The Secret Book of Paradys

by Tanith Lee

  “It never happened,” she said to Pierre softly. “Such a disgusting thing.” Then she said to the others, “I don’t want him. I’ll have something else.” She ripped the crucifix from his throat, and let his face fall back into the dirt.

  The gang of robbers eyed her in the revelation of the light.

  One indicated Pierre. “Better kill him. Then scatter.” To Jehanine he added, “You give that here.”

  “It’s mine,” said Jehan.

  Turning, Jehan bounded out and up from the wreckage. A running male figure, sprinting westward from the sunrise, towards the note of a bell earlier identified as that of the Angel.

  Some of them dashed after Jehanine.

  It was a dream: she lost them easily.

  It was a dream, but in her hand she held the topaz cross.

  Well then, waken now. But waking was not to be had.

  She saw the nunnery ahead of her, rising from a tide of flotsam streets. The dwellings were of better quality here, and the river, a road of crystal cut by a ship’s mast, was not far away – none of these things had she known before.

  She came below the wall where the old bakery was, and saw the tops of the tree she had climbed, two and a half times her height above her. The sacks were gone, but tucked against the stone her clothes lay in a bundle almost as she left them. And down the wall itself, from a bough of the trees, hung a hempen rope. The dwarf had returned again to aid her. For, after all, it was not a dream.

  She tied her female clothes to her body, and seizing the rope, climbed up the wall. In the tree, she undid and coiled the rope and took it down with her.

  She changed her garments amid the bushes under the tree, in the wetness of the dew, for the nuns would be coming from the church to breakfast, and in the refectory some of the aged lay-sisters would be making the porridge.

  As she went however to her cell, accessories bunched in her skirts and excuses ready, Jehanine met no one.

  Into the chest she laid all her new possessions. The rope, the male attire, a knife Conrad had awarded her during their trek to the Cockatrice. Lastly, she laid the topaz cross upon her pallet. The thong had been broken and lost. She would search out another cord, then she might wear it, under her dress.

  Paler than the dawn, the Eastern topaz shone for her. From desert lands by a sea of salt, under the mountains where God had walked, and from whose stones He had carved his devastating laws, from the tombs of prophets and messiahs, from the dazzling shrines of the Infidel, this jewel had come.

  She saw again her brother’s appalling face.

  She put the crucifix away into the chest.

  Sister Marie-Lis paused in an arch of the south cloister, as Jehanine watched her. Presently, her hands folded in her sleeves, the young nun floated out on to the plot of grass. The dry fountain with the wild-haired stone child holding its bowl had been garlanded again. The child had a kind of crown of thorns of twisted leafless creeper. Sister Marie-Lis seemed not to pay attention to these things. She came to the opposite arm of the cloister, where the northern girl and three of the novices were sweeping.

  “Come here, Jhane.”

  Jehanine approached. Jehanine’s hair was confined in its scarf from which tendrils escaped like rays of winter sun. Otherwise she was decorous, always excepting her looks.

  The young nun eyed her, then called the novices.

  “Where is the novice Osanne?”

  The girls looked about.

  “But she’s here –”

  “She came out with us. She had no breakfast. She sets herself penances.”

  “The Mother says Osanne is arrogant in her humility –”

  “Hush,” said Sister Marie-Lis. “It was the duty of Osanne this morning to attend the infirmary.”

  “Well, she’d be pleased to do it.” The infirmary contained sick, senile nuns and vats for boiling soiled linen.

  Sister Marie-Lis said, “Our Lord himself had compassion on the sick. On all who call to him.”

  Jehanine raised her eyes. She listened, and heard Sister Marie-Lis saying:

  “Did he not make the world against the will of his mighty father? Did he not risk all and forfeit all that mankind might live? And as he fell, his torch kindled the moon and stars, and the roots of mountains.”

  Then one of the novices exclaimed, “Why, there is Osanne. She’s on the flags on her knees, scrubbing and suffering.”

  Along the length of the cloister, over the parti-stripes of shadow and sun, the mystic figure of Osanne rocked with its rags like a swaying serpent.

