Brand X

by Christianna Brand

  In my hand the noosed rope, flung across a bough: the murderer even of my own self.

  For he came. Into a life—long, long ago now, he came; and I see him, here in my sick memories, caught here in my timeless trap—I see him: so quiet, so good, the ever compassionate… To him I revealed all the truth, the mark of blood indelible across my mind; and he took my hand and said: ‘I know.’ ‘You know?’ ‘Yes, I see into your mind and I know that the blood is there and I know why. But don’t you understand that I am here for no other purpose but to wash it away?’ ‘To wash it away?’ I stammered and said to him, ‘With what? What can wash away such a mark as mine?’ and he said: ‘Only blood.’ I said, ‘God knows, I have shed enough of that,’ and he said, very sadly, as though he were in an agony: ‘Ah, but this time the blood must be mine.’

  I didn’t understand him. I don’t think I do now. But he said, and goodness knows it has since been said often enough, that he was the Son of God, sent into the world as a sacrifice, and that his blood would wash away all the sins of the world. I know now that that wasn’t true. He was just some sort of nut, I suppose, thinking he had a mission to cure the world of its ills. But he was good: good and kind, loving, compassionate, never judged me, never excluded me, though he knew well enough what I was. Took me in with his people, his chosen friends, made me one of them, and to none did he ever reveal my secret. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone: not in all these lives—unless it was my mother, Eve, and her I loved in the wrong way or I wouldn’t have killed my brother, Abel. But I loved him. He was the first person who ever gave me love; and in the warmth of his loving kindness, the lust for blood died in me, I watched him while he brought people life, not death, while he brought them back from death to life—and I loved him. I even believed that story about his blood washing away the sins of the world, washing away the mark of blood from my mind that held me back for ever on the path to the Light.

  So when they threatened to put him to death I thought: ‘Well, I suppose this is it. This is the sacrifice he was sent to make. And when it’s been made, I’ll be clean, I’ll be free of the Mark. His blood will have washed the Mark away.’

  You can’t say I killed him. It was they who killed him, the Jews. But if he was going to die, if he’d been sent here to die—well, it seemed logical, didn’t it?—not to try to prevent it. I mean, that’s what he’d said he’d been sent for. On the other hand, he hadn’t died yet and perhaps the Mark was still there and that’s what impelled me: or at any rate, failed to prevent me from doing what I realise the others wouldn’t have done. At any rate, when they came to me and said, ‘Take us to him,’ well, I just took them. So much has been made of my having gone up to him and kissed him, as a sign; can’t people realise that my heart was breaking for him?—that I was saying goodbye. They tried to give me money for it afterwards, can you believe it?—the Jews, his bloody murderers, they came and offered me money for having ‘betrayed him’, for having ‘given him away’. I went out and hanged myself. I knew it was safe to do that—well, I believed it then; because, after all, I should be born again with the Mark washed away by his blood, by his sacrifice—I could begin at last on the truly upward path. And anyway, how could I have lived on?—knowing him killed, murdered, sacrificed, hanging there in his agony to cleanse with his blood the sins of the world and mine with the rest. How could I have lived on?—knowing what they had done to him?

  But it was all a nonsense, you see: wasn’t it? The Mark wasn’t cleansed after all, it’s still here, it’s been with me through all the lives since then. He was just a nut after all, with a vision, a dream. But the dream was beautiful and kind and good, as he himself was beautiful within himself, and kind and good. He never judged me, only helped me; he gave me the only love, the only happiness, the only feeling of peace that I’ve ever known. And they hung him up in agony, they murdered him. The Jews.

  Someone is coming! There are voices! Oh, for God’s sake, for Christ’s sake, for his sake—who ever you are, help me, get me out of here! Don’t let it end here, in the darkness and the terror!—the terror that I must die with so much of life before me, with so much still to do, with my great mission as yet unfulfilled…

  My mission… What mission? I know that I have the Mark—some mark, what mark?—I am forgetting, I’ve forgotten what mark, where the mark came from, what is my mission, why am I chosen…? I know only that I must have air, must have light, must have life. For his sake, for Christ’s sake, rescue me, help me, bring me out once more on the path towards the Light…! For Christ’s sake, for his sake, the only person in all my life, in all my long succession of lives that I have ever loved…

  For his sake, whom I sent to his death at the hands of the Jews: and they offered me payment for it.

