by Peter Hayes
In order to decide its rightful owner, the crowner convened a “jury” of our peers who, upon its inspection, declared the trove a “heathen offring to Goddess Erth” containing many “horrid idoles bearing the masques of asirt’d feends”; in brief, a pagan sacrifice made with no intention of reclaiming and thus reverting to its finder, Cedric who, in turn, was owned by us.
This legal judgment was at once contested, for the Crown had no desire to forfeit so great a sum. The crowner was sacked and a new one appointed, even as a rumour spread through the shire that my Lady had manifest the treasure through a magikal pact with the Lady Diana, one of their most evil fiends. To complicate matters, the Bishop of Exeter claimed the treasure for his see—an assertion without one scintilla of merit. Nonetheless, he sued us for it. Radix malorum est cupiditas.3
1.Outremer: literally, overseas; a name for the Middle East
2.Translator’s Note: A villein was a person of a lower caste attached to a villa. However, due to the contempt in which their masters held them, the word has come to mean today any evil being, its former connection to “villa” lost.
3.Radix malorum est cupiditas: Greed is the root of evil.
Chapter 36
For the length of a day, a storm had raged: twelve hours of lashing rains had stripped the trees of their yellow leaves, pasting them on the flagstone walks like bending, melting Dali money—some surreal blend of bill and bullion.
I drove to Stour to forage dinner, examining wheels of three-year-old cheddar and crumbling bricks of Buxton blue, but in the end, I left without buying any. For I’d lost my appetite, and not just for food. There was nothing in this world I wanted—but Vidya Prasad back in my arms.
Returning home, I sat at the window. The rainy twilight was serenely beautiful; the platinum clouds were torn and the moon and stars were sailing through the tears. But, lovely as it was, I couldn’t taste one bite of it; like some thwarted connection, its beauty was refused.
I slammed the table with my fist. Incited by Sikandar, I wanted to hang men, torch fields, loot villages. I wanted to descend on the jail where Vidya was, break her out and take her away. I wanted to see someone punished for Jai’s death and my Lady’s murder, and for all the pain that we’d endured.
And yet even as I railed, I knew the person I was most angry with was me. For I had failed both my Ladies. And the most disheartening part was that every day’s failure meant another night that Vidya spent in jail.
Odin enacted my despair. He sat at the window, watching the road as if Vidya might come driving up it. Finally, after hours of patient waiting, he let out a yowl and collapsed in a jumble of bones at my feet, gazing up at me with large, reproachful eyes.
The ivory tower I had built was demolished, and in its stead, stood a pillar of victory, the ivory’s hard, luxurious luster replaced by pitted, sun-bleached bone. Sartre said, famously, “Hell is other people.” But I cry, unequivocally, “Hell is yourself!” I shook my head. I hated my destiny; I even hated the enchanted book, as both seemed bent on rubbing my nose in everything I’d spent my life avoiding. My mistake, I saw, had been letting out my love for Vidya and letting in her love for me. Doing that had compromised my defenses and now the locks of long-sealed doors were being turned by skeleton keys as if some ghostly janitor were bent on taking inventory of everything I’d locked away.
And I thought, then, what being a warrior means: you ride out from your castle, with all its comforts and defenses, to face the pain of feelings you’ve avoided all your life, against which you’d built your goddamn fortress in the first place!
Then it was midnight. Moonlight fell through the diamond panes and where it struck the kitchen tiles were eldritch signs and fatal symbols finger-painted in the dust: spirals, meanders and a that was at once a raptor’s beak, a vulture’s claw and woman’s vulva. And in the dream (for that’s what it was) I knew they spelled some crucial message, one—alas!—I could not decode.
