City of Pearl

by Alys Clare

  A lamp hung from a hook just inside the door. Hrype struck a spark and lit the wick, and in the utter darkness of the closed house, the light was a warm, comforting glow. He walked on down the passage that led straight through the house, looking into the small, enclosed room where there was a hearth, shelves for pots, platters, spoons and knives and a space for food, now empty and swept clean. He went up the first few rungs of the ladder that led into the attic room where Lassair slept. His head above the level of the floor, he held up the lamp and looked round. The space was clean and neat. Descending, he went out into the open court with its high walls at the rear of the house. Again, all was as it should be. He stood in the middle of the court, listening. He thought for an instant that he heard whispering, but, holding his breath and keeping absolutely still, the tiny sound was no longer there.

  But, just as before, once again he had that sudden bright image of someone else’s awareness of him: now that unknown person was trying to tell him something, but speaking so quietly that the words were nothing but a soft sibilance that made no sense. As if – he was struck by the thought – they were in another language.

  He looked around. There was nobody there. Of course there wasn’t. Not a sound to indicate the presence of someone on the other side of the high wall.

  With an abrupt movement, irritated with himself, he went back along the passage and, just before the door onto the street, turned to his left, down a short flight of steps, then turned left again and, at the end of that passage, down more steps into the crypt.

  As in the rooms above, all was orderly. Nowhere else, Hrype reflected with a smile, was Gurdyman’s absence more evident than here, in the room where he spent the majority of his time. The crypt was impersonal now, and might have been anybody’s cellar. Hrype wondered fleetingly if Gurdyman had performed some sort of ceremony prior to departure; if he had drawn on his vast experience and selected the words that would pull forward an imaginary veil and conceal from the curious every trace of what the crypt had witnessed and experienced in the long decades of Gurdyman’s occupation.

  How long had he been there? Hrype now asked himself. And, instantly following upon that: How old is he?

  The realization that he had no idea how to answer either question made him feel uneasy.

  And then the various disturbing elements that had troubled him since he stood in the alley outside, and that subconsciously he must have been struggling to suppress, suddenly seemed to gather themselves together and attack simultaneously.

  He spun round and hurried up the first flight of steps, along the passage, up the second flight and out into the dark space inside the door. Fumbling now, trying to hold the light in the right position to see the bolt, he felt the hook on the top of the lamp slip through his fingers. The lamp fell to the hard stone floor and shattered, and the light went out.

  The after-image of its glow was like a large and very beautiful pearl.

  Shaking his head to drive it away, he felt all around the edge of the door until he found the bolt. He drove it back and flung the door open. The alley outside was shadowy and deserted but after the sudden darkness inside, the light was sufficient for him to get the key in the keyhole and lock the door. Then, already ashamed of his fear and his panic, Hrype jumped down the steps, wanting only to get away.

  He missed his footing and turned an ankle. Stumbling, a hand on the wall to keep him steady, he made his way back to the porch where he had concealed himself earlier. There, leaning into the angle of the two walls, he waited until his heartbeat began to slow.

  After a while, he recalled that he had planned to spend the night in Gurdyman’s house.

  He grimaced, his mouth turning down in a bitter twist.

  He knew there was no possibility of that now.

  There was something that lurked there, watching, waiting, its intention not clear but almost certainly malign and—

  He closed his mind on that thought. Standing there, still so close to the house, was not the place to dwell on it.

  He waited a little longer, then tried his weight on the damaged ankle. It held him, although the stabs of pain it was sending out told him he would be unwise to walk far tonight. He frowned, thinking. Not far away there was an ancient well, beyond which stood a deserted house where a friend of Gurdyman’s had lived and died, together with a companion.5 Nobody went anywhere near it now, for it was said to be haunted. Hrype could reach it, he was sure. He would rest his ankle, eat his provisions, drink water from the sacred well. He had his warm cloak and he would sleep within the house’s old walls. He was quite sure its spirits would not harm him, for he had met them in life and did not fear them in death.