  I am saved. I am dragged forth from my trap, from the dankness and the dark; against the shattering shock of the light, I close my blurred, blue eyes. They drag me forth, they wipe me free of the blood and the slime, they hang me up by my heels and strike me so that I cry out…

  And I know my mission; and in that same moment the knowledge is obliterated. But my mission is to kill. My mission is to avenge him whom I loved.

  April 20th, 1899. TO MARIA, WIFE OF ALOIS

  —THE GIFT OF A SON: ADOLPH.

  How the Unicorn Became Extinct

  LONG AGO, IT IS said, when the world was young and hadn’t yet given up hope, the British institution of maidenly virginity was held in respect by both young and old, if by nobody else—and the unicorn, the dear little unicorn with his shining coat and delicate, spiralling horn was custodian of the nation’s treasure. Bred to the job by generations of mistrustful fathers, so acute of perception had he become, that upon entering a circle of maidens all total strangers to him, he would trot straight up to the virgin amongst them—there was seldom much confusion of choice—and lay his gentle head in her lap; thereafter defending her, hoof and horn, against all comers. Nothing but the personal intervention of her parents in favour of some knight of professedly honourable intentions, would persuade him to relax his vigilance; though upon his head coming in contact with one of those useful and often ornamental contrivances applied to their wives and daughters by gentlemen bound for the Crusades, (and now so dear to the hearts of curators of museums in the Low Countries) he would often arise and depart, having paid his homage and considering the young lady already sufficiently protected: the poor little sap!

  It may readily be imagined that longevity among unicorns was not common. Apart from a high mortality rate at the hands of the knights crusaders—and in times of war, of conscientious objectors—there had grown up a whole industry, supported almost entirely by young women anxious to be rid of their embarrassing pets, for the extermination of the unicorn; and this became a profitable side-line with almost every locksmith in the city. Overdoses of morphia were concealed in tiny sandwiches of white or brown bread, of which the pretty creatures were inordinately fond; and while they yet lay at death’s door, looking up at their mistresses with drowsing, trustful eyes, these damsels were making haste to ensure that their attraction for the species was brought to an irrevocable end. There came a time when the unicorns were less in number even than the virgins they were called upon to defend; and the flurry and anxiety of the conscientious little beasts in trying to protect two or three high-spirited maidens at a time, still further lowered the resistance of a race already declining from the hazards of its occupational diseases. By the end of the twelfth century, the last of the unicorns stood alone and at bay.

  The last of the unicorns was milk white, and proudly he carried his milk white mane and tail; his horn was the delicate pinky-brown of a sea-shell and he minced along gaily on little, dancing feet. But alas! at his coming the young ladies picked up their velvet skirts and scuttled out of his way; those walking with their girl-friends afraid lest he might approach them and give the lie to confidential boastings, those with their mothers terrified lest he might not. Even the matrons, their eyes upon some
eligible parti, taking no chances would hustle their daughters indoors. Pretty as a fable, docile, affectionate and ready to be single-hearted, the last of the unicorns had nowhere to lay his head.

  And now the current crusade was over and Coeur de Lion, released by the devotion of his jongleur from Austrian bondage, was riding into town. The Mayor and Corporation assembled in the Guildhall for earnest confabulation. There would be the speech of welcome, of course, and bell-ringings and troubadours, and flowers for his carpet and wine for his goblet and peacocks and venison and fat capons for his dish; but Richard had sent word that he was not hungry for food and drink. Let the Corporation concentrate upon finding him a virgin for his bed. She must be blonde, wrote Richard in a letter over which he had been brooding for three long years; and well covered; and he preferred them with a modicum of good sense, though, knowing the difficulties, he would not insist upon that… The letter was in rather obscure verse and moreover in the langue d’oeil, in those days the accepted tongue for an English king. The Corporation scratched their heads over it, but what it all really boiled down to was that any pretty ninny would do as long as she was Pure. He and his boys had had unfortunate experiences in the Holy Land and she simply must be Pure.

