The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

  Suzan has come to my tent!

  I’m surprised. Suzan seems so innocent. We’ve travelled together for longer than a moon and she’s given no sign of knowing how much I’d like her to come to me like this.

  I sit up.

  ‘Shhh.’ She leans over me, her hair brushing my cheek.

  The smell is stronger. Flowers.

  And sulphur.

  I push her away. Push it away—it, not she. Whatever’s in my tent isn’t Suzan. My hands push nothing but cold air.

  Terrified, I leap up and unfasten my tent opening. Moonlight streams in. I spin to see what’s in here.

  I’m alone, listening to demon laughter.

  Early the next morning I spot Suzan outside her tent, dreamily drawing shapes into the dirt with an outstretched finger. The air is heavy with the sounds of birds singing and horses snorting as they paw the pebbly ground.

  She looks up at me and pushes dark hair away from her amber eyes, flashing her irresistible smile. Why is she here? What was she running from? I have to trust she’ll tell me when she’s ready.

  ‘Good morning!’ she calls.

  I sit with her. Together, we watch the camp come to life. Roosters crow. Goats roam, waiting to be milked. Grooms and servants load up the horses and make sure their masters’ belongings are in order. Pilgrims say their matins prayers and climb from their tents, yawning.

  ‘So many people here, from so many places!’ Suzan lets a pile of pebbles fall through her fingers. Her nails are short and neat, her hands pale and delicate. Once again I repress the urge to touch her. ‘I didn’t know there were so many people in the world.’

  ‘I didn’t know there were so many languages in the world,’ I say. ‘I knew about Babel, and I know Latin and Greek. But there are more tongues here than I ever imagined.’

  ‘Do you know where Babel was?’ Suzan lets another pebble fall.

  ‘It was in the Bible.’

  She laughs, instinctively covering her mouth. The corners of her eyes crinkle. She can’t have laughed often. ‘I mean, geographically.’

  ‘Probably near Jerusalem. Every old place was near Jerusalem.’

  ‘So we’re taking these languages back home?’

  ‘I’m glad we speak the same language, Suzan,’ I say, impulsively.

  She looks surprised. ‘Did you think we would not?’

  ‘There are many languages in the world.’

  Suzan thinks for a moment. ‘There are languages I’ve never tried to speak. I think there are…six I understand when I hear them. One or two others make sense. When I saw you, I thought I’d understand you.’

  She speaks six languages? I’ve spent many long hours with my tutors, struggling to learn two.

  So I test her. I test her as I show her how to untie the rope on her tent from the pegs in the ground, and to roll it up ready to attach to Orestes’ saddle. She knows the words for tent, horse and saddle in every language I know, and more besides.

  I test her as I help her climb up to sit before me on Orestes and we ride off. She knows the words for tree, road and hill in at least five languages.

  I test her while we march. On horseback, we pass group after group of walking pilgrims. By noon, I’ve heard Suzan speak Germanic, Frankish and Greek.

  By mid-afternoon when, again, we’ve set up camp, we find a seat on a fallen tree and I ask, ‘You said you know six languages. What’s the sixth?’

  ‘Not one you’ll know.’

  I laugh. ‘Why are you so sure?’

  ‘It was my mother’s language,’ Suzan says. ‘I don’t think anyone knows it any more. Except my mother and me. And she can’t speak.’

  I’m careful how I respond, hopeful she’s about to reveal something about herself. ‘How did you communicate? She must have said some things.’

  ‘She couldn’t speak any language, Luca. She was an unmarried woman—an unmarried nun—when she gave birth to me. She wouldn’t say who my father was. They believed she must have cavorted with the Devil. Before she gave birth she became very ill. She was feverish, delirious. They cut out her tongue because they said she used it to tempt men. Once I was born, they said I was evil. That I must never speak.’

  I look at her soft skin, at the light playing in her wavy hair. A tear runs down her cheek. She’s as far from evil as anyone could be.

  ‘My mother died when I was six years old,’ I tell her, impulsively. This isn’t something I share often. ‘Giving birth to my sister.’

  ‘Your sister survived?’

