Servant of Birds

by A. A. Attanasio

  Rachel drops her gaze from his open stare. His innocent yet bold features, which remind her of the Byzantine mosaics she had seen in Tyre decorated with blond, beardless seraphs like him, make her blood stir mysteriously faster in her veins. The feeling shames her.

  She searches within for the Grail, and when she finds it shimmering there, she recalls the baroness telling her about the knight Parsifal, whose destiny it was to find the Grail, where Lancelot and all the other knights failed. "You are Parsifal," she says softly. "I need not forgive you. To find your way, you must forgive yourself."

  Thomas startles. "You think I am a fool, like Parsifal?" His amazement converts to ardor. "Well, perhaps you're right, Grand-mère—I am. Here you've just told me the most wondrous account of a true miracle. And instead of wanting to rush to chapel and praise God, I just want to ... to ... I can't think what!"

  He turns sharply away, cheeks burning with the perplexity of his feelings for his grandmother. He feels, looking into her face, as if he has been sucked into an undertow of equal awe and yearning, as well as a deep revulsion at the shocking thought of feeling seduced by his own grandmother. But seduced by what?

  Seeing his flustered embarrassment, Rachel's heart knocks loudly, and she stands up from the hummock where she has told her story. Glancing back at the vale of crypts, she watches a swarm of butterflies eddying among the stone houses of the regal dead, Thomas' dead.

  "You are Parsifal, the naif," she says, and her voice sounds frail and faraway. Does he suspect? Is he playing the fool with me?

  The gold of the Grail glitters in her mind's eye, and she focuses her full attention on it, needing the assured presence of the baroness to confront this gentle man. When she faces Thomas, her smile is tight. "You can find the Grail, Thomas—but not in an abbey. Come, walk with me. We will begin our quest."

  They follow the spine of the hill to where a Roman road sinks into the earth. Ferns and black heather stand erect, plumes on the helmets of the Legionnaires who have marched upright into the ground.

  Thomas cannot bring himself to think that this lean woman with mushroom-white skin and ebony hair is his grandmother, the knob-knuckled, liver-spotted old dame with milk haze on her eyes. Yet, she is, he must remind himself. The abbot said that there had been witnesses to the miracle, and the Holy Father himself agreed she had been made young by quaffing from the Grail.

  Despite himself, Thomas cannot resist putting her to the test, reminiscing aloud about his childhood in the castle, purposely getting details wrong. "And in winter, when I'd come back from rolling in the snow, you'd wrap me in a great bearskin and make me drink hyssop tea while you sang about the ice queen."

  Rachel, intrigued by the shatter-glass blue of his eyes and the calm strength in his voice, simply nods. Then, she sees the harder glint in his stare and realizes, too late, something is amiss.

  "There was no bearskin," he accuses, his eyes narrowing slyly. He says in half-mocking accusation: "How can you be my grandmother! Only an impostor would not remember these things!"

  Rachel puts a hand to her brow, and her eyes flutter as she searches hurriedly for her cues, feeling them nearby but too jangled to bring them to her aid.

  "That was a robe of stitched marten pelts, Thomas," she manages. "And it was comfrey you drank while I teased you with silly stories about Jack Frost. Don't make much of my lapses. It merely distracts me to see you grown into such a striking man."

  "I'm sorry, Grand-mère—" Thomas casts his hands up, abashed. "I am acting the fool. Forgive me. You must realize, the whole time I was growing up, I never thought of you as ever being young. Your youthfulness, and your beauty, disarm me. And all the tomes I've ever read about the sacred science of grace and piety and the glory of the sacraments suddenly seem so empty. Here, right here, is our covenant with God standing before me—and all I can do is test it and make feeble play and allow it to turn me into a stammering—fool!" He laughs.

  "I have not come back to be worshiped, Thomas. I am no sign from the Lord. I have been returned to—"

  "Undo your errors. I heard you the first time, Grand-mère. Still, I can hardly believe the world will simply go on as before after this miracle. How can one just go on like this? You've beheld the Grail! And spoken with the Son of God!"

  "And what should I be doing then?"

