The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

  Along with the rest of the house, I try to nap. I don’t know if the shadow demon is fooled. I never sleep well. I hear noises, reverberations, not-quite-words. I hear sounds like the brittle snap of kindling, the rustle of turned parchment. Feathers, fluttering and folding down the rippled strength of muscular wings. Sometimes it’s because the stabled horses make unexpected noises, stomping and whinnying as though they have an urgent warning. Other times the wind blows through the poplars outside my window like a thousand quiet voices murmuring words I can’t quite hear. I can never forget my exorcism and what Monsignor Ramberti showed me happens to people accused of cavorting with demons.

  Gradually, I doze. But whispers invade my dreams. Demons have whispered to me before, forcing nightmare prophecies into my mind.

  My nightmare returns. I see Father’s hair, once as brown as my own but now greying, fan around his pale face as he lies on the dusty ground. Blood streams from Father’s mouth, between his too-long whiskers. The startling redness of that blood! I know from past fencing injuries that blood is always too red. Father’s eyes frighten me the most. They turn to me without focus. A tall pale-haired figure in an iron-coloured cape, as menacing as a vulture, approaches him. I don’t know who he is—but the hand he reaches to Father bears the nacreous sheen of demon skin.

  ‘Go away!’ I roar.

  The shape rears up, and steps away. My dream-self falls beside Father, upon red-streaked mud.

  ‘Father!’ I cry. ‘Father!’

  My dream-self reaches for Father’s hand, using my other arm to shade Father’s face from the ferocious sunlight.

  ‘Father! What happened? Where?’

  But Father’s eyes stare through me. I look over my shoulder but can make nothing out in the blinding light. I turn back. Father rests one hand on the softness of his stomach. Blood spreads out there as well. Father’s eyes are still, then closed. He opens his lips as though to say something. Perhaps that’s the whispering I’ve heard. I lean closer.

  ‘Don’t let me go,’ he says. His breath smells coppery, meaty. I hold his hand until the blood darkens.

  I throw my head back and wail, and wake up in my own chamber. The dark shadow has moved back to the corner, where it sits expectantly.

  I toss my tunic over my head as I run along the long hall to the stone stairs. Gemma is on her way up. She gapes at me, then grabs my arm.

  The vision has stained my eyelids. I see it still when I blink: Father lying in a bloody heap.

  ‘Luca,’ Gemma says. ‘What’s wrong?’

  I tell her about my dream. ‘I have to find Father!’

  Gently, she takes my arm. ‘You’ve had a nightmare. You don’t want to run downstairs. You’ll alarm the others!’

  Alarm the others. Shame washes over me. My dreams. One day, I suspect, they will cost me everything. No, confessing would not be good for Father or for me. And no, I don’t want to alarm anyone. I imagine the rumour already. Through the kitchens, through the sheds where we age olives in barrels of brine, through the stable, the words would flow as steadily as that trickle of blood down Father’s cheek. People’s whispers rustle like poplar leaves.

  Master Luca is having those dreams again. His demon is back.

  I can’t let that happen. I can’t let people lock me up and exorcise me again. I can’t let Father leave on the pilgrimage without me. I have to save him.

  Later that afternoon, I sit at the window of my chamber, watching Anna in the kitchen garden below and waiting for Father. Though my tutor left, I’m meant to be studying, to enter university in Bologna—very soon, if its teachers haven’t all joined the pilgrimage—and have a lot of Latin to learn first.

  Codex. Codices. Codicis. Codicum. Codici. Codicils.

  I’m distracted and the declension of words runs together. The army of knights and peasants will take many moons, maybe years, to pass through Anatolia and the Levant and reach Jerusalem. The Pope promises direct entry to Heaven to anyone who takes part. It’s an adventure that will never happen again. Father has to see why I must go!

  The hours slip by, through afternoon prayers and towards evening vespers. The sun begins to set. There’s a noise downstairs. Father!

  I leap to my feet and race down to the entry hall.

  Father stands there, tall in his linen tunic. Servants are busy helping him with his cloak.

  ‘Father! I need to—’

  But he raises a hand to stop me. ‘It’s evening, Luca. Time for vespers.’

