by J A Deriu
“Look,” Jack said and pointed at the palace as the crack of a third explosion reverberated. Between the thickening columns of smoke, people could be seen running out and then swiveling around to watch the chaos behind.
The guard set his hands on the lawn and stiffened to lift himself. Joy ruthlessly cracked the club over his back, but he was a big man and was determined to get up. “You must get out of here,” she said to Jack.
“You must too. It’s not safe,” he answered and jerked his head at the smoke coming from the palace.
“Did you do that?” She asked and did not wait for an answer. “Put on his hat.” She pointed at the loose hat. “And get out through the gates.”
He could not go back through the grate. Black smoke was beginning to find its way out from there too. The guard would soon be on his feet. He reached down, picked up the cap, and fixed it on his head.
“I will show you.” Joy pulled his shirt and they ran across the lawn. She was wearing a white costume. Her pants and shirt were loose and moved with the breeze but were tightly fitted at her ankles and wrists. Her head was uncovered, and her sparkling hair danced as she ran.
They followed a path that led around the outskirts of the palace and were soon among confused and wandering servants and inhabitants who had evacuated. Smoke continued to swirl from vents at the base of the building. Jack was not paid attention to. His hat blended in with many others that were the same. Some of the faces had the look of those waiting out an inconvenience that would be righted shortly, but others, the more noble and harsh-looking faces, had disturbed looks. Among the bedlam of noise, competing commands further confused the scene.
Their movement was slow through the growing and roiled crowd. Joy was stopped by a girl who wore the same costume. They exchanged quick words. The other girl signaled for Joy to follow. Joy feigned to follow and then did not. She kept her distance from Jack so that it looked as if they were not together.
The needlelike peaks of the iron gates were in the distance. They joined a stream of people moving in the direction. A crashing noise stopped the crowd, and they all turned to see the upper reaches of the palace at one of its corners tumble into a cloud of spewing dust and debris. Screams followed, and the crowd was pushed aside by two lines of running Ottoman soldiers, dressed in their full battle uniforms. Joy pulled him close. “Tell me that you did not do this?”
“Not really,” he feebly answered.
She glared at him. Her face had seemed to age greatly, although not a year had passed since they had traveled together in the wilderness.
“You must leave this place,” he quietly stressed.
She hesitated. “I want to … but I can’t.”
The roar of another tower of the palace collapsing swept over them. Gaspar had achieved his plan, even though Jack had not done his corner. He wondered whether the Templars had made it out and were on a boat in the harbor, after being unable to wait for him any longer, or whether they were buried in the rubble of the collapsed underground.
The crowd thickened at the gates. Jack saw through a gap that soldiers were there with bayonet-fixed rifles and were stopping and aggressively questioning those leaving.
He shook his head at Joy. How would he make it out? He could not speak the language and looked suspicious, apart from his ill-fitting hat. She used her shoulder to steer him to a smaller gate that was not as crowded. “Look dumb. Look very dumb,” she whispered to him. On the other side, flanked by heavily decorated soldiers, was a woman who stood with utter self-assurance. She wore a crimson-silk cape tied at her throat and dark military-style clothes underneath. Her eyes seemed to capture every movement, and she lifted her chin slightly in their direction, which Joy took as a sign for them to go through the gate. Her hair, which was as black as a raven, hung to her waist.
Joy bowed to the woman in a way that was well practiced. Jack stayed within a few steps of her – not too close to attract attention and not too far away so that he could still be considered to be with her. He kept his eyes pointed at the ground to avoid looking at the imposing woman. Her voice was soft but cut through all the other noise. He did not understand what she said. Joy haltingly replied at first and then finished with confidence. She had learned the language of the Ottomans.
He lifted his head for a moment. The woman was looking at him. She had a slim nose and thin lips that moved a fraction. Joy hurried along, and Jack darted behind her. They were many steps away, and he kept his head pointed down when a hand was clapped on his shoulder. He was spun to see the lantern jaw of the guard who had attacked him in the grounds. He had an angry snarl on his face and beads of blood dripping on the side of his head and neck. He shouted at Jack, and when he realized that Jack did not understand Turkish, he cried out in English. “You bastard! You came from underneath. I am going to strike you.” He swung a fist, which scraped Jack’s jaw.
Jack, as a reflex, threw his fist and hit the man on the shoulder. Joy yelled as if she were being attacked. A soldier stepped out of a formation, turned over his rifle, and banged the butt into the stomach of the man, who collapsed onto the street, whacked his head, and splashed blood on the flagstones. He tried to stand but had the legs of a newborn foal and fell back to the ground.
Joy shoved Jack again, and they hurried away. They were halted by another echoing crash, this time much greater than those before. They stopped to look back, as had all of those around them. The palace was in the midst of a full collapse, and a huge cloud of smoke was blocking the ability to see more. Those around gasped, howled, and loudly wept.
Joy glanced at him and they kept walking. They dodged those watching the spectacle and came onto a wide bridge. “I am grateful to you,” he said. She did not reply. “Why did the soldier hit him and not me?”
“You have the hat,” she said looking at the hat, which he had to keep righting to stop from falling off.
