Fear and His Servant

by Mirjana Novakovic; Terence McEneny

  We lit the Virginia tobacco and decided it was safest not to go in a straight line, because we might easily lose our way. We agreed to go around in circles, with the hut at the centre, but far enough away to prevent anyone inside from overhearing.

  During the first circle we did not speak. The second circle seemed a bit narrower, a bit closer to the hut. Still we said nothing, only puffed at our pipes. The third circle was even more narrow, I could have sworn it. The path we were following was a spiral, winding closer and closer to the hut at its centre. I couldn’t say whether Novak was doing it on purpose.

  ‘Are you going to tell me the story?’ he asked at the beginning of the fourth circle.

  2

  All that Saturday I slept. I was so tired. I did keep waking up, but then I’d fall asleep again. I woke up for good sometime after midnight. It was Sunday already. I knew that dawn was hours away, and I tried to go back to sleep but couldn’t. Naturally I was thinking about Fishmouth’s promise to rise again from the dead on the third day. I had no doubt that Mary Magdalene was convinced of his resurrection and wanted me there to witness it. No, I never tried to back out of going. Didn’t even cross my mind. I didn’t believe in any resurrection, and I wasn’t about to start believing either. I knew we’d find the tomb with the body still in it. I just wanted Mary to see it, too. Because once she’d understood that all of Fishmouth’s stories were nothing but hot air, that he was gone and wasn’t coming back, and that I was there and always would be, then she’d come back to me …

  ‘But weren’t you the one who left her?’

  ‘Me? Leave her? She was the one who left. That’s the truth. But it doesn’t matter now who left, don’t you see?’

  I got through those early hours as best as I could, thinking heavy thoughts, tossing and turning, taking sips of water. In the end I got out of bed. Earlier than I needed to. I paced the room. I couldn’t very well go out and wander the streets of Jerusalem yet. I clearly wasn’t drunk, and only drunks and whores aroused no suspicions at that hour among the Roman patrols. Those hours seemed to last longer than Christianity itself would afterwards. All the priests and churches in the world pale in comparison to that kind of if.

  ‘But didn’t you just say you were sure there’d be no resurrection?’

  ‘Quiet, foolish servant. I don’t know what I’m saying at this ungodly hour. Of course I was sure. I’m always sure. Now you’ve gone and interrupted me. Where was I?’

  The first ray of sunlight fell into my room. I waited a bit longer so I wouldn’t be out on the streets before anyone else. And then I finally stepped outside. I’d never been up and about the city at such an early hour. I’d never met the people I met that morning. Poor souls whose troubles drove them out of bed while others slept on. Frail, thin women making their way to the well, messengers galloping in from far-off places, the slaves of especially wicked masters already casting out the rubbish – as if the day’s first task was to separate good from bad – and the poor who pounced on that same rubbish, hoping to find something good among all that badness, and the soldiers of the day’s first watch … I could see the whole world of mankind. I wonder, did anyone else see it besides me?

  At the fountain, people were already waiting. Mostly women. They were shivering; mornings are chilly in Jerusalem except at the very height of summer. Jerusalem is built on the hilltops, on high. They filled their jars and waterskins, the fountain gushed, the line of people grew longer and longer. I couldn’t see Mary Magdalene. She was often late.

  I bounced up and down to keep warm, even though I was wearing better and thicker clothes than anyone else. The women didn’t even look at me; they waited patiently, stepped up to the fountain when it was their turn, filled their containers and left. It occurred to me that she might not come at all. That would be the easy way out, instead of having me as a witness to her disappointment. It’s human nature not to face up to things. I understood her completely. The Sanhedrin had sealed the tomb with such a stone that half a cohort wouldn’t be able to budge it, let alone that little band of starveling disciples scraping by on goodwill and handouts. And even if they could, Mary Magdalene wasn’t the woman to go along with any kind of deception. If the apostles somehow did manage to move the stone and steal the body she’d be the first to repudiate them.

