The Hermetica of Elysium (Elysium Texts Series)

by Annmarie Banks

  “William, you are in her light,” Conti whispered. William obediently stepped back. Nadira continued.

  “‘The Repairer, the Great, the Creator, the Maker, the Fashioner, the Forgiver, the Dominant, the Bestower, the Provider…’” the list went on an on. Nadira read , and when her voice started to crack a flagon of ale appeared by her right hand. She continued turning the pages over as she finished them. After a number of pages, finally, “’The Everlasting, the Heir, the Guide to the Right Path, the Patient.’” She took another drink. Conti and William were silent. The only sound was the crinkle of the parchment as she turned the last page over. She looked up. Both men had tears in their eyes. William was sniffing; Conti patted his back.

  “Thank you, Nadira.” Conti steered William over to the bench and sat him down. He carefully picked up the stack of parchment, tapped the edges on the table and set them right side up. He took his quill and wrote on the margin of the first page, “The 99 Names of God”.

  William was smiling beatifically. He reached for a scroll; Conti stopped him. “Let’s have some food first, William.”

  William’s disappointment was obvious. “Monsieur…”

  “A break, William. The bells tell me a visitor has arrived below. I must go meet with him.”

  William frowned. He had heard no bells. Nadira cocked her head. A moment later, a faint tinkling came up through the open window. Conti smiled as he pulled the rope that ran along the wall. Below they heard a bell respond. “Maria will bring up some luncheon while I am engaged. Please take your time. William, keep your hands off the manuscripts until I return.” Conti smiled again as he descended through the trap. He shook a silent finger at William before disappearing.

  Maria brought some pastries and breads. After finishing the last crumb in the basket, William pushed himself back from the table with a sigh. “This is much better than the monastery,” he said. “There I was lucky to get a thin gruel and gritty bread.”

  “Did you come from Coix?” Nadira asked, fully sated herself.

  “Yes, but only briefly. I was in Toledo for three years, then spent a year or so in Grenada before monsieur brought me here. Now I don’t ever want to leave.”

  “Are you just a visitor, then?” she asked.

  William bunched up his face, “Not really. I am not exactly sure what I am.” He thought a minute, “Monsieur treats me as a guest, but sometimes as a servant, so I am careful to behave as both with as much courtesy as possible. I have a feeling he was asked to remove me from my last position.” He looked at her sideways with humor. “You wouldn’t mind just peeking at one of these…”

  “That doesn’t sound courteous to me.” Nadira said flatly, “Monsieur specifically warned you from touching any manuscripts until he returned.”

  “I cannot contain myself! If you only knew how many hours we have worked on these to no avail! Having you come is like a bolt of light from heaven.” William looked around the room. “And now, to have to stop after only two of them.”

  “Just for a few minutes.”

  “Two minutes are an eternity.”

  Nadira touched her lips with the corner of the napkin. “What exactly are you two looking for? If I may ask,” she added when William turned startled eyes on her.

  “Where do you come from, Nadira?” He asked, changing the subject.

  “Barcelona.”

  “No, I mean where. I mean, how is it that you can read the Hebrew? I heard that the Moorish is not taught to women either. How is it you can read both? Is this not amazing?”

  Nadira eyes twinkled with amusement. “Never did I think of it as remarkable, William, and here you make it seem miraculous. I will tell you, though. My mother was literate in her own tongue, so Moorish can be taught to women. She was the daughter of the Emir. She was brought up among men of letters and was considered a jewel to her father and to her husband.”

  “When we came into the service of our master Sofir, my mother kept his accounts for him in Castilian, which she learned very quickly, and Latin, which she learned over time. She had a neat, quick hand. His accounts and correspondences were the envy of the other merchants.,

  “She taught me these languages and I assisted her in her work. After her death, master Sofir had me learn Hebrew that I might scribe for him. It was difficult. At that time master Sofir had many, many letters sent all over the world in Hebrew. I did not know why, but it was very important to him. I was not permitted to read the Torah, or anything of the sort. My knowledge was sequestered to facts and figures, greetings and news. I suspect,” Nadira paused, “that master Sofir was clever enough to know he needed to keep his business private.”

  “Then there was an increasing royal aversion to those of the Hebrew faith. All the Jews were exiled two summers ago. The Hebrew was hidden and I was forbidden to read or write it. My master became a Christian and I wrote only in Castilian and Latin. He had me learn Greek to compensate.”

  William rubbed his chin. “I have been trying to find a tutor for Hebrew for many years. The rabbis will not teach monsieur or me. They will not teach Christians at all. We have a few words we have transcribed and we look for those repeated patterns, but Nadira, I must say that some of these scrolls have all the words run together. It is impossible to decipher this! We are often discouraged in this way.”

  “So the two of you have been in this tower poring over manuscripts.”

  “For months without result.”

  “And this book, this special book, contains what you have been searching for?”

  William blushed. “It is very exciting, but I cannot say what is in this book. The very fact that it is written in many tongues tells me that it is not the work of one mind, but many. If it is the collected insight of all the wisest men who ever lived, do you not find that an exciting endeavor? Don’t you want to know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Why, everything!”

