The Pure Heart

by Trudi Tweedie

  I remained silent, worried his pleasantries were on the wane.

  ‘But please,’ he said, raising one hand. ‘I didn’t invite you here for a lecture. Let us leave thoughts of returning to your island until the time that it matters. Now, didn’t I promise to show you atop of that ladder?’

  But our conversation had caused me to have second thoughts. ‘Maybe I should be getting back,’ I mumbled.

  The merchant was surprised. ‘But aren’t you curious?’ he said, pointing with a long finger to the rough ladder in the corner, leading up from the mosaic floor to disappear into the ceiling. ‘Don’t you want to see?’

  ‘I’m worried that the things up there will . . . change me further,’ I said quietly.

  ‘I don’t make the offer of seeing my workshop every day. Indeed, I may never make it again.’

  I mulled over what Maria had said about the wondrous contents of the workshop – about the treasures collected from all over the world. And the fact that I would be allowed to look around properly when she had been shooed out.

  Resolutely, I made my way over to the ladder.

  Plaustrell put down the tea tray and climbed up first, then beckoned me up through the hole in the ceiling into his strange, wonderful world.

  I expected the space up there to be brighter, owing to it being two storeys high and encompassing the remaining windows, but for the most part the room was devoid of natural light. Any that filtered through the panes of grimy glass was blocked by the sheer glut of paraphernalia.

  I struggled to take it all in. Rolls of Persian carpet, patterned metal lamps, piles of animal skins, and a gigantic pink seashell were just a few of the things that stood out from the jumble. These were the items sitting in coronas of light emitted from oil lamps dotted about the place, but much more stuff was stacked together in an amorphous mass.

  The merchant watched my face as I took in the contents of his room. ‘Do you like my collection?’ he asked proudly, lighting another oil lamp with a spark from a flint box. The flickering lamp swayed devilishly around the stone walls as he made his way over to the far side of the room. One by one, more objects revealed themselves as he passed.

  An eagle dangling in flight, a red fox standing alert, a golden furry beast with its mouth open wide showing spectacular teeth.

  ‘Those animals . . .’ I said, pointing at them dumbfounded. ‘Are they . . . real?’

  ‘They’re real all right,’ said Plaustrell, putting the lamp on a table and picking up the fox. The creature stayed quite rigid, its glassy eyes sparkling in the oil light. ‘But I think the question that might be more appropriate is . . . are they alive? In which case,’ he said, stroking the fox’s auburn fur, ‘they are not.’

  I noticed with horror a monkey sitting on a chair, its glare glassy and unresponsive.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he laughed. ‘That isn’t Nell – she’s over there in the cage. That one is stuffed like the rest.’

  I observed the cage in the corner, covered by a blanket. ‘How can a thing look so alive and yet . . . be quite dead?’ I said, turning my attention back to the other animals.

  ‘Come see,’ said Plaustrell, holding the creature out to me. ‘This fox, for instance – its innards have been removed and replaced with sawdust, its skin treated with alcohol, so that it won’t rot. In a way, it will live for ever.’

  I stroked the fox but refused to take it from the merchant, its fixed grimace making my flesh crawl. ‘And all these other animals . . . they are stuffed too?’

  ‘They are,’ said Plaustrell, replacing the fox and taking up an otter which was a more familiar animal to me. ‘By my very own hand indeed. A skill learnt from a friend in Rome.’

  ‘What did you do – with their innards?’ I enquired.

  ‘What a curious question,’ laughed the merchant. ‘Most of them were used for meat – what was left for medicines. Some of their organs are highly valued for their healing properties.’

  ‘Goodness,’ I said, looking round at the many animals dotted around the place. A nip of dust invaded my nose and I sneezed.

  ‘It’s a bit dirty, I’m afraid,’ he conceded. ‘And rather untidy. But please, step this way. There is more to see!’

  The far side of the room was lit more warmly with candles and the piles of stuff petered out to reveal two high wooden benches filled with clusters of pewter pots, mortar and pestles. Above the benches, the stone walls were lined with curved wooden shelves which were jammed with bottles of all shapes and colours. The shelving sat mostly in darkness and I was thankful not to be able to make out the things floating in liquids that Maria had spoken of.

