by Andre Norton
“Don’t touch me!”
No one ever knew how much time passed from then until the priests found the wretched bundle curled about its stomach, failing moans rising from it. Fool.
“Bong. Bong. Bong.”
Ah, she had done it again. Would the pain never kill the love? Jerome struggled toward waking, uncurling himself from the ball of his nightmare-ridden sleep.
“Bong. . . .”
Must, must, more gold for the stupid . . .
“Bong. ...”
Priests’ blood! The call to morning tasks! Must hide this stuff. The shrine . . .
“Jerome, Jerome, are you ill? Jerome, come to the door.”
That infernal meddler Sadmust. Jerome breathed deeply, trying to compose himself, hands over his head fighting down the ever-present nausea. “Yes, Sadmust, I am coming. Just lost in the tragedy of the sinful, the sick. I’ll be right out.”
“Ah, Jerome, we will lose you yet to your piety. Hurry, the pots and pans wait for no one.” Sadmust chuckled.
Jerome breathed deeply as he heard Sadmust’s footsteps fade away. He had no time to put the hair shirt back on, and by now it was so cut and curried for his special purposes that he hadn’t planned to wear it much longer. It was only moments later, the cell once again looking depressingly barren, that he noticed that he’d cut himself with the chisel while he’d slept. A thin stream of blood ran across his groin and down the inside of his thigh. Again that sardonic chuckle from deep within him: Jerome, the True Believer.
* * *
As Jerome went out to the kitchen, he hoped that the yellowed square of linen would stop the bleeding of the small cut. What he really needed was a leech, but the gold dust on the chisel would be the best of all healing agents. He wanted to avoid Sadmust at all costs. He had begun to believe that the man was sincere in his concern despite his rejections of proper healing and alchemical lore. Probably hadn’t even read The Ruby Tablets of Semreh the Thrice Mighty. The man was beginning to appeal to Jerome. For his bitter purposes, he could afford no human emotion, no kindness. It weakened him. As he got closer to the smoking kitchen, he did reflect for a moment that the fellowship of the quiet, withdrawn priests had had its moments. Even the high priest’s usually inept attempts at humor had almost drawn laughter from Jerome. That discussion last night, that we were due for the kitchen to burn down again. What was it that he had said . . . ah, yes: “If a master goes down with his ship, shouldn’t the cook go up with his kitchen?” That look on poor Brother Hubert’s face. Surely their cook understood that wood construction, chimneys, and flying fat made kitchens very perishable. Why, every day a kitchen was burning somewhere.
Jerome’s faint smile vanished as he entered the kitchen. Thank Thotharn, that smelly Hubert was gone and delivering the high priest’s breakfast. Quickly he drew a small bag from beneath his robe and emptied the fine, white sand into the proper trough. His poor hands had further suffered from the pot scrubbing, but he’d needed the sand to finish his beautiful, false Egg. Only two more days of this! One night of making glowing curls; the second night off to the fair to set his trap. Oh, that Compo would show as advertised! That she, the whore, would be with him! Argh, the pain again!
* * *
Jerome woke to the noises of the setting of the fair. He stretched from his usual cramped posture. Why, the pain was less this morning! No doubt in anticipation of today’s rewards. He rose to his feet and admired his handiwork. He had managed to find a small spot at the outskirts where all the grass hadn’t been turned to the fair’s characteristic mud. The morning’s light streamed through the tent’s multicolored panels, casting rainbows over his smoothly polished Egg, highlighting its wheel, catching the silver of the knife, as they perched upon the converted shrine. His disappearance from the monastery had been uneventful, the only minor delay the reopening of his wound when he had struggled with the gold-laden Egg. Fortunately, he had not worn the soft black robes; the bloodstains on his priest’s habit were inconsequential. He cared little whether or not they noticed his absence: Brother Jerome was dead! Long Live Jason the alchemist! Clever devil. Jerome chuckled, stifled it, and then realized that he never need conceal his glee again. “For once, my personal succubus, you are right. ‘Clever devil’ indeed!” Crumpling his forged permit for this space, he paused for a moment to admire his handiwork of last night; the next-to-last act in his little comedy. The sign read:
FOR LOVERS ONLY
THE GOLDEN FLEECE
HAIR INTO GOLD
JASON THE GENEROUS
Enough! The pleasure of the day must be readied. Reaching beneath the white samite cloth with its silver-and-gold threads, he removed the hair shirt from the shrine. Its stiff fibers had been combed into luxuriant locks; woven throughout were the precious colored threads from the high priest’s ravaged vestments. It caught the light and sparkled as if by magic.
