Night Pilgrims

by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  Sandjer’min signaled to Ruthier to bring rope, then he turned to Frater Anteus, who had come to the bridgehead as Sieur Horembaud had started across it. “I’ll go down to him, to see what his condition is.”

  “Yes,” said the monk distantly. “That would be kind of you.” He turned away from the river, and heard the rumble of many voices as the pilgrims tried to decide what was to be done.

  Sieur Horembaud yelled again. “I’M HURT!”

  When Ruthier handed Sandjer’min the rope, he said in the dialect of western China, “I’ll secure this rope to the southern pillar and let myself down to the ledge. If I can make a sling for him, you and a few of the others can haul him up, then drop the rope to me again. If there is a problem, I’ll let you know and you can lower what I need.”

  “Do you think it will be—”

  “He has broken bones at the least,” he said in Anglo-French, “and he may turn cold from them.”

  Micheu shoved through the knot of pilgrims at the bridgehead. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep these people from falling off the cliff, if you can, and have Pendibe and his group plant their torches and move back,” said Sandjer’min as he bent to tie his rope to the iron pillar. “These men are worried and frightened. In a short while, they’ll be skittish as well, and that will do no good for anyone.” He saw Micheu give a sign of agreement, so he added to Ruthier, once again in Chinese, “If I pull twice on the rope, send down my bag of medicaments. If I pull once, haul him up.”

  “Yes, my master,” Ruthier said in Anglo-French.

  Even with four lanthorns now aiming their beams at the rock-face, Sandjer’min was relieved that he did not require much more than starlight to see clearly. He descended fairly rapidly, keeping close to the wall of the canyon; as he reached the ledge, he tested his footing before moving along it. He went carefully, for the nearness of running water distracted and disoriented him. He called out, “Sieur Horembaud. It’s Sandjer’min.”

  Sieur Horembaud raised his hand. “I’m over here. Did you bring a lanthorn?”

  The question alarmed Sandjer’min, but he answered in a composed voice. “No. I only want to see what your condition is so we can raise you.”

  “The mare fell…”

  “Into the river, yes.” Sandjer’min approached him slowly. “How do you feel?”

  “I hurt,” was the curt answer.

  “I understand that, but where?” Sandjer’min could smell the blood welling from a broken collar-bone.

  “My shoulder hurts like Lucifer’s brimstone. There’s a bone broken at my shoulder, and I think the arm … may be, too.”

  “What about your head, your back, your legs?” He knew what the answer would be.

  “Nothing. Below my shoulders, no pain at all. I can’t move them, either.” He paused, as if he was beginning to understand his injuries. “That’s a bad sign, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. It means your back is broken, and it may not be safe to move you,” said Sandjer’min, and shuddered, for it was one of the few injuries that could give him the True Death as surely as it would kill the living.

  * * *

  Text of a letter from Pater Fridericus Schallensang, secondary Papal secretary in Roma, to the Assistant Vizier Yerga-al-Ahmad bin Issa to the Sultan of Egypt in Alexandria, written in Church Latin on parchment, carried by Papal courier and delivered to the Master of the Hospitallers in Alexandria for official presentation twenty-three days after it was written.

  It is my honor to address you, most highly renowned Assistant Vizier Yerga-al-Ahmad bin Issa, who serves the Illustrious Sultan of Egypt, Malik-al-Kamil bin Ayyub, on behalf of His Holiness, Pope Honorius III on this, the 21st day of August, in the Year of Our Lord, the Savior of the World, 1225.

  Esteemed Assistant Vizier Yerga-al-Ahmad bin Issa,

  It has pleased His Holiness to approach your Sultan on a matter of mutual importance, and one that must surely command the attention of Malik-al-Kamil bin Ayyub for the sake of his people, for which I ask you to read what follows.

  His Holiness is minded to suspend the pilgrimages currently taking place in Egypt and lands beyond Egypt to the south. He has considered the situation, and is likely to bring forth an Encyclical directing good Christians who wish to visit holy places to confine themselves to their own lands and Jerusalem. With so many pirates and other rogues preying upon those companies of pilgrims that are abroad in the world, it would reduce the need for guarding the companies and pursuing the miscreants who have abused them, allowing the Sultan to dispatch more of his soldiers and officers to places where there is new fighting.