  There was also an anvil and a metal fireplace, hung with hammers and tongs and, finally, a writing desk equipped with pots of inks and quills obscured by a tide of yellowed scrolls.

  Another pile of objects was hidden by an oriental screen.

  ‘I could do with a bit of help in here,’ said Plaustrell walking back over to the stuffed golden creature. ‘But I don’t like the servants poking around in things they don’t understand.’

  ‘What is that animal?’ I said, moving over to join him. Up close the creature was huge, wider and even bigger than Whitefoot with paws the size of saucers and a mane of shaggy hair.

  ‘It’s a lion,’ said Plaustrell. ‘I captured him on the plains of Africa. To me, it’s the most exciting animal in the entire world . . . the true king of the beasts.’

  ‘And you brought the creature back here . . . and stuffed it?’ I said, thinking of all of the representations of the animal that featured in the merchant’s house.

  ‘Not quite . . . I caught it alive, took it in a cage back to Venice. Used my workshop there. You can’t leave the animals dead too long – the heat makes their hides disintegrate.’

  ‘And its organs are used in medicines?’

  ‘Very much so,’ said the merchant, suddenly deep in thought. ‘As is its blood.’

  I pointed quizzically at an object that I first mistook for a footstool, made from crinkled grey leather.

  ‘An elephant’s foot,’ I was informed.

  ‘That is a foot!’ I exclaimed, trying to calculate the size of the beast that could possess such a thing.

  ‘And those are its tusks,’ he explained, pointing to two further artefacts by the foot. ‘Teeth that stick out from its mouth. It is what ivory is made from.’

  I had never thought much about the ivory objects in the house, or the creatures the material might come from. I took a moment to stroke one of the huge tusks.

  ‘Well, I suppose that I should be getting on,’ said the merchant. ‘And Maria will be missing you by now.’

  ‘But there is so much to see up here,’ I began, devastated at the thought of being dismissed. ‘Why, I’ve hardly seen the half of it.’

  ‘I’m flattered by your interest,’ said Plaustrell, smiling widely. He picked up the oil lamp again which caught the line of his fine cheekbones, emphasizing the shadow of his beard. ‘If you like, you can come back – I’m sure I can think of other diversions for my daughter.’ He paused for a moment. ‘If you are worried about corrupting that mind of yours – wouldn’t you say that the damage is already done?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ I said, looking about me. ‘I can’t exactly un-see any of this now.’

  ‘And why on earth would you want to?’

  I looked around at the merchant’s treasures – at the giant urns painted with strange symbols, the skeletons of bird-like creatures, the dusty books stacked precariously.

  All this could be at my disposal – all in the absence of Maria.

  ‘I suppose I could tidy up a little.’

  ‘That would be a great start,’ smiled the merchant, walking over to the covered cage. ‘Though you might also be a useful assistant. And Nell needs looking after too.’

  ‘You mean, help with your work?’ I said, fascinated, pulling up the cover to see what Nell was up to. ‘Do you think I am capable of such a thing?’

&nb
sp; ‘From what I have seen of you so far, I’d say you were very capable.’

  Nell was sleeping soundly at the bottom of her cage.

  ‘She’s still getting used to being up in the daytime,’ explained Plaustrell. ‘After her night-time shifts on the boat.’

  ‘I still can’t believe that she helped you sail out all the way to St Kilda,’ I said, watching her chest rise and fall.

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t the easiest of journeys,’ said the merchant, gesturing that I should let Nell rest. ‘But it was worth it – we returned with the perfect girl.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ I began, thinking of the silly pearl test on the boat. ‘Maria isn’t exactly fond of me.’

  ‘She’s not used to sharing her things, that’s all,’ smiled the merchant. ‘A result of being kept in isolation – all those terrible tempers and jealousy.’

  I nodded in recognition.

  ‘And you have probably noticed her skin flare-ups. My diagnosis is that she harbours an underlying malaise. An imbalance in body humours. Brought on by grief – she still holds tightly to the memory of her mother dying.’

