*
By the time Burns managed to get Elsie to their floor, they were both covered in sweat, and he had to struggle with what he thought was the returning symptoms of his hangover, until he realised it was carrying Elsie -- the smell of her, the feel of her damp skin -- that made him ill.
He pushed her against the wall beside their suite door and pinched her pockets to find the key. A lanky young woman with long black hair left the suite beside theirs. Burns supposed she was the hotel housekeeper since she wore an ageing off-white apron, and had skin the colour of a dishcloth. As she walked by with an owlish stare, he saw the brooch above her left breast, similar to Pais'. Her stare embarrassed him.
He had to lean to drop the books on the floor before he could get the key from Elsie’s pocket. He dragged her to the bedroom, where he tipped her over the mattress.
Her beer-drenched clothes had soaked his shirt and made soft clots of the blood. Burns used shaky hands to wipe the sweat from his face. She lay taking long, watery breaths. He didn't want to be in the small room with her -- the combined pepperiness of the blood on his clothes and the alcohol and sick from her taunted the poison still in his stomach. He needed to call a doctor. He needed to call the police.
– what police? He hadn't seen a single officer since coming to Rodenje.
He needed Elsie awake and coherent, so she could explain what had happened.
Only now did Burns think to look at the bed covers. On Elsie's side of the bed, they were neatly folded, and tucked under the pillows. She hadn't slept here last night. Had she left after putting him to bed, to rejoin the festival? She had the key, suggesting she had left by choice. On the other hand, she might have the key because she had to get it from his pocket last night, when he had been the senseless one. Had men in pelts come to take her from the suite afterward? Or had she been a victim of the same drug that had affected Burns? She could have left the suite to wonder through the town after managing to get him back… He wasn't sure what to think.
The blood coating his shirt and jeans reminded him of what Pais had said: they were part of a tribute.
He snarled at the room, "What fucking tribute?"
He wondered how far it went -- was Elsie another part of it? Did it include those men forcing her to drink? Pais had led Burns to fuck her; had those men --
Burns thought of getting those filthy clothes from her skin. He had to clean her. And if he needed, if he had to check just to be sure...
His stomach churned, the contents pushed for release, urged him to the bathroom. He barely reached the toilet.
*
He splashed cold water from the tap over his face before he pulled the shirt and jeans from his skin, which the blood left pigmented like a birthmark. He rolled the clothes together and tossed them into the bath. He wanted to lie in the bath; his skin gasped for cleansing warm water.
Instead, he took a towel from the rack and ran the hot tap over it. His need for a bath would have remained unfulfilled, since the water ran cold. He rolled the towel together, drenched it, and rubbed soap against it to rub his skin. He inhaled the cheap soap's aroma with relish, but quickly finished scrubbing and threw the sullied towel on his ruined clothes. He plucked another towel from the rack to pat himself dry. At least housekeeping kept fresh towels in supply. When he finished, he rolled together the towel to run water over it, frothed it with the soap, and took it and the last dry towel to the bedroom.
He put the towels on the floor beside the bed and leant over Elsie to take off her clothes. He was convinced she wasn't sleeping; she was unconscious. Even so, he resisted intentionally stirring her. He wasn't sure what he'd say if she woke. He removed her stinking clothes and took them to throw over his own in the bath. He hesitated when he returned to the bedroom. He had never seen Elsie in this condition. The sunlight through the window made her skin seem unnaturally translucent and pale. He didn't want to touch her; he didn't want to smell her.
He took the incense from the windowsill to set it on the bedside counter. Its acrid fumes would be better than what filled the air now. He put a match to the stick until the tip became an ember.
The incense helped. He started to clean Elsie.
He barely looked where he wiped her, and only touched her with his hands when he had to lift a leg or an arm. He could do little about her hair, which lay in knots over the pillows. When he finished drying her skin, he used the same towel to wrap her hair.