  But after prayers, Father stalls me again. ‘Cook has prepared a fine meal for us, Luca. It’s important for Anna to eat regularly.’

  Finally, meal over, he beckons me to follow him upstairs, to the chamber where he works by the light of an olive-oil lamp. He sits at a table behind a row of wax tablets used to record rents and crops from our tenants. He raises greying eyebrows as an invitation to speak.

  ‘I know about the gathering today,’ I begin.

  ‘I knew you’d hear.’

  ‘You know I want to go to Jerusalem. You told me we’d both stay here.’

  ‘That was my plan. But Grand Contessa Matilda has ordered all landholders to go. All landholders, Luca. Not their sons. I won’t risk your safety or our family’s future by taking you with me.’

  ‘It isn’t fair!’ I can’t keep the anger from my voice. ‘The pilgrimage will be glorious! You’ll see Jerusalem again. You’re always speaking of your last journey. I should be allowed to go.’

  Father’s expression grows still more serious. Last time he went to Jerusalem was just after my mother died. That was also when demons first came to me. ‘Times were different,’ Father says. ‘I was in a small group. We were welcomed into the Holy City, to pray and worship at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Now we go to do battle.’

  ‘You say battle like it’s wrong!’

  Father pauses. ‘Jerusalem is a civilised city, Luca. Its people have welcomed us in the past, though they worship another god. They don’t deserve pain.’

  ‘Its people are Saracens!’

  Father continues as though I hadn’t spoken. ‘I’ve been instructed to go. Matilda is Margrave of Tuscany. Her word is law. I don’t have a choice. But I have a choice about you.’

  ‘If all knights must go, that includes me.’

  ‘I’ll be taking enough knights, Luca.’

  ‘You’ll be taking Narlo.’

  Father looks at me steadily. ‘Narlo doesn’t have to learn how to run this estate.’

  ‘So that’s it? Narlo gets to make his fortune at war while I’m inspecting bees and counting olives?’

  ‘I have no other son!’ Father’s anger nauseates me like a demon breathing at my shoulder. He calms himself before continuing. ‘This pilgrimage isn’t about riches, Luca. Our farmers are going. Their families are going. Many people who don’t seek riches in this world are going. Those with impure motives must fail.’

  ‘Farmers are going! Men who don’t know how to fire arrows! If children go too, I don’t see what harm can come to me.’

  ‘You’ll be staying here, Luca. I have decided.’

  I storm out, leaving Father with the false certainty that all is resolved. But I’ve made my decision. I will join the pilgrimage. Gemma follows me into the yard and the fragrant evening air. ‘Did you talk to Father? About Narlo?’

  Guilt stabs me. How could I have forgotten Gemma’s problems?

  She must read my answer on my face. ‘I won’t marry him! I’d rather be a nun! I want to learn things! Like Matilda!’

  ‘You will,’ I tell her. ‘I will talk to Father. I promise.’

  First, I need to work out how.

  Father’s various duties keep him locked in his chamber for a few nights, and, just as I decide to insist on talking to him there, he rides away from the villa for business that Anna tells me will take three sevennights. ‘There’s a lot to be organised before everyone leaves,’ she adds.

  She’s right, of course. As Conte, Father is responsible for ju
stice in many towns and hamlets. I won’t see him for nearly one full moon. This should give me time enough to work out what to say.

  CHAPTER 2

  Twenty-nine moons

  TUSCANY

  Luca

  The day Father is expected back, Narlo is triumphant in the fencing yard. ‘I pity you, Luca! Later this year, you’ll be building haystacks while I’m slaying Saracens!’

  He lunges with his heavy, blunt practice sword. I know he’s trying to provoke me into carelessness. This is his favoured fencing tactic. Otherwise, he isn’t very good.

  I parry with both my sword and words. ‘When you return, Gemma will be married to someone else! She’ll have sons who’ll all be ahead of you in the inheritance line.’

  He lunges again. ‘I’ll come back with so much Saracen gold I won’t want your de Falconi vines. I’ll get them anyway. I’ll get Gemma. She’ll give me a few babies, then I’ll lock her up in a convent. Use your sword, Luca. Be a man. Try to stop me.’