  ‘Let’s go!’ It was her voice. So she had come after all. There were two other women with her. They were carrying jars and strips of linen. I sniffed the air. Myrrh and spices. So they’d come to wash and embalm the body. Even they didn’t believe in the resurrection. We set off. Mary led the way, the two women came after and I brought up the rear. Every once in a while I turned around, suspecting that Peter and the others might be following us. But there was no one.

  We didn’t head straight towards Golgotha. We took the long way round. It seemed as though Mary Magdalene wanted to circle back on her tracks to throw someone off. Slowly but surely the circles were getting narrower and narrower. It was starting to annoy me. I was sure there was no one after us. If anyone were lying in wait it could only be at the top. And if the ambush was going to be at the grave it made no sense for us to be going around in circles. The spiral was narrowing, and up and up we went. The morning was wearing on, and it was getting warmer. At one point I caught sight of the tomb and the stone blocking its entrance. It was enormous. Verily. We went past it, Mary now walking so quickly that I had to break into a run to keep up.

  The next time around, as soon as the tomb was in sight, Mary interrupted her roundabout route and charged directly uphill. I saw no one else. It was just the four of us, all alone. At the very top of the hill gleamed three bare crosses. The tomb wasn’t far from them, perhaps a hundred paces or so.

  The women with the myrrh stopped in their tracks. So did I but without knowing why. I wanted to ask Mary, but my voice failed. That’s when I saw him.

  He was in white, one wing touching the ground, the other pointing up almost as if in flight. In his right hand he held a staff. With his left hand he was pointing to the right. At the tomb.

  Only then did I notice: the stone had been rolled back. Not much, but enough to fit a body through. Mary went right in. Without stopping to think. After her, with some hesitation, went the other two women. I stayed put. I looked at the angel. He looked at me. Then he smiled, hopped down from the rock he’d been sitting on and simply strode off. I kept him in sight as long as I could, and when his wing finally disappeared behind an outcropping I turned my attention back to the stone at the mouth of the tomb.

  Mary was peering out. She beckoned me to come closer. I shook my head. She stepped out and came to me.

  ‘He has risen,’ she said.

  ‘He’s been snatched,’ I replied.

  ‘What about the angel?’

  ‘What about him? That was no angel. That was one of the apostles in disguise. Just some goose feathers stuck on. I watched him walk away. Why wouldn’t he fly off if he’s got the wings for it?’

  ‘Now do you get it, Novak? The Resurrection was nothing but a hoax, plain and simple. Everyone was in on it. A costume ball for superstitious halfwits. Fishmouth came dressed as the Son of God. An apostle came as an angel. Mary came as the woman who had loved me … Now do you get it?’

  We were in the seventh circle now, and the hut was only thirty paces away.

  ‘Shall we go back inside?’ Novak said.

  ‘Yes, let’s. I’ve finished my story anyway. I’ve nothing left to tell you. That’s the end.’

  3

  We went back into the hut. I lay down and fell right asleep. The bracing air must have gone to my head. And the walk. I didn’t open my eyes again until morning, when they came to tell me that Isakovič and the blond count were dead. We hurried to get ready. There was no explanation. Everyone must have had enough.

  It was time to return to Belgrade, the white city, the dark place where it might all come to an end. I didn’t want it to be over. I didn’t long for anything that hadn’t actually happened
. There was me, and there was them; rather, there was me, and there was the other. Too many faces, so many masks, and all of them merging into one. And all of the decisions were really but one decision: them or me, the other or me. Charles Kinbote says somewhere that mutability is of the Devil, while unchanging sameness is of God.

  Novak saddled the horses, and we started back. No one asked any questions or had anything to say. Everyone thought the red count was the red count; perhaps he thought so himself.

  We rode for more than an hour. I wasn’t sure we were going the right way. We seemed to be taking the long way round, bypassing unseen obstacles, wandering down paths that didn’t lead to the city. More than once I began to doubt we’d ever make it back to safety behind the gates. It wasn’t the gates themselves I cared about so much. I wanted to cross the Danube and the Sava and keep on going.

