Bladesong

by Jean Gill

  Where was Dragonetz? she wondered. Why wasn’t he checking on what all the fuss was about? Please, Malik, she thought but didn’t say. ‘I know this is wrong by your religion. I know that we have different beliefs underneath all that we share. I know that you have already given us more than anyone could expect of a friend and that I can never repay the debt I already owe you. But I ask you to consider two questions. If this were your horse, would you let him die when you could save him? As you feel about your horse, so do I feel about this brave, loving dog of mine.’

  ‘A dog is not a horse. Nor is your dog my horse,’ replied the Arab, his eyes gleaming with the pleasure of a logical contest, or with something else, as he listened to the stilted Arabic. ‘What is the second question?’

  Estela shut her eyes and prayed for inspiration. There was no second question. What stupid notion had made her say such a thing? She racked her brains. Malik’s objection was based on his religious beliefs... She remembered her mother tending to women who refused treatment because it went against God’s will. What had her mother told her? ‘If they quote scripture at you, quote it back at them until you win.’ Then she knew what to say, and surely she’d listened to enough Persian poetry on a long ship voyage to make this convincing. Estela looked Malik straight in the eyes as she began, ‘I might have some of the words wrong but did not the poet say

  All gifts are from Allah

  Be not proud of what was never yours

  But give when Allah calls to you.

  What seems to you a wounded dog

  Is the way to the walled garden

  If Allah wills.’

  Malik regarded her in grave silence, then nodded and said, Insha’Allah. So be it. I will try to heal this infidel dog.’

  Estela flung her arms round him, her thanks choking in her throat. Then they set to work. The wagon was as good a place to operate as any and Malik had his surgeon’s kit but he shook his head at Estela’s impatience.

  ‘Something to dull pain,’ he told her. ‘Even if we tie his muzzle closed so he can’t bite, we can’t hold a beast this size still and what I do will hurt him. Also, we need to clean the inside of the wound properly or it will putrefy from within, however pretty it looks on the outside.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Estela. ‘Why does it matter if it’s clean? Surely the blood will carry the impurities away and if we balance the humours, his body will heal.’

  Malik looked at her as if she were a child trying to mend a broken doll with mud. ‘Infection comes from dirt,’ he told her. ‘We must have clean hands, clean rags and we must put an antiseptic into the wound. Lavender oil would do.’

  ‘Diluted?’ queried Estela, aware of the horrific extravagance of using lavender oil. Her mind was in turmoil, mortified and confused at the notion of cleanliness mattering. How many times had she tended to women with no thought of washing her hands, or using ‘antiseptic’? There was so much to learn from Arab medical knowledge.

  ‘Neat,’ said Malik shortly.

  ‘I know what we can use to dull the pain!’ Estela rushed off to retrieve a little of the store of poppy given to her by Muganni. She mixed it with chicken broth and brought the bowl back to the wagon, where she found Malik laying out his instruments. Estela had never seen surgery before and she thought Malik’s equipment looked like a sewing kit, with metal hooks and needles, even thread.

  ‘Poppy tea,’ she told him, ‘or rather poppy soup. Nici must weigh about the same as Dragonetz so I think I know the right dose. And I can get Nici to drink this. I know I can.’ The big tail thumped at the sound of his name and Estela disappeared into the wagon, helping the dog into a position where he could sup from the bowl, which he did, with great enthusiasm.

  ‘Poppy tea? Dragonetz?’ asked Raoulf.

  ‘I’ll explain afterwards,’ Estela told him. ‘Just let us attend to Nici first.’

  When the dog’s eyes closed and he didn’t respond to touch, Estela bound his muzzle, just to be on the safe side, and Malik set to work. Estela passed him swabs and tools, held the wounds open for cleaning, instructed servants to bring a change of water, with soap. She watched closely, while he cleansed the wound as deeply as he could, using enough lavender oil to pay a year’s rent on a cottage. Then, with impossible dexterity, Malik sewed up the gash with needle and thread, just like mending a rip in a blanket.

  ‘The stitches will need to be cut out,’ he said, ‘in two weeks, when the tear has closed over. Meanwhile he needs to be watched, not to rip it open because it itches. Some oozing between the stitches is normal, and good, and a little lavender oil each day will keep infection at bay.’ He checked the more superficial wounds on the dog’s torso and neck. ‘There are some burns.’

  ‘He fell against the fireplace,’ Raoulf confirmed.