  If this action should be met with approbation from the Illustrious Malik-al-Kamil bin Ayyub I would be most gratified to so inform His Holiness upon receipt of your notice of such, and to turn the matter over to the Cardinal Archbishops for official action.

  Most cordially,

  Pater Fridericus Schallensang

  Premonstratensian and secondary Papal secretary

  at Roma

  6

  Shortly before dawn, as the two companies of pilgrims passed through an avenue of palm trees along a road that merchants had used for two thousand years, Sieur Horembaud began to moan, a despairing sound that spread through the two companies like a disease, draining them all of hope and filling them all with anxiety at what such agony might portend, for it was known that when a leader was stricken, his followers would suffer with him.

  “What can be done about that?” Pendibe asked Sandjer’min as they moved steadily through the night.

  “It will grow louder,” Sandjer’min said to Pendibe, regretting to have to tell him something so unwelcome.

  “You’ve seen it before, then?”

  “I have,” said Sandjer’min, recalling the Greek sailor who had been struck by the boom on his fishing boat, and was only found by other fishermen searching for him because of the ferocity of his screams.

  “Is there nothing you can do?” Pendibe inquired, his voice low. He held up his hand to halt the pilgrims.

  “There is, but it might shorten his life,” said Sandjer’min as Pater Venformir rode his ass up to them. Sandjer’min translated greetings for them both, then cast a glance at the jagged eastern horizon.

  “Should we camp for the day, if this is going to continue? I know we agreed to keep going until near mid-day, but we need rest now. We’re all tired, aren’t we?” asked Pater Venformir, as he and Pendibe halted their groups on a stretch of level ground studded with small boulders and resinous scrub. “I know we must care for him, but is there nothing that can be done about that … that noise?”

  Sandjer’min answered the question. “It would take a miracle for him to survive, but I can ease his suffering. It’s not much, but it is the best I can do under the circumstances.” He was running low on syrup of poppies, but he had some oil of blue lotus that would reduce Sieur Horembaud’s pain and give him visions as well. “The sooner we reach the monastery, the better.”

  “No doubt. If he is to die, let it be on sacred ground,” said Pater Venformir. “Surely God will give him strength enough to reach the Monastery of the Redeemer.”

  “Are you suggesting that we ride through the entire day?” Pendibe asked Sandjer’min, and shook his head. “You pale people are not made for it, Sidi, nor are Sieur Horembaud’s pilgrims. You with light skin suffer in our sun. Those with light eyes and hair suffer the most.”

  “We know,” said Sandjer’min. “But if we wrap our heads and keep covered, might we be able to endure it, for a day?” He knew it would be as bad as the road to Damascus for him, but this was not a time to hesitate.

  “For a full day, no. It would bring more ailments than you expect, ailments that cannot be addressed on the road, and would ultimately slow our progress,” Pendibe warned, his eyes narrowed in thought. “If we rest at mid-day, it is possible to reach the monastery not long after sundown, if we do not have to stop to attend to Sieur Horembaud or Sorer Imogen, or anyone
else. Not all of the two companies will want to travel so relentlessly.” He waited to hear if Pater Venformir would agree.

  “It is our duty to care for our pilgrim-brothers, and sisters, whether it is convenient for us or not,” said Pater Venformir with the stubbornness of righteousness. “If we fail in our duty, where is there virtue in our pilgrimage.”

  “A commendable sentiment,” said Pendibe as Sandjer’min finished his translating. “But it will do us all more good to reach the monastery as soon as possible than to delay on the road. Surely you agree with that, Pater.”

  “I should have mentioned this sooner, but I thought it would not be a problem.” Pater Venformir lowered his head and crossed himself. “Frater Tone has a bad swelling in his ankle, and it is worsening. He needs relief from traveling.”

  “Why is his ankle swollen?” Sandjer’min asked once he had translated Pater Venformir’s words for Pendibe.

  “He claims not to know,” said Pater Venformir. “I find I believe him.”

  Sandjer’min sighed. “I’ll have a look at it when we stop,” he said. “For now, I assume there is an oasis ahead?”

