Then one day Guillalume appeared in the salt chamber where Mills, on duty and alone during a rest period, was entertaining Mills’s horse with supposition.
“Say this: say we bring him the months’ journey back with us, letting him ride while I walk, stumble, my feet bloody and my body bruised. And say we set him on the lee side of the clearing at our evening debouch with yourself and Guillalume’s horse and me to keep the wind off. Say we do all the hunting and fishing while he dozes, and cook the meat the way he likes, never mind that I favor mine rare and can’t chew gray food. Say I strip myself to put additional cloth on his body and always let him have the last of the fresh water. Say I do all his heavy lifting and learn his favorite songs and call him by honorifics, upping the ante of his natural caste, so as to say, ‘Yes, Merchant Minister,’ or ‘Indeed, Money Grower,’ ‘Aye, ’tis so reported, Your Mercantileship.’ Suppose I did all this and said all this and only begged of him—always deferentially, always with respect—the right turn from the wrong, petitioning him not even for information but just for hints, as children look to the Master of the Revels for clues in games. ‘Cold, cold,’ he could say, or hearten us by a cheerful ‘Warm and warmer.’ And let’s say that there’s ransom on Guillalume and that it goes to the merchant with an income on a portion of Guillalume’s lands for he and his heirs in perpetuity? Would not all this mitigate the original offense and cause him to soften his denunciation? Suppose we——”
“Cut inches from his throat and scatter his nostrils, slice his kneecaps and knot his veins,” Guillalume said. “Come, old son, when you unhitch tonight bring Mills’s horse up through last week’s channel. We’re going to scarper. I’ve got the old bastard. He’ll see us home or I’ll feed him his bones for breakfast.”
Mills grimaced. “He’s in pain?”
“Like a horse talker’s throat.”
“You threatened him?”
“Like a widow in arrears.”
“You’ve got him tied up?”
“Like his catalogued salt sacks.”
And since Mills had spent more time in his salty underground confessional talking to his horse than he had in the long house with his mates and master, he turned now almost involuntarily to the beast.
“Oh now, now we’re for it, old fourfoot. Now we’re outlaws in this outlandish land where the customs of the country are more vicious than the circumstances, more obdurate than the very earth the men perforce work beneath.” All the strange rules and punishments he had heard of in the months he’d been there came to mind—taboos against using unproductive tones to one’s horse; prohibitions against using more than one’s small salt allowance; all the salt ordeals: the stuff forced up nostrils and down throats and into cuts carefully barbered into one’s flesh like the shapely sound holes in violins. Law proscribed his life like those, to him, mysterious rules of curteisie——the knight’s complex code, the squire’s. One had almost to be a very musician of citizenship. It was safest to sleep (though one could not oversleep), safest to take one’s meals silently in the mess, safest to crap (though one’s bowels were subject to salt inspections), to pee (encouraged as an evidence that one was not pilfering salt), safest finally to be about the merely physical business of one’s person, all else, save actual work, the careless free time of dangerous carouse.
“I learned my body here,” he told Mills’s horse, “and it learned me, accommodate to the inflexible laws of my necessity as the fixed stars. It could not dance on Sundays or during office hours if it tried.”
Guillalume stepped in front of him and did a jig.
“They’ll soon be back,” Mills warned, “they’ll see.”
“Don’t be cowardly. You’re still my father’s subject, you know. Mine, too, for that matter.”
“I’m everybody’s subject,” Mills groaned. “I have more law than a company of solicitors.”
It was true. If before he had felt slandered by their notion of him—the tapestry condition—now he knew himself crushed and circumscribed by the jurisdictional one: state, sultanate, realm, duchy, palatinate, empire, dominion, kingdom, and bog—all suzerainty’s pie slice say-so.
“Through last week’s channel,” Guillalume said, a finger to his lips. “And don’t tell the nag, for God’s sake. I’ve been teaching the farmers pieces of our language. They might overhear.”
Guillalume left.
“Taught them our language,” Mills said admiringly to the horse. “Our fortunes are mete in this world, coarse Mills’s coarse courser. We’re graduate as staircase. Only see what power’s in the blood. Mine all red and sticky gunk, his a potion. Well-a-day. Hey nonny nonny.”
The merchant had been stashed in a salt pile, buried to his neck, and Guillalume was digging him out.
“Grab a shovel,” Guillalume told Mills, “take a spade.”
“Give us a drink then, luv,” the man pleaded when they had extricated him. Salt clung everywhere, in the folds of his clothes, inside his boots, all along the fine filigree of his hundred ornaments. There was salt in the lashes of his eyes, in the ledges of his lined face. It was a capital offense of salt hoarding. “I’ve got to have water. Please!”
“It’s all right,” Guillalume said, “slake him. Use the bucket.”
Mills obeyed, watering the man as he would a horse.
“He doesn’t know what we want yet. He thinks it’s some mutiny of my own.”
“It is,” Mills said. He turned to the merchant. “It is,” he said. “I never knew, your honor.”