  ‘The lavender oil will help the burns heal too, but spread honey on them, also. Its properties are soothing and healing for burns. If he doesn’t lick it off. And be careful that he eats and drinks, light things at first. With people, broth is good, eggs and chicken. I don’t know anything about dogs.’ He had finished. He clambered out of the wagon and stretched.

  Estela suddenly realised how stiff her back was from nursing in a cramped space and she imagined how Malik must feel. ‘You need a drink yourself,’ she told him. ‘And thank you.’

  ‘I think he’ll be all right.’

  ‘Poppy tea? Dragonetz?’ persisted Raoulf and suddenly Estela had a sick presentiment, a guess as to why Dragonetz had not made an appearance. If she was right, she’d need help.

  ‘Gilles, Raoulf, Malik, come with me. I need to find Dragonetz.’

  They found him sitting on the floor in a corner of the room where Estela had left her stock of poppy open on the bag in which it was usually hidden. She’d not believed Muganni when he’d warned her that a man’s addiction would lead him to search for the drug but she’d taken precautions, just in case. And now, the poppy was spilled over the floor and there was an empty cup beside Dragonetz, who was laughing, his eyes drooping, red and wild.

  ‘I told you I can dose myself,’ he mocked her. ‘Raoulf, good of you to come and see us.’

  ‘What in God’s name?’ Raoulf’s face showed his horror but Dragonetz just laughed at him.

  ‘He’s possessed,’ explained Gilles, crossing himself.

  ‘No, he’s not,’ snapped Estela. The last thing she needed was Raoulf charging off to the city and finding some priest to carry out an exorcism. ‘He was given the drug in Damascus, when he was prisoner, and didn’t know, and we’re here to cure him.’

  The laughter evaporated as quickly as it had come. Grey-faced, Dragonetz spoke like a voice from the tomb. ‘Help me. It is time to lock me in a room. Estela, do what Muganni said. Don’t do anything I say. Don’t believe anything I say. Only what Estela says. She knows...’ Then his head slumped and he left them.

  Estela rushed to him and checked his pulse. ‘Alive,’ she told them. ‘The room has been prepared these three days and we have no choice now. If we love him, this is what we must do...’ In cold, hard words she told them all that Muganni had said must be done. It would be harder for Dragonetz because he had increased the amount of poison in his system, undoing all their careful work in gradual reduction.

  The three men carried Dragonetz to a room bare of anything that he might use to hurt himself and they locked him in. This would take at least a week to work or it would kill him. Estela and Malik sat down to work out what herbs might ease the terrible symptoms of withdrawal, physical and mental. Gilles and Raoulf worked out a timetable of food and surveillance that would leave not a mouse-hole of opportunity for escape.

  And in the small hours of the night, when she couldn’t sleep, when she didn’t dare risk Prima’s wrath by disturbing Musca for yet one more cuddle, one more milky scent of his skin, Estela sat beside a large white dog, on a blanket in a recess. Malik had told her she would be better leaving Dragonetz’ nursing to him, letting him clear up the shit and vomit that were part of the
withdrawal sickness, whatever herbs he used to alleviate the symptoms. He told her that love did not always survive the messy business of being ill, that physical disgust could replace desire. Estela hadn’t needed to think twice. ‘That’s not love, that’s sugar on cakes,’ she told him. ‘Mine is real.’

  She stroked the dog’s head, from the short hairs of his muzzle to the lion’s ruff around his neck. She buried her head in the white fur, murmuring, ‘Get better, please get better.’

  Chapter 21

  Dragonetz gave Sadeek his head, galloping alone across the open moorland, chased by a storm that was already rolling black clouds over his head and dense fog over the terrain. Galloping was dangerous but his heart was black as the storm. As far as he knew, his friends were all dead, either from chasing the Grail or from the enemies they met during the pursuit. Why should he continue? Because of an oath to a king? What would be left of the kingdom when all the knights were dead, chasing dreams?

  He was weary, his legs ached and he had no wish to be caught in the storm. Ahead, he could see a domed shelter, a stone shepherd’s bourrie appearing and disappearing amidst the thick swirls of fog. That would have to do, as he had no idea where there was anything other than Godforsaken wasteland. Just as he had no need to spur Sadeek, so the destrier knew to slow down as they approached the place Dragonetz thought the bourrie must be.