  After we’d climbed the umpteenth hill and come to a clearing I looked out and saw the city. It was Belgrade, no doubt about it. There’s no other big town like it in all of Serbia. Under the thick chimney-smoke and the dust from its winding streets, it made a dark spot in the broad daylight. It wasn’t hard to recognize from afar. Once inside it looked like any other overgrown backwater in the East, with the thinnest veneer of Europe. Impossible to tell it apart from all the others. From outside, of course, it could never be mistaken for Paris, for London, let alone for one of those newfangled cities in America with their grid-like streets. But by a trick of the eye I might think I was looking at Jerusalem. Built on hills, all its highways and byways tangled together and set on land that in other cities would have fallen to the newest and poorest arrivals. Belgrade was east and south, those two less-desirable corners of the world (for it stayed on its own side of the rivers, and anyone inside was the poorer for it).

  We dug in our spurs, although the horses were picking their way carefully down the last hill. As soon as they felt level ground under their hooves they began galloping towards the city. I looked back over my shoulder. Not a living soul in sight. Only the hill.

  The guard tower was coming into view. The sentries observed us expressionlessly. As soon as they recognized Maria Augusta, they ran to open the gates.

  The way lay open before us, and I galloped in at full speed. Behind me came the princess, Novak and the red count. Now we were approaching the Prince-Eugene Line. I looked back over my shoulder. The guards were closing the gates with quick, sure movements.

  There was no one behind us. The guards were hurrying because of their training not because of any urgency.

  I cracked the whip. Filthy men and women leaped out of our way. Again and again I looked back over my shoulder. Woe to him who knows four things – up, down, backwards, forward. Too far forward, yes. But just a little forward, and there was the outermost city gate. The moat was deepening. The fortifications seemed stronger now than when we’d first left the city. Only a few dozen yards to the Prince-Eugene Line. The line the vampires wouldn’t cross. The princess was waving ahead, clever thing. And sure enough, the sentries had seen her.

  The wooden drawbridge was coming down as we galloped towards it. It was creaking and groaning. I didn’t wait for it to touch the ground, but goaded my horse to jump. We pounded across and swept through the armoured gates. They were barely open, but still wide enough for horse and rider to pass through. We flew inside. I looked back. The drawbridge was being raised on its thick chains – faster than it had been lowered, I thought. Two guards on each side were pushing the massive inner gates shut. I dug the spurs in deep. I heard the drawbridge thud into place against the wall.

  I knew I was saved.

  So you think it makes me happy to finish a story? Ha! I feel just like Old What’s-His-Name on the first Sunday. For I created this world. Even John Damascene says so, and he’s a saint. This whole world is mine. My lie. Apart from me it doesn’t exist. I am the good storyteller who made it up and said what it looked like – this horse, the reins, the hand that holds them. And the ramparts behind and the city ahead. And the princess and her prince and even a frog if needs be …

  I turned around once more.

  The gates swung shut behind me.

  SIX

  The Creation of the World

  1

  I couldn’t spare a thought for the red count. Simply couldn’t. I had to keep going, to get back to the city. And the city was only a few right decisions away. At least now we had identified one of the wrong turns. I assumed it was already night outside, but this made no difference to us, to me, since we couldn’t see a thing in the tunnels anyway. The ceiling was lower again. I crawled along, my hands and arms in pain. My fingers were sticky with blood. My eyes ached from staring into the total darkness. I should have kept them shut, but I couldn’t – not while I was still making my way forward on hands and knees. I feared I would fall asleep if I closed my eyes. And it’s no good going about with one’s eyes shut, no matter how thick the darkness.

  No one spoke. We were all too exhausted. Oh, how I hated water just then! We would come to another juncture, grope at it in the dark, and without consulting the others I would say which way to go: left or right, and sometimes straight ahead if we were faced with three choices. But we rarely were. I was thinking how easily we might lose our way. One wrong turn, I knew, and we’d find ourselves down another dead end. We might spend our entire lives down in those tunnels, worming our silent way, each time making just one wrong choice. But somewhere deep inside I felt – I just knew – that it would not be so. Hadn’t the angel shown us the way? Would an angel really point us to a labyrinth with no way out? Why, that would be as if the Good Lord had created us only for endless wandering, for nothing but suffering and falsehood.

