“I assure you, you’ll have perfect peace from now on, you malignant little thing,” said the queen.
“What are you planning to do?” I cried.
“Why, lock the door and then brick up the doorway so that it is entirely invisible. These attendants, here, were chosen because they are dumb. No word will ever escape about your fate, or that of the dreadful magic with which you have destroyed the king. Both you and the Master of All Desires will be buried for eternity.”
“Liar! I never did it! It’s you who wished for it all—” I cried, and bit the guard who was holding me, trying to break free and run through the door before it was sealed forever. One of the silent guards grabbed me, and I bit and struggled while his huge hands held my arms tight. My dress tore as I broke away and thrust myself for a brief moment, halfway through the door. There was an annoyed cry from the queen as I snatched at her dress, only to be picked up as if I were a bundle of rags by one of the immense guards, then flung back against the rear wall of the dark little chamber. The door slammed, and I seem to recall that the queen said, “How dare you!” before the light from the torches vanished. I ached all over. The candle had overturned and gone out in the damp, and alone in the dark, I heard the awful sound of a key turning in the lock. I felt about the floor. The cup had spilled, too. How long does it take to starve to death in the dark? I wondered.
Outside the door, I could hear the rasping sound of mortar being smoothed. “Let me out, let me out! You don’t understand! Menander can’t answer wishes anymore. He’s too preoccupied, don’t you see? He’s useless!” And faintly, through the heavy door, I heard the queen reply:
“But dear, don’t you see? I don’t want any living soul on this earth to know what my wishes have brought to pass. And you, only you, know what my desires were, and how they were answered.”
“It’s not fair!” I shouted at the sealed door.
“Nothing in life is fair,” said the voice outside the door, fading away. And all I could hear was rasp, clunk, rasp, clunk as the bricks were laid into place.
I won’t give up, I won’t give up, Nicolas needs me, I thought, feeling frantically along the floor for the candlestick. It had a handle, and a round rim, and a spike to hold the candle in place, and I had remembered something. The door opened inward. This was no prison, but a storeroom of some sort, some place that no one would think to look for a human being, a place that no one would miss when it was sealed up. The hinge pins of the door were on the inside. If I can pry them loose and get it down, I thought, I can use the candlestick to scrape loose the mortar before it dries. How long can it take? I pressed my ear against the door. I couldn’t hear a thing. But then, there was a brick wall outside the door now. If there are guards posted, they’ll hear. But then, if I can’t hear them, they can’t hear me, can they? Why hadn’t I inspected the door more closely when I had light? What if the pins weren’t there? What if they were too heavy and stiff to move? Terror-struck, my fingers as cold as ice, I began to feel along the edges of the door in the dark.
Twenty-Three
The full moon shone all distorted through the heavy little green-glass circles that made up the window of the astrologer’s chamber. With Nicolas’s help, Nostradamus had made the chamber ready for the great prophecy the queen had commanded. The four sacred names had been written in the corners of the magic mirror, a rectangle of polished steel, with the blood of a male pigeon, and the mirror itself wrapped in a white linen cloth never before used. Nostradamus himself, with the charcoaled end of a cross, traced the double magic circle and the sacred symbols, while Nicolas tidied up, laid out the human bones, and caught and magnetized the cat, which lay completely stiff, but quite alive, along with the skull and the tibia along the rim of the circle. Outside, an owl hooted in the forest beyond the castle.
“She’ll be here at midnight,” said the old prophet. “I’m terribly sorry, but you need to be well away from the room when I call the spirits. We’ll be in the magic circle, but you—”
“You will remember Sibille, won’t you?” said Nicolas.
“How could I forget? You’ll just have to trust me. You can watch outside the door, if you like. When you see her come out of the room, you come back, and I’ll tell you how it went.”
“Maestro,” said Nicolas, doffing his hat again, and kneeling before the old sage, “if your plan saves my Sibille, I’ll name my firstborn son after you.”
My, my, thought Nostradamus, as he watched the young man leave, and to think they say the young have no manners anymore. Now that young fellow, he knows how to respect a prophet.