  “Osanne,” cried the young nun sternly, “leave that work and go at once to the infirmary.”

  Osanne seemed not to hear. Sister Marie-Lis took a step, smooth as if walking on water, towards the kneeling shape. And in that moment Osanne rose. Without a look or word, she went away, passing through the elbow of the cloister, and out of it into the garden. Her dress flashed very white as she vanished.

  “That wasn’t Osanne, sister!” said one of the novices. “And see – the flags aren’t even wet –”

  “Hush,” said the young nun once again. She found a hand in her sleeves and touched it to her forehead and breast.

  Jehanine felt a desire to follow Osanne as Jehan. Or she might bring in one of the thieves, Conrad possibly, and give Osanne to him as she had given – that other –

  A dreadful pain tore through Jehanine, unseaming her. She sank suddenly to the ground and lay still. When the novices squeaked and came running, peering into her face, Jehanine covered her eyes with her hands. The young nun had gone away. Then the bell rang: Tiers. The novices fluttered. They must go to church at Tiers, and what of Jhane?

  Jehanine got up slowly. What had happened to her was nothing, she was at her monthly bleeding, it was only that.

  As the novices ran away, she realised she would not be able to return among the robbers for a few days, for at these times they might scent her, like a bitch, and so learn her true sex.

  As for Pierre, they would have killed him, by what they had done, or afterwards with their knives.

  She must think of him as dead, and of herself as his murderer. That was all it amounted to.

  Going over to Osanne’s discarded pail and rags, Jehanine detected a curious but delicious fragrance. It fled in a moment. Kneeling down, she began to wash the stones carefully.

  In the succeeding days, Osanne was spied at her duties and devotions continuously, but not consistently. It appeared she must be sick, or that the passion of her faith drove her often to lonely prayer – for in the church they saw her most of all. But on their hurrying in she went away, was gone. She spoke to no one. They said the Mother had sent for Osanne, but it seemed Osanne did not attend the Mother.

  “See, look. There she goes, she,” said one of the novices to Jehanine, as they passed together along the roofed passage between the church’s north wall and the House of the Novitiate. The weather was turning chilly, but they carried between them a cask of candle stubs, due to be melted down for new, and this was heavy, heating work. The figure of Osanne flitting before them gave an excuse to hesitate and lower the cask. “Look how white her skirt is, and her scarf. She must bleach them over and over –” the process of bleaching, which intimately involved mules’ urine, was disliked; doubtless Osanne would revel in it.

  “Osanne!” cried the novice. “Let’s run and catch her.”

  They ran, but did not catch. Beyond the passageway, the hostel court was empty, and the churchyard beyond empty also.

  They returned for the cask of candles, and the novice started to talk of her marriage to Christ.

  Soon after the bell of Matines, Jehanine dreamed the dwarf came into her cell. He carried a stone bowl on his shoulder, the contents of which – fire – he tipped on to the floor.

  “Fero, fero,” said he. “Why do you make me wait about under the damned wall?” said he. “Get up and come to the Inn of the Apparition. You know the way. Or you can find it.”

  Jehanine
opened her eyes and the fire and the dwarf were gone. Her female bleeding had ended, and getting up she opened the chest and looked in at the items there, the male clothes and the rope, and the topaz cross.

  Soon a long-haired boy came out of the cell and took his quiet stealth across the courts. The nuns were at their disembodied chanting in the church, but in the garden a nightingale, disturbed, whirred mournfully that the summer had died. Here and there, the garden had begun to smell oddly. The stink of the midden had grown less, but the moulder of fallen leaves, where visiting cats had relieved themselves, seemed sharpened by the cold night. The elder well smelled bad, and might require cleansing. The stealthy boy went on, found his tree, climbed it and roped it, and spent himself into the dark City. The cares of a nunnery were for a while no longer his.

  The Imago, which owed its Latin name to some obscure story entailing the Roman troops once quartered on this bank of the river (when Paradys was but a hedge of huts the other), had not changed: it roared and thumped, and scaling the stair to the upper room, Jehan had slight need of caution.