  “Is that possible?” Nadira laughed.

  William sobered. “It drives me mad. I have been trying for my whole life to understand why. No one has satisfied me.”

  “You want to know why?”

  “Yes, why does a rock fall to the ground when I throw it? Why does it not fly off like a bird? Why does a man die without water? Why does he die from too much? How does one die from sickness? Why are sicknesses different? How is it that one man may have his leg off in battle and live for years after, yet another succumbs to death? How is a child formed inside its mother? How does it get out? Like calves and lambs? I do not know. I think about it. No one can answer me,” he finished, dejected.

  “’How does it get out?’” Nadira repeated merrily. “How old were you when you went to live with the priests?” she asked him.

  “Nine.”

  “Do you know how the child gets in?” she asked him mischievously.

  William laughed. “In great detail! That is something I have been warned about daily for ten long years. All of the priests can tell me how it gets in, none can tell me how it gets out.”

  “I assure you, it gets out the same way, though with a lot more trouble.” They both laughed.

  “Very well, then, Nadira.” He wiped his eyes, “you admit that if some things can be learned, then cannot everything?”

  “And this book would answer all your questions?” Nadira was incredulous. She often wondered about some of these same questions, but did not think there were answers. She had always been told it was “God’s plan” that such and such are so.

  “Maybe. Someone must know the answers; I just have to find the book he has written about it.”

  “You will not be satisfied that it is ‘God’s Plan’?” she asked.

  William colored hotly. “You test me, Nadira. Leave those questions to the Inquisitors. It may all be ‘God’s Plan’ indeed. And why did He not in His infinite wisdom leave the plans on parchment here for us?” The opening of the trap interrupted William. Conti came through laughing.

  “And are not the Scriptur
es His plan for us all?” he asked.

  “Not ‘for all’ as you know, monsieur.” William shot back. Nadira surmised that this must be a familiar topic of discussion between them. “And nowhere does it tell me what clouds are made of.”

  Conti came to the table. “Forgive him, Nadira. Can you?”

  Nadira smiled, “But of course, monsieur. I, too, have had my moments of curiosity. It has never occurred to me that these answers could be found in books. I have enjoyed stories and fables. I have even read a small book about figuring, using the number symbols from the Mughals, but to think that a book could contain the entire knowledge one seeks…”

  “That would be a long book, indeed.” Conti added.

  “Or the shortest,” William said bluntly. He brought another scroll to Nadira and silently spread it before her. He reached around and refilled her flagon, and adjusted the mirror to catch the afternoon sun, then sat next to her on the bench.

  “Now read,” he said.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  NADIRA leaned back in the big chair and stretched her legs. She rotated her feet around in circles to bring some feeling back into them. This time she was ready before Conti. William was there, of course. The library was kept very securely locked and only Conti and William had keys. William’s enthusiasm could not sustain him, however. He had taken to sleeping in the library on a thick pallet and he looked somewhat worse for wear. The honey-brown hair below his tonsure was mussed, standing out at odd angles, and his frock, normally clean and pressed, hung from his shoulders in wrinkled folds.

  He told Nadira that he was spending his time going through every manuscript in the tower and organizing them according to their importance so that as soon as Nadira had read one, there would be another waiting to be unrolled. William had to copy as she read, so the going was slow and Conti was not always in attendance. William was to contact him when they had finished the copying and were ready to begin a new manuscript. Nadira would read it all the way through with both men hanging on every word. Then Conti would go attend his business while William and Nadira worked several days copying it out.

  Nadira spent these autumn days in bliss as she had never known. Conti and William treated her like a princess. She could barely grasp the change in her fortunes. She had a real bed, no more sleeping rolled in blankets on the floor. She had three and sometimes four hot meals a day. Her ribs no longer showed unless she drew in a deep breath, and her bosom had filled out enough that the lips of her shift showed a gap in the laces. The constant ache in her middle was gone, something she had lived with so long she forgot what a great blessing it was to not feel constantly hungry. Most amazing of all, Maria had been assigned as her own personal servant.

  Nadira smoothed her hair. It was longer now, almost between her shoulder blades. She smiled, thinking that when spring came again it would be long enough to wear in a coil on her head. She played with it, testing the length. The thick plait would take years to re-grow. With that thought, her smile faded. There had been no word from Montrose or any of his men these long weeks. She thought about the plait in his vest. Was it still there? She blushed, thinking of it. She took a great breath and stood up, shaking her mind from him.

  He probably has gone on without me, perhaps changing course and taking off to avenge his brother. She began to stride the length of the room, twisting the ends of her hair. Was he caring for his wound? Had it healed properly? His body was striped with scars. Obviously, he knew how to care for a wound. He had been fighting since he was fourteen, he told her when she had asked. Surely he knew what to do. She turned at the wall and marched back. This was small comfort to her burdened mind. If she knew how he fared, she could be thoroughly content. Not knowing kept her awake at night.

  William noticed her distraction when she came to a stop at the table. “What? Have you forgotten something? Do you need to go to the privy?”

  Nadira flashed him a wan smile. “No, William. I am just stiff from so much sitting,” she lied.