  He knocks me off my feet and I thump onto the mud, jarring my back and dropping my sword. Narlo laughs, walking away. It’s one of the few times he’s defeated me and it’s the first thing he tells Father when he returns.

  That evening after vespers, I go to meet Father at the stable.

  It hasn’t rained in a sevennight. Dry leaves crackle underfoot, like children whispering beneath a gorse bush. Father stands with Narlo in the dim light, preparing for the pilgrimage. A nearby table is already stacked with armour, tunics and surcoats, and leather bags to carry provisions.

  At the stable entrance, I cough. Father turns.

  ‘Ah, Luca. I was about to send for you.’ He addresses Narlo. ‘I have business with Luca alone. We’ll meet you back at the villa.’

  Narlo looks surprised, but he rarely argues with Father and soon walks off. Maybe not as far as the villa. He’s too curious for that. I imagine his eyes staring at us, one more pair in the darkness, among those of demons who are always watching.

  ‘Luca, this is a serious undertaking,’ Father says.

  ‘Also a great undertaking.’ I launch into my prepared speech. ‘Riches in Heaven, riches on earth…’

  ‘We’ve had that conversation, Luca,’ Father says. ‘There’s something else we need to discuss. Something I must show you before we leave.’

  He walks further into the stable.

  ‘Something to show me here?’ The only things of value here, as far as I know, are our horses. Sensing our approach, they fuss in their stalls, kicking the grassy smell of hay into the air. I pat Orestes as we pass, and Father pats Potestas, his own chestnut charger.

  Father steps into a vacant stall, holding a lantern to guide the way. He kicks at layers of hay. Eventually, a section of stone floor is exposed—and something I never knew was here. A wooden trapdoor.

  ‘I intended to show you this on your next birthday,’ he says. ‘I was eighteen when my father showed it to me. But in two sevennights, I take my pilgrimage vows and within two moons I leave Tuscany. So I’ll show you now.’

  Father passes me the lantern and pulls on the trapdoor’s iron handle. Stone grates powerfully against stone.

  I hear a whisper and grab Father’s arm. ‘Who’s down there?’

  ‘No one.’ Father has revealed a square opening in the floor, through which a simple rope ladder leads into darkness. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I heard someone.’

  ‘There’s no one. Luca, can you climb while you hold the lantern?’

  I nod and begin the descent. We reach a dirt floor. I shine the lantern around what looks like an underground chapel—a crucifix is attached to one wall and an ancient timber cabinet is propped like an altar on rocks against another. Rags and tattered rugs soak up damp from the floor.

  But why is there a chapel here? We have a modern chapel with the latest stained-glass windows in the villa.

  A shadow slumps against the far wall.

  ‘You see it?’ Father asks, taking the lantern from me. I’m fairly sure he means the cabinet, not the shadowy demon. ‘Go look.’

  I half expect the cabinet to be locked, but the door creaks open. Evidently, this underground hiding place is security enough. The shadow stretches in the flickering lantern light. From previous experience, I know that if I stare at it long enough, the demon will spot my interest and start to materialise, to test me. I continue pretending to ignore it but I’m nervous. This might be the biggest demon I’ve seen.

  Father stands behind me as we peer into the cabinet.

  Two wide shelves are lined with colourful, chipped tiles. Upon one rests a large rectangular object wrapped in a finely woven woollen scarf.

  Father pulls the parcel out. I step back, shocked by the long shadow following it from the cabinet. A ghostly rope trails on the floor. This enormous demon is tethered to whatever lies wrapped in that parcel.

  I watch Father as, carefully, he unwraps the scarves, layer after layer. Each is as fine as those Anna wears.

  I lean forwards in excitement as the third and final scarf is unwrapped, then sink back on my heels in disappointment. We aren’t a poor family, but we don’t have treasure hidden beneath the floor of our stable either.

  What we have instead is a book.

  A very old book, the oldest I have ever seen. The size and shape of a trencher of bread, but as thick as my wrist, it has near-black leather covers held closed by a broad belt. Its brass clasp is embossed with an enigmatic design. Edges of something surely finer than parchment peek out around the sides.