“How did we pass that lady? What did you say?”
“That lady is the governess – the most powerful person in this city. I told her that you are a simpleton. She has a heart for them, and there are many that work in the palace. I said you were scared, and I was taking you home to your mother. Now don’t ask any more questions. I am thinking.”
He looked hard at her and realized that he was talking to a woman instead of the girl whom he had known from the wilderness.
There were columns of soldiers running in the direction of the palace. They were followed by hospital wagons, all watched by horror-faced onlookers.
They crossed into the part of the city that was at the very end of the huge island, shadowed by the massive buildings and among the throngs of alarmed people that crowded the streets bringing all traffic to stop.
“I will come with you,” she declared.
He opened his mouth but could not talk.
“I can’t think that you had anything to do with this, but I do believe that you made a vow to come for me, as this is the second time we have met.” She stopped and leaned toward him. “The governess is the most beautiful and generous woman, but I do fear what will happen to me when I am no longer under her charge. Where are we to go?”
“We must get off the island.”
“Then we must cross one of the bridges.”
They moved deeper into the city. The streets were not the frenetic-but-controlled action that he remembered from his previous two trips onto the island. There were unruly scenes everywhere he looked. The sky was marked by the destroyed palace. The citizenry looked at it with only mild interest, as if it were already old news, and instead focused their attention on the streets, which were becoming like a river after a storm.
A food vendor’s cart had been overturned. Bagels rolled across the road. Urchins ran away with them. The traffic had stopped in all directions. The Zaptie who controlled the motor vehicles were gone. Groups of confidant ruffians were on either side eyeing and taunti
ng each other. The shopkeepers closed their doors, and the restaurant workers packed up their chairs and tables. Joy looked out of place in her fancy clothes and loose hair. She attracted whistles and jeers from the ruffians. Jack tossed his hat into a trash barrel.
The doormen of a large emporium were lying beaten at the doors as thrilled youths jumped over them. A bin had been set alight. The smashing of windows echoed along the cavernous street. A man with a stick chased a looter who clutched bags. He ran into more youths, who took the stick from him and started beating him. A girl knocked against them as she ran past. She was being chased. Her arms were full of clothes. She dropped the clothes as others pulled at them. Joy picked up a coat and put it on without looking around.
They took long detours to avoid the bedlam. Some parts of the city were quiet, and others were burning. Gunshots and wild screams were common. They moved without saying anything – like they had done in the wilderness, with only a glance at moments to check that they still walked together. Jack had some coins in his pocket and was able to buy food from a vendor.
There was a turbulent scene at one intersection. A large crowd had set up piles of broken bricks and pulled-up pavement. They attacked a formidable building, which Jack guessed was an Ottoman stronghold by the looks of the markings. Missiles flew toward its windows and were followed by coordinated chants.
At the next intersection, they saw worse. Battered bodies were spreadeagled on the sidewalk. Jack could not tell if they were living or dead, and they did not linger to learn. In his brief glance, he could see that they had the look of the well off. They had waistcoats and puffed shirts underneath.
It was a fatiguing hike that took them the day to make. They passed the city gardens, where crowds had formed and speeches were being delivered. They crowd looked to be made up of all ages – men and women – many carrying planks of wood and makeshift weapons that they had taken from building sites.
The bridge was full with people going in both directions. The Zaptie checkpoint had been vandalized and knocked over. The motor vehicles that had ventured onto the bridge were swamped by the mass of people and could not move.
They joined those fleeing the city. These were the jacket-wearing clerks, young women pulling scarves to cover their hair, and parents with confused children. On the other side was a rabble that, although diverse, was marching with purpose. There were scruffy louts hurrying to the looting and also short-haired, neatly dressed young men and women who had focused eyes. Jack wondered if they were the Children of Liberty.
On the other side they found the suburbs quieter. At a motorbus depot, Jack checked a map for the route he wanted. He did not know the greater city, and it took some working out, but after a while, he put down the map, convinced that he knew where to go, only to see the hundreds and hundreds waiting for the motorbuses.
They sat silently in a corner. They did not want to join the pushing crowds of the queue, so they waited. Jack closed his eyes and entered a half sleep. They had a lot to tell each other. In spite of all the walking, she still smelled of the perfumes of the palace. He thought about what he would tell Joy. Would she believe that he was a Templar? Should he tell her? Would they return to the wilderness? Her head fell onto his shoulder as she slept.
It was deep into the night when they boarded a motorbus. The exhausted conductor did not even ask for tickets. Jack followed the map, and they changed motorbuses twice before he saw a building that he recognized – the plain church of his initiation. “Where are we going?” she asked when they stepped off the motorbus. There were many people on the streets. The curfew was not being adhered to.
“This is where I have been living.”
“Have you been living alone?”
“No.”
The building was quiet. He had his own key, which was deep in his pocket. The door creaked open. The apartment room was dark and had a foul odor. He heard noise and stopped moving. A tug at his leg startled him, and he took a step back. He felt a wet slap at his fingers. It was the dog.