  "Praying—worshiping—preaching."

  "If the Savior had wanted that of me, Thomas, I would give it. But the Lord was clear. I am to live in the world as a woman, not a saint or a living covenant."

  "And all this while, I have been looking for my faith in books."

  "If you had found it there, you would be a priest by now." Looking into that rapt, seraphic face, Rachel's stomach tightens, and, to continue her deception, she must look quickly away. "Leave this abbey, Thomas. Come back to the castle and take your place with the knights."

  Thomas rubs the back of his neck, chafing under remembered ridicule. "I was too much the dreamer to ever please Uncle or Roger. And at the abbey I am too much in this world to satisfy Maître Pornic. But now, seeing you made young again—you who saw our Savior with her own eyes, who held His Chalice in her hands—" He makes two fists and presses them against his chest. "I believe now I can give myself entirely to God."

  Rachel kicks at a tuft of milk feathers poking through the ancient pavement and sends the bright fluff soaring. "Thomas, listen to me. I drank from the Grail, and it didn't make me a nun. God has enough nuns and priests, women and men who have been called to serve Him from within, not by some miracle outside of them. My vision sent me back here—to embrace life, to live in the world, fulfilling all my humors and appetites. That pleases God, too."

  "Grand-mère, I want to believe you. You said we would quest for the Grail. You said it was not in the abbey. Is that what you meant?"

  "For some, the Grail may be there. But not for you, or you would have found it by now."

  "You found the real Grail, Grand-mère."

  Rachel sighs and looks up at the seed sparks drifting among the oak fronds. The baroness had required her to get her grandson away from the abbey. She has done her best and is afraid to press for more. Better to leave this matter be.

  Still, there is something appealing about this man: his ingenuous blue stare, his strong features composed in a gentle countenance, his self-confessed love of nature so reminiscent of her own childhood passion for Pan's world. How odd and cruel to have found such a man here, where she cannot be herself—here, by this Roman artifact that reminds her of the childhood she cruelly lost—here, at the end of Empire's road, where generations of striving leads back ultimately to shaggy grass and soaring cloud castles, to the whole of the fallen world.

  -/

  Falan listens to trees creak and rustle in the wind. Anxiety has splayed his senses out into the world. He tastes the breezes for taints of people, feels the Roman road for the tread of hooves, wary of being caught alone out here on the fringe of wilderness where no one will hear their cries. The knights, he knows from yesterday's tragedy, are determined to kill Rachel. And if she dies, he must die first or break his vow before Allah.

  How long can I protect her? He has sworn to install her as baroness of this alien land. That is all. When can he return to the people who have adopted him? Soon, he promises himself.

  Rachel and Thomas leave the cobbly road and stroll through clouds of dandelions. Falan does not understand what they are saying, but he reads their joys perfectly—their furtive sidelong glances and bashful touches.

  Since the old servant’s death, Rachel has been sullen, and this young priest has revived her. Now, for the first time, Falan sees soft excitement in her face. The way young women are supposed to look, he thinks, when happiness is possible.

  -/

  Upon returning to the abbey, they find the monks already at work in the outlying fields. Many stare openly at Falan as he escorts his charge down a slope of brilliant kingcups past the vegetable garden. He is aware of their hostility. They hav
e given their lives to their icons and saints and trinity of gods, the same deities that his family had been forced to worship at swordpoint on Bjorko. He knows these monks resent his presence among them, here in the sanctuary of their faith, and he would just as soon be gone from this place. He thinks coldly, Muhammad fought for freedom but no one had ever been forced into the worship of Islam at the point of a sword.

  Wearing his green headcloth, emblem of his pilgrimage to Mecca, and with the fatihah, the simple and meaningful profession of faith in Allah, on his lips, Falan marches proudly into the abbey with Rachel and Thomas. With his faith unshaken even here in the temple of the polytheists, he knows he has won the meritorious notice of the angels.

  At the inner gate, a monk stops them and gestures at Falan's scimitar. Last night, he and the other knights had been allowed to keep their weapons, but now, if they are to remain on the abbey grounds, they can bear no arms. Reluctantly, and only after he sees Guy and Roger emerging from the refectory unarmed, he surrenders his saber and his knife.