He returned to the bathroom to wash his hands. Without a clean towel, he shook off the water and let them dry while he mulled over what to do. In the bedroom again, he took a rough old blanket from the bottom of the wardrobe and used it to cover Elsie. He tried not to think about why her nakedness made him uncomfortable. Pais came to mind again. She made him look at Elsie -- at the shape under the blanket where the breasts raised the cover, where it dipped between the slightly parted legs. He looked over where he'd blindly felt Pais in the dark.
He snatched fresh clothes and a pair of shoes and left the bedroom to dress in the lounge.
*
Dressed, he sat in the couch and breathed the faint fumes of the incense. While his nerves settled, he tried to remember why he found the men pouring drink over Elsie and taunting her so familiar -- he might have seen similar during last night's festival, but those memories remained dim and chameleonic. He might have read it. It could be his bedraggled mind, pestering him. He supposed it was possible the pelt-covered men were playacting; maybe they hadn't slept or sobered up since yesterday, and didn’t realise the festival was over.
How much had they forced Elsie to drink, and how much had she drank of her own will? She hadn't drank to excess in years, though she hadn't been shy of alcohol prior to their relationship.
If the men had role-played, then perhaps he shouldn’t allow it disturb him so much -- they had allowed Burns to retrieve Elsie without intervention. He had responded to their shocking appearance, as much as to the shock of finding Elsie helpless. He would put a stop to socialising, particularly where local celebrations were concerned. He would avoid Pais, if he saw her again – which he probably would, since he had the books.
The books. He'd left them in the corridor. He went to get them, and swore when he saw they were missing. He considered going to reception -- the household staff could have removed them. Then he saw them on the table nearest his suite, beside the bronze bow. White grains partially filled the bowl. Salt, he thought. Oddly, it gave him an indication of his recovery: he finally felt hungry. He took the books into the suite and collected the key to the door.
Fast.
Since the suite had no food and Elsie would likely sleep into the evening, Burns decided to head out. He put the books into a briefcase along with a jotter pad and a few pens. Before he left, he felt Elsie's cheek and forehead. She felt warm again. Her breathing was regular, and the incense took the ripeness from the room. He left the suite.
In the corridor, he noticed a large empty space between two tables where a removed couch had left a dusty skin on the floor, and a less faded contour on the wall. He hadn't noticed the space when he'd left with Pais or during his return with Elsie, since he'd been preoccupied. He wondered if he'd found Elsie on the missing couch in the street, but that touched on his earlier anxiety and confusion, so he dismissed it as coincidence. The landing was faintly sweet and he wondered if Pais' perfume lingered.
He considered asking reception to bring a meal to the suite (and a sandwich for Elsie once she woke), but the lobby was deserted. It occurred to Burns then that other than the exit and the door to the stairs, there was nowhere for a receptionist to go – no connected offices, no other spaces.
The colours of the flowered street faded with the day. He consciously kept his distance from the street where he'd found Elsie and the men. Once more, silence shrouded Rodenje. He wondered what to expect later in the evening. The idea of more festivities in Rodenje was enough to depress him.
He wandered away from the flowered streets,
Pais' corridor. When he saw a street with bronze bowls left outdoors, he avoided walking through them.
The weight of the books in the case reassured him. They didn't look like contemporary publications. Dusk gradually smothered the light as he took street after street with the feeling that he was circling, but roaming finally worked in his favour -- he caught savoury wafts of roasting meats. He pictured the roast. Beef: skin crackling, blistered, sizzling. His stomach writhed as if it could reach for the food without need of the rest of him. Nearby, drawn by the cooking meat and the stillness of the town, dogs barked -- those odd, crone-like barks that sounded like laughter, or crying, or scorn.
Burns caught wafts of the same incense he'd left beside Elsie in the suite. It made him think of how these people had lived long ago, roasting over kindle and peat.
He found light spilling from a doorway, shimmering over the aged cobblestones. As with most of Rodenje, the house indistinguishable. It could be a home, a shop, a restaurant; it could be a local chapel. Inside were four tables, with just one set with cutlery. At the centre of each table was a single lit candle, each little more than heavy clumps of wax. Black threads of smoke contorted above them and brooded under the ceiling. Burns saw no one in the room, and might have walked on to find somewhere else, but he was ravenous.