He rubbed the excited dog, entered, and lit a table lamp. He expected to see the Templars collapsed on their mats. He had practiced what to say. Gaspar would think that he had deserted them. Jack would explain he had not. Instead, he had fulfilled his quest, and he had the proof of this. Joy was at his shoulder.
The Templars were not in the room. The cat stretched its legs and meowed. “Ha!” Joy cried, recognizing it. “Have you a name yet?” she asked the cat as it came to her fingers. The foul smell was that of the cat and dog.
He sat on the couch and watched for a moment the animals competing for pats from Joy. He looked over the room, at Odo’s kitchen and his cheap novels, Hoston’s sheathed sword, and the animals that he had come to associate with Amblard. He saw the cross affixed to the wall and thought of Gaspar’s speeches.
Later they went onto the roof. There was a red glow breaking the dark horizon. The city was burning. Gaspar was right – the rebellion had begun.
Joy sat next to him. Their shoulders touched. She gulped long breaths. “Look at that.” She shook her head. “Jack, what are we going to do?”
He looked at her and shook his head too. “I am not Jack anymore – I am Landry.”
Epilogue
He was easy to follow. He left the marks of a drunken bear. She left none herself. The birds chirped at him as he traipsed through the dense woods and tangled branches. She saw him through a gap. He had changed. He looked older. He was, of course, but he looked a lot older. She could tell that he had seen war. She had seen it herself as a child when the raiders had come to her village. These thoughts ruined her concentration.
Those many winters ago. Hiding in the woodshed. Keeping her head low so that she could only see the leather slippers and tightly bound fur leggings that belonged to her mother against the dirty white of the snow. Then the black boots and spurs of the raider leaving heavy imprints as they strode toward her mother. In a torn moment, the evil splatter of blood. The body falling like a chopped tree. The head with its long braids followed and landed moments later, burying itself into the white. She shook her head to rid herself of these memories.
She had stepped on a twig, and the crack interrupted the noise of the woods. The boy did not react. His untrained ear was oblivious. He moved deeper into the woods and stopped to check that he was not being followed. A marsh was nearby, and the croaking of frogs resounded. Red sunlight exploded through the tall trees. The boy stopped at a group of hefty rocks. He looked back at the path he had taken, and his face showed that he had decided he was far enough away from the camp. He sat on a rock and let the sun warm his face and the wind mess his hair, which had not been cut in a long time. He had a woolen satchel hanging over his shoulder. He moved it to his lap, where he let it sit while he checked again that there was no one around.
She moved to be behind a tree so that even if he had luck, he would not see her. She would wait for him to settle and in the time clear her mind. The portents had all been clear, so she had no doubt this would be as it was supposed to be. It was her religion – what was called her strange creed – that had led her to this place. Since that time, when the raiders had come to her village in the mountains, her strange God had guided her through the tedious and breaking training, the mistakes, the sudden reversals, and always provided slow drops of revelation along the way. She looked up at the sky. It was clear, with no clouds for her to read. It did not matter because she needed no more signs.
The force that guided her had safeguarded her in her journey to this time. The lands of the Russians had been war-torn with many risks, yet she had not faltered. Village after village was burned to nothing but ashes gathered around scorched timbers. It was unsure who had burned them. It depended on the loyalties, and with both sides marauding across the countryside, every village was sure to fall afoul.
She had been delayed more than once. From a hilltop she had spotted a grou
p of brigands chasing a wooly bearded old man and his three daughters on a ruinous country road. The brigands rode recklessly to catch the group, which had nothing to offer other than the old wagon, the two farm horses struggling to pull it, a plodding cow tied at the back, and the old man’s daughters sitting inside, who were pulling their gray shawls to cover their heads. She left behind her barbarians without explanation to race down the hill and across a field to emerge from a thicket onto the road in time to startle the brigands and force their horses to rear. She had arrived in time. The old man had exhausted his two ancient farm horses and was looking over his shoulder with sweat-filled eyes. The brigands – there were five of them, two older men and three young bucks – sniggered when they saw her, as was to be expected. She said nothing and held out a pistol and a dagger to advise them to turn around. They laughed with added vigor, and she shot the one who laughed the hardest. The dagger sailed for the one who laughed the second loudest. These two happened to be the two older men. None had time to reach for their own weapons, which were packed on the saddles. The shot one fell without a whimper. The bullet was well aimed. The dagger recipient reached for the embedded weapon, but it, too, was well aimed and had planted near the heart. He fell backward. She aimed the pistol for one of the other three. They were turning their horses rather than readying for a fight. A sheepskin hat was flung into the air as her shot struck. The other two had turned and raced away. With a leap she mounted one of the empty horses and gave chase. She rode it with her head next to the horses, and then when the buck was within range, she lifted herself on the stirrups and hurled a dagger, which struck the man in the neck, slicing his Adam’s apple. She dismounted, retrieved her dagger, and let the fifth one go. When she got back to the old man, the barbarians had arrived and were patting the horses and smiling at the girls. “We have horses to speed our journey,” she told her men, yanking on the reins of the retrieved horses. The old man offered all that he had, even pulling at his peasant’s smock, but she asked him to feed her barbarians some gruel and milk, and after that they were on their way.