  “Yes, that does get painful sometimes. Perhaps if the weather is fair we can go for a ride this afternoon.”

  “I do not ride unless I must,” this revelation brought another memory with it. Nadira felt her throat tighten. She forced herself to sound cheerful. “A walk would do me better than a ride in these circumstances, since it is my nether regions that are already sore. I do not look forward to antagonizing them further.”

  William nodded in agreement. “A walk then. Monsieur should be here soon. It is a short manuscript we are to read today. Perhaps he will allow us an outing afterwards.”

  “I would like that very much, William. Thank you.”

  The young man smiled at her with affection. Nadira counted this as another great change in her fortunes. She could merely look long at something, a pitcher of beer, a bowl of fruit, even a quill or other small item and it would be given to her with a flourish. Once she admired a tapestry in the entry. The next afternoon she found it hanging in her bedchamber.

  The sound of Conti’s boots on the stone steps below the trap sent William over to the heavy chain. With a grunt, he lifted the trap as the master’s fur hat ascended through the floorboards.

  “Good morning, children.” The same greeting they received every morning. “I see you are ready to begin again.” He turned to William, “What have you pulled out for me to hear today?”

  The big man dragged a bench to the table by the window and adjusted the mirror to throw a beam of sunshine on the center of the table.

  William placed a thin book, bound in smooth wood and leather on the table. Tiny jewels glistened on the cover and silver hinged clasps held the fore edges together in a tight vise.

  “Ah, the Plato,” Conti frowned, “But this is all in Latin, William. We have both read this one cover to cover.”

  “Forgive me, monsieur, but remember there are handwritten notes in the back that we have not been able to decipher.”

  “That is just one reader’s comments. It may be a matter of curiosity…”

  “Intense curiosity.”

  “But not necessary to spend precious time on such a matter when there are dozens of manuscripts moredeserving of our attention.”

  “Humor me, monsieur. Master. As you say, they are short and can be quickly dispensed with.”

  Conti looked at Nadira, and then glanced out the window. “Very well. You have been a good boy. It is a clear day and the sun will hold long enough to indulge you. Proceed.”

  William unclasped the book with expert movements and gently opened the volume to the back. He flipped a few of the creamy vellum pages until he reached a familiar place. Interlined among the print was a fine script in a neat and beautiful hand.

  “It is Moorish, is it not?” he asked Nadira eagerly.

  Nadira leaned closer. The script was fluent and steady, the mark of a learned person well practiced in calligraphy. She read for them: “Such a silly idea, that man makes the image of the world in a mirror and calls it real.” William and Conti laughed , the latter slapping his thigh with a ringed hand.

  “Please, I don’t understand,” Nadira said.

  “If you wish, I will read Plato to you in the evenings if monsieur will spare the candles.” William offered. “Then you will see the humor.”

  “Don’t make her wait, William. In short, Nadira, Plato relates a conversation between Socrates, a great thinker, and Glaucon, his student, concerning what is real and what is imitation. He says that while God created the world, man can create the same world by holding a mirror to its form.” Conti swung the gimbaled mirror so the image of the book lay in its metallic circle. “There. I have created a book.”

  “I see,” Nadira said, “You have created a book, but not one we can touch or read. The words are backwards and we cannot turn the pages! One could argue that you really have not created even the image of the book, as you have no control over the light from the sun. As the light fades,” as she spoke a cloud passed over the face of the sun and dimmed the ima
ge in the mirror, “like so. At night you could create nothing.”

  “Yes,” William said, “Which begs the question ‘what is real?’ Is it what you see? At night, you see nothing. Does everything disappear? I cannot see the ocean, though I know it exists. Does it disappear because now I live in the mountains?”

  “You can feel the table at night.” Nadira ran her hands over the smooth surface of the table, “So you know it exists even in the dark.”

  “And the ocean? I cannot see it nor feel it in the dark” William challenged her with bright eyes.

  “Others come and tell about it. Books are written which describe it.”

  “So the image of the ocean exists in your mind, yes? However, what if you have never seen it with your own eyes? Is that image in your mind the real ocean?”

  “No, of course not. It is the imitation of the ocean, for me to use as a reference to the real one. Like one might use a map. A map is not the land it describes, but a representation of one.” Nadira tapped the table with her finger.

  Conti nodded. “She is a clever one, William.” To Nadira he said, “And yet you have not studied philosophy?”

  She blushed. “You disparage me, monsieur. I have not studied what you call philosophy. It seems like nothing more than common sense.”

  “Ah, my dear girl, you will find that ‘sense’ is far, far rarer than it is ‘common’.”

  “Here, here,” assented William.

  Nadira pursed her lips and adjusted the mirror to allow the sun to shine upon the page again. She drew a slender finger along the marginalia. “Here the writer says, “Plato agrees that what is above, so is below. What is unreal becomes real through the eyes and mind of man. Nothing exists and everything exists.” She looked up at William. “Explain that one.”

  William scratched the back of his neck. Conti pulled on his beard. William spoke first. “Is there more? Does the writer say anything else on this page?”