  I nod, struck with sudden sadness. When I see Gemma again, she will be a young woman.

  Suzan covers my hand with her own. I stare at her pale fingers, feeling their warmth, their softness. I swallow.

  ‘I didn’t mean to upset you.’ She leans closer, consolingly.

  I almost say, It’s all right, I’m not upset. But if I say nothing, she might move closer still.

  I say nothing.

  Suzan smiles and releases my hand. ‘My mother saved me. I’ll go back to her when I can.’

  ‘Why did you run?’

  She touches her face. ‘They learned I could speak. They planned to silence me.’

  ‘Silence you? How?’

  ‘My tongue. Like my mother.’

  She starts to shake. I wrap my arm around her, but she stands. Moving too quickly, she stumbles and cries out.

  I help her to her feet. ‘What is it? Did something bite you?’

  ‘I twisted my ankle.’ Suzan leans on my shoulder and rubs her foot.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  ‘I think so.’ She puts her foot down and winces.

  ‘Lean on me. I’ll take you back to the tent.’

  I’m acutely aware of her arm in mine, her warmth. But her pace gradually becomes more sure.

  ‘Can you tell me about Serafina?’ she asks.

  I’m startled. ‘She’s a friend from Tuscany. Her family travelled with Peter the Hermit.’

  ‘You are betrothed to her?’

  I shake my head. ‘Father would like that, but…there’s a doctor in Salerno. Trotula. Serafina wants to study physic with her. She doesn’t want to get married.’

  Suzan considers this and sighs. ‘What happened to her?’

  I stare at the sand. ‘Apparently Saracens didn’t kill everyone in her group. Young women were taken away to be…’

  ‘Oh!’ Suzan’s hand closes over her mouth. ‘Luca!’

  Impulsively, she circles her arms around me, but no sooner have I begun to respond than she backs off, more shocked than before. ‘Do you have to do as your family wishes?’

  ‘They’ll let me decide.’

  ‘Everyone has obligations, Luca.’

  She limps away, to an area where other women are using what little water they can spare to wash their hands and faces. I don’t follow her.

  When we’re preparing for our evening meal, a woman wanders towards me. It’s Bianca, Serafina’s sister. I stand and grab both of her hands.

  ‘You’ve heard the news?’ she asks.

  ‘Bianca, I’m so sorry.’

  She frees a hand and rubs her eyes as if tears infuriate her. ‘They say my father is dead. No one knows about Serafina. They say Saracens aren’t good to captured women.’

  ‘Who is this they?’ I demand.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They say your father is dead,’ I remind her. ‘Who is this they who spreads rumours, upsetting people?’

  ‘It’s just something we say. Who are you watching?’

  I’ve been watching Suzan, of course. She’s talking to a couple of younger girls in the women’s group.

  ‘Your friend the nun.’ Bianca’s eyes narrow. ‘Is she some sort of enchantress, Luca? Has she bewitched you? She’s so ugly!’

  ‘She’s not—’ I stop. ‘I’m so sorry, Bianca. If I can help bring Serafina back to you, I will.’

  ‘She’s not just my sister, Luca. She’s also your betrothed.’

  ‘My friend
,’ I remind her. ‘Serafina doesn’t want a betrothal, either. I miss her, Bianca. That’s what you want to hear. If I knew where she was I’d try to rescue her.’

  Bianca sighs. ‘I know. Meanwhile, your enchantress is here.’

  After vespers, I find Suzan sitting outside my tent with her stringed santur. Its small demon jumps around her, becoming more excited when it sees me. I avert my eyes.

  Whatever emotion kept her from me earlier in the day, Suzan is cheerful enough now. Her head is bare and she has washed her hair. It hangs down her back in wet strands.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Sister Aysel. One of the nuns. She’s so insistent on people remembering her family’s rank. But that order really matters here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re all on the same pilgrimage, but live so differently! Some sleep on the ground, while others are in a cart or in a tent like yours—complete with a banner and a shield.’

  Pulling from under the santur’s strings two small curved hammers, she plays a slow, beautiful tune that I’ve never heard before. I feel the rhythm and sway gently.

