The Raven's Head

by Karen Maitland

  ‘You intend to leave us here to starve to death!’ I yelled.

  ‘Of course not,’ Sylvain said soothingly. ‘That would be cruel. You will not have time to starve. See, the mould is already oozing up the bed towards you. By the first ray of dawn, nothing will remain of either of you but a single pool of slime.’

  As if to demonstrate, a chunk of rotten plaster from the ceiling suddenly crashed to the floor, and burst into a mass of stinking, sodden dust. I heard a gasp of horror from Gisa. The room was being eaten away even as we watched.

  ‘But when I was a child, you saved me,’ Gisa said.

  ‘I saved you for this moment, for this union, this consummation of the nigredo.’

  Sylvain leaned down. Tenderly he unbound her dark hair and, carefully as any maid preparing a girl for the bridal bed, he arranged the locks so that they tumbled down her shoulders. He caressed them between his thumb and forefinger. Gisa, recoiling at his touch, turned her face away.

  ‘So like your mother’s hair,’ Sylvain murmured to himself.

  Even when you’re terrified, or because fear sharpens the mind, you get flashes of blinding comprehension. Perhaps it was something in Sylvain’s expression as he looked at Gisa, just as he had looked at the woman preserved in wax, or maybe it was seeing Gisa lying flat beside me, like Isolda on that slab, but suddenly I understood why the dead woman looked so familiar. God’s arse, how could I have been so dull-witted not to see it straight away?

  ‘Gisa’s your granddaughter, Sylvain! Your own blood. I can see that she is.’

  He nodded.

  ‘But if you know that . . .’ I stammered incredulously. ‘I realise you don’t care a pig’s fart about my life, but this is your daughter’s child. You surely don’t intend to kill her.’

  ‘She is her mother’s daughter, Isolda’s blood, my blood, as you so succinctly put it. That is precisely why it must be Gisa who dies. My daughter gave her life for her child. Now that same child must give her life for her mother. Can’t you see how just that is, how right? And she will gladly sacrifice herself for her mother, won’t you, little swan? She knows it is her duty. Her mother conceived her, succoured her in the womb, poured her blood into Gisa’s veins that she might live and she has lived. All these years she has been alive, while her mother lay dead. Now she will return that love, that sacrifice. She will die, so that her mother can live for eternity. She was born for this moment. You want to do this, don’t you, my little swan? You long for this.’

  Beside me, I heard a breath drawn in on a sob. Gisa’s hands were clenched into little fists, her body rigid.

  ‘Tell him, Gisa. Tell him you won’t do it.’

  ‘But she will. She has no choice.’

  ‘Listen,’ I begged. ‘Your daughter is already alive. She lives in Gisa. Look at her. You said yourself her hair is just like her mother’s, and not only her hair, her face, hands, everything. I would wager my own life that she even sounds like her.’

  ‘But she is not my daughter. She is tainted with his blood, with the foul blood of the man who corrupted my child and took her away from me.’

  I felt Gisa wince beside me.

  ‘Girls take after their mothers, everyone knows that,’ I said. ‘Besides, you can’t make your daughter’s body live. I know the Church says Christ was resurrected, but he was only dead three days. Your daughter’s been dead for years. If you kill Gisa you will have lost anything of her mother that is in her. Every trace of your daughter will be gone for good. If Gisa lives, your daughter, your beautiful Isolda, will go on living, through your granddaughter and great-grandchildren.’

  ‘Each generation will be corrupted with his blood and the blood of all the men like you who take them to their beds, each drop of my daughter’s blood growing more diluted and more polluted. Only in this way can my daughter fully live again, whole and pure. Did not Ezekiel raise a valley of dry bones into living flesh again?’

  He smoothed Gisa’s forehead tenderly. ‘But you must have no fear, little swan. Simply surrender to death. You killed your mother. You killed my daughter. You should be grateful to me that I have given you this opportunity to atone. Those who kill can never be forgiven, for their victims cannot forgive them. And they go, drenched in guilt, to their graves. But your mother will rise and she will forgive you. You will be absolved by your own death.’