  Father has a kindly expression on his face. ‘A codex,’ he says. ‘A book. The pages are vellum, the finest parchment, made from calfskin.’

  I step closer. The shadows move closer too, the enormous one growing darker as it leans over the book.

  ‘The de Falconis have had it for generations,’ Father continues. ‘In time you’ll understand its significance.’

  ‘In time?’ I hate advice like this. ‘But how will I learn if you are away?’

  ‘I’ve written you a letter. Don’t be impatient, Luca. For now, it’s enough for you to know the book is here and it belongs to you. I’m giving it to you. Come, take a look.’

  Father tries to unfasten the clasp. ‘I’ve never had trouble with it before. Not since my father gave it to me.’ He passes the book to me, still locked.

  The clasp opens as soon as I touch it, and the leather cover falls open. The book feels mysteriously powerful, like it has some life force of its own. Beneath my fingers, vellum pages flutter as though they want to turn themselves.

  Father frowns. ‘There’s a legend that says the book can only be opened by its owner.’

  I laugh. Father doesn’t usually care about legends. But he doesn’t join in. I look up to see a deep crease between his eyes.

  Behind his head, the dark shadow is slowly materialising. An unpleasant sulphur smell fills the room. The demon’s head, as large as a horse’s, comes into focus first, then its broad shoulders and glaring, blood-red eyes. It has long, bat-like ears that point upwards and twitch, alert to secret sounds. An even longer nose arcs to a chin tufted with the same sharp feathers that adorn its forehead. Its chest is broad and strong, with scales the colour of tarnished coins. From its back and shoulders spread vast wings covered in a combination of these coin-like scales and the sparse feathers of an old bird.

  The demon leans over Father like a hunter over its prey. But it’s not interested in Father, I realise. It’s interested in the book. A long silver cord runs from the book’s spine to the dirt floor, disappearing into the demon’s back.

  All demons are tethered to something. I’ve wondered before if the stronger the demon, the more rare and unusual the item it is tethered to. The book’s demon watches my hands on the vellum. Then it looks up, its eyes searching my face. It sees me seeing it.

  And it knows that I can see it.

  Quickly, I look down at the book. It’s open to a poem in a language I can’t read. All I recognise are the
symbols for numbers. Thirty and thirty and thirty.

  Father turns another sheet of parchment, oblivious. The demon’s eyes gleam more radiantly. It stretches out a sharp claw, as though to run it along my chin.

  I try to change what my eyes focus on, to make it look like I’m still seeing right through it. I let my gaze travel along the dirt wall behind the evil creature. I stay very still.

  I’m not sure the book demon is convinced.

  ‘Look at this,’ Father says. ‘The book was brought to us from Venice, but when we opened it we found this picture. Our villa, drawn here—by someone who could never have seen it himself. Look. Look, Luca.’

  I shake my head and look down. Father is right. An illustration in the book does look remarkably like our villa. It’s surrounded by words. Only a few are in Latin. Others are a mixture of languages, in strange letters I have never seen before.

  ‘Luca,’ the demon says, spiteful amusement in its voice. A smell like rotting fruit accompanies its speech.

  ‘Father?’ I ask, hesitantly.

  He looks up. ‘Yes, Luca?’

  I watch as he turns more sheets of vellum. The demon’s chest rises and falls, feathers wobbling. Is it laughing? Evil intent washes from it in waves.

  ‘Luca,’ it says. ‘Luca.’ It must be bad for it to know my name.

  ‘Father! Stop!’

  Father has just passed a page full of illustrations. He looks at me.

  ‘Go back.’

  The page he returns to is covered in pictures of demons. I feel almost indescribable relief. Demons aren’t the product of my diseased fantasy. I’ve not been singled out for torment. Other people have seen them before me—someone has drawn them in my family’s secret book. These creatures really exist.

  ‘Demons?’ I point at one of the pictures.

  He is very still, watching my reaction as closely as I watch his. He wants proof that I’m cured.

  ‘People often draw creatures from their imagination and myth,’ he says.