Guillalume frowned. “Do you know Northumbria?” he demanded suddenly of the merchant. “Could you take us there?”
“Northumbria?”
“Aye.”
The man squinted. “Scept’red isle,” he asked after a few moments, “other Eden, demi-paradise?”
“That’s it,” Guillalume said.
“Fortress built by Nature for herself? Happy breed of men? Precious stone set in the silver sea?”
“Aye. Aye.”
“Earth of majesty, seat of Mars, blessed plot? That the place?”
“Aye! You’ve struck her off!”
“Rains almost daily? Cold scuzzy climate? Bleak economic outlook, nothing worth trading. You boys better off in Wieliczka.”
“Take us to Northumbria!” Guillalume commanded.
(Oh yes, commanded. Certainty in the tone of his voice, according to Greatest Grandfather Mills, like a flourish of syntax. High rage on him like the shakes, the easygoing youngest son suddenly recalled to himself and his heritage as if aristocratic mood were transudate and collateral with entirely personal states of emergency. All leaves were canceled according to Greatest Grandfather Mills, all priorities magically shifted, and authority itself suddenly transubstantiate with the worn, work-tattered, salt-torn rags Guillalume wore for clothing. There was no mistaking Guillalume’s purpose, the determined, dangerous set of his jawline that seemed to grow at the bottom of his face like a beard. Mills had never seen him like this, had never seen anyone like this, and for the first time in his life he envied purpose, lusted for will. Then there were suddenly knives in Guillalume’s hands, hangers, dirks, claymores, a blinding, whirling brace of the sharp. He drew the merchant’s blood at a dozen points, the wounds spectacular but superficial as paper cuts. He buttered them with salt with the flats of his arsenal. The merchant howled. Guillalume howled louder. “Compass! Card! Binnacle! Plumb bob! Fix thy course for Northumbria!” “But the crops,” the merchant whined, “the harvest——” “Geography!” Guillalume hissed. “For Northumbria, Map!” “But the caravan,” the merchant pleaded, “the camels——” “We don’t need the salt.” “We do. For barter. We do. We’d never get past the tribes, we’d never——” “The tribes?” “The tribes, Your Majesty, the clans. The bands and companies. All affined agnate generation.” “All affined agnate——” “Men,” the merchant said, “knots of the kindred between here and there, cousin clusters ’twixt hither and yon. Who guard the passes and bar the borders.
Frontiers of men, sir, horizons of flesh. The landscape is toll’d, m’lud. This is no civil world, Master. It’s filled with patriots to place. There are holy hectares, restricted rivers. Even the wilderness is posted. They kill trespassers.” “Maybe there’s some other way of going,” Mills suggested. “Liar,” Guillalume boomed, “I’ve seen the maps you show. Firelands, Giantlands, Dragonlands! Continents of monster, terra terror! How do you make your journeys? You bring no salt with you. How do you make your journeys?”)
The merchant watched him, then answered coolly, “I’m impunity,” he said, “vaccinate ’gainst xenophobia. The token interloper I am, the consanguinitic vagrant totem. I come from the far. From distance itself I come.” He shook himself, shedding even the damp salt which clung to his clothes and flesh, showing them the refractive shine of his person, the odd insignia they had seen in the forest almost blinding in the open sunlight and making, as the merchant shook himself, a mysterious preen of jewelry. His pins and pendants made a sensible bell-like music.
“He’s God,” Mills muttered. “He’s God,” Mills told Guillalume.
“He never is,” Guillalume said uncertainly.
“No, no,” the man said, “not God, only a traveler, a man of mileage just, a courier along the vault and arch of landscape is all.” He paused and looked at them. “ ‘Follow me,’ He said.” “But I go further, outdistancing atlas.”
Four days later they left. He needed the extra time to organize his foremen—the caravan expected in two months, bills of lading to be signed, vouchers, arrangements of usance, details worked out about the consignment of the salt—but by now the merchant had seemed to come round to the idea of the journey. “We shall have to travel light,” he told them, “only the odd sack or so. Oh, and put by your weapons. They won’t do any good where we’re going.”
“We take our weapons,” Guillalume said.
The merchant glanced at them. “As you wish,” he said.
“Maybe he knows something,” Mills suggested softly.
“Only what I tell him,” Guillalume said, and then to the merchant: “We’ll follow, but if you lead us into a trap I’ll kill you.”
The man shrugged and mounted.
For a week they rode, traveling along the spines of high mountains, Mills and Guillalume breathless in the thin air, their speech irregular, a low, broken, breathless panting. Then winds came, snow, the two Northumbrian horses first listless, then actually balking, while the merchant’s trotted on as nimbly as before, finally disappearing in the snow-obscured distance.
“Now—now—we’re for it,” Mills complained. “We were better—better off—in—in the farm.” His horse moved in front of Guillalume’s.
“What—what—do you mean? Are you blaming—blaming—me—for this? You wanted to—to—get back home as much—as I did,” Guillalume said, and the horses were abreast of each other again.
“It’s—a—tr—trap.” Mills’s horse edged forward.