  They would not have harmed anybody who ventured there in friendship, he thought as he limped away, for they had been a force for the good.

  He slept soundly, undisturbed by bad dreams or even, as far as he could recall, any dreams at all. He was aware of a – a kindness, was the best word to describe it, within the abandoned little house. As he ate the last of his bread, watching the waxing light outside, he reflected that a fanciful man might say it was fate that had led to his turned ankle, leading to his spending the night under this particular roof, for the healing spirit within had not only taken the pain of the sprain away but also the fear he had felt in Gurdyman’s house.

  He seemed to hear a soft voice say, There is a threat but it is no threat to you.

  A threat.

  Yes, he had felt it.

  The reassurance that it was not he who was in danger comforted him. He made sure the house showed no sign of his presence, thanked the resident shades for their welcome and their help, then wrapped his cloak round him, put up his hood and headed back into the town.

  He moved with caution along the alley that led to Gurdyman’s house, searching with all his senses for any hint of what he had felt the previous day. There was nothing.

  But it was cheerful, sunny morning now, and the market square, as he had slipped across its corner, had been loud with the everyday sounds of the town going about its business. There were people hurrying along the alley too: Hrype stood back for two fat women with baskets on their arms, and then for a man and a lad, the lad carrying a tray of fresh-baked bread. All four nodded to Hrype, and the man wished him good day.

  Normal.

  Hrype repeated the word once or twice as he drew level with Gurdyman’s house. He looked for a few moments at the spot where Gurdyman said he had found the dead beggar with the pearl in his hand. Gurdyman had tried so hard to deny how much the incident had disturbed him, but Hrype hadn’t been convinced. ‘You were afraid, old friend,’ he whispered now. ‘You saw a significance, either in the dead man himself or what he held in his hand, and whatever it was you saw, it changed you.’

  He sighed, for Gurdyman was far away now and out of his reach.

  He made his way to his place of concealment beside the porch, drawing his cloak close around him and his hood forward to conceal his face. He would watch a while, he decided, and wait to see if any of last night’s sensations returned. Then he would—

  Someone was coming up the alley. Heavy steps beat on the ground, and it seemed to Hrype that a shadow preceded the sounds, moving inexorably closer …

  A figure appeared at the bend in the alleyway: big, broad-shouldered, tall, dressed in a scarred leather jerkin and with a knife in a sheath on his belt.

  Jack Chevestrier.

  Hrype drew further back into his hiding place.

  He watched.

  Just as he had done, Jack looked up and down the alley to make sure he was unobserved. Then he went up the steps to Gurdyman’s house, raised the heavy iron ring that lifted the latch and tried to open the door. It was locked – Hrype clearly recalled locking it last night – and, after trying once or twice more, Jack stopped. It seemed to Hrype that his shoulders dropped a little. Then, leaning in closer to the door, he tapped on it and Hrype heard him call out, ‘Gurdyman? Gurdyman? Are you within?’

  St
anding absolutely still, Hrype watched.

  After quite some time, Jack jumped down the steps and strode away. He passed Hrype’s hiding place, and Hrype saw his face.

  So you miss her, do you? he thought as the sound of Jack’s footsteps faded away. You believed you wanted her gone, and now you find out your mistake.

  He knew it was petty, but he did not want to be the one to tell Jack that Lassair had left. And, since he was probably the only soul in the town who knew where she was heading, and how long she was likely to be away, that meant Jack was never likely to find out.

  He left his hiding place and set out up the alley, in the opposite direction to that which Jack had taken. He would take the walk in easy stages, out of consideration for his ankle, but still he reckoned he would be back in Aelf Fen by late afternoon.

  As he strode off he realized he was smiling, but whether it was at the thought of home or of Jack’s sorrow – in Hrype’s view, largely brought upon himself – he didn’t bother to work out.