At five minutes before midnight, the dumpy little woman in black arrived at the door of the astrologer’s chamber, and bade her attendants wait outside. The old doctor himself ushered her into the magic circle. He could feel the fine tremor that ran through her hand; her doughy face was sheet white.
“Where is the magic mirror?” she asked.
“There, on the mantelpiece, still wrapped in linen, Majesty,” replied Nostradamus.
“H—how does it work?” asked the queen.
“It does not work by itself. We must invoke powerful forces. You had best be safe inside the magic circle.” Her little pop eyes wide with superstitious awe, but her step determined, the queen entered the circle.
“I must know the fate of my sons, of the throne of France,” said the queen.
“The power of the mirror is absolute in that respect,” said Nostradamus, unveiling the steel rectangle that stood on the mantelpiece. And all the while he thought, you silly woman, you just couldn’t resist, could you? You probably asked Menander to make your sons all kings, and now I have to deal with the mess you’ve made of it, and get away without being executed, too. Very well, awe and fear are my best protections. With a portentous gesture, he sprinkled an herb on the burning coals of a small brazier. A cloud of smoke with a curious scent arose.
“What’s that?” said the queen. Hmph, thought Nostradamus, you’re probably going to try this at home as soon as I’ve gone. Better do some chanting in Greek, Arabic, and Latin.
“It is saffron, the scent of which is particularly agreeable to the angel Anael, keeper of history past and future.”
“The angel of Venus,” whispered the queen. “I have him on my talisman.” Nervously, she fingered the magic charm that hung around her neck.
“He is the door, the guardian of the secrets you seek,” said Nostradamus, and he began to chant in several unknown tongues in a way that the queen did not dare to interrupt. At last, in the mix of terrifying supernatural tongues, she could make out French: “O Roi éternel! O Ineffable! Daignez envoyer à votre serviteur très indigne votre ange Anael sur ce miroir—” Ah, at last, he’s calling Anael, she thought, and she trembled all over. How powerful, how dangerous was Nostradamus, who could call such mighty beings from the other world!
But the mirror, the mirror had begun to move, entirely without human agency. No longer did it tilt against the chimney, but stood bolt upright, as if being held by some invisible force. Then a shadow, a dark shadow that looked like an immense hand, seemed to lift it up, and tilt it as if to reflect some other, some unseen world beyond the tower room. And all around the mirror, she seemed to see strange, twinkling little lights, rolling and sparking against a midnight blue background. A face, was that a face near the high ceiling? An immense face, beautiful and frightening, staring at her with ancient, ancient yellow eyes…
“Show us, O Anael, the fate of the throne of France,” intoned Nostradamus.
The mirror had changed to reflect a black room, hung with strange tapestries the color of congealed blood. Into the room walked little François, shrunken inside his brand-new coronation robes, his right hand grasping the scepter of France, exactly as he had looked in the cathedral. Seventeen, and his nose was running.
“My son, the king,” whispered Catherine de Medici. Solemnly, the boy made a single turn of the blood-draped room. “What does that mean?” she whispered.
“Shhh!” said Nostradamus. A second phantom had appeared in the mirror. Her son Charles, hardly older than he was at that very moment, perhaps only ten, perhaps only a year from now, weighed down under the heavy crown of France, the scepter in his hand, the robes too large for his narrow little frame. Silently, in the polished steel, he began to make turns around the room. One, two, three, counted the queen, until she had counted fourteen, and then he vanished. Suddenly, the queen understood the terrible trick that Menander had played on her, the way in which she had been granted her heart’s desire. As if in confirmation, a third phantom appeared in the mirror. A good-looking young man, foppish, wearing several diamond earrings. The crown looked like a piece of vulgar jewelry on his head. His eyes were narrow, his face malignant and scheming. Who was this? But her mother’s heart knew him. Henri, her favorite, her beautiful baby, grown into such a man as this. With narrow little steps, his silk-shod feet began the circuit of the room. Fifteen times she counted, before the vision vanished. Menander, you monster, thought the queen. You made all my sons kings of the same country. All will die young. François will reign a year, then die. Then Charles will reign fourteen years—that means he will not live to see his thirtieth year. And Henri. Delightful, charming, lovely little Henri. Her heart felt like a stone, growing heavy, heavier. But where is Hercule? she thought. The next will be Hercule, or a grandchild. Yes, a grandchild. Show me that all my cares have not been in vain.