First, the robe. Jerome preened as its soft nap caressed his abused flesh. Soft hands, trusting hands, sliding hands— Stop! Quickly he threw his hands above his head, fearing to spoil all his efforts. The bitch again. Soon his belly and mind would be free of her! When the spasms eased, he finished arranging the black robe, drawing it about him with a silver rope that a Lordly Ones talisman had swung from just as recently as last night. Part of the hair shirt was fitted to his head, covering his tonsure and rolling down around his ears and onto his shoulders. He pulled the remaining piece to his face, knowing the plaster he’d gotten from that dumb Sadmust would hold it in place. He laughed aloud as he recalled the days he’d shuffled about the monastery with a piece of hair stuck to him somewhere, waiting until he was alone to jump up and down to see if he could dislodge it. Already the world was a better place.
As he moved to the tent-flap, he wished he had a looking glass, but he had practiced too long for anything to be amiss. Throwing the canvas aside, making sure it slapped loudly, he paused before Jason made his grand entrance into the Ithkar Fair. Then, slowly, with paced dignity, he stepped into the light. The cacophony of animal cries and crafts at work continued for a moment, then began to still as his dark-shrouded figure was noticed. The couper across the way paused as he bent an iron hoop about a tube; the woman next to him advertising her act as she paced lost control of her small flight of acrobatic, dwarf wyverns; the fortune-teller stilled the cloth that caressed his crystal; the sausage-maker hawking his wares here at the fringe of the fair slapped as at a drop of hot fat on his wrist but never dropped his eyes. A small group of apprentices—the printers’ guild from their stained hands—nearly fell over themselves as their leader stopped suddenly to stare. Jerome permitted himself no outward show of joy as both merchants and passersby stared transfixed at his ominous and majestic presence. Lifting his head only slightly, he turned slowly, letting the light creep in under his cowl to catch the brilliant threads in his beard. Setting the sign down on its pedestal, he returned to the tent, dropping the flap, hearing it slither closed behind him. He had the fools now, only a matter of time before they were lined up hand in hand. Lovers were fools!
Slowly, the noise rose up again around the tent. But now it had a more agitated tone: “A new wonder. Never seen before. Hair into gold. Crazy.”
Through the gauze shadow-panel sewn into the flap, Jerome watched as a small crowd of couples began to gather. Ratty-looking lot. Guildsmen, freedmen, journeymen mostly. Men threadbare; women pock-marked. By Thotharn, the times wore the common folk down quickly. As they moved and milled, Jerome caught a scab here; rotted teeth there; a crooked leg, broken and never healed properly. A priest passed, lingering to satisfy his curiosity, to listen to the whispered conversations. He’ll be back with a woman, thought Jerome. Disgusting what’s happened to the priesthood these days!
Jerome didn’t have to wait too long. A couple separated itself from the small crowd. The woman reached forward to scratch at the flap.
Reaching forward with both hands, he threw the flaps apart and stepped into the sun before her nails made cont
act. The crowd stepped back quickly at his sudden, seemingly omniscient appearance.
His cowl thrown back, his lidded eyes peering out from his curls, Jerome spoke, “My children, how may I serve you?”
“M’lord Jason ...” It was the girl who spoke; Jerome could not help but notice that her full breasts strained against her farmers’ poor finery, that her gums had drawn back from her few teeth. Ripe, ugly cow!
“M’lord, the kind priest, he read us your sign. Do you really turn hair into gold?”
“Only for those truly in love, my child.” Jerome had seen the bumpkin’s callused hands moving against her as they had stood in the crowd. Knuckles brushed along a thigh. Fingers creeping from waist to ass. Let her think his lust is love.
“Oh, m’lord, Phillip and I are to be married at the first planting. I will help his mother; his father will give mine wool; the farms will be joined; we . . .” Phillip’s bump and scowl made it clear that such jabberings were common.