Then the scene outside began to shift, like in those time-lapse films where melting clouds race the sky and rising vines entwine the trees—but here the film was spooling in reverse, and I watched in awe as years unpeeled, the stars unwheeled around the Pole, and seasons cycled back upon themselves from green to white to gold to green . . . And when it stopped, the wooden tower stood again atop Bulbarrow:
Item, that she worship the demon Glasya Labolas, a great President, who commeth forth like a Dog and is Captaine of all manslayers;
Item, that she adorth a Hed whom she calls Gunesha, alias, Shax or Scox, a darke and high Marquesse like unto Behemoth, with a hoarse and subtill voice, and by this idolatry maketh riches to flow, jewels appear unbidden, and buried treasure reveal itself;
Item, that she worshipeth cows, snakes, curs and cunning felines, and by this conjunction healeth many, maketh rain to fall and drown the fields and trees to flower out of season in contravention of the will of God . . .
The list went on for several pages . . .
. . . that for these and other detestable enormities, we pray the chattels, house and lands of the foreign enchantress known as Mayura be seized by the Crown, and that she and her hellish minions be handed over to the Bishop of Exeter for the application of ecclesiastical law.
This last phrase meant, according to our counsel, a week or so of ravishment and torture followed by death over a slow fire.
“My Lords, I am a lost and wayfaring queen come of late to this fair isle. If I possessed the powers you ascribe to me, I would have willed myself home long ago, accompanied by my Prince, retainers and wealth. The fact I am here, with my life, lands and liberty in jeopardy, accused of being a sorceress and witch, is the most certain proof I have that I am not.”
“You speak well, my Lady.”
“It is the truth.”
“Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ is the Truth.”
“If so, then He dwells in my words.”
There was a murmur from the gallery.
“How came you, my Lady, to these fair shores?”
“By the will of God—in the form of errant winds and shipwreck. Through the Bahr Al-Qulzum1 to Alexandria. And beyond the Pillars of Hercules due north. Whereupon, your former Sovereign cast on us a look of mercy and granted us a vill, in the shadow of his royal umbrella.”
Here some confusion ensued, as the “umbrella” was apparently unknown, and with it the concept of taking refuge underneath it.
“It is said that you bewitched the King.”
“As he did us. With his love and kindness.”
Throats were cleared as the former Monarch—once much loathed—was remembered fondly, now that his wife and son had deposed him.
“And did you not, with the use of knots, cause storms and gales to overtake the land?”
For the people were starving. Seven summers of constant rains had rotted even the seed in the field, and were followed by winters so cold and cruel that boats froze fast in Poole Harbour and wolves came down from their wooded barrows. It was only in the last two years that the ruinous floods and rains had abated—though the winters were still a far sight colder than many a villein’s child could bear.
“I am not responsible for your country’s clime. I am no more its cause than you yourself, Sir, are creator of the Great Hindu desert.”
“His Excellency has condemned your healings as works accomplished through traffick with the dead. What say you, Lady?”
“I am perplexed. For how might the dead impart life and health, being those qualities they most sorely lack?”
A titter went through the audience.
“You are charged with worshipping heathen idols.”
“Denied.”
“You deny bowing down to an elephant of gold?”
“I deny worshipping it.”
“Pray, what difference is there?”
“One of understanding. A wife may kiss her husband’s likeness. She does not believe the likeness is her husband.”
Open laughter spilled from t
he backbenches, drawing the Bishop’s warning glare.
“Nonetheless, our Lord forbids the worship of graven images.”
“The Lord engraved upon that cross?”
“He is the exception.”
“And the bird above?”
“That is no bird, my Lady, but the Holy Spirit.”
“That is no elephant, sir. But the spirit of God.”
“And yet the Lord forbids you worship it.”
“And where is this Lord you say forbids it?”
“Why, our Lord is everywhere!”
“Then He must dwell within my idol.”
There was the buzz of conversation, as the Crowner and the Bishop conferred.
“Are you not guilty of denying Christ’s authorship of this world, claiming it is born of the Matres?”
“Nay, I merely observed that mothers, as a rule, give birth to sons. Sons, rarely, if ever, give birth to their mothers.”
“Lady, it is said you are much beloved by your people.”
“If so, would it be a crime?”