At first she did not recognize the figure in the mirror. Short and wiry, his step tough and springy, his face looked like no Valois. But that nose—there was something familiar about that big nose. The nose of old King Francis, or rather, of his sister, set in the face of—No! By God, it had to be—the son of the King of Navarre and that stuck-up, priggish little Protestant, Jeanne d’Albret! The Bourbons had taken the throne! “No!” cried the queen. “Never!”
“Can’t you be quiet?” said Nostradamus in a fierce whisper. “Now look what you’ve done. Forty-two days of purification, and you’ve spoiled the magic mirror.”
It was true. The steel mirror was leaning against the chimney again, its base resting on the mantelpiece. It reflected only the plastered brick walls of the astrologer’s chamber. The brazier was still sending smoke into the room, the moon had set, and the only light was from the array of burned-down candles of various sizes set out on the worktable, the nightstand, and the writing desk in the corner. Outside the dark, the impenetrable dark, seemed to veil the world in death and grief.
“I don’t need to know any more than that,” said the queen, her voice cold and distant. “There is only one thing I need to know, and that you cannot tell me.”
“And what is that?”
“By what magic I can undo the work of that terrible head.”
“Oh? What terrible head is that?” said Nostradamus, his voice sounding as innocent as a five-year-old girl’s.
“Cosmo Ruggieri, may God damn his eyes, told me all my wishes could be achieved with the Undying Head of Menander the Magus.”
“Ah, in my studies I have come across many mentions of this thing. Does it by any chance reside in a silver-gilt box with the curious figure of a rooster-headed god on the lid?”
“You know it,” gasped the queen. “Help me, Maestro. Tell me, will I live long enough to undo its work?” Nostradamus took her measure with a single shrewd glance, and pretended to go into a trance over the last of the brazier smoke.
“O, Anael, a vision,” he intoned. “Yes, yes—I’m seeing something. Words of fire, written in the night sky.”
“What words?” cried the queen.
“The queen’s life will end exactly one day after that of the person who currently holds the head of Menander the Undying.”
“Oh, that can’t be, that simply can’t!” cried the queen. “I’ve just buried it—I mean her—and if I open the tomb, then someone else may get the head and use it against me.”
“Wha—where am I?” said Nostradamus, pretending to be groggy with his vision.
“I can’t let that thing out, even if it costs my life. I’ve spiked it shut.”
“Great queen, Majesty, worthy as the sacrifice you plan, I must tell you that in an ancient text—over here—I have a way of destroying the head’s powers forever.”
“But, but, it can’t die.” The queen’s voice was frantic.
“Ah, it can’t die, but it can be sent into a state where it no longer communicates with the living—”
“I can’t read that book.” Of course you can’t, thought Nostradamus. Otherwise you’d know it’s a formula for raining frogs.
“I’ll write out the translation for you,” said Nostradamus, who had taken the queen’s measure. If Sibille had followed the instructions he’d sent along with the horoscope, the head was already permanently distracted. But he knew this queen. She was very fond of do-it-yourself magic, a fumbler, an amateur. If she could be convinced it was she who had neutralized the head, she might feel more generous toward Sibille, and live for a while with the distracting illusion that her powers were great enough to reverse the terrible fate she had set in motion. It can do nothing but good, thought Nostradamus to himself, as he copied out an entirely spurious, but very grand-sounding formula onto a piece of parchment.
“What are these little signs?” asked the queen, suddenly seeming in a great hurry.
“This + here is the sign of the cross, and this one here, the gesture of a circle, and this, the terrible three-headed beast. You make it like this—”
“Oh,” said the queen, her gargoyle eyes even larger than before, as she realized she was being initiated into the very highest secrets of magic.
“Don’t delay,” said Nostradamus. “You must live. My powers have told me that only you can save the kingdom.”