“Ah, my children, it is clear even to such an old tooth as I that your union is foretold in the stars. A moment and then I will serve you.” Jerome turned and lifted the tent’s cunning front to each side, revealing the gleaming Egg on its samite throne. The crowd sighed, almost moaned in wonder; Jerome’s stomach twitched, but he caught himself before it bent him.
“Now, my fine swain, all I need is a lock of your beloved’s fine golden tresses.” Jerome wondered if anyone could think of that sun-bleached straw as “golden,” but the lout seemed oblivious to the irony.
“Why, just help y’rself, m’lord.”
“Nay, Master Phillip, for the spell to work only your hands may touch the lady’s tresses.” Jerome laid the silver-hiked belt knife in his hands, noticing the third finger was missing. The way the bumpkin hefted it Jerome wondered if he would be around at the next planting, perhaps preferring a more lucrative, if short-lived, career along the dark stretches of the Three Lordly Ones’ Highway. Reaching up, Phillip crudely grasped a lock, exacting a small gasp from the girl. From the way she gazed at him, Jerome wondered if she was one of those who liked the pain—Small bites along the neck, sweet pain noises, grasping tighter— Stop! Jerome was jerked back from his revelry as the fanner offered the stiff bunch of hair.
“Nay again, strong Phillip, we will have no hint of sleight of hand here. You will put it in the Egg.” His sleeve flared as he swung his arm to regard the Egg. The crowd gathered closer. Jerome removed the small fitted lid, revealing an inner wheel marked by a silver hook. The hours that had gone into those workings: the guide that would slip the hair off, the hidden bin the hook would pass through to snare the gold wool, the spring that kept the gold’s level just high enough. Reaching forward, Phillip stuffed the hair into the cavity.
“Carefully, my son, be sure that it’s wrapped all around the silver. Otherwise, it will not all be transformed.” Sure
that the lock was properly entwined, Jerome replaced the lid. “Now, my children, this only I can do.”
Jerome had given much thought to this phase and had decided that he need not fear the superstitious mind rot of the various cabalistic and arcane tongues. He sang as he moved the wheel through its full rotation, allowing himself a rising crescendo as he finished and whisked the top off the Egg: “Come, children, take the product of your deep love!”
Phillip nearly fell over the farm girl in his greed, but she got to the Egg first and the squeal of her glee echoed up and down the rows of the fair. Hastily repeating, “Thank ye, m’lord,” they quickly backed into the group, struggling with each other for possession of the warm gold as many shoved and peered to see. Jerome chuckled inwardly at their premarital struggle and wondered if the assertive Phillip had not gotten more than he bargained for. Oddly, as they moved away, it suddenly seemed as if they genuinely began to try to force the gold on each other. Compassion? Generosity? No, probably just the wrong perspective.
Jerome lacked for no customers. His skin crawled with fevered pins as the crowd’s mutterings brought him the news he had prayed to the dark gods for: “Almost as good as Compo, that one.” “Better, m’thinks, though Compo has that fetching wench at his elbow.” They’ve come to do you again. Jerome forced down the inner voice and the gore that rose again to the tender back of his throat. Now was the time to bring the full wisdom of his plot to the fore.
Cleverly, he made sure to serve those couples who arranged a temporary union at the edge of the crowd as well as those who appeared genuinely in love. Let him gain a quick reputation as a fool: he had love to appeal to the empty-headed Dulcesans; now he had stupidity to appeal to the jaded Compo. Finally, as the sun rose to its highest, he had to plead weariness to escape the many who pressed forward for his gifts. Weariness was only a small part: he had to reload the gold and compose himself for the visit he hoped Compo and Dulcesans would take after the guardian-wizard’s afternoon show of chicanery.
As he rested in the closed tent and kept his eyes on the shadow-panel, Jerome deepened his hate and purpose. He must not yield to her again. Believer. She had lied and toyed too often. Gull. Now let her feel the force of his anger. Once I have destroyed the pompous pride of that swaggering bumpkin, a mere diviner gone crazy over the worship of innocent women, I will take her in my arms— No! No! No! I will leave her with her stupidity and ruined magician. Will this eating pain never destroy the love?
Jerome was never sure how long he waited. Small groups gathered and called for the wonder-worker Jason. Couples lingered silently for an indeterminate time. Yet none were the victims he loathed and desired. Love, hate, fear, purpose; goodness how you twirl about, false priest; argh, that poisoned gut again. Jerome remained steadfast, all controlled and buried for the play to come.