He tapped twice on the door. In the quiet, it sounded impatient. A door at the back of the room opened. A stout woman shuffled across the floor. She carried a colourful cloth like a scarf, but Burns noticed its many stains, as if she used it as a dishcloth. Currant-sized flecks clung to it and peppered the floor as her busy legs brought her to Burns. She smiled, and waved the rag at the room in an inviting gesture. Her voice was high as a schoolgirl's as she spoke in words Burns found incomprehensible. It seemed every other person in Rodenje spoke a different language. She reminded him of the woman he'd bought yava from on his first day in Rodenje.
She went to the prepared table and pulled the chair out. She flapped the dishcloth again. Her enthusiasm made Burns a little reluctant, but he put the case on the table and sat. He tried to recall how to ask for a menu. With none to point at, he put his hands together and opened them like a book. She nodded and held her smile, and put a hand on his shoulder as if to comfort him. Her hand through his shirt was warm and soft. It had the persistent pressure of settling dough.
Burns tried to fidget enough to convince her to remove her hand. It worked, but before she shuffled back through the door she'd come from, she stroked the hair on his nape. This left him with the feeling that she had deposited flecks from the dishcloth in his hair. He resisted the need to wipe the sensation away until the door swung behind her. He shook hard fragments from his hair, and heard them skip across the floor.
Each barren table had a single chair that faced Burns. While unoccupied, they still made him feel watched. He would feel better if more tourists wandered in from the street, but he hadn't seen a tourist in three days. Still, the wait would be worth it, once he had the roasted dinner on his table -- except he hadn't ordered yet, and he was still without a menu.
The kitchen door opened with a soft thump from the woman's thick forearm -- the limb had the girth of an animal joint. She brought a bronze mug to Burns. He was about to object – he'd had his fill of alcohol -- when he saw it was water, and realised he hadn't drank since he woke. He took the mug gratefully. The water had the coolness and taste of depth. He raised the mug to thank the woman before he registered it echoed the boar-man's toast today.
The woman still smiled a more natural expression than Burns had seen on the men earlier, but it never altered, as if her muscles were paralysed. She nodded, pleased with Burns, and said something before abandoning him again.
Once she pulled the door closed, Burns downed more water. He left silt at the end of the mug, and shook his head at the Rodenje's hygiene. He added bottled water and canned foods to the supplies he needed to find tomorrow. He would live on those instead of playing bacterial roulette with stomach bugs or food poisoning.
But first, the roast...
He heard cutlery tap a plate, and imagined the woman's thick hands pressing a large knife through whatever meat had attracted him here. He still needed to order his meal. She returned with another shove of the door. She carried a wide, deep metal plate to Burns. The rich wafts of the roast followed her. Burns salivated. His stomach twitched impatiently.
The woman set the dish on the table and Burns' delight floundered. The dish was a mix of various nuts, berries, and seasoning. He shook his head. "No. I don't want this. I want the roast. Meat." She nodded, still with that unmoving smile. He wished he'd brought the Idiot's Guide. He gestured, moving his hands together, and then opening them. "A menu?" He tried to recall the word for it. When he pushed the dish from him, her smile collapsed.
Something troubling crossed her face; not annoyance, or even confusion, but shock or perhaps fear. She shook her head, and pushed the dish closer to Burns. When he tried to move it away again, she grasped his forearm. Her thick fingers dug in. Burns had no doubt she could overpower him with brute force.
"Christ! What are you--" he tried to twist his arm free, when a growl from the street had him realise the door remained open. After the step, the street was vague shadows.
-- just dogs, Burns thought, when some form across the street slumped further into the shadows. He could have dismissed it as his imagination, if he hadn’t heard part of the thing's thick torso scrape the cobblestones.
