securely. When he finally shoved it open, the daylight fell on two pairs of bare feet, shriveled and blackened, on an earthen floor.
Most of the other houses were empty. Two more held bodies. Another few minutes’ searching found mounds of graves, half-buried by snow.
Niccoluccio called. No one answered. Nothing moved. He slumped hard against the rough wall of the nearest house.
He didn’t know how many men had lived in the lay community, but it didn’t seem like there were enough graves to account for everyone. They must have already left, trying to make their way to the nearest town. They hadn’t even gone back to the monastery. Or, if they had, they’d missed him.
He heard a sudden rustle. A cry of despair caught in his throat. Someone was stepping through snow behind the nearest house. Fast.
He stumbled around the side of the house nearly in time to collide with the stranger. But it was no villager. The mastiff froze mid-stride, black eyes staring at him.
Niccoluccio couldn’t remember the last time he’d shouted. Certainly not since he’d entered Sacro Cuore, and probably not for years beforehand. Now he shouted until his voice was hoarse. He yelled at the dog until he felt his face would burst.
He could not control himself. The shock and rage spoke for him. The mastiff came back twice, and Niccoluccio chased her off each time. The poor creature would be better off without him. He picked up a rock from one of the frosted-over vegetable gardens and threw it at her. Finally, he was alone. He sat back against the wall and hid his sob under his hands.
He was going to have to follow in the laity’s footsteps, but he knew in his heart that he wasn’t going to reach the nearest town. He would die. He didn’t have enough food to sustain him. He didn’t know anything about the roads. He’d counted on finding help here, but he hadn’t realized how alone he actually was.
The ice quickly numbed his skin. Cold air bit through his coat. He should have been moving, but his energy had fled.
A monk shouldn’t fear death. He’d thought he’d known where he was bound. There would be a seeming eternity of Purgatory before his final acceptance into Paradise. He’d spent all of his time at Sacro Cuore trying to prepare himself. Now that it had arrived, none of it seemed real.
A quiet, rational voice ticked away his faults in the corner of his mind. He was acting in ways contrary to the man he’d imagined himself to be. Just this past minute, he’d shown himself crueler than he would have believed. The poor creature would be better off without him. The excuse had sounded hollow even in the moment he’d thought it.
By the time he pieced what remained of his wits back together, the sun had traveled a wide arc across the sky. He picked himself off the frozen ground and tried to rub some feeling back into his thighs. It was slow in coming. His hands shook uncontrollably. He wasn’t actually sure how much of himself he’d found again, but it seemed enough for now. He had to start moving. If he stayed with no company but his damning thoughts, there might as well not have been any difference between Hell and the here and now.
He couldn’t see the Via Romea di Stade from here. He had a vague idea of which direction to go, but that was all. He set out heedless of the approaching evening. He couldn’t conceive of spending a night in any of the abandoned houses, let alone trekking back to the monastery. He knew, instinctively, that if he entered either, he would die before he could leave.
Eventually he reached a parting in the trees that must certainly have been a road. There were no tracks in the snow or dirt. Niccoluccio frowned. In winter, the old pilgrimage road saw little traffic, but it hardly went unused. He trudged southward.
But for his crunchy footsteps and heavy breathing, silence abounded. The pestilence must have stifled traffic. But part of him was already imagining reaching the next town and finding it deserted but for the dead. The whole world had been swept away and left him behind.
As the sun neared the horizon, the shadows of the trees deepened and covered the path. Niccoluccio’s footsteps seemed like they carried for leagues in the cold air. No matter how he stepped, he couldn’t stifle them. Once, he heard a sharp crack a quarter-mile off. After a moment crouched and waiting, he decided it must have been a tree branch snapping under the weight of the snow. He kept his ears perked for other sounds of travelers, but
there were none. If there was anyone else here, they were lying in wait.
The last time he’d traveled the Via Romea di Stade, he hadn’t been alone. He’d walked alongside a cart. He’d felt like he was fleeing Florence and the people he’d left there. Three monks had met him at the end of his journey. Niccoluccio hadn’t been able to stop staring at them. They were the most serene men he’d ever seen – too peaceful, almost. Their hoods made them seem identical. They were as Niccoluccio imagined saints when he was a boy.