  FOUR

  The best part of a month into our journey, at last Gurdyman and I were nearing the end of the sea voyage. Corunna was not far now, and the master said confidently that we would arrive early in the morning. One more night on board, I thought as I tried to get comfortable. I could manage that without complaint, couldn’t I?

  The voyage had not been too bad. The Amethyst had transported us across the Channel to St Malo largely without incident, and there we had quickly found a coastal vessel that took us on to a small port on the southern coast of Brittany where the ship was to collect a cargo of salt. We had to wait a couple of days for onward passage to Bordeaux, but, as Gurdyman and I remarked reassuringly to one another, it gave us the chance to purchase more supplies, wash out some of our garments (stained with salt water, other people’s vomit and, in my case, loose stools from a sick baby I had nursed while her mother had a much-needed sleep) and spend two nights in the blessed comfort of a bed, with blankets, sheets and a pillow and set on a surface that didn’t move around underneath us.

  Some time ago I had found, to my great relief, that I was a good sailor. Well, I told myself as this present voyage had reinforced the fact, I am the granddaughter of an Icelander who has sailed the known world, and it was on his ship that my body had learned how to deal with the sea’s movement. Gurdyman, too, seemed so far to have been unaffected: it was true that he had quite often shut himself off from me, sitting for long spells with his eyes closed in silent meditation (I was sure, although I couldn’t have said why, that he wasn’t asleep) and at times had looked pale. But something told me that these signs of a disturbance in his equilibrium had nothing whatsoever to do with being on a ship on a restless sea.

  In Bordeaux we were delayed for over a week by a violent storm. No ships sailed in all that time, and the small group waiting with various degrees of impatience for onward transit to Corunna (and, in almost everyone else’s case, the shrine at Santiago de Compostela) just had to put up with it. Gurdyman and I found an adequate inn, where the food was abundant if monotonous, the wine was good and the sleeping accommodation dry and vermin-free. All in all, we considered ourselves fortunate.

  At last the skies had cleared and the sea had begun to calm down. The master of the ship on which we had booked our passage announced he would leave on the evening’s tide, Gurdyman and I hurried on board and, old hands at this sailing by now, found a good position aft, in the lee of the solid structure built over the steering oar. Gurdyman had purchased a couple of good feather pillows in Bordeaux, which did a lot to improve our comfort.

  For some time our progress was slow and laborious. As I leaned on the rail and watched the land on our larboard side slide so slowly past, I sometimes thought we’d never get to Corunna. But then the wind changed. The oars were drawn in and stowed away, the huge square sail was hastily raised and, even as it made its jerky way up the mast, already it was filling with wind. Soon we were flying over the water; a sensation so exhilarating that I wanted to laugh out loud.

  But laughter was not appropriate, for the strong wind blowing from the north-east was ruffling up the sea and several of the pilgrims were suffering badly. There were enough buckets and bowls to go round – the master was clearly used to seasickness in his passengers – but people become selfish when they feel so ill, too preoccupied with their own distress to be careful where their bodily outpourings land. Tempted to think unkind thoughts, I made myself remember my first day on a ship, how sick I had been and how kindly I had been treated. Then, ashamed of myself, I reminded myself that I was a healer, and set about doing what I could to help the sufferers. Besides making them drink water between bouts of vomiting, sponging them off and shielding them from the worst of the crew’s derision, this didn’t amount to very much.

  The days flew by, time speeding up because I was so busy. I slept soundly, vaguely aware of Gurdyman close by but usually too tired to give him much thought.

  So it happened that it was only when the distant smudge of the Galician coast came in sight that I took a good look at him. Had I not known without a doubt that it was him, I wouldn’t have recognized my teacher and friend. He was even paler than before and he looked as if weight had fallen from him, his plump cheeks saggy and his eyes dull, sunk in his head. And it wasn’t just his physical appearance that had changed; it was also his attitude. Towards me, in particular, for he had always been friendly, affectionate and, unless he was deep in concentration or had shut himself away to perform some risky new experiment, open and approachable.