  The Mayor passed the candidates hurriedly under review—the Margarets and Katherines and Elizabeths and Janes. With their bottoms tucked in and their knees unnaturally bent, they paraded the council chamber, one or two of them wearing across their plump bosoms sashes embroidered with such legends as Mistress 1188, or Ye Queen of Ye Staple Trade, in medieval spelling. Margaret and Katherine and Elizabeth and Jane… The Corporation, tired business men one and all, blushed for them and let them go. Griselda. They looked up hopefully—but the Mayor was scarlet. Anne. Mayor and Corporation alike, could scarcely believe their eyes. The thing seemed hopeless when somebody thought of Melisande.

  Melisande was as blonde as a lily and abounded in good sense; Melisande was plump, Melisande was just sixteen… But here the Mayor and Corporation broke off and stared at one another in dismay. It was the day after Melisande’s birthday; she had been sixteen for twenty-four hours, and sixteen was the age of consent.

  Melisande, supported by her parents, stoutly defended her eligibility to oblige the king. Her father confidently patted her person and his knuckles rang. ‘One of her birthday presents,’ said Melisande’s father with a significant wink. ‘Love laughs at locksmiths,’ said a town councillor sourly. He knew.

  But the Mayor, who had an interest in the building trade and needed the support of Melisande’s father in the matter of some unnecessary repairs to the rood loft of the local church, was not disposed to argue. He agreed unreservedly to the choice of Melisande and only privately resolved upon sending out scouts to bring in the unicorn. Melisande and Melisande’s father and Melisande’s mother and a certain young knight-about-town, getting wind of this, had an embarrassing rencontre on the steps of the Painless Extermination department at the nearest locksmith’s. ‘Purchasing a gold key for his Majesty, no doubt?’ suggested Melisande’s father with terrible sarcasm. ‘Well, that was the wrong one you gave Melisande, sir,’ said the young knight, not thinking. ‘You’re telling me,’ said Melisande’s father in a perfectly dreadful voice.

  The drums rolled and the pennants flew and the streets were carpeted with petals. Blondel, the jongleur, passed among the crowds doing a brisk trade in ye old feelthy postcardes picked up in France (for a song). The maidens of the city grouped themselves resentfully about Melisande upon a large white float drawn by black oxen, garlanded with flowers: Melisande in a simple white dress and not wearing her birthday present, sat at their head on a rickety wooden throne with a lily in her hand and a sash across her delicious bosom bearing the words ‘Ye Queen of Beauty’ in more medieval spelling. Every damsel had taken the precaution of concealing in the voluminous folds of her skirt a little bread, white or brown, for the enticement of the unicorn; but Melisande’s mother, too much harassed to trouble about whose lines she was stealing had said, ‘Let them eat cake!’—for even more than white bread or brown, the unicorn loved plum cake. ‘Thank goodness the rationing is over and I can manage the sultanas,’ said Melisande’s mother, concealing a large, rich slice in her daughter’s lap. ‘Now you sit still, Melly, and don’t fiddle with your hair; and if the unicorn comes anywhere near you, hang on to him by the mane. And though I haven’t time to speak to you now, my girl, just wait till I get you home…!’

  The drums rolled and the pennants flew and the great white wagon with its flower-decked oxen came lumbering down the street; and the unicorn, the dear little unicorn, merry and self-confident, delighted to be of use again, pranced gaily forward to meet it, his tiny hooves making no sound among the roses and violets strewn in King Richard’s way. Straight to the wagon went the unicorn, and up the steps and on to the moving platform, pushing his soft nose right and left into the velvet laps. Margaret and Elizabeth and Katherine and Jane… Griselda, bribed by the Mayor with the promise of a new cap furred with budge, had consented to stay away. Anne sat at home counting over as many tiring pins and fetis cloaks and furs of vair as there were members of the council. Melisande clung hopefully to the piece of cake.

  Margaret and Katherine and Elizabeth and Jane edged forward the tempting morsels of brown and white bread: but the unicorn had learnt at his mother’s fetlock of the dangers that lurked in brown and white bread. Dancing and curvetting, tossing his curled white mane and his curled white tail, he passed on to Melisande: and Melisande held out the rich plum cake. Plum cake had no terrors for the unicorn. He chumbled it eagerly, delicately snorting, tickling with his tiny white beard her dimpled hand; and chumbling and snorting, pecking with his little hooves at the wooden floor of the wagon, dropped to his knees, closed rapidly drowsing eyes, and laid his head in her lap and went to sleep.