He’d learned the truth about their individuality later, of course, but that moment had only confirmed the choice he’d made. Leaving Florence, losing his family’s money and comfort, his father – he’d pay all that and more again for the chance to be like those men. He’d never felt less worthy of them than right now, but even the thought of them steadied his step and stifled his shivering.
Clouds darkened the sky to the south and west. He didn’t let them deter his course. As the first needles of freezing rain pierced his arms, he tried to remember the psalms he’d sung in choir the morning after he’d graduated from his novitiate.
Better that all the robbers and silences of the world hear that, if they were going to hear him anyway.
Niccoluccio jolted out of sleep sore and shaking. He clawed at the air until he realized there was nothing out there, nothing shaking him awake – he was shaking of his own volition. He didn’t know what time it was, or how long he’d been shivering.
This was his second night. The first hadn’t been this bad. He’d taken cover under a low pine. He woke sore and miserable, but himself. Last night, there had been no trees with low branches, so he’d crawled under the half-hearted shelter of a bush. The needles and sticks had scratched, but, once he’d settled, he could at least trick himself into feeling comfortable. A carpet of twigs and leaves shielded him from the frozen earth. Since his coat hadn’t yet dried from the recurrent, petty rains, he’d hung it overhead and relied on his habit for warmth.
That had been at the end of the day, before all the heat had ebbed out of the world. This night was a new place. A torment he’d only just become conscious of. He scrabbled free of the bush. The ground spun as if on a pottery wheel. He fell on his first attempt to stand. His bones had turned to ice, yet sweat plastered his underclothes to his skin. He stomped to regain feeling in his feet. In a sudden panic, he checked his underarms for buboes. He felt nothing but sweat.
He didn’t have to search long for an alternate explanation for the dizziness. He hadn’t eaten all yesterday afternoon or evening. He’d been intent on preserving his supplies. He’d fasted for longer, after all. But on fast days he hadn’t been marching all day, or parched.
He put on his coat, but that only made the cold bite harder. The coat had gotten wetter overnight. It must have rained while he slept. He threw it aside and hugged his arms to his chest. But he couldn’t see the ground. He was swimming in ink. He felt his way forward, shivering violently, until he couldn’t stand it any longer and threw himself recklessly ahead just to get his blood flowing. A broken leg or ankle would kill him, but so surely would staying still.
He ducked away from branches as they brushed his cheek. Miraculously, he didn’t trip, and only crashed into a tree once. A world of wormy, veinlike shadows resolved ahead of him. After a minute, feeling returned to his feet. He wished it hadn’t. He was walking on knives. His fingers were no better. Half his body had been taken from him while he slept.
He strode in circles. Suggestions of silhouettes turned into trees, hillsides, the mountains rising to the south. There must have been a modicum of moonlight, or even a kiss of dawn. He kept circling and pacing, rubbing his hands. And then stopped.
All at once, he realized he didn’t know where he was. The trees didn’t look like they had the night before. He must have gone too far pacing, or taken a wrong turn circling.
He retraced his steps until he found something recognizable. The familiarity was fleeting. He hadn’t taken a close look at his surroundings the night before. The bush he’d sheltered under had been some distance from the road.
He’d left his coat, bread and water there.
Yesterday, he had started to wonder if he’d found the Via Romea di Stade after all. The road had seemed more of a clearing carved through the trees. Brushes tangled its path. He’d already gone too far to turn back. He’d kept going and tried not to think about it. This road had to lead somewhere.
But now the shadows showed him several clearings that seemed like they could have been the road. He fought and stumbled his way toward one, positive he’d found the right one. He retraced his steps toward the bush under which he’d taken shelter. Nothing; just another unfamiliar batch of trees.
He took careful stock of his surroundings, trying not to panic. Nothing looked right. The rain had turned the snow to filthy slush. Not long after Niccoluccio regained feeling in his toes, he lost it to the third icy puddle. His boots were soaked through. In Sacro Cuore, he’d gone barefoot in penitential processions, but not once had that been as bad.
By the time the sky brightened, he was still searching. He didn’t think he could have gone very far, but he recognized nothing, nor could he find the road. The forest took on an entirely different cadence at dawn, and nothing looked like it had at night. He walked in circles, larger and larger each time, cursing his stupidity. Several times he spotted bushes like the one he had slept under, and dashed toward them only to discover nothing underneath.
