This was not the traditional aspect and its effect upon the press of people was powerful, though not immediate. Some few minutes were required, but little by little the rhymes and singing quieted, the horns and harps silenced, and the babble halted.
Mutano stopped Defender and tied the reins to his seat-board and then he and Osbro stepped back into the bed of the cart. They moved with grave deliberateness and their black livery emphasized the slowness of their motions. The two aides who had stood beside the Ministrant now left their posts and descended the molded sod steps to level ground. They marched slowly, slowly, to the cart. Mutano and Osbro delivered the coffin into their hands.
When they received the box they turned it crosswise so that its head rested on the shoulder of one and its farther end on the other’s shoulder. Then they marched back to the Tumulus and began the ascent, taking each step with utmost care. But even with this cautious slowness, the right-hand aide made a misstep and the coffin slipped off his shoulder. There was an intake of breath from every person in the crowd. The sound was like the hiss of a great sea wave as it rushed against a cliff side.
The aide reached around and caught the box. If it had fallen, it would have tumbled all the way to level ground. The two of them paused to readjust, then climbed again to reach the platform where the Ministrant stood looking out of his Tragedy Mask.
Cut into the hillside behind him was a grass-covered door and he pulled it slowly open to reveal the darkness of a crypt the size of a shepherd’s hut. He stood to one side and intoned in a voice that echoed hollowly from the interior of the mask words that I could not understand. Maybe they were sounds that were not words.
The silence of the crowd was broken by a single despairing female voice: “No!” She understood that the ritual was being disordered. The worst kind of fortune must ensue for all the citizenry. Such things she would have heard from her grandmother and mother. No variance was allowable.
A dread moan ran through all the ranks of celebrants, wordless but with a music such as a dying windstorm makes.
His wordless roar sounded again from the Ministrant’s sad mask.
From below rose the voice of an old man: “No!” He began to sing the ritual rhyme the ceremony demanded: “Crambo and crooked Bennio goes—”
The Ministrant’s chant grew louder. It was like the crackling of lightning strokes along a mountain crest. The elderly man fell silent. All were silent, even the children and dogs.
The aides brought the coffin to the Ministrant. He made passes above it, fluttering his hands in a silly, meaningless fashion. Then he stepped aside.
The aides carried the coffin into the earth-crypt and the Ministrant slowly closed the sod door, sealing them inside. He turned about to face us in the crowd below and removed his Tragic Mask to reveal a face painted in the likeness of the original Bennio. This image served momentarily to reassure the people, but I discerned features familiar to me beneath the clown makeup.
Here stood Maestro Astolfo before the multitude. He had assumed the role of the Ministrant. He who always shunned the plaza, the market square, the harbor-side or any other public place now exposed himself to the gaze of all. Few would recognize him, I thought, because most of his traffic with clients was through Mutano and me and the direct encounters were conducted in an easy and modest manner in private. He was ever a mild and affable man in his dealings and took pains not to make himself notable.
Still, there were bound to be some present here who would recognize him.
He raised his arms to shoulder height and the copious sleeves of his twilight robe unfurled like the wings of a great sea-ray, fluttering silently. His voice, though hardly stentorian, would be audible in every corner as he began to chant:
“You witness now, my friends, the night
When all is wrong within the rite.
When celebration of the Feast
In th’ ancient fashion must be ceased,
For now there hangs upon our town
A doom that shortly shall come down.”
As this strain was concluding Mutano had already unhitched Defender from the cart and brought him forward to the foot of the Tumulus. Osbro accompanied him and I made my way to the pair, trying to draw no attention to myself.
Astolfo concluded:
“Look to yourselves, your families;
Lock your doors and guard your keys;
Find your sword and keep it nigh,
Lest the enemy happen by;
Trust no man, no woman, or beast,
In this dark hour of the Jester’s Feast.”
Now the three of us ascended the Tumulus, stepping slowly up the sod-plots, and watching for any threatening advance toward us by a band of false Bennios. Closely as I looked, I could find no aggressive actions. The crowd was in a state of dazed confusion; some of the servants and others looked on openmouthed as Astolfo sang his mocking song of warning. Those individuals of higher station murmured to one another; they were trying to comprehend whether Astolfo’s performance was a serious warning or only another jesting prank that might suit the occasion in some newfangled manner.
We had feared, when planning our strategy for this hour, that some spectators would be so enraged by the disorder, the perversion, of the ceremony that they might attack our pseudo-Ministrant. So now we formed into his bodyguard and stepped to the second foothold below, placing our hands on our hilts but not withdrawing our blades.
“Heed the warning that I give:
Defend yourselves to keep alive;
Find your homes, depart this throng;
The hour grows late, the time is wrong.
The Jester sits not in the moon—
Look you above: It sails alone!”
He raised his hand and pointed and everyone look to see the truth of this words. The Feast had failed. The moon stood directly overhead, but no features of a mocking face were to be seen. It was a moon like any other in crescent phase—reddish, familiar, and leprous-appearing in its patchiness. The ancient Bennio had scorned his Feast and turned his hunched back on Tardocco and on all the world.