  Now it was as if I was travelling with a stranger.

  He saw me looking at him and must have read my anxious expression for, before I could say a word, he put up a hand to forestall me and said brusquely, ‘I need firm ground beneath my feet, child, and a bed that is not made of harsh planks.’

  ‘But you—’ I had been going to say, But you haven’t shown any sign of being affected by our long sea voyage! Or, even, That is not what ails you, Gurdyman, but something is clearly causing you deep distress, so won’t you share it with me?

  He was staring fixedly at me, however, his eyes narrowed, as if daring me to continue.

  I shut my mouth.

  We tied up at Corunna and went ashore. Like everyone else, we picked up the road south to Santiago de Compostela: I’d heard people saying what a relief it was that it was safe now here in Galicia for pilgrims wanting to visit the Shrine of Saint James, for in the preceding years the Christian armies had gathered themselves for an all-out, combined effort and had expelled the Muslims from the north. Not knowing how much of a threat this Muslim presence would have been, I had no idea if the dangers were being exaggerated.

  I was told by a man I fell into step with as we left Corunna that the Christians, wanting to stamp themselves and their faith on the land, had immediately set about a building programme, and the magnificent new cathedral at Santiago was among the results. The aim, or so my companion would have it, was to show how well the people of the north could build, and how their edifices to their religion would rival and surpass the palaces and the mosques of Moorish Spain.

  I decided to reserve my judgement.

  We joined up with another small band of pilgrims, all in a mood of high excitement so that there was a holiday atmosphere on the road. For two nights we bunked down in large dormitories where there was almost as little space and privacy as there had been on board ship.

  ‘Do not expect to rest for long in Santiago,’ Gurdyman said to me on the third day as the city became visible up ahead, ‘for very soon we shall set out again and join the pilgrim route returning eastwards along the endless miles to the Pyrenees, and the gathering place of St Jean that lies at their foot.’

  ‘But surely we’re not going back!’ We had only just arrived …

  ‘Of course not,’ he said crushingly. ‘We shall travel that road only for some fifty miles, whereupon we shall leave our companions and seek out our first destination.’

  I was about to as
k what this destination was, but up ahead a lad had just sighted the outline of the new cathedral. ‘Santiago!’ the lad shouted, and the cry, taken up by everyone else, rapidly became so deafening that it drove out thought, never mind conversation.

  We were to have one brief night in the town. I left Gurdyman resting and, determined to make the most of the few hours of daylight remaining, went out to look around.

  Despite the fact that we were now in late autumn and pilgrims preferred to travel in spring and summer, Santiago was seething with people. It was an exciting place and its inhabitants shared a powerful sense of reverent awe at being in the vicinity of the saint’s bones. There was also – and for me this was the dominant emotion – the lively cheeriness of people making the very most of this unique time away from their everyday lives, their work, the endless repetition of routine. As well as the pilgrims, there were gangs of carpenters, masons and labourers engaged on building the new cathedral. Staring up at its soaring granite walls, I thought that, although far from finished, already it was the most enormous structure I had ever seen.

  I joined on to the rear of a short queue of pilgrims and waited my turn to go inside the chapel.

  A very fat man in a vaguely monkish habit stood before the altar, relating the story of St James in a loud voice and repeating the tale in two different languages. He told us that after James had been beheaded in Judea, the two parts of his corpse were collected and brought back to Galicia (although I noticed that he didn’t say why this faraway and surely unlikely spot had been selected). His tomb had to be abandoned when the Christians were driven out of the north by the Moors, and it was many years later that a hermit called Pelagius saw brilliant lights in the sky and, upon investigating, found the burial place. The king, whose name was Alphonse, then claimed James as the patron saint of his dynasty and his kingdom and commanded a chapel to be built over the tomb. This first structure was destroyed by a Moorish army a little later – the monk was vague on details, I noticed – but then in the year 1060, work began on the new cathedral beside which we were standing.