  A cheer went up from the delighted crowd, a cheer for their unicorn, a cheer for Melisande, a cheer for their city which could boast a maiden whose virginity had survived her sixteenth birthday by two whole days; and the cheer mounted as Richard, Richard the King, Richard the Crusader, Richard the Lion Heart, rode up to the wagon and, wilting a trifle under the weight of a good deal of showy but superfluous armour, dismounted from his charger and staggered up the steps. A crown of lilies, ordered and paid for by the leading lady, was handed up. ‘I crown you Queen of Beauty, Queen of Purity, Queen of my Lion Heart,’ said Richard, this time speaking in the langue d’oc—which is even more complicated than the langue d’oeil—in case, back home in the palace, the Queen of England happened to be listening in: (in fact Berengaria’s restraint on this subject when he finally did get home, is said to have given rise among her courtiers to the expression, ‘The liner she’s a lady.’) The unicorn stirred a little in his drugged sleep.

  Melisande bowed her head to receive the chaplet and Richard, his breastplate creaking fearsomely, bent forward to place it on her brow. The oxen moved restlessly in their yokes, the wagon jerked and rolled: the garland fell out of the king’s fingers and on to the nose of the sleeping unicorn. The king put out his hand to take it back.

  The unicorn snorted and muttered in his dreams. He had put his head in a maiden’s lap and the maiden was being assailed. There was something not quite right somewhere, but he was too drowsy to work it out for himself and instinct born of generations of chivalry brought him lurching torpidly to his feet. He arched his shining neck and swished his curling tail and, with the crown of flowers slung over his horn, took an ambling run at the king.

  Richard had removed the creakier parts of his armour the better to dispose himself at the feet of beauty, and the attack caught him in his undefended rear. He sprang to his feet and seized his sword and shield. ‘A Lion! A Lion!’ cried all the men in the crowd. ‘Up the unicorn!’ piped the women, all for retaining Melisande’s hitherto unsuspected virtue and driving the king to a more open choice. ‘What a ruddy liar!’ muttered the boon companions to whom Melisande’s young man had boasted of the de
lights of the previous evening.

  The fight raged fast and furious. Richard, prodded to anger by the unicorn’s first successful flank attack, drove his dancing opponent all round the ring, but could not wrest the chaplet from his brow. The oxen, frightened by the rolling drums, took to their polished heels and, with the wagon swaying perilously behind them, bolted round the town and at last out to the flower-starred fields beyond the city walls. ‘He’s fighting a lost cause, sire,’ hinted Elizabeth and Margaret and Katherine and Jane, staying the king with tiny white and brown sandwiches between the rounds. ‘From the devil we come,’ said Richard, ‘to the devil we go. No wonder we are not as other men.’ Melisande in the opposite corner, with the unicorn’s head in her lap, overheard the boast and, full of memories of her knight, trusted that the disparity was not great. ‘Please, please,’ she implored of the unicorn, searching about for crumbs of the rich plumb cake, ‘please, please don’t go to all this trouble over poor little Me.’

  ‘A Lion! A Unicorn!’ cried the mob, crowding out from the city walls to see the fun. Blondel, the jongleur, having run out of postcardes, for the vellum shortage was still acute, composed a little song and sang it to himself as he wandered lute in hand after his master, down the country lanes. ‘The Lion and the Unicorn, Were fighting for the crown,’ sang Blondel. His not to reason why.

  Melisande was beside herself with apprehension. The unicorn was fully awake now and fighting with the flaming fury of a devotee. She did not think that the king could go another round. ‘Please, please,’ she begged again, wringing her dimpled hands as, at the sound of the gong, the little beast leapt from his corner, dancing and curvetting on his gleaming hooves, bobbing and weaving, feinting now with the right, now with the left, bent upon going right in this time and finishing his man, ‘please, please don’t trouble! I don’t deserve it, honestly I don’t!’ And suddenly, visited by some obviously heaven-sent inspiration, she pushed her way between the combatants and whispered still more urgently into the pointed white ear: ‘Honestly I don’t!’