The Feline Wizard

by Christopher Stasheff

  “Let us enter and discover,” Anthony urged.

  They went in, and the room was quite full, the congregation standing, but they were so spellbound by the beauty around them, they barely noticed. The glass of the roof was indeed green, dimming the sun so that it did not hurt their eyes—but that same sunshine poured through the western wall, throwing jeweled light upon all the people within. Even on the eastern wall, the windows glowed with the light from outside—and sure enough, it showed scenes from the Savior's life. Wherever they looked, they were surrounded by pictures that almost seemed to breathe with the light that infused them.

  But Balkis' gaze went to the man who stood in the pulpit. She was disappointed to see that he wore no chasuble, nor any stole around his neck, only a simple white robe, though it glowed with half a dozen colors from the light that struck through the leaded walls.

  “We shall not hear a true Mass,” Anthony said, disappointed, “for if he wears no stole, he is no priest, but only a deacon at best.”

  Balkis felt a surge of chagrin and fought to keep it from showing—there was no chance of a wedding here. She tried to be philosophical, telling herself that Anthony had not asked her to marry him in any event.

  There were no pews, which was why the people stood to hear the service. Anthony and Balkis edged their way in and stood with their backs against a wall.

  It certainly was like no Mass that Balkis had ever attended, but Anthony nodded, smiling, obviously familiar with the words, even speaking them himself when the congregation gave the deacon their ritual response.

  Then Balkis stiffened and clutched Anthony's forearm. He turned to her in concern, and she stretched to whisper in his ear, “The wall no longer presses against my back!”

  “Surely we have stepped forward.” Anthony turned to look at the people in front of him, then stared. “No, we have not.”

  Balkis turned to look, almost afraid of what she might see, and noticed that the wall was a good three feet behind her. She turned back quickly, as though to keep the chapel from hiding its dimensions from her. “Anthony—the roof is a little higher, and all the walls a few feet farther apart than they were when we entered!”

  “This cannot be,” Anthony said nervously. He would have explained, but just then some people came in through the doorway behind them. They wore pilgrims' gowns, dusty with travel, and looked wearied, but the beauty of the little chapel seemed to refresh them instantly. The new arrivals filed along the wall behind Anthony and Balkis, then along the wall to the other side of the door—and kept coming. Thirty or forty of them filed in, standing on line behind another—three rows, where there had been only three feet! Moreover, the wall was a foot or two behind the backs of the rearmost line!

  Balkis and Anthony looked at one another in amazement. then looked back at the walls, feeling a strange prickling along their backs. Anthony leaned close and whispered, “The deacon will explain it when we are done.”

  They listened to the rest of the service in silence, but Balkis had a deal of trouble in keeping her mind on it. Her gaze kept drifting to the walls.

  Finally the deacon bade the congregation go, and they filed out of the chapel—or church, for it had grown amazingly in the short time they had been there.

  Anthony touched Balkis' arm. “Let us stay behind, so we may talk to the deacon at leisure.”

  “Well thought,” Balkis agreed. They drew aside.

  A woman in pilgrim's garb stepped up near them. “Is not this a wondrous church?”

  “Wondrous indeed,” Balkis agreed and smiled, drawn to the woman even though they were total strangers. She was middle-aged, with a full, kind, smiling face. Her skin was the dark tan of the Afghans, wrinkled with laughter and smiling. Iron-gray curls peeped from under her hood, and although she wore the same dusty cream-colored robe as everyone else, the embroidered cross on her breast was a work of art in five colors. “Have you come far?” Balkis asked.

  “From Kashmir, young woman—a land far to the south, glorious with mountains.” She pressed Balkis' hand in greeting. “I live in a little town there; my name is Sikta, and my husband and I grew prosperous from the caravan trade. Now all our children are grown and married, though, so he sold his business, and we have time and money to go to see St. Thomas and the wonders of Maracanda. What of yourselves?”