“Loved, nay. But adored and worshipped?”
“I give them herbs and unguents. They are grateful, I think, to be rid of their pains.”
“Do not they call you Alba Mère?”
“They call you many names, as well.”
There was laughter.
“What means this title?”
“I am told, ‘Good Mother.”
“ ‘Fairy Mother? Fairy Witch?’ ”
She conferred with her translator. “No.”
“Are you not that one whom certain pagan prophesies foretell?”
She shook her head. “Pass on.”
“And yet the people sing it in their songs.”
“That may well be. For it’s said, ‘Whatever is too silly to say . . . may always be sung.’ ”
The Bishop pronounced:
She was fetys2, prude3 and dun of hewe,
Na pale as snowe y-fallen newe.
And through her smoke4 as whyt as milk
Her flesh was brun5 and soft as silk.
Modre makeless6, Lady darke,
Who n’er came to a fals heart!
Amidst the tempters of the night7
She has shewed us Paradise!
“What means this final line, my Lady?”
“I could not say. I did not write it. Anyway, it is fact well-known that minstrels are all lunatics, sick with love of drink or women. I see no reason then why I, a traveller, am accountable for the delusions of your country’s poets.”
Guffaws erupted from the gallery, followed by the Crowner’s warning of eviction, even as the Bishop abandoned his spiritual examination in favour of the Crowner’s material one.
“I have deemed the riches unearthed upon your lands to be ‘Treasure Trove.’ As such, they are to be handed to the Crown.”
“And yet, in doing so, you overrule the verdict of your peers and the opinion of your predecessor.”
“That well may be. Yet, such a judgment is mine to make. Therefore, I again command you: confer this treasure on the Sheriff of Dorchester for conveyance to the King.”
“And I repeat that I will not so long as you threaten us with death.” In the face of this refusal, the room went still.
“Then, my Lady, we will seize it.”
“You will have to find it first. For it is reburied, and I alone know where.” She waited to let this news sink in. “Still, I am not so naive as to think so petty an advantage will buy me justice—or my freedom. And so I offer this: I will give you seven parts out of eight of the treasure, and my life along with it. But mine alone and no one else’s. In return, you will swear to do no harm to any other person, beast, crop, well, field, or habitation of Throopiddle Bryannt, so help you God.”
For when Mayura had been seized, a number of our villeins had risen up to protect her, killing and injuring some of the King’s soldiers—an act of rebellion that was normally punishable by extirpation of the village entire and its ground sewn with salt.
Appalled, I rose, but strong hands pressed me down.
“We have no need for your cunning offer, as we can compel you to give us what we seek. If you do not reveal where the treasure’s hid, I will order you to Dorchester prison, not to be tortured, my Lady—not yet. Only to be shown the divers and varied implements employed to this end. Their mere sight, I am told, loosens many a bowel—and tongue!”
Mayura opened her mouth and displayed a crimson seed upon her own. “Should I crush this husk, my soul departs in the space of a minute. And there is no torment that you or the fiends of Hell may devise that I cannot withstand for sixty seconds.”
There were cries from the audience. The Bishop rose. “Witch! Self-murder damns the soul.”
“You care not a fig for my soul—nor, apparently, your own. For if you did, you would not damn it with the blood of an innocent queen, nor connive to thieve her wealth and land. And all in the name of God!” Her contempt blazed, hot and free, and then, as suddenly, it cooled.
The Bishop said: “We do this all for the love of God.”
Mayura snorted: “Love is sacrifice. If not, it isn’t love, but business. Where there’s love, you give of your substance. And you don’t count the cost. The shepherd loves his fatted lamb, but only for its meat and the silver it will bring him. Save us all from that kind of ‘love.’ My offer stands. Do you accept?”
“Our authority permits . . .”
“Very well . . .” and she oped her mouth as the gallery cried out and I and many others moved to stop her.
“Stay! We consult.”
I tried to reach my Lady then, to get her to rescind, but was forcibly stopped—and when I finally caught her eye, she looked straight through me.