  ‘You can’t blame a baby for its mother’s death,’ I shouted.

  Sylvain ignored me and I realised that he had said nothing about using the stone to bring us back from the dead . . . What was I thinking? I was starting to believe his tales now. No one was going to be raised from the dead. This was nothing but the twisted fantasy of a mad tyrant.

  ‘The boy,’ Gisa said. ‘The little boy in the tower. What will you do to him?’

  Sylvain smiled as if he was delighted by her question. ‘The son must be swallowed by the father, and the son must slay the father, that is the magistery. The ashes of father and son, the old king and the prince, will be added to the earth of your putrefaction. As the sun rises tomorrow your earth and their ashes will be transformed in the furnace into the one stone that is beyond price. Four deaths to bring forth the final glorious and perfect resurrection. You see, all I require for the greatest work of all is come together in this place. All of you have been brought here for one purpose, to create the philosopher’s stone.’

  ‘You can’t kill four people and hope to escape,’ I yelled. ‘They will come looking for us. You’ll hang, if the townspeople don’t tear you apart first.’

  ‘But they will not come, Master Laurent. You see, the rumours you have so kindly spread have already done their work. They really do believe that I am the master of the dark arts. They are too afraid to attack me. Your rumours have been far more useful to me than any story you might have dreamed up to counter them. Do you really think after the tales you have spread about me that they will risk their own lives to save a serf’s child, a wandering storyteller or the daughter of the traitor?

  ‘You lie in your bridal bed, which is your tomb. You are the sacred consummation of the sun and the shadow and you will become the poison of death. Be grateful to me that I grant you such a role in this great and holy work. For you will become the essence of the stone that transmutes all things. There can be no greater destiny.’

  Sylvain was already striding to the door. ‘I will leave you the candle, so that you may watch your death approach.’

  ‘Wait! I yelled, struggling frantically against the ropes. But even as I yelled out, I heard the door to the outer room close, the footfalls retreating, and finally the echo of the great wooden door closing at the bottom of the tower.

  Chapter 53

  For in the blood of this stone is hidden its soul.

  A toad crawls across Peter’s bare leg. Even its cold, soft belly rasps like a stone on the boy’s burning skin. He kicks feebly and the toad drops into the foul water below. The boy whimpers as the movement drags him out of a fitful sleep. His mouth is so dry that it hurts to move his tongue. He fumbles for the skin of ale, desperate for even a sip, but though he sucks and sucks, there is not a drop left. Sobbing in frustration, he knocks the empty ale skin into the channel below, where it floats on the thick, stagnant water like a dead rat.

  He shivers violently, cannot stop his teeth chattering. He threw off his shirt and blanket a while back for he was so hot he couldn’t bear their touch, now he tries feebly to wrap them round himself, but even that small effort defeats him. He scratches at the gnat bites on his arms and ankles, but that only makes them itch the more. One of his eyelids is so swollen from the bites, he cannot open it more than a crack.

  He turns his face towards the small gap between the stones. It is dark outside. Why hasn’t she come? She always comes when the reeds on the other side of the ditch melt from green to grey in the fading light. Now he cannot see them at all. What if she cannot find the hole?

  ‘I’m here . . . here,’ he whimpers.

  Then he remembers
. She said she could not come tonight. ‘I’ll come tomorrow,’ she said, ‘or the next night . . .’ She promised she would come. Come with something to make him well, something from a book that would make all the pain and burning go away. She promised . . . But is this night tomorrow? He doesn’t know how many hours or nights have passed.

  He must drink. Clinging to the ledge, terrified of falling in, he reaches down and pulls up the floating skin, scooping some of the foul green water into it. He falls back panting, exhausted by the effort, then drags the skin to his lips and sucks. There is a moment of relief as the liquid wets his mouth, but it doesn’t quench the raging thirst. His small frame screams for more. He drinks again, but as he swallows the water rises in his throat and he vomits. He sobs, loudly, uncontrollably. He wants Gisa. He wants her to come. Why won’t she come?