"Majka," the woman said. When Burns looked at her again, her smile had returned, but it was a twitching and nervous specimen. She let his forearm go, and went to the front door. She scraped her feet and breathed loudly, making as much noise as possible in the few steps it took, and shut the door, knocking on it twice with a thick fist, shaking it in its frame.
Burns rubbed his forearm where the woman's grip had left imprints. It would bruise, he was sure.
He wanted to leave the house. The woman intimidated him -- but not as much as the slumped creature outside. If he stayed for a meal, the wild animal would roam to another part of the town, or return to the countryside.
The woman gave the street no more thought. She watched Burns. He raised a hand over the dish, and took a small yellow nut. He put it in his mouth. It had the heavy smooth taste of milk and the seasoning reminded him of Rodenje's wild fields, and while it wasn't roast meat, he was very hungry. When he swallowed it, he couldn't help but look at the woman for approval.
Instead of approval, he saw relief; she patted a hand on her sternum. Burns thought she was close to tears; her eyes glistened. She returned to his side and raised a hand. Burns tried not to cringe, but she stopped shy of touching him. She blessed herself in a zigzag manner Burns had noticed a few Rodenje women perform, yet he had the odd impression that she directed her veneration toward his table, as if it were an altar. He tried to stop short of thinking she directed her veneration toward him.
The flavoured nut was good. He took more, this time picking a few at a time, and made sure to collect from the bowl more of the seasoning. As he chewed, he raised his mug – empty now – and gestured for a refill. The woman shook her head, but she still looked relieved, and pleased.
An infant cried from the kitchen, and the woman looked at the door. Burns heard something in the other room move against the wall; it was much bigger than an infant, and it made a lazy grumbling sound. He wondered if someone (the woman's husband, possibly) slept in there, disturbed by the cries. The woman went to the door, stopped, and watching Burns. It occurred to him she was waiting for him to excuse her. He nodded, and she left. He heard her coo before the door closed behind her. Soon, the crying and the deep grumbling stopped.
*
After the muesli-like meal, the roast still tantalised, but Burns' hunger was already an unimportant memory. He could do with more water, but could wait until he returned to the hotel. The woman remained in the kitchen and her child and husband remained quiet. He was alone in the candlelit room, which,
he discovered, pleased him.
While he ate, he took the first of the books Pais had given him from his case. Careful to use fingers that hadn't touched the meal, he opened it to the first page, where a woman much like Pais lay naked and watched him.
It couldn't be Pais; the paper seemed very old, and the ink had a faded purplish hue that gave Burns hope -- scribes of the Middle Ages mixed oak galls with water, vinegar, or wine, among charcoal and other ingredients to make ink. On the other hand, the drawing had a modern expressiveness and finesse. He found himself studying the nakedness, as if it recreated Pais' form. Then he thought of the shape of Elsie under the old blanket back in the hotel, and turned the page.
The next drawing had the same woman with her back to Burns, still naked, but standing on a carpet of bent grasses that reminded Burns of the flowered streets. In one hand, she had a crop of flowers.
A short arm and the crescent of a child's face tilted into view behind her, the small hand holding more bundled flowers. Burns had the idea the woman wore the same disguised, playful, yet unloving smile he'd gotten from Pais in the chapel; maybe the child, in the thin strip he saw of the face, wore a similar smile. On the opposing page, Burns read this brief Latin description: Mater Absurdus. He wondered if it was a condemnation of motherhood, or just this woman's role.
Instead of the following pages showing more drawings, Burns scanned pages of text. The thick sheets made less than forty pages of reading, and the scribe had interchanging languages several times. He found sentences in Latin, Greek, what struck him as Polish, and letters and arrangements that switched mid-sentence from Latin to Arabic alphabets. The style of the handwriting remained consistent, with several recurrences of a single meaning – in Latin, tributum; in German, hommage; in Spanish, in French, in old English: sentences calling for tributes. The symbols between paragraphs and pressed between words gave him a little hope, though they were such a mix (Greek, Roman, Celtic, Viking, more) that he found the text hard to accept as genuine.
Dead Birds: The Dark Orphans Collection Page 10