  Balkis was a little taken aback by the woman's openness and friendliness, but Anthony responded to it like a flower turning its face to the sun. “I hail from a farm in the mountains far to the south, good woman, but only a day or two from the caravan route. Belike my father and brothers sold you foodstuffs as you passed.”

  “I do seem to remember a man of my own years, with four stalwart sons.” Sikta peered into his face. “Yes, one of them looked much like you—but that was three months ago, and only a few weeks from Kashmir!”

  “I had heard of your land,” Anthony said. “You grow sheep whose wool is wondrously soft, do you not?”

  “Goats, young man, and yes, the quality of their hair is known far and wide.” Sikta beamed at his knowing of her land. “Are you newlyweds?”

  She had her answer in Balkis' lowering of her gaze and her covert blushing glance at Anthony. He pretended not to notice, saying brightly, “No, good Sikta, we have only been traveling companions. I am Anthony, and this is Balkis, stolen from her home by a foul villain. I set out only to escort her, to bring her safely to her homeland and see something of the world along the way—but I have fallen in love with her, and have cause to think that she is not indifferent to my suit.”

  “Suit forsooth!” said Balkis. “You have asked me for nothing but a kiss! Well, several… all right, many.”

  “And shall ask for many more.” Anthony devoured her eyes with his gaze. “I would ask for your hand, too, and your life with mine, were I certain we could find a priest.”

  “Do not let that stop you,” Sikta told him. “Long engagements have their virtues—if you can be virtuously engaged.”

  “I could try,” Anthony sighed, “but I fear my own urges.”

  Balkis blushed furiously and noticed that the pathway to the church had fascinating brickwork.

  “You shall be quite safe if you have an abundance of chap-erones,” Sikta said somewhat primly. “Travel with us, young people, and you may be sure you will be so closely watched that you shall be hard put to sneak a kiss now and again.”

  Balkis wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, either, but Anthony leaped at the chance. “Why, how good of you!”

  “We are bound to Maracanda,” Balkis admitted. “I have dwelt there with my uncle this last year.”

  “Of Maracanda yourself!” Sikta cried. “Why, then, you must journey with us, for you can show us the town!”

  Balkis was saved from having to answer immediately, for Anthony said, “The deacon is done with his churchgoers. Let us speak to him before he goes to his home.”

  They stepped up and the deacon turned to offer his hand. “Welcome, pilgrims! I regret that we could not offer you the Eucharist, but there is only the one priest for these five parishes. He shall come two Sundays hence. We must fare without him as well as we may, and I can, at least, say vespers.”

  “You said them very well, too,” Anthony said. “Tell me, deacon—was it my imagination, or did the chapel truly swell as more and more pilgrims came in?”

  “It did indeed, good people! We are singularly blessed, for no matter how many come for our services, there is always room for more. We are overwhelmingly grateful to the good Lord for the favor, for none should be turned away from a church for lack of room.”

  “That is fortunate for a chapel on the caravan routes “Anthony said.

  “Even as you say—three of the routes converge here to become one broad road leading northward to Maracanda. We frequently have more travelers than parishoners—so we have cultivated the modesty to believe we were given our chapel for pilgrims as well as ourselves. We strive to maintain it as a sacred trust—and the caravans
are generous in aiding us.”

  Balkis recognized a plea for contributions when she heard one. She elbowed Anthony in the ribs.

  He turned to her with a sad smile. “What a pity we have no coins—but when we have sold our wares in Maracanda, we can send money for this church.”

  “That would be good of you, young folk, but we do not ask money of those who have little.” The deacon smiled and raised a hand in blessing. “May St. Christopher guard your passage!”