  Weaponless, Falan repeats the fatihah more loudly, determined not to relinquish the arms of his soul, not even here under the dread gaze of the tortured god.

  As Falan escorts the baroness into the refectory for the morning meal, Maître Pornic takes Thomas aside. They walk slowly through the cloisters so as not to be overheard by anyone. "Is she your grandmother?"

  Thomas frowns, perplexed. "You doubt her, Maître?"

  "Please, Thomas, do not answer my questions with questions. Life is enough of a conundrum. Now tell me, who is this woman with whom you talked at the crypt of your grandfather?"

  "Why, she is Ailena Valaise, my grandmother."

  "How do you know she is whom she claims to be?"

  "She carries her soul in her eyes," Thomas answers, blushing imperceptibly. "I saw her truth there."

  "Did you test her?"

  Thomas bows his head. "Yes, Maître. Even after you told me of the Grail and how she had drunk from it, I doubted her. I asked her questions of my childhood—and she remembered, even the small details! There is no doubt. And now, by God's miracle, she appears more youthful than even I, her grandson!"

  Hidden within the sleeves of his cassock, Maître Pornic's hands wring apprehensively. He still cannot accept that the God who let His son suffer on the cross to redeem the sin in flesh, the God who lets the hawk stoop to kill the dove, the God of the spider's palace and all the sorrows of winter, that He would grace Ailena Valaise with a second life.

  God has always been so precise in the turning of the stars and the seasons, so unfathomable in His absence that He is present in every sprouting seed and in every sunrise. Why now, with this woman, who loved Him not when she had her health, why with her has He chosen to show His hand?

  "Did she speak to you of her plans?"

  "Yes. She said that her return had brought death to one who loved her and discord to all around her. She told me that she had fulfilled the vision that bade her return and make herself known. She intends now to pilgrimage again to the Holy Land and to dwell there the rest of her days. And, Maître —" Thomas stops, says in a troubled voice, "She wants me to leave the abbey and live as a knight at the castle."

  Maître Pornic’s eyes blaze. "You are a knight of Christ. She senses your ambivalence, Thomas. You must be strong."

  "Maître, her presence has given me the faith to be a priest. I've been here six years, serving and studying, and my faith grew no stronger. I wondered, how can light come from the dark? Have I stolen my purpose from God? Do I, in truth, belong among my family, serving them with love and Christian care? Now she is returned, and I am ready to give myself to God, for I have seen His power. That is not in the books."

  "Thomas, Thomas." Maître Pornic places a callused hand against the youth’s cheek. "God is the mystery we pay with our hunger. You hunger to know. You have read all the tomes we have. You have discoursed with all our knowledgable brothers. There is nothing more to know, my son. You must cast your life upon the waters now. You must interpret your own solitude."

  "Grand-mère’s return must be a sign from God, Maître. She is a manifestation of God's power that will draw me closer to Him."

  "No, Thomas." Maître Pornic takes Thomas by his arm, and they continue to walk. "It is always a mistake to be led by power, even to God. Let weakness be your guide. Let illness and craving and fear show you where God's love is needed. Then go and be that love."

  Thomas blows a long sigh. "I will try, Maître."

  "Good. You can begin by returning to Castle Valaise with the baroness."

  Thomas balks. "That may not be best. I should wait to return to my homestead until after she leaves again for the Holy Land."

  "I need you there with her now, Thomas. Be my eyes and ears. And keep your doubt alive. Miracles are God's unravelings. The world is whole as God created it. Why should He unravel old age and sickness for Ailena when every day, somewhere, babies die of fever and famine?"

  "You have often said, God is mystery."

  "Indeed, one of the greatest mysteries is that God has created evil. All sin comes from misjudging evil. Remember that, Thomas. The Devil is the master of illusion."

  -/

  Denis Hezetre places himself on the wooden bench across the table from where Rachel sits with her bowl of berries and cream. The refectory has two long tables with benches on either side. The lancet windows under the rafters admit dusty shafts of sunlight that illuminate bas-relief carvings of mealtimes described in the Gospels: Jesus turning water to wine, multiplying the loaves and fishes, sanctifying the Last Supper, and cursing the fig tree.