There they are! There they are! Jerome almost screamed it aloud. Easy, easy, let them get a bit past. Make it look like nothing. Make them think there is no special attention. By the Three, they’ve stopped right in front.
“Oh, Compo, he’s not open. I did so want to have our love affirmed by a golden tress.” Jerome listened with sinking hopes to her caressing voice. The things he’d done for that voice, for those hands. He grew sicker as he watched the wizard’s hands move on her, encouraging her consuming wanting. Wanting, wanting, wanting, fool. Her voice became just a droning blur of “I”s. He could stand no more and burst from the tent, catching his composure only as their heads snapped toward him in shock.
Jerome stood with his arms raised above his head, his voice carrying up and down the lanes. “I feel the presence of a great love, a great union here at the fair. It is the undying love of Guelph and Semwai, the tragic union of Regort and Yelwee, born again in this place of merriment and wonder. Who is it that stands before me?”
“Why, my lord Jason, it is only I, Dulcesans, a humble widow, but I bring with me my dearest friend, Compo the Magnificent, the greatest guardian-wizard in all the kingdom.” Her face bore a look of apparent wonder, but Jerome knew better: Hussy!
Compo showed a leer or a sneer; Jerome wasn’t sure which. He was just deeply relieved that they didn’t recognize him.
Looking out over the crowd, Jerome was pleased to see a number of priests from the monastery among its numbers. Even Sadmust gazed curiously at the black figure before the varicolored tent. Ah, a fellow practitioner of the art. There was no better audience than another adept! Jerome reached back for the silver knife and thought for a moment how easy it would be to finish it all immediately. Two quick slashes and a slow fall into the blade reversed. Do it, do it. No, too much planning to behave like a footpad now.
Jerome froze halfway in his reach when he heard Compo’s sarcastic tone: “A fellow adept?” He wondered if he could reach the knife before anything else happened: No, I am too far, he too close.
“Compo, Compo, my golden hair; don’t offend him.” Dulcesans’s soft tones again pierced through Jerome.
“Softly, my dear.” Sharper again, “Softly, my dear,” as she moved to speak again. “There is more here than mee
ts the mortal eye.” Jerome stood frozen before Compo’s darkling eyes and vibrant voice.
This . . . this was not the plan. Fool.
“So, my seeming Jason, you turn hair into gold. ...” Compo spoke loudly for the crowd as he stepped by Jerome to the Egg. The wizard reached out to the wheel; Jerome could only stand, his head lolling over his shoulder as he watched for the inevitable. Compo reached out one long finger and flipped the lid to the ground. Quickly he gave the wheel a sharp, strong spin. Gold wool cascaded into the air, catching in the couple’s hair, striking Jerome’s face. “Where is the hair for this, Jason?” Compo stilled the crowd with a sharp gesture as it moved toward the gold that was scattered about the tent and muddy aisle. “Ah, my dear Jason, there is yet another way to turn hair into gold.” He leisurely moved back to the front of the tent. Jerome began to hunch forward as the poison rose in him again and slid uncontrollably over his lip. The group was still. Dulcesans quiet, fearful. She cringed away from Compo as his voice took on an even darker, more arcane resonance. He chanted in a language so ancient that no one could understand. From the way it moved through the marrow, no one cared to understand.
Jerome felt the beard pulling his head to his chest, felt the wig begin to slip to the side. “No . . . No . . .” The texture of the hair changed; it felt smooth and cold against his sweating tonsure, his dripping face. The wig fell to the ground with an embedding thud.
“Gold . . . His hair ... to gold.” The murmurings moved through the crowd. “Why, it’s the Huncher; it’s Jerome.” “Oh Jerome.” Sadmust’s cry rose above the crowd as he moved quickly to the falling priest. The heal-all had to fight his way by too many to reach Jerome before he hit the ground chin first, dragged by the golden beard that refused to break free. By the time Sadmust reached him, a black bile had begun to foam over Jerome’s lip, staining the fleece. Tears rushed from his eyes, deep retching was all he could add to his hand as it stretched toward Dulcesans. For a moment she appeared to yield, but Compo smoothly snaked his arm about her, his hand caressing her hip.