  They traveled north with the caravan, enjoying the light-hearted company of the pilgrims and taking their turns telling stories—their own adventures, which everyone agreed were too fabulous to be believed. There was a holiday mood about them, and Balkis studied them, remembering Sikta's tale of being free to go on pilgrimage after a lifetime of earning, and realized that most of them were of her kind—hardworking, devout people who were finally free to travel after a lifetime of toil and responsibility. They were able at last to shed that burden for a while and were enjoying life with the delight of release. They were quite sincere in their religious zeal for witnessing the miracle of St. Thomas, but they were also eager to see something of the world, even as Anthony was, and the wonders of Maracanda. They were on holiday indeed, and meant to enjoy the experience to the fullest. Balkis found them to be wonderful company and listened to their gossip of child-rearing and grandchildren with yearning. She was beginning to realize that she, too, wanted to be a mother some day. She hoped their stories would arouse some stirrings of the same feeling in Anthony. There did seem to be a new quality of longing in his gaze now, but that might simply be due to the plethora of chaperones. As Sikta had promised, it was indeed difficult for them to be alone long enough for a satisfactory kiss.

  Thus they wandered northward on a road a good twenty feet wide, passing small towns and prosperous farms, gossiping and singing and resting frequently. Their progress was slow, but Balkis was in no hurry to reach Maracanda and take up again the mantle of princess—and with it, to risk losing Anthony.

  Then, after they had been on the road a week, they heard the distant noise of trumpets. Balkis' heart sank, for she recognized the pitch and timbre of the instruments. They blew again and again, coming closer and closer, until two soldiers on horseback shouldered through the crowd with two heralds between them and two trumpeters behind. The heralds cried out, “Make way, make way for the emperor! Clear the road, for Prester John passes!”

  Then the trumpets blew again. When they were done, the heralds took up their cry once more.

  The pilgrims broke into excited talk, hurrying their mules and horses to the sides of the road.

  “Why is the emperor riding?” asked one.

  “He returns from a tour of the provinces!” answered another.

  The rumor must have come from southbound Maracandese who knew some accurate news, for Balkis suspected exactly why Prester John had been visiting his outer districts. She did the best she could to lose herself among the crowd, keeping her face down.

  “Balkis? Balkis!” Anthony followed her, catching at her hand. “Think—the emperor! Do you not wish to see Prester John himself?”

  “Surely, surely!” Balkis assured him. She just didn't want Prester John to see her.

  Then the procession was upon them. Balkis stood riveted to the ground, peeking up under the edge of her hood—and was astounded to realize that, when you were watching the parade instead of riding in it, the sight was very impressive indeed!

  First came a rider carrying a six-foot-high wooden cross fastened to his saddle.

  “Wooden?” Anthony stared. “Why would an emperor not have a cross made of silver or gold and filled with priceless gems?”

  “He wishes to be reminded of the passion of Our Lord, young man,” Sikta told him. “We have heard of his humility even in Kashmir. If wood was good enough for the Savior, it is good enough for Prester John!”

  “His name does mean ‘John the Priest,’ ” Balkis reminded.

  “True—but I did not expect him to be as humble as a monk.”

  “I would not call such a train as this humble,” Balkis answered.

  Then came courtiers bearing a single golden vase.

  “At least this metal is precious!” Anthony said. “But why has it no flowers or shrubs within?”

  “It is full of earth,” Balkis answered, “to remind the king that his flesh, too, must one day return to its original substance, the earth.”

  Sikta looked up. “That must be so—for if you have lived a year in Maracanda, you must have seen processions such as this more than once. Tell us the meaning of the symbols.”

  The last thing Balkis wanted to do was to watch the parade closely—but she sighed and braced herself.

  After the vase came another courtier carrying a silver bowl full of pieces of gold.

  “Well, this is more like an emperor!” Anthony said, satisfied, “Surely Prester John wishes to impress the people with his wealth!”

  “A good guess,” Balkis said, “but not quite on the mark— the king wants all to know that he is lord of lords in these lands, and that his magnificence surpasses all the wealth in the world.”

  “Do you truly know this simply from dwelling in Maracanda?” he asked.

  What was Balkis to say? She couldn't exactly tell him that she had heard the explanations from the emperor himself. “Prester John goes about frequently within the city,” she said. “People discuss his processions.”

  “With such pomp as this?”

  “Oh, this is only his ordinary coming and going. When he travels in state, or marches to war, it is much more magnificent.”

  Anthony looked frankly skeptical, but Sikta said, “I can believe that easily! Why, he has only a dozen soldiers going before him!”