***
Nostradamus was sweeping up all the powders and rubbing out the magic circle with a broom when Nicolas came in.
“Oh, there you are, young man. Could you pick up that tibia for me? My gout, you know. An old man like me shouldn’t have to bend over.” As Nicolas picked up the bone, the cat awoke with a howl, and ran away to hide under the bed, her tail as large and stiff as a bottlebrush.
“Where is Sibille? Have you saved her? Tell me where she is, and I’ll hew a path to her with my sword.” The old doctor looked at the younger man’s anxious face, and beamed benignly.
“Don’t worry about that young lady of yours. My powers tell me that the queen is going to look after her very well for the rest of her life.”
Down the narrow stone steps hurried the torchbearer, two laborers with pickaxes, and the queen, her black silk dress rustling on the steps. Through the deepest wine cellar they passed, where dust stood heavy on the casks, down to a blank place in the wall where new bricks masked what was once the entrance to a storeroom reserved for the very rarest vintages, the very choicest distillations. A brick had been poked from the top of the patch, and lay shattered on the stone floor. From behind the sealed wall, there came the diligent sound of scratching.
“Insolence, just plain insolence,” said the queen, as she spied the broken brick in the torchlight. “Whatever did she think she’d do once she was outside and locked in the wine cellar? She could never have escaped me. A queen’s will is sovereign.” Then she gestured to the patch of new bricks. “Break it down,” she said to the men with pickaxes.
When the battering and crashing ceased, the new section of wall lay in rubble, and the light of the torch revealed mad chaos and disorder in the little room. The door lay on the floor, covered with shattered bricks and powder, and in the corner, the dancing orange light played on the erased, astonished face of a ragged, dust-streaked, frantic young woman. She had taken everything of metal, hairpins, bodice pins, ruff pins, to attack the wall. Her hair hung loose, a dusty brown mass, about her face, and the torn bodice of her overdress, once pinned to the corset, had fallen about her in ruins. Her hands, which had grown bloody in the struggle, she had wrapped in strip
s torn from her petticoat. In them she still held a fragment of the iron candlestick, which had broken apart at the weld with the rough treatment she had given it.
“My, you certainly do not look well,” said the queen. “I hope you have not breathed too much brick dust. They say it is bad for the lungs.”
“Being walled in is bad for the health, too,” said the tall, bony young woman, her eyes bright with resentment, her hand still tight on the sharp fragment of candlestick.
“Why, darling child, don’t you realize, this was just a little test I set you—yes, a test of—loyalty—” The queen’s eyes slithered sideways as her brain sought for a more convincing lie.
“A test? You walled me in for a test?”
“Yes, I merely wanted to see whether you were worthy—oh, and please put down that sharp little thing and hand me that box in the corner. I have something I must do without delay.”
“Worthy of what?” said Sibille, carefully reaching for the box without taking her eyes off the queen or putting down the candlestick fragment. Cautiously, gingerly, she handed Menander the Undying’s battered, spiked box to the queen.
“I had in mind a reward—for silence—but first you, ah, needed to understand my power—a great reward—I’ll tell you in a minute. First things first.” The queen took a little piece of parchment and began to read the oddest syllables over the box, all the while, making curious gestures, the sign of the cross, a circle, and yet another one, curiously obscene, to punctuate the speech. “There,” she said with a sigh. “I’ve sealed up his powers. Now for the test.” Viciously, she rattled the box back and forth.
“Quit bothering me, I’m thinking,” came the leathery little voice from inside.
“Wake up, wake up in there, you old mummy. I have a few dozen wishes to make,” said the queen.
“I can’t be bothered with your wishes. Go away. I’m busy,” said the head in the box.
“Perfect,” said the queen. “After centuries, I, Catherine de Medici, have vanquished the accursed, undying head.” She was so pleased with herself that she did not notice the cynical, exasperated look cross Sibille’s face. Or perhaps she would have missed it anyway, there in the dark, in the wee hours of the morning, with only the light of a single torch to reveal it.
Judith Merkle Riley Page 43