“What—what is?” They were neck and neck.
“Th—this.” He indicated the altitude, the four or five inches of snow through which they plodded. “It’s—it’s a—trap and now—you’ll—you’ll have—to kill him.—Like you, you said.” Mills’s horse took the lead. “Have to—to—to—kill—kill him.” Mills started to laugh. He laughed giddily in the high air, unable to stop. “Only—hee hee—where—where—is—hee hee—he?” He looked around. Guillalume had disappeared behind him in the white heights, in the heavily falling snow.
“Where—air—where—air—are yooo?—Where are you, Mill—Mill—Mills?”
Mills was helpless to answer. He turned and saw Guillalume’s horse emerge from a cloudbank. It’s the talking, he realized. That’s what engines them, fuels them.
“Damn—damn you, Mills——Wait up.” (Though Greatest Grandfather said Guillalume had no breath for italics, that it was not class now or affectation which punched up his words so much as the actual explosions of his pressured lungs.)
So they had a horserace. Talking to each other while the horses overheard, seeming actual interested parties, cantering eavesdroppers. And this was when Mills got to say things to his master, and his master to Mills, which otherwise neither would have said to the other.
“The reason,” Guillalume said, his breath easier now, “some men command and others obey, has nothing to do with fitness, nor law, nor even custom. God does not sanction nor Nature compel fatality.” They believed—the snow had stopped falling and the mountains glistened like great bright boulders—that they rode in the sky, that their horses brisked along a ledge of cloud. The broad valleys beneath them seemed domesticate, lulled, standing pat as potted earth, quiescent as houseplant. “Only man needs men. I require a valet because I cannot dress myself, an upstairs maid because I can’t make beds. My doorman knows better than I the ins and outs of my house. You should be flattered, Mills. The drudge, the erk, the groom and porter——the help, Mills. The char and babysitter, the footman, lackey, cook and page. The turnspit and amah, the housecarl and equerry. Seneschals and cellarers. All my menial men, Mills, fixed more by skills than bayonets, talent than circumstance. You brood too much on blood, boy.”
“I lug your bathwater,” Mills called after him. “It’s my finger scalds to test the temperature. There’s no talent there, only patience and torpor. You got the guns. Your lot does. Where you got them or who gave them I don’t know. The devil, I think, because only the devil wouldn’t know better or wouldn’t care than to trust somebody with a gun who can’t make a bed.”
Guillalume’s long list had put him in the lead but Mills’s shouting had narrowed the gap and they were almost abreast of each other again, Mills a length or so behind. They had been descending and were now in the valley they had seen from the sky. The trail had ended, beaching them in abrupt wilderness. Mills looked round from where his mount had just nosed out Guillalume’s and recognized with some surprise that it was fall. It was the first time he’d been conscious of season since coming to Wieliczka. The mines had been landlocked in time, and his shift, from just before daybreak till the sun had gone down, and his exhaustion, had kept him thoughtless of the calendar. Neither of them had any idea where they were. They were lost and did not even know in what country they were lost, or even if it were a country, if it was still the planet, still earth. All they could see were, behind them, the mountains, and everywhere else, save the small apron of clearing on which they stood, the high, blond grasses of a giant, endless steppe.
“Where’d he go?” Mills said.
“He gave us the slip,” said Guillalume.
“We couldn’t have passed him.”
“In the snowstorm. We might have missed him in the snowstorm.”
“That trail was too narrow.”
“He isn’t out there.”
“He give us the slip.”
Then they heard a noise coming toward them through the tall, brittle grass. The next moment the merchant materialized before them as the grasses parted and a hundred wild horsemen followed after.
(“These were the Cossacks,” Greatest Grandfather Mills would explain afterward, “and all they wanted was the Word. It was all any of them wanted.”)
“The word?” Mills said.
“Messages,” the merchant said, having taken the two of them aside. “What the entrails said, what the Tablets. Afflatus, avatar, vatic talebearing, godgossip, gospel.”
“They’re infidels,” Mills said, eyeing their weapons, their pikes ready to their hands as their reins, the whips which lay like embroidered quoit over their saddlehoms.
“No one is infidel,” the merchant said. “Show them death and they whistle hymns. Speak to them.”
“Me?”
“They watched you come down the mountain. They saw you bring up the rear, they watched you pass.”
“I don’t——”
“They saw your sacking, Guillalume’s linen.”
“I don’t——”
“They know their
textiles. ‘The last shall be first.’ Strangers rare here. No concept of travel. Someone just passing through beyond them. They think you come to tell them things.”
“Me?”
“You speak now.”
“What will I say?”
“Make it good.”
“I don’t even talk their language.”
“I translate.” The merchant yanked his horse about, turned away from him. “Make it good,” he warned again, his back to him. He joined the warriors.
The merchant said something to them and the wild men looked at Mills as if through a single pair of eyes. Guillalume separated himself from Mills and went toward the merchant while the warriors waited for Mills to begin. “Make it good,” he mouthed before riding off.
George Mills Page 5