  She did not knock. She flung the door wide. There they were, staring astonished at her. The dwarf she could not see, but Conrad was the first to his feet cursing her. Others lunged forward, but halted. She they thought a he had come back to them. What plot was in it?

  “Thief,” said the fat man.

  “Bloody tricky swine,” said the man with the scar down his long nose.

  Jehan shrugged elaborately, in the way of young men.

  “Did you bring it?” cracked out Conrad.

  “What?”

  “The jewel –”

  “It’s mine. I didn’t come to act a contrition.”

  “Get him,” said Scar-Nose. There was a surge again, which now faltered on Jehan’s high, maybe unbroken, voice.

  “I’ll find you better.”

  They cascaded against her, but the vicious rush had become a pawing query. She kicked and pushed them off.

  “Who leads this herd?” she said.

  “No man. We’re one. A brotherhood. An equal share, an equal voice for all.”

  She supposed then it was actually the dwarf who ruled the gang. She had suspected it. But they were embarrassed to admit the fact, pretended otherwise, and resorted to high-flown phrases of fraternity.

  “Tonight I’ll lead you,” said Jehan. “Again.”

  She was mocked. She took no notice. Where, in her apron and skirts she had no say, now, her breasts bound, and weaponed with cloth in her hose, she had a say, and would say so.

  “Be quiet, you pigs. Listen. Didn’t I give you nice sport before?”

  “And then cheated us.”

  “What’s a paltry bit of coloured glass? It had value for me, not for you.” For a second she was prompted to demand if they had knifed their victim, Pierre, her brother. Something stuck her tongue against the roof of her mouth, and when she could speak again she said, “The upper bank of the City, near that great big church they’re fussing up. I know a woman there. It’s a wealthy house. You’ll see how we’ll find out its secrets.”

  The idea of the fat woman, the housekeeper with the keys, who had accosted her in the street by the statue-fountain that first day, had come to Jehan this very morning, as she sorted herbs in the infirmary annexe. That the house was a rich one had been evident. That the woman had charge was probable. The master was “old” and “always off on business.” Come in, she had urged Jehan.

  For a while they debated and said No, but, standing silent in the door, watching them with clear eyes, she brought them round. Conrad declared this boy was a fiend, and another that fiends were lucky to the wicked, and they all laughed and spoke of hair the hue of sulphur, and after that ten of them went with her down the stair, and only three stayed sullenly behind.

  Under the wall of the overgrown park, in the sky-sailing shadow of the embryo of the Temple-Church, the thieves stared across at a house Jehan had indicated. And the City bells rang for Laude.

  “Stay here then, I’ll go rouse the fat dame,” said Jehan. “When I’m in the house, Conrad – you come across and wait by the door. No other, till he gives the signal to you.”

  Jehan ran lightly, dark to dark, to the side door of the house, and shook it. As she had supposed, the boy she had seen was porter there, and in a moment he whined at her through the panels. “Is your master at home?” said Jehan.

  “No. Master’s off,” came the high voice, stupid with sleep and resentment.

  “The housekeeper then. Your mistress.”

  “She’s in her bed.”

  “Wake her,” said Jehan in a low and terrible tone.

  Through the door, with an uncanny night-hearing, Jehan heard the boy stumble away.

  (From the wall across the street rose a mutinous shuffling, and she cursed it down, making no sound or sign.)

  Then, above, in a toadstool bulge of the house, the pane of a window lighted. Again, Jehan heard the noises of human things aggrieved.

  (Conrad was out, standing by the cowled well. Jehan flung an arm out at him in a gesture of rage, and he lurched down behind the trough, hidden.)

  The woman’s flat fat tread was descending through the house now. What luck, they were alone there. No other servant even, it would seem, and the old man “off.”