  Such observations no longer shocked Pendibe, but Pater Venformir regarded him in astonishment. “Why do you say so?”

  “Because there are trees on the side of the road—have been for half a league—and trees mean water,” said Sandjer’min, and repeated this in Coptic. “When we reach the oasis, we must water the animals and refill our water-casks. I’ll deal with Sieur Horembaud and Sorer Imogen then, and may do something for Frater Tone, depending on what I find. Then we can go on until mid-day. Tents and sails to go up as quickly as possible when we stop for our mid-day rest to provide shade; cooking and care of the animals will have to wait until there is shelter for all the two companies, and the horses and asses.”

  Pendibe thought this over briefly. “The stop is necessary, so turn it to good use, Sidi.”

  “I will do my best,” Sandjer’min assured him, and a short while later, the companies were moving again.

  At the small oasis Pendibe had chosen, Sandjer’min moistened a tiny, narrow spoon with oil of blue lotus and rubbed it on Sieur Horembaud’s lips while Sieur Horembaud howled and struck out with his one arm that remained undamaged and fulsomely cursed Sandjer’min. As Sandjer’min left him on the pallet pulled by one of the asses, Sieur Horembaud suddenly yelled, “What have you done to me?”

  Florien and Almeric stood nearby, both of them silent and hollow-eyed, exhausted and affrighted by the awareness of Sieur Horembaud’s impending death.

  “Given you a way to suffer less. You should be asleep shortly, and will sleep until we stop again, when your servants”—he gave the two a single glance—“will help you to eat and care for your body until you sleep again,” he went on to Pendibe as he gathered up his materials and continued on to the three women, sheltering at the edge of a stand of leathery-leaved bushes, Sorer Imogen still mounted on her ass and strapped into the saddle. “This will help calm her, and lessen the pain of the sun,” he said as he came up to them; already Sieur Horembaud’s screams were less appalling.

  “Torquil made that apparent to us all,” said Margrethe in a disheartened voice.

  “If Sorer Imogen will keep to her veil and wimple, she should not be at too great a risk,” he said, wanting to provide Margrethe some cause for seeing promise in this part of their journey.

  Margrethe took a vial of syrup of poppies he held out and asked, “How much will she require?”

  “Half the vial now, with water, and half when we stop, with food.” He took a step back from her. “You’re looking tired.”

  “Because I am tired,” she said, then yawned. “I have to say something to Lalagia, something between us.”

  “Your monthly flowers are about to come and you need rags and lint,” he said. “You have almost none left.”

  She blinked at him, wanting to know how he had come to notice her cycle. “Yes. I do need those things, for the reason you describe. Lalagia has offered me some of her own—being pregnant, she will not bleed for several months, and by then, I would hope to be…” Her words trailed off, suddenly embarrassed by speaking so openly to him on such a matter.

  “We’ll meet later, once we reach the monastery,” he said, going away from the three women, looking for Frater Tone.

  The monk was sitting on a stack of small chests, his face ruddy from being in the direct sun. He stared disconsolately at his swollen foot and ankle, not bothering to look up at Sandjer’min. “You’re the magician, aren’t you? The one who has the medicaments. You’re the one who brought Sieur Horembaud up from the ledge.”

  “I am.” Sandjer’min squatted in front of him. “May I look at your foot?”

  “If you must.” There was a note of hostility in his response. “They say you can work wonders. But they say that of many foreigners.”

  Sandjer’min loosened the broad linen bands that wrapped Frater Tone’s leg; the foot was the size of a gourd, and his ankle was as round as a foot-soldier’s helmet, the skin stretched and shiny. “How long have you had this swelling?”

  “Two, three days. It got worse yesterday.” He stared at Sandjer’min. “Do you have anything that will help?”

  “I don’t know.” Sandjer’min examined the ballooning tissues, but found no bites or scratches to account for it. “Has anything else happened to this foot?”

  “I twisted the ankle four days ago,” he admitted. “I almost fell over.”