  Stones rattle beneath iron shoes, but Peter is crying too hard to notice anything but his own pain, until the flame from a lantern lights up the hole. He recoils, squinting against brightness. He shields his eyes and glimpses movement behind it.

  ‘Gisa! I . . . I thought you weren’t coming.’ He drags himself closer to the hole. Pushing his arm through, he feels a hand grasping his. Relief wells up in him.

  ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding, Peter.’

  Fingers tighten about his wrist, so that he cannot pull it away. Part of a face looms in next to the lantern. Only one eye, half a mouth, but it is enough for Peter to cry out, as he sees it is Father Madron.

  ‘Father Arthmael and Father John think you are dead. Do you know that? Even said Mass for your soul. Couldn’t let them think I lost you, could I? I guessed you’d crawled into the tunnels under the vat, but I thought you’d be dead by now. I had to keep searching for your body, though. If it had blocked one of the channels or been washed beneath one of the drainage holes, Father Arthmael would have discovered he sprinkled holy water over the grave of a dog. He mustn’t know I failed him. He trusts me, you see, Peter. He knows I am the only one who understands his work, not like Father John and the rest of them. They will never understand the mysteries. The abbot is a great man, a holy saint, and after tonight everyone will know it.’

  Peter knows only the pain in his arm where the White Canon is grinding it against the stones. He knows only the terror, that Father Madron will drag him through that tiny hole, ripping the skin from his body. The great bell of the abbey tolls.

  Father Madron’s head jerks up, then he lowers his face to the hole again. ‘It is time! I must go to Father Arthmael. He will need me. But when it is over, I will come for you, Peter. Don’t think of trying to hide from me again. If you do, I will find you and you will suffer for it. I want you to stay exactly where you are and keep very quiet. If you’re a good boy, I’ll release you when I return. I’ll make sure you vanish properly this time and Father Arthmael never need know you were not already in that grave when he blessed it.’

  The lantern is snatched away and the tunnel plunges into blackness. Peter hears the creaking of a saddle, then the crunch of horseshoes as Father Madron turns his mount onto the track and is gone.

  The child wants to run from the hole, hide, but he is too weak, too cowed to move. He lies curled on his side, trembling violently, his mutilated back pressed to the rough stones, his throbbing head buried in his arm.

  ‘Gisa . . . please come . . . please come,’ he whispers over and over again. But the only answer is a long, low rumble of distant thunder and a shivering of trees.

  Chapter 54

  And he is the whole elixir of the albedo and the rubedo, the water of life and death.

  It is dark when Regulus awakes. For a moment he thinks he is sleeping in the dorter with the other boys. Once, on waking, he would have imagined himself back in the cottage with his brothers and sisters. That memory now seems to him but a fading dream. He feels at once the unaccustomed softness of the red woollen cloth tied across his buttocks and over his shoulder. He feels another unfamiliar sensation too – in spite of the skimpiness of his garment, he is warm.

  The source of the heat is a brazier that has been newly lit. The yellow and orange flames from the kindling leap upwards around the charcoal, which is already beginning to glow ruby red. Regulus gazes sleepily at it. His body feels unnaturally heavy. He has no will to move his limbs.

  ‘Awake, little king? Good.’

  Regulus quickly closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to be awake, but Father Arthmael isn’t fooled. He kneels beside the boy, dragging him to his feet. Regulus’s legs feel shaky, as if he has been ill for a long time.

  ‘You will sleep again very soon, Regulus. You will sleep till the stars fall from the heavens and the seas turn to dust. But before you can rest, you have one simple task to perform, just one. Remember what I told you.’

  He turns the boy and shows him an elaborately carved chair, like the one Christ the king sits on in heaven in the painting on the abbey wall. ‘This is where the old king will sit, and this is where you will kill him, because you are the new king.’

  Father Arthmael pulls a package wrapped in an embroidered cloth towards him. The flames glint on the gold thread. The boy moves closer, intrigued by the pictures woven into the cloth. A flock of every different kind of bird he knows is gathered on the ground and above them flies a golden eagle, but sitting on its head is a tiny wren wearing a golden crown.