  "The monks have gone out with Gianni to recover Dwn's body," Denis begins. "She is to be laid to rest in a plot beside the family crypts."

  Rachel pokes at her breakfast with her spoon. "I feared Guy and Roger," she says feebly. "I did not think to fear the boy."

  "He is not a boy, my lady. He is a knight, who has sworn homage to you. He is cognizant of his actions, and he should be punished."

  "He will claim it was a riding accident," Rachel replies, with a sarcastic look.

  "Do you believe it was an accident?"

  Rachel bites her lower lip, shakes her head.

  "Then he must be punished." He gives her a steady look. "I can hardly believe I must tell you this. It would appear that you have lost your edge with your brittleness, my lady."

  Rachel's mind focuses sharply at that gibe, and her jaw sets. "I will banish him, of course. Perhaps I will send him to the Levant, and I will not admit him to my castle until he returns with a sheaf of sugar cane to sweeten my grief!"

  -/

  Alone in her chamber in the chapter house, Rachel unwraps the jewels she recovered from Gilbert's crypt: six rubies and five emeralds, faceted and polished, gleaming with crystal power. These, she thinks to herself, are the sins of the baroness made physical—the land stolen from the Welsh by her father and her husband and herself, tilled by her peasants, cultivated to grains, some sold, some fed to cattle, then butchered to meat and garments and sold, every transaction converted to gold and the gold exchanged for these superb rocks.

  She holds a ruby in one hand, an emerald in the other. Inside them, light webs, starry horizons carrying the fables of mountains and valleys between her thumb and finger.

  -/

  Dwn’s body is laid on the bier under the lych gate. The monks who retrieved her from the gorge stand beside her, muddy hands clasped in prayer as Maître Pornic recites from the Psalms.

  Throughout the ceremony, Rachel keeps her eyes fixed on Thierry, who shifts uncomfortably under her gaze. Guy, Roger, and William return her silent ire, resenting her command to be present. She ignores them. Her bitter stare locks unwaveringly on the culprit.

  Rachel is afraid to budge her stare from Thierry, fearing that if she places her attention on the corpse or too near her grief, then the vacuous silence inside her will explode into voices. She wants only never to hear those voices again. Thierry sho
uld have to hear them, she believes. He should have to answer to the Devil.

  Before the ceremony is complete, Thierry slips away. Rachel intends to protest, and at that moment, Maître Pornic asks if she would like to say anything about her old friend. She shakes her head, studies the blue fabric of her shoes, and feels a pang of remorse. Ailena would have something to say. Dwn deserves more than silence. She clutches the gems in her waistband, and their solidity, their promise of a new life for her and David, encourages her to say, "Just this: She was my friend."

  She faces the draped body and remembers the old woman climbing down into the tilted carriage to save her—even though she knew the truth. Now tears track down her cheeks, and her lips tremble as she recalls that Dwn’s last words were her cry, Servant of Birds!

  "She was my friend," Rachel repeats in a cracked voice. "She knew the truth of my sins. And yet, she loved me. She gave her life for me." Sobs wrack her with sincere grief, and she lets Gianni turn her away from the bier.

  Afterward, the villein who serves as the abbey’s stablehand reports that the young knight Thierry has galloped off into the hills.

  The knights spend the day hunting in the dense forests around the abbey. Rachel fears that they have gone off to join Thierry, perhaps to return to the castle ahead of her and shut her out. She does not care for the castle, only for her grandfather. She is pondering how to arrange for his release when the knights return with a stag and several large birds.

  That night, after dinner, Rachel must tell her story yet again of Prester John, his magical kingdom, and how she came to be blessed by the Sangreal. The monks listen rapt, their faces still as wax effigies in the torchlight.

  At the back of the hall, out of sight of the monks or Maître Pornic, yet visible to Rachel, Guy and Roger mime her adventure in broad, comic gestures. Their antics distract her, and when she stops and stares at them, their smiles darken to eagle frowns.