The parley went on for several minutes. The Bishop then said, “In the Church’s mercy and compassion, it accepts your terms and swears to uphold them upon the blood of our Blessed Saviour.”
“As I do, too. Upon my elephant.”
“And now, having admitted your errors, I charge the guards . . .”
“Back!” Mayura warned.
The Crowner looked incredulous. “You break a vow only moments old?”
“We agreed that I would give my life—not that you would take it.”
The Bishop and Crowner glared at Mayura. “What means this?”
“I choose my own death.”
The Crowner and Bishop again exchanged looks. “We did not understand . . .”
Her scorn stopped them. “You sound like the villein’s lad who went to Poole and was swindled of his corn. If you are so foolish as to agree to something you didn’t understand, you would be best to keep it to yourself, lest your Master finds you wanting.”
“Guards!”
“Tell them, stay! Or your King forfeits an enormous fortune, something which, for your own sake, would not be wise.”
And so the final stalemate began over my Lady’s right to die in a way of her own choosing, one that was only broken when my Lady conceded the right of the Crowner to witness her execution—and promised the Palace one half of the treasure, with a quarter made over to the See of Exeter and one-eighth part to the Crowner himself, for “his godly work of mediation.”
All morning folk had gathered in the street outside, listening to reports of the trial. Now, as the Queen departed, some bowed or curtsied at her passage; others tried to touch her hair or kiss the silken hem of her sari.
“What poison sits upon thy tongue?”
Turning to me, she bit into it. Its crimson liquor stained her mouth. And I recognized the harmless betel.
Though my Lady carried herself with queenly dignity through the streets of Poole, once within our carriage, she clung to me like a drowning girl. She began to quake and pant and weep. Her flesh grew hot and she became delirious so that it was hard to understand her. Apparently, she was frightened of the fire—terrified of being burned. Then fear of drowning overtook her. Then fear of being entombed alive. And then she w
ept most bitterly that she would never see her son again, nor kiss his head, nor smell his hair.
At dusk, at the manor, she became as one possessed, declaring that all of Shiva’s phantom army was gathered in the trees. She heard their talons grappling the branches and their wings fanning the overheated air, and she rent her garments and pulled her hair, proclaiming her clothes alight and burning.
At dawn, she became silent and slept without moving. When she awoke at midmorning, she was already half gone. Her eyes were empty, burned clean by an inner flame. She said nothing, but sat in the sun, telling her beads, drinking in the last noon of her existence as serfs, wise women, and nobles alike gathered at her feet.
1.Bahr Al-Qulzum: The Red Sea
2.fetys: neat, comely
3.prude: proud
4.smoke: smock
5.brun: brown
6.modre makeless: matchless mother
7.tempters of the night: the incubus and succubus
Chapter 37
“Hey, bunk. Case against the little lady? Just took a very serious U-ie. Henry Lewis Carlson Jones? Forensic’s been going through stuff in his truck. And they’ve found a number of personal items, souvenirs, belonging to three of his victims, plus to a fourth they didn’t know was his. That’s pretty damn conclusive. Now guess what? They dusted a change purse they found ‘neath the seat and whose prints are on ’em? Vidya Prasad’s.”
I said nothing. That was it. It was over. And having tied her directly to Jones’s murder, they’d very soon be coming for me.
“So there you have it. It’s a wrap. Case closed. They finish up the paperwork, they’ll let her go.”
I didn’t follow. “Release Vidya? Why?”
“Why? Because if Jones there had possession of Miss Vidya’s purse, he musta took it when he murdered Jai. Just like he did with his other victims. How else could he have gotten it? They didn’t know each other. Phone, cell phone, e-mails, all that’s been checked.”
“And her confession?”
“Buncha crap. She did it just to get you out. Like you just tried to do for her. No. Case closed. And the CID is pleased as peaches. Eight murders solved. One inquest and it’s all over. Not even a trial, seeing as Jones ate his own pistol.”