  ‘That is you, Regulus – us,’ Father Arthmael says. ‘Do you know why the wren is the king of all the birds? The eagle is the strongest. But the wren is the most cunning. For once, long ago, the birds of the air decided that whichever among them could fly the highest should become their king. The eagle was certain he would be proclaimed king for he was stronger than any of the other birds. All the birds flew into the sky, but the eagle’s great strength meant that it could climb higher than any of them. Then, just as the eagle’s strength was exhausted and he began to sink down towards the earth, a tiny wren, which had been hiding in the eagle’s feathers, flew up from his back. It was so light the eagle had not even felt the bird riding on him. Since the little wren had been carried all the way up, in just a few beats of its tiny wings it was able to rise higher even than the exhausted eagle, and so the wren was proclaimed the king of all the birds.’

  Slowly, reverently, as if he unwraps the Holy Grail, Father Arthmael folds back the cloth with its eagle and wren. Regulus sees a flash of gold turn blood red in the firelight from the brazier. He is dazzled by the lights glinting from the object, which seems to his fogged mind the brightest thing he has ever seen, save for the sun. He stares transfixed as the tiny reflected flames undulate across the golden metal. Then Father Arthmael lifts it up in both hands and slowly Regulus comprehends what he is seeing. It is a sickle, though not nearly as big as the iron one his father uses. It is as long as the boy’s own forearm, the blade curved and razor-sharp.

  Father Arthmael takes the boy’s hand and closes it about the handle. Holding the boy’s arm he makes small jabbing movements, as if he is slicing at ears of invisible corn.

  ‘When I tell you, you will strike his throat, like this. This blade is so keen, it will take little effort. Do you—’

  ‘He is coming, Father Arthmael.’ The voice is soft, urgent. Regulus cannot see the speaker, though he recognises his voice.

  The birds in cages start to cry out in alarm and fly against the iron bars as if they, too, are warning – he is coming, he is coming!

  Laying the golden sickle on the table, Father Arthmael seizes the boy, pushing him back against the wall. ‘Stay there. You must not utter a word. Even if he should address you, say nothing. Do you understand?’

  Regulus nods. In truth, he is not certain he could speak, even if he wanted to. Words float in his head, like dead fish, and he cannot make them swim to his tongue.

  Father Arthmael seems to take his silence as obedience. He straightens the plain gold band of cloth encircling the boy’s brow, and steps back just as a man’s head emerges through the floor.

  Th
e man climbs up into the room, glancing first at Father Arthmael, then at the boy and finally at the chair that is set before the brazier. He is clad in black robes with silver thread-work at the neck and round the sleeves. His hands are encased in fine black leather gloves, with silver snakes encircling the wrists.

  ‘The marriage bed has been entered. The nigredo embraces the couple even as we speak. It will not be long before they are united in the ecstasy of death and putrefaction. Their union will be complete by dawn.’ He nods approvingly. ‘I see you have prepared the boy.’

  Father Arthmael, his hands folded across his hollow belly, inclines his head. ‘If you would be seated, Sylvain, I will lay the boy across your knees and hold him as his blood is spilled. The vessel is ready.’

  Something flutters in Regulus’s head, a fragile memory that this is not what Father Arthmael said before. The words are wrong. He wants to tell them. But when he forces his mouth open, no sound comes out.

  The black-robed man shakes his head. ‘No, take him to the roof. It must be done where the wood is laid ready for burning, in the white light of the moon.’

  He seizes the boy’s arm, urging him towards the bottom of the ladder that leads to the closed trapdoor above. ‘Up there, boy.’

  Regulus turns his head, searching Father Arthmael’s face. Both men frighten him, but he knows he has most to fear from the man who rules the abbey.

  ‘Regulus,’ Father Arthmael warns, ‘remember what I said.’

  The boy does not remember, not properly. He remembers a jumble of words, but they swirl round his head and he cannot make them stand still. Felix said if a man in black robes . . . What . . . what did Felix say to do then?