  “Perhaps you should have,” he said, and reached into his bag of medicaments, bringing out a jar that contained a smooth ointment. “This contains willow-bark and alum. I want you to rub this into the swollen part of your leg three times a day for the next two days. We’ll see how you go on after that.” He stood up. “I’ll speak to you tomorrow morning. In the meantime, wrap it loosely in cotton or linen, to keep the sun off.”

  Frater Tone thought this over. “I will. For now.”

  When the monk said nothing more, Sandjer’min turned away, seeking out the three guides at the head of the line.

  “Sidi,” Pendibe greeted him. “Will you tell your company that they have only a little time to fill their casks with water and to be ready to move out.”

  “Gladly. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  Pendibe frowned in thought. “Tsega saw signs of jackals nearby a while ago: make sure the pilgrims don’t wander beyond the torches.”

  “Certainly,” said Sandjer’min; he went among the members of Sieur Horembaud’s company, urging them to prepare to leave shortly. Cristofo d’Urbineau and Agnolus dei Causi asked him about Sieur Horembaud’s condition, and expressed pious horror at what they learned.

  “I have given him something to ease his pain, but there is little more I can do,” Sandjer’min told them both, and informed Noreberht lo Avocat that because they had left Gudjei at a small oasis with food enough for three days did not oblige them to do the same with Sieur Horembaud or Sorer Imogen.

  “But they are both getting worse,” Noreberht protested.

  “It is a Christian duty to care for the sick,” Sandjer’min reminded him, and continued on his very short rounds before returning to where Ruthier was loading their chests and cases on three asses; the horses beside him were not the usual two.

  “I’ve put Melech on the remount line,” Ruthier said to Sandjer’min, and nodded in the direction of a grulla mare with two white feet. “Eyael is rested and will move along smartly.”

  “Thank you, old friend,” he said in Imperial Latin as he mounted up. “I don’t think I’ve seen you on that—”

  “That dark-chestnut gelding? I’ve ridden him once before.” He paused, and his faded-blue eyes glinted with amusement. “The horse dealers always want to sell us geldings, so we won’t start breeding our own herds, I suppose.” His chuckle had little amusement in it. “As if travelers can care for foals and pregnant mares.”

  “A strong animal, that chestnut, and sturdy. You’ll
lead asses?”

  “Pendibe has asked me to,” said Ruthier, then went silent for a long moment before he asked, “How much longer?”

  Sandjer’min’s answer was remote, but filled with distant sorrow. “Sieur Horembaud is very strong. He may last through tomorrow.”

  “No chance he’ll improve?”

  “None,” said Sandjer’min, and set his grulla mare trotting toward the head of the line that was forming for the grueling morning ahead. As he took his place with Pendibe, he saw the east begin to pale, and steeled himself for the ordeal of bright sunlight and leagues of trotting along old, rutted roads.

  By the time the two companies stopped for their mid-day meal and rest, Sieur Horembaud was wrawling again; the jenny-ass pulling his pallet had her ears laid back, and her tail twitching nervously. Almeric rushed to Sandjer’min as soon as the companies drew rein, his face now haggard.

  “I’ll attend to him at once,” Sandjer’min said in Anglo-French and then Coptic before he hurried to treat Sieur Horembaud while Pendibe and Pater Venformir supervised setting up the camp.

  Sieur Horembaud’s color was not good—an ominous combination of bruise-gray and dull-red—and he seemed unable to focus his eyes. He struck out at Sandjer’min as he knelt beside his patient’s pallet and lifted the improvised hood that had protected Sieur Horembaud from the worst of the sun. Sandjer’min administered the oil of blue lotus, saying as he did, “This will take your pain away for a time. I will see you have more of it before we go on in the afternoon.” He brought out a small skin of water and held it to Sieur Horembaud’s mouth.

  “Will you? Do you think I’m a fool?” Sieur Horembaud challenged, and tried to strike out at Sandjer’min; Sieur Horembaud groaned in frustration and tried to spit the oil off his mouth. Then his face softened as he tasted what Sandjer’min had given him. “Oh. This. I like this,” he muttered and made a clumsy attempt to take the vial from Sandjer’min. “More.”

  “Later,” said Sandjer’min, preparing to rise.

  This time Sieur Horembaud managed to snag the cuff of Sandjer’min’s sleeve. “More!” he repeated loudly.