Astolfo again opened the door to the crypt. The light was nigh leached from the sky now, but the crowd was able to see that the Ministrant’s two aides appeared before them in ordinary dress, no longer robed. They came out, bearing the gaudy coffin. They held it between them and slowly and officiously removed the lid to disclose—nothing.
The coffin was empty.
No Dirty Bennino, no Jester effigy, and, though the onlookers could not see what was missing, there was no shadow of a Ministrant.
Two black cats ambled out of the crypt and sat down on either side of Astolfo and looked down upon the crowd with disdainful gaze. It was as if they usually inhabited this hole in the hillside and were mildly annoyed at being disturbed by a sullen mass of human beings.
For the folk had indeed become sullen. Discontent showed plainly in their postures, and groups of them moved restlessly, shifting their feet. They looked to one another. Their Jester-masks turned left and right; the small children clung to their parents, sniffling; the elderly muttered oaths. The general mood was testy and could quickly become violent—as we had feared.
Astolfo descended hurriedly to the level of the roadway, we three flanking him, though still with blades undrawn. Mutano grasped Defender’s reins and handed them to Astolfo as the maestro mounted. Then Osbro lifted the tongue of the cart from the ground and gave our colorful conveyance a backward push. The men and women behind scrambled to avoid its crush, jostling and cursing. One old woman fell to the ground and was pulled out of the path of the cart at the last moment by an alert chambermaid. A number of the brawnier men ran to slow its progress, grasping the sideboards. Others gathered and, straining from behind, brought it to a standstill.
It was a brief distraction, but it afforded all the time Astolfo needed to put his heels to Defender’s flanks and canter away out of the crowd into a side path and then away into the darkness of the grove that sur
rounded the Tumulus.
In this failing light the confusion was such that Osbro, Mutano, and I were able to lose ourselves in the moiling crowd. Harsh cries of protest rose and scuffling broke out. Parents sought after their children. Some of the elderly wept, while others looked about hollow-eyed. Fury and black melancholy reigned among the skeptical, as well as among the faithful.
Mutano had claimed that the Feast was a spurious, vain, and contrived celebration, empty of any content but its own tradition. Perhaps he was correct from the logical point of view, but logic was not in force now. Unaccountable feelings held the people in sway. Emotion ruled, as it did during wrestling matches, horse races, and other heated competitions. The people of the crowd discarded their individual identities and the whole mass of them became a single entity with a confused and powerful vis and without the capacity for orderly thought.
Ill will would fetch the populace to fiery violence if they could locate a blamable victim. But the disarray was thorough. Most of them did not comprehend what had taken place; they only knew what had not taken place. The ceremony was ruined; the lunar Jester did not show his face; the peace of Tardocco was despoiled. The city stood in danger from some source it could not name.
* * *
It was long past midnight before we made our separate ways back to the manse. I walked with wary caution, fearful I might be recognized as one of the four men who had undermined the climax of the Feast. I need not have been so apprehensive, for the citizens I observed were preoccupied with their own thoughts and injured feelings. They gathered in muttering groups at lane intersections and around the doors of crowded taverns. No trumpets rent the silence and no flautists embroidered its dense fabric. The folk eyed one another with suspicion and spoke abruptly each to each and not at all to those unknown.
When I came into the house I heard the sound of earnest voices in the small library and found there Astolfo, Mutano, Osbro, and our Misterioso client seated at the table. Their late refreshment was again herbal tea and oatcakes.
Astolfo gestured me to sit and hearken to Mutano’s complaints.
“I see what we have done,” Mutano said, “but my intellect does not stand so tall as to enable me to comprehend why we have done it.” There was a hint of whining in his tone, almost cattish.
Astolfo, mildly: “What have we done?”
“We have mocked and sucked dry of meaning an ancient tradition.”
“One that you did not believe has any meaning,” I said. I set the mug before me beside the clay urn and Osbro filled it with the steaming tea.
Mutano waved my remark aside. “I had thought it was our duty to preserve the ritual from interruption or abuse by those who would harm us. Now we have accomplished what we feared from them—the dispiriting of the populace and the confusion of their purposes.”
“And nothing else?” Astolfo asked.
“Now they are forewarned,” I said. “In your changes on the Jester’s rhymes, you have proclaimed to one and all of the dangers that lie before us.”
“The enemy is also forewarned,” Mutano said. “The infiltrators could hear your strains as clearly as I.”
“And so?”
“You have forced their hand,” I said. “The Civil Guard has been alerted, the houses will bar their doors, the old and defenseless will fly to those who are armed and prepared. Our foe had not counted on preparedness. Now they must act swiftly. Maybe they will have to act before they are ready.”
“Well—and are we ourselves ready?” Astolfo asked. “The moon will be dark for a very short space now. Within that time the attack will come upon us under cover of the deepest darkness and our enemies shall have the advantage of the weakened power of will of the whole citizenry.”