  In my hands, I hold my book. I feel the urge to look at it tonight. Tutivillus shifts its heavy and muscular wings.

  Suzan plays another tune, this one faster, with a few passages where her hammers become a blur in the air. I watch until she finishes.

  ‘This is my mother’s name.’ Suzan plays a series of notes. ‘Helena,’ she says.

  She plays those notes often. In the early hours of the morning when we’re preparing for the day’s travels, in the evenings when the group prepares for sleep. The tune is sad and resonates at once with longing and with peace.

  ‘She misses me.’ Suzan looks up. ‘This santur was hers. She sang along with it. Without words. She had a beautiful voice.’

  ‘Like yours?’ I ask.

  ‘I…’ Suzan blushes. She doesn’t know how to accept praise. ‘Purer,’ she says, eventually. ‘Like every song was a lullaby.’

  ‘Father gave me this,’ I say, tapping the book.

  ‘May I see it?’

  Her hand is upon it already. I can’t say no to her. She takes the book into her lap and I watch as she tries to undo the clasp. ‘Is there a key?’

  ‘It isn’t locked.’

  ‘I can’t work it out.’ She passes the book back and I undo the clasp. The wide belt falls away and the leather covers seem to soften as they open. There’s something welcoming about the exposed vellum pages, whispering like they’re asking to be read.

  Suzan moves closer. I can feel her warmth through my cloak. She peers at the writing, following a line of it with her fingertip. Then she looks up suddenly, at the sky.

  ‘What is it?’ I ask.

  ‘Nothing. I thought…a cloud passed over us.’

  ‘A shadow?’

  She frowns. ‘Something like that.’

  Tutivillus stops pacing and regards her carefully.

  On the page before us are the illuminated letters of indecipherable scripts. Suzan turns another page and gasps. She pulls the book to her.

  As she pulls, the front and back covers fold closed. The unusual mechanical device that guides the catch activates, sliding it into place. In Suzan’s arms, the book is securely locked once again.

  ‘It does that, once it’s closed,’ I tell her.

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘I’ve tried to work it out. Perhaps some ancient technology…’

  ‘As ancient as the writing?’ Suzan asks. ‘I’ve never seen that script in a book before. Have you read it? What does it say?’

  ‘Of course I haven’t read it.’

  ‘Why haven’t you?’

  ‘Because I can’t. I don’t know the language.’

  ‘Open the book for me again.’

  She watches as my fingers slide the clasp open. The first page flutters against her finger. ‘Has your father read it?’

  ‘No one’s read it, Suzan. No one knows the language. Father says his father showed it to many learned people and they didn’t even recognise the letters.’

  Suzan looks up from the book, astonished. ‘But I know the language,’ she says. ‘I know it better than any other. This is the alphabet and the language of my mother’s people. My whole life, it’s the way she communicated to me. These are the letters she wrote on my palm.’

  I grab her hand. ‘You can read the book?’

  Suzan nods. ‘I think I can. If the book will let me.’

  She runs her finger along the lettering on the first page.

  I lean closer, excitement rushing through me. ‘Yes?’ I ask. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Warnings.’ Suzan sounds puzzled. ‘Firstly, about the lock. Apparently only the owner can open it.’

  ‘My father said that was the legend.’ I touch the brass buckle. ‘How can that be?’

  Suzan shrugs. ‘Some sort of enchantment? A charm?’

  ‘It’s confusing.’ I point at the writing underneath. ‘What does this say?’

  Suzan follows it with her fingertip. ‘Something about the book itself. It uses the word I. Look at that.’ She reaches one of the symbols. ‘That’s the shape my mother used to write on my palm when she was talking about herself. I. It’s like the book itself is talking.’

  A breeze blows and the vellum pages rustle. A shiver runs through me. ‘What does it say?’

  ‘Something about the truth. It says truth has power. And something…something about Jerusalem.’

  Suzan catches her breath and leans forwards. She’s as excited as I am.

  I lean still closer. Her drying hair smells like summer flowers. I want to stay near her as much as I want to know what she’s reading.