  Pardon?

  You know I’m hard of hearing, cousin. You’ll have to speak up.

  I don’t how long we were at it. Hours, no doubt. There was no way to keep track of time, for nothing was actually happening. And then Novak said he couldn’t go on, that we must stop and rest. I was grateful to him for that. My conscience could remain clear while my body rested. I sat with my back against the tunnel wall and extended my legs across the channel in the floor. In this position I was still cramped and bent, my legs aching, but I couldn’t lie flat without rubbing against the sharp edges of the channel. And yet, despite the discomfort, I fell asleep almost at once. As did Novak and von Hausburg, I believe.

  I slept heavily, a dead sleep. Not once did I open my eyes, either of my own accord or at any disturbance. No dreams came to me. I couldn’t say how long I slept. A long time, I think.

  I was awakened by the pain of a headache. From the damp, the stale air, the exertion, from everything that had been happening over the previous days. Every last bone and muscle was aching and throbbing. My limbs were so stiff that for a moment I feared I’d never take another step.

  Of course, I had no way of knowing whether it was still night or whether Sunday morning had arrived. Actually, I do remember – quite well as a matter of fact. It was Sunday. I think you remember, too, because that was the day, early in the morning, when you came from Vienna to Belgrade. My, how many people arrived that day in the city. How many things happened.

  I had trouble waking Novak and von Hausburg. They were dead to the world. No, no, you’re mistaken. Novak was still alive then. Although I could barely get him to open his eyes. Von Hausburg slept more lightly than his servant. We took the time to warm up properly before setting off again.

  We were crawling and crawling down one long tunnel now. There were no junctions. No decisions to make. Everything was simple again. Novak kept saying that we must finally be in the main conduit and heading directly for the fortress. I was convinced. And I began to relax. To let my thoughts unwind. And just as I was successfully forming the first happy thought I’d had since going underground, I felt the tunnel branch in two. I wanted to scream, but merely said ‘Fork’.

  Novak crawled up beside me, saying he wanted to check.

  ‘The left-hand tunnel slopes down
. The right-hand tunnel rises,’ he said.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, what does he know,’ von Hausburg said.

  Novak continued. ‘I think this is the last fork in the tunnel. If we go down, we’ll end up in …’

  ‘Hell,’ von Hausburg interrupted.

  ‘The lower tunnel,’ Novak went on, ‘carries water to the cistern. If we go this way, we’ll come to a chamber below water level at the base of the spiral stairs, the bottom of the cistern. Then we’ll have to take the stairs to come back up. We’d better …’ he stopped for a moment. ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘What?’ von Hausburg and I asked at the same time. ‘Shh, shh. Now, can you hear it?’

  I listened. Nothing but the running water and our own breathing.

  ‘I don’t hear anything,’ von Hausburg whispered.

  And then I heard it. Distant voices. More of a rumbling. But many voices. And getting louder.

  ‘Vampires!’ cried Novak.

  ‘Maybe …’ Von Hausburg’s voice trembled. ‘Maybe not. It could be … the refugees from Niš. Why, sure. Just listen. There’s so many of them. There couldn’t be that many vampires. It must be the refugees. Schmettau said they’d be arriving today.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to keep moving. Head right.’

  There were more and more voices. And they were coming closer and closer. Novak was ahead of me, and judging by the scrabbling sounds he was moving fast. I stuck up my hand and felt air, and with relief I realized that the tunnel was now high enough to allow us to walk. I’d still have to keep my head down, but at least I was on my feet and not my knees. Not only could I walk I could run. And run I did – bent over, my back straining with every step, but still running. Whether from the noise we made as we ran, or from the distance we were putting between us, the voices were harder to hear.