“I am prepared,” Mutano said. “I can play out my part on the Tarnished Maiden along with Sbufo and Cocorico.”
“I am prepared,” Osbro said. “I have been working with the boat and believe I know how to control it.”
“I have rehearsed my duties,” Sterio said. “I think I shall be credited.”
“What are your duties?” I asked. “I have not been told of them and do not know how they fit with those of my band of defenders.”
“You are not involved with Sbufo’s part of our activities,” Astolfo said. “But let me introduce our valuable Misterioso client at last. Now that the Feast is done, there is no harm in your knowing his name. He is Signor Alfredo Tristia, a privy councilor to the magistracy of the city. He serves with us. His duty now is to return to his fellows of the Jester Society and inform them of everything that has occurred between him and us.”
Mutano slapped the table sharply. “We know of infiltrators in the Society! Why do we tell them of what we have done?”
“Might be, to smoke ’em out,” Osbro said. “The ones that are angry about what we did will act unfriendly toward the signor. The ones that wanted the ritual disrupted won’t say anything. They will be the foe.”
“A distinction that lacks clear definition,” I said.
“But I know these men,” Signor Tristia said, “and their reactions will either confirm or disarm my previous suspicions. I shall be able to gain a reliable tally and I will report the number to Maestro Astolfo. And then my role is played out. I shall join my family in a village in the mountains for the time being. I cannot safely stay in Tardocco.”
“And so we only carry out our plans as before,” Mutano said, “with the added small advantage that we now have some vague notion how many false Jesters are leagued with the pirates. But also there is also the disadvantage that they know who we are and how many—or, I should say, how few.”
“And how vulnerable,” I said. “So they will hasten their attack before our numbers can grow.”
“How are our numbers to grow?” Mutano returned. “Except for the maestro’s warnings in Jester-rhymes, the populace has no inkling of the struggle that impends.”
“Is that not a favorable circumstance?” Astolfo asked. “If we had to repulse a well-planned attack with an undisciplined citizen force, ill armed and untrained, the result would be a limitless carnage. To chop down beardless youths, braggartly bravos, enfeebled old men, and foppish nobles would be a merry pastime for Morbruzzo and his minions. Tardocco would suffer the fate of Reggio and all the other port cities that have fallen to sea-invaders. The only hope I can envisage lies in the strategy we have laid out.”
“Which must go exact at every point,” I said. “If one of us fail in any one detail, we are lost—and the town destroyed.”
“Well,” Astolfo said, “all here have signified their readiness except yourself. Are you prepared for the exercise?”
“I should like to speak to you alone on that score,” I replied.
He gave me a look which betrayed some surprise, a most unusual expression for the maestro. “In this matter, what touches one touches all. You may voice your concern here and now.”
I spoke firmly. “I think not.”
“Then you and I shall retire to the kitchen for a space while Mutano talks through our strategy once again.”
He rose. I followed.
* * *
A low rushlight was burning in a small, homely lamp in a shelf beside the sink, so that the room was gloomy. Astolfo sensed as much and said, “Let us take something a little more martial in spirit than tea.” He reached down a bottle of wine spirits from the cupboard and poured two little glasses. He set one atop the big butcher’s block in the center of the room and hoisted himself up backward beside it. I pulled a leather-strap chair to a near table and sat.
“I do not believe that your courage fails,” Astolfo said.
“I mistrust Osbro’s capabilities. He knows nothing about boats and currents and such.”
“Little is required to know.”
“I would be better placed in his part.”
“You cannot swim.”
“If all proceeds as it ought, I would have no need.”
“You risk your life pointlessl
y.”
“It is no great risk.”
He bethought himself a space, then said: “You wish to supplant your brother in the greater danger?”
“Yes.”
“After this long time you have discovered a reservoir of fraternal affection. A season past, you might have called that sentiment an infirmity.”
“Perhaps so, but my argument stands. I am better fitted for these duties.”
“That may or may not be so. How comes it that Osbro knows how to swim and you do not?”
“He is my elder. While his tutoress, La Pluma, was teaching him to swim, she was teaching me to read.”
He chuckled and sipped daintily at the powerful liquor. “She was an instructress of varied talents.”
“And of joyous appetites.” I raised my little ruby-colored glass etched with a grape design and matched his imbibing in polite daintiness. This bit of a drop held a touch of heat.
“Well, it is true that the part you first took upon yourself is less difficult and much less dangerous than the venture with the boat. And in that other effort you would have your friends by you.”
“Torronio and Squint and Crossgrain, yes. They are indeed our friends. They are taking a large risk also. If the pirates are victorious in this struggle, they will execute the Wreckers when it is done.”
“The Wreckers?”
“So they call themselves after being falsely accused of drawing ships to wrack with deceptive signals.”
“They have been in hiding. How did you communicate with them?”
“I left a cipher message at two taverns. Torronio has paid observers about the town to keep abreast of affairs. He harbors hopes, I believe, of vindicating himself and returning to his former station in society.” I tasted the liquor again. Along with its dark heat there hinted fruit; cherry, perhaps.
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