  ‘But I thought that you said that was a long time ago?’ I said, recalling that was what the merchant had claimed that night I went to his study. ‘I mean, how old was Maria when her mother passed from the plague?’

  ‘It really is time that you left now,’ said the merchant, smiling tightly. ‘I can’t have Maria wandering the estate looking for you . . . And I’ll send word of the progress of the supplies, as soon as I have it.’

  ‘That would be wonderful, thank you, sir,’ I said, reluctantly moving towards the ladder.

  Plaustrell still hadn’t mentioned whether he’d informed his daughter about the contents of the scroll he gave to my chief – about the supplies promised to my people, and that I could return home to my island if I so wished. Still, his warnings about returning to my simple life had given me plenty to mull over.

  Closing the door, I paused in thought. Unlike Maria, the merchant seemed to think so highly of me – in fact, he thought me so clever and capable that he wanted to involve me in his work. Yet if his potion was successful, Maria claimed he would take his household back to Venice, to this great floating city full of art and beautiful churches, full of treasures far greater than in his mere tower collection. And I wondered if he intended that I go with them. And I wondered . . . if I would like that too?

  I studied the carving on the tower door. Now I knew what a lion looked like for real, the outline had more meaning. I could make out the teeth, the fur, the tail that ended in a puff.

  And the initials below: AMAP. Alexander Marcus Amanza Plaustrell.

  But of course, I said to myself. The son of a poor woodcutter. The boy who had seen too much and could never return to his village.

  I shook my head and leant my forehead against the door. I had to return home! No matter how capable the merchant thought I could be as an assistant, I had to return for Artair. This life wasn’t mine to live – it wasn’t real. What was real was the sea, the island, the cliffs, my mother and my sister – and Artair’s arms around me. I closed my eyes and pictured the children we would have, living a life of freedom underneath that endless sky.

  But my thoughts were shattered by someone sprinting up the steps behind me: William.

  Ignoring my presence, he pushed past me to the door, hammering on it wildly.

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’ I said, torn between going back to the house and lingering to know the emergency.

  Seconds later the merchant flung open the door and William made a series of hand gestures before pointing towards the stables.

  ‘Stay there, Iseabail,’ Plaustrell ordered, returning into the tower.

  William’s face was bright red with the exertion and he leant on the doorframe to catch his breath.

  ‘What’s happened?’ I said, wide-eyed, wondering why I had been asked to stay.

  But the merchant was back, a thick silver chain twisted around one arm. ‘Hurry now, both of you,’ he said, leading the way down the steps. ‘We haven’t a moment to lose.’

  Following William’s silent directions, the three of us ran to the woods. Although I hadn’t a clue what was going on, the chain brought by the merchant suggested that we were after an animal, one that had escaped.

  ‘Is it a horse we are looking for?’ I panted after them, aware of how unfit my current lifestyle had rendered me, but no one replied.

  Plaustrell didn’t stop until we all entered the trees. Then he halted us, putting one finger to his lips as we caught our breath.

  ‘Listen,’ he ordered. But there was nothing. Just the whispering of the trees in the breeze and the squawk of a startled crow.

  ‘It’ll be hiding in here somewhere,’ said Plaustrell, ushering us forward deeper into the trees. ‘Its natural habitat is in forests.’

  We walked for a while, the only sound our footsteps crunching on the snowy forest floor. Then Plaustrell stopped dead and held up his hand.

  ‘Look,’ he said, pointing to the ground. There was a thin trail through the snow where it had melted. I frowned, remembering the melted snow around the stables. Why was it melted here too? From somewhere near came a faint cooing sound.

  I recognized the sound – it was the call of the strange goat!

  Plaustrell looked right at me. ‘I’ve brought you along because it trusts you, Iseabail,’ he said, looking across to William who shrugged apologetically.

  So William had told his master about my visit to the stables and the goat’s affection for me.

  ‘But how did it escape its chains? It’s only a little goat!’ I said.

  Plaustrell’s mouth twitched. ‘It’s stronger than it looks,’ he said quietly.