Finally, when the sun shone high through the overcast and his throat was raw from thirst and desperation, he gave up searching.
His eyes burned. He hadn’t felt so ashamed of himself since his final confession in Florence – the most personal, intimate he’d ever given. But he’d already suffered more for this mistake than any sin he’d ever committed.
That was a faithless thought, he knew. He was never going to meet his brothers again. They had crossed through Purgatory and were bound to Paradise – and he was on the first leg of his journey into the darkness. He had been since before he’d left Florence. He couldn’t deceive himself any longer.
He stumbled southward, half-blinded, heading toward the high hills on the southern horizon. They at least meant he was headed in the right direction. His throat was rusty with thirst. He searched in vain for some sign of a road, but later just walked as straight a course as the forest allowed. For all that clumps of trees and brush and steep-faced hills forced him to veer, though, he must have been wandering like a drunkard.
He gathered what little snow had survived the morning’s rain, and dabbed it in his mouth to keep his tongue from feeling like tree bark. He’d stopped shivering, at least. His habit kept him warm enough when the sun was out.
He stumbled across a brownish stream late in the afternoon. He crouched by the water and drank mightily, ignoring the rusty taste. By the time he finished, his stomach felt bulged and swollen. Dirt flecked the inside of his mouth. He couldn’t conjure the saliva to spit it out. Hunger had crept up on him from the margins of his awareness, but he hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he’d sated his thirst. A sudden, stabbing pang in his stomach made him jolt upright in shock.
He’d had bread as breakfast on the day he’d left, and more during his walk yesterday. It hadn’t seemed important, then. He was ashamed of his body for the fact that it seemed important now. He’d worked hard to master it, but he would always be a slave to its wicked desires. Sacro Cuore had done nothing but buy him a temporary reprieve from the person he’d been.
He closed his eyes. He shouldn’t doubt himself like this. Everyone who’d entered Sacro Cuore had desires that chased them away from the temporal world. He doubted any of them had defeated them in their entirety. Even saints sinned.
He should have confessed more often. He’d been afraid of his brothers finding out what he’d left in Florence. About Pietro, and Elisa – but especially Pietro. His life at Sacro Cuore had been too important to risk. He didn’t know that any of the
m would allow him to stay if they knew. He’d confessed several times to his tutor and his priest in Florence, and that had seemed enough. Both men had encouraged him to seek a monastery. Since he’d reached Sacro Cuore, the thoughts had become less troubling.
But they hadn’t gone away.
He took a breath to gather himself, stood. He took measure of the horizon and the foothills ahead. Farther on, snowy peaks cleaved the sky. If he kept heading toward the mountains, he would cross southbound roads heading east around them. He remembered, on his trip to Sacro Cuore twelve years ago, shadowing the mountains for days at a time.
He hobbled forward, trying to walk around the pains in his stomach. His head swam, but he was able to put it behind him. For the first time since he’d set out from Sacro Cuore, he wasn’t afraid of the death he was surely marching toward.
That didn’t last as long as he would have liked.
A crinkle from a bed of leaves behind him drew his attention. A shadow darted into the trees. He spun, froze. The shape had been too low and too fast to be a person, but neither had it been small. It had disappeared by the time he focused on it.
He turned back toward the hills and walked quickly. Already the sun was near the western horizon. If this night was to be as cold as last, he would never survive sleep. He would have to try to walk through the night. The icicle in his stomach and the lightness of his head made him doubt he could do that, either.
More than once, hunger pangs drove him to halt. Each time it was harder to force his legs forward again. He chastised himself, but that didn’t do more than further drain his energy. Thoughts of food became a constant bedevilment. He even kept an eye out for stray hares and birds, not that he would know what to do if he saw one. He had never hunted, not during his youth and certainly not at Sacro Cuore.
By the time the sky turned red, he became aware that his path was no longer straight. He weaved and bobbled like a drunkard. He blinked and forced himself to straighten it. The next time his feet wandered, he only just managed to avoid running into a tree that rose out of the blurred forest. He set his hand on it and paused, panting.
Quietus Page 11