  “Who’s that? Who’s there? You rogue –”

  The woman’s voice was breathy but not alarmed, not even entirely prepared for anger. She might be prone to night callers. Jehan put her mouth to the door and moaned, “Kind lady, let me in for the love of God. I’m known to you – that brother of Master Motius’ student, Pierre –” her voice quavered on the name, which was fortunate. “I’ve been set on, mistress. Robbers. Help me –”

  Then great billows of righteous outrage and passion the far side of the door, and bolts and bars being sprung.

  Wrapped in her bedclothes, the woman flooded the door alcove. She thrust her candle out, and Pierre’s handsome brother, Jehan, stood wilted and swooning in the radiance, one hand to his side, gasping.

  “God’s vitals. Poor boy. Come in at once. There. Lean on me, as hard as you like. I’m well-cushioned.”

  “I knew no one else –” said Jehan.

  “And what of your fine brother? For shame. And the Master Artisan’s pet, too.”

  “He won’t know me. Turned me off. It will break our mother’s heart.”

  “Where is he then, the disgrace?”

  Jehan said: “I know no more than you.” And staggered.

  “Where are you hurt?”

  “Only a little.”

  “Yes, you seem unmarred.”

  “In my heart the worst.”

  In the kitchen, Jehan sprawled out in a chair. Her swimming vision told her that the pans were of quality, and the big hearth and its apparatus evidenced many lavish roasts. Instantly the woman had lit another three candles – extravagance, too. Then she used one of her keys, and brought wine. In her own right, the lady was also a thief.

  “Drink that now. That’ll bring you back. And I’ll keep you company in a drop. He’s got so much, he never misses the sip or two I take. A mean fellow. Pays me in pennies, works me off my feet. I must live. His poor relation you understand. Kept me from a husband, too, I’ve had my chances – all lost –”

  Jehan tried the wine, thick as velvet, and began to revive.

  Jehan asked nothing about the old man and his valuables. No need, for the woman spread the night with tidings, while sometimes patting Jehan’s knee. Gold plate sat above, and candlesticks, a chamber-pot with gold handles, a box of money – the one key he stinted her of (no trouble when a dagger-hilt might be used on it)—another of rings and chains, which he hid, as if she would touch it, God pardon him. There was a Bible too, and a book got from the artisan, who was a magician, both with covers warted by gems. And a robe trimmed with bullion, and gloves stitched with pearls – what a treasure trove! – and her without a decent gown for holy days.

  Jehan, much re
covered, aided the woman to more wine. As it was done, Jehan gave her too a kiss on the cheek, and dropped in her cup a powder of herbs from the infirmary.

  “Well now, you saucy boy,” said the housekeeper, very much delighted. “I’ll begin to think no one set on you at all, you only came here for a naughty reason.”

  Jehan lowered eyes that, in the smoky light, were gold as any rich man’s plate. Boy-like, smiling, Jehan reached out, and gave the fat woman’s vast bosom a gentle tweak.

  Such shrieks. The neighbours would think her murdered, unless they often heard the sounds, which seemed probable. Then, such a gratifyingly big drink.

  “And you only a youthful lad.”

  “Willing though to learn.”

  “Well, well. One can’t even trust opening the door these nights.”

  She drank again, in a huge swallow, not noticing the wine, eyes sparkling, breasts heaving. All the potion was gone, inside her. She reached and caught Jehan and pulled him down, massaging at buttocks and thighs. Jehan panted, fondled various mounds, imparted kisses and tasted in the wine-sweetened mouth the bitter tint of herbs, the powerful bringers of sleep –

  Before the insistent hands could find out their mistake, they suddenly went sliding off. The fat woman rolled back, her eyes startled and still gaping as the first snore shook her bulk. Then her eyes shut on her. Protesting, snoring, kidnapped by unconsciousness, she cascaded from the chair on to the floor and lay beside a mouse-trap baited with cheese.

  Outside in the street, a thief barked. They were growing anxious. As Jehan opened the door, Conrad shouldered through it. He glared at her, then stepped out again. He whistled, the twittering note of a bird, and one by one the others darted noiselessly bat-like over the gap between the shadows.