  I remember the rhyme at the start of the book. It must be important. I turn sheets of vellum until I find the rhyme, and the map opposite.

  ‘Here. All I can read is the numbers. Thirty and thirty and thirty. What does the rest of it say?’

  Suzan traces the lines with her finger as she reads. ‘It’s some sort of poem. I’ll translate it for you.’

  For thirty moons, the demons dance

  across the world, from Rome and France.

  The furred-wood tower’s water stroll

  to David’s city’s Temple Knoll

  lets green flame, blue blood, Holy Lance

  rend human souls. Dandelion and tansy

  sage and part-consumed bezants

  move bodies into their control

  in thirty moons.

  Knows this the falcon’s codex scroll:

  Thanatos has life-theft as his goal—

  the lives of those who fight in trance—

  and their human form. You have one chance

  to save the final mortal soul

  —in twenty-four moons.

  Thanatos! That name! The knight in the iron-coloured cape—then—

  ‘Stop!’ I say. ‘Twenty-four? You’ve got that wrong. I’ve seen the page before. It says thirty.’

  Suzan looks up and frowns. ‘No, it says thirty here, and here,’ she touches two of the earlier lines. ‘But here, it says twenty-four.’

  I look more closely and suck in my breath. She’s right.

  ‘You must have been mistaken,’ Suzan says.

  I shake my head. ‘I know what I saw.’

  Suzan looks more closely at the vellum. ‘Could anyone have altered it? Luca?’

  I feel light-headed. Perhaps I should be less surprised. After all, I can see demons. What are a few words changing in a book compared to those?

  ‘I first saw this book in our cellar before we joined the pilgrimage.’

  Suzan frowns. ‘And?’ she prompts.

  ‘That was six moons ago. Thirty minus six is twenty-four. Can this be true? The book is counting down.’

  Suzan’s frown deepens.

  ‘I know you won’t believe me,’ I say. ‘I know no one will.’

  Suzan shakes her head. She touches the strings of her santur. ‘I have seen stra
nger things.’

  She believes me. An intriguing tightness forms in my chest. I’ve never been understood before.

  ‘This rhyme is important,’ Suzan says. She has a very quick mind. ‘David’s city’s Temple Knoll…that can only mean Jerusalem. Which makes sense.’

  I nod. ‘Does it really mention blue blood?’

  Suzan points at the phrase. I tell her about the many-headed sea monster, the Hydra, that I saw Ramberti attack as we crossed the sea.

  ‘It’s like this is a magic charm,’ Suzan breathes. ‘He’s collecting ingredients.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ I wonder aloud. ‘If they are to destroy human souls?’

  ‘There are more words under the prediction. Here…this next section says that once Thanatos is at the knoll, all other magic will stop working. That might mean my santur—’

  Suzan leaps to her feet, shaking, pointing at Tutivillus. ‘What is that?’

  Tutivillus leans its horse-sized head towards her, shuffling forwards.

  Suzan grabs my hand, pulling me away from the book, to the edge of the camp. But there’s no escape. She sees demons now, in every place where there are people and their relics. Reading the book has lifted some concealing charm from her eyes. Her grip tightens each time we pass one.

  We leave the camp and eventually find a clearing where Suzan sinks, exhausted, to the ground. Nearby, three old women mesmerise me. They’re sitting so close to a bonfire their ragged robes risk catching alight. Suzan hasn’t noticed and seems to think she’s in the clear, but they all have the metal sheen of demons. Two also have the hollowed-out eye sockets of the blind. The third has her hand over one eye and her face turned towards us. Her single eye watches, curious.

  Suzan opens her mouth to ask a question, then abruptly closes it again. She’s seen the women. While we watch, horrified, the one-eyed woman pushes her fingers deep into her eye socket and gouges out her own eyeball. Covered in blood that looks black in this light, it pulls free of her face with a sickening slurp, like juicy pulp from an orange.

  Suzan slaps her hand over her mouth.

  The old woman’s loose eyeball throbs and twists, like it’s still trying to see. It trails wet nerves against her gnarled fingers. The woman passes the eyeball to one of her companions.