  They watched the troopers ride by, backs as straight as the poles of the pennons they bore, eyes firmly toward the front.

  “Who are those gaily dressed fellows who follow the soldiers?” Sikta asked.

  “They are courtiers,” Balkis explained, “dukes and counts of the land. Do you see those last seven coming, and the crowns they wear?”

  “Why, yes!” Sikta gasped. “Surely they are not truly kings!”

  “They are indeed. Seven of his tributary kings are always in attendance upon him—more, when they march to war with all their soldiers.”

  “But who is that young man riding behind them, who also wears a crown?” Anthony asked. “He cannot be a king—he is scarcely older than I am!”

  “He is the crown prince.” Balkis lowered her gaze. “He shall become emperor upon Prester John's death.”

  “So much power to fall upon such slender shoulders!” Anthony murmured.

  Balkis could only agree. She thought Prince Tashih a good man, but Anthony a better—and he had far broader shoulders to bear such a burden.

  “Look, Balkis!” Anthony gripped her arm, pointing. “It is the emperor! It is Prester John himself!”

  Resigned to her fate, Balkis looked up and hoped her uncle wouldn't see her. Then she stared, for as he rode in state, he seemed far more impressive than he did at home.

  He even looked taller—broader, too, bigger in every way. Perhaps it was the huge horse he rode, a western charger, gift of Queen Alisande—or perhaps his robe was deliberately padded and stiffened. He rode with regal bearing, straight as a rod and seeming on the verge of casting thunderbolts. He raised his hand in blessing as he rode, but his face was stern, and there was nothing of the tender, doting uncle she knew.

  Suddenly his head snapped around and his eyes met hers. Too late Balkis realized that, being a wizard, Prester John had been alerted by her magical aura. For a few seconds he looked directly at her, and she straightened, lifting her head proudly, gaze defiant, virtually daring him to acknowledge her before all these people.

  But the emperor glanced to her right at Anthony, tall and golden beside her, then back at her, and a slight smile touched his lips. Somehow, Balkis felt the vast wave of relief coming
from him.

  Then the emperor turned his head to the fore and rode on. Balkis stared after him, numb—overwhelmingly grateful that he had not declared her station in front of Anthony, but even more overwhelmed by realizing how deeply he loved her.

  The Lord Wizard must have reported to him, she realized, and her uncle must have ridden down this road specifically so he could ride back when she had passed his sentry— probably the deacon at the chapel—and see for himself that she was well.

  The Lord Wizard had no doubt reported Anthony's presence and place in her life, too. So much for her fears that Prester John meant to marry her to his son! She lowered her gaze again, tears of joy coming to her eyes. The man and woman she had thought of as mother and father might be dead, but she had true family here, in her uncle.

  “A dozen more courtiers behind him,” Sikta exclaimed. “Such state! Ah, so that is the source of the martial music—a whole wagon filled with musicians that comes after the emperor! And oh! Here come the soldiers! There must be a hundred of them! Are they the palace guard, Balkis?… Balkis?”

  “Why do you weep, my love?” Anthony's voice was tender with concern.

  “Because I have realized that I am almost home,” Balkis told him. In fact, for the first time since she had left her parents' cottage, she knew that she really did have a home.

  Anthony squeezed her hand and she clung to it, watching with him as the spellbound crowd gazed after the procession until the last of the soldiers was out of sight. Then they broke into a babble of excitement.

  Anthony turned to Balkis, eyes shining. “Isn't it amazing, darling? Never in my life did I think I would ever see Prester John himself! Have you ever seen anything so glorious? But of course—in Maracanda, you said you witnessed such processions many times!”

  He babbled on, now to Balkis, now to his neighbors, tremendously excited by what he had seen. Watching him, Balkis thought it ironic that a man who had witnessed so many marvels was overawed most by something so human—but she watched him with a gaze that became more and more tender, and found herself exulting even as he exulted, for his joy was hers. She made polite replies to all his exulting, trying to match his enthusiasm but not succeeding.