  ‘And you think I can capture it?’ I went on, not moving an inch. ‘Because it licked my hand?’

  But Plaustrell was growing impatient. ‘Fetch the creature before it strays, Iseabail. I think it is behind that fallen tree.’ He handed me the chain. ‘The stables are clearly not secure enough any more. We’ll have to bring the beast into the tower instead.’

  Sure enough, there was a trail where the snow had melted leading up and around a fallen tree. William pointed to a discarded leather hood which was caught on a nearby branch.

  I approached alone, feeling strangely light-headed. The closer I drew, the more delirious I felt. Like the time when I’d petted the creature in the stables. I glanced over my shoulder.

  Plaustrell watched me in anticipation, his eyes alight with emotion, his mouth twisting unpleasantly. Jealousy? I think he wished he could feel it too.

  ‘Go to it then!’ he whispered sharply.

  I circled the fallen tree whilst the two men waited where they stood. And there it was, a little bigger than I remembered, cowering beneath the far side of the trunk. Without the hood, a small pinkish horn protruded from its forehead.

  My breath caught in my throat as several things ran through my mind at once. I remembered the crate brought on the back of the wagon. Reinforced with bars of iron. And the hood that concealed the creature’s head – the marked passage in the compendium of beasts.

  A beast stronger than a lion with a horn that can cure any poison.

  Only tameable by a maiden, pure of heart.

  ‘It’s a unicorn,’ I heard myself say, though my voice seemed to be thick like it wasn’t coming from my own throat, just an echo from the surrounding forest which had shimmered into nothing.

  For all my senses were locked on the unicorn, its crying crystal eyes fixed on mine. Before I could reach it, it stood on shaky legs and ran to me. And I placed the chain around its neck.

  Later that afternoon, Maria finally shared the Beast Compendium.

  On any other day, I would have been desperate to see it, immerse myself in those beautifully illustrated texts about mystical beasts. But all I could think of was what had just happened, out in the forest.

  ‘Are you even listening to me? I
take the time to read you my book and all you can do is stare into thin air!’

  ‘Sorry, Maria,’ I mumbled, trying to focus back on the compendium. She had it open at the page of the aspidochelon, a gigantic turtle often mistaken for an island.

  ‘Well, what do you think of it? Isn’t it terrifying?’

  ‘It’s probably just a whale,’ I said absently, still thinking of the unicorn. ‘We used to get huge ones that swam right into the bay. Tell me about the unicorn again. Didn’t you say that its natural enemy was the lion?’

  At this, Maria snapped.

  ‘I know why you are harping on about the unicorn,’ she said angrily. ‘I know what happened to your scar!’ At this, her hand shot out to grab my wrist. ‘Don’t think I didn’t notice.’ Her grip was surprisingly strong, her freezing fingers gripping me tightly like icicles. It had already occurred to me that the creature’s lick had completely healed my scar.

  ‘Papa has found his missing ingredient!’ she cried out. ‘And he’s wasting it on you!’

  I felt my heart thumping so loud in my chest I thought it would burst through. How much had Maria known all along, really?

  But then something else seemed to occur to her, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

  ‘Clever unicorn,’ she said, trance-like as I pulled free. ‘Now that hand is far prettier without an ugly mark.’

  ‘The creature is not your present, is it?’ I said, rubbing my wrist where she’d held it. ‘Your gift from your father’s travels?’

  ‘The Beast Compendium is my present, dear Iseabail. It’s something I’ve wanted for years – the unicorn is just a missing ingredient.’

  ‘The rare ingredient needed in his cure for the plague,’ I said dumbly, trying to understand, ‘is the unicorn?’

  And at this, Maria pulled open the page still marked with the ribbon in the Beast Compendium. She turned the book around so that it was the right way up for me. ‘A beast stronger than a lion with a horn that can cure any poison,’ she said, without looking down at the book. My eyes fell to the fair-haired maiden and the white beast with its long twisting horn. The creature now locked up in the tower must only be a baby. Did the merchant intend to kill it? To use its tiny horn in his potion?