  He was not wrong but as the bourrie appeared once more, so did something else. A wild-eyed giant in body armour stood between Dragonetz and the bourrie, swirling a mace in one hand and an axe in the other. Battle-trained as he was, Sadeek reared in fright, as a flash of lightning silhouetted the nightmare being in front of them. Then the horse steadied, brave enough even for this last fight. For Dragonetz had no doubts that this would be the last.

  The heavens opened in a cacophony of thunder and a light-show that turned the torrential downpour into pink spears, churning the grass to mud. Dragonetz charged at the giant, lance in hand, hoping to find a weak spot in the armour, between neck and helm. There was no chance of felling this monster by force; he must have been twenty feet tall and seemed to grow as Dragonetz neared. It was not his imagination. Not only did the giant grow as Dragonetz approached, so did the reach of his mace, which swiped both Dragonetz’ legs. The ache turned into stabbing pain, so intense Dragonetz screamed.

  Voices in the fog spoke like the thunder itself, rolling sounds into his head where they resonated before finally turning into words.

  ‘His legs hurt.’

  ‘Try the hash.’

  ‘He’s already had as much as I dare give.’

  ‘It’s not strong enough.’

  ‘Nothing’s strong enough’

  The voices flickered through his head and flashed across the sky. They were right about one thing. Nothing and no-one was strong enough but he would die fighting. He asked the impossible of Sadeek once more and charged against the giant but this time he kept riding, till he was inside the reach of the lethal chain and using his sword to find just one chink in the mail, stabbing and stabbing, his legs giving way underneath him. It was almost a relief when arms like tree trunks wrapped around him so he was crushed against metal, smelling the blood-scent of iron, rubbed raw even through his own armour, unable to breathe. Then the arms released him. A giant hand picked him up and hurled him screaming into the eye of the storm.

  ‘He’s worse,’ the thunder said

  ‘It must run its course,’ said the lightning and he was not dead yet, but carried through the skies on the storm, riding the black cloud. ‘Sadeek,’ he murmured to the cloud, which whinnied and descended to a landing giddy as a camel kneeling. He dismounted, his legs still hurting.

  He was standing in the family graveyard at Ruffec, one cypress planted inside it, dark green in mourning. The iron gate was shut behind him, and he couldn’t see over the high wall enclosing twelve graves, eleven with headstones, and one open, ready for a burial.

  There should be nine graves, not eleven. He knew the names and inscriptions off by heart, of his father’s parents, and his grandfather’s siblings, just as he knew the coppice beyond the wall, where he’d hidden to avoid church-going when he was a naughty seven-year-old.

  He peered at the inscriptions on the two new graves; his father and his mother. He didn’t remember them dying. The pains in his legs intensified and his head throbbed again.

  ‘You are not alone.’ It wasn’t the thunder but a woman he thought he knew, gliding towards him. She looked like a rose, all beautiful layers in full bloom. Her name popped into his head and he rolled it on his tongue. It wasn’t a bit like thunder. Estela.

  ‘We’re here, with you.’ Al-Hisba was with Estela, his dark face and robes a contrast to the rose pink. Dragonetz wondered why they looked so worried.

  ‘It is time,’ he said and let himself fall backwards into the open grave. He felt a momentary pang of guilt that his would be the last grave in the family. No-one would tend his grave and the cemetery would become overgrown with ivy, the stones cracked and blackened. He had not done his duty, not married, not sired an heir - though God knew his parents had nagged him often enough. He let such thoughts slip away, with all other pains. It was too late. ‘Stay with us.’ Estela’s voice. He shut his eyes and let go of the real world, floating away.

  Floating far from his body in the grave, Dragonetz drifted over the fields to a river so broad he could not see the other side. The water flowed dark and slow, each drop irrelevant in the illusion called river. He dipped his hand into river and it came out covered in drops of water. He was just a drop of water and the river would carry on flowing.

  Across the river towards him, gliding over the surface, came the barque he was expecting. Three fées in black veils and gowns stood tall and slim in the prow, whispering his name in a summons that would have found him wherever he was. Behind them, in the stern, glowed the Grail light and Dragonetz knew that he had only to touch each fée and name her, and he could leave the river bank behind, embark for the land of the Grail.

  As the barque neared, Dragonetz heard once more the Grail music, its multiple harmonies and vast scope dampened by the river mist but unforgettable. All Dragonetz’ bitterness evaporated at the rightness of the sound. One of the figures on the barque stretched out towards him as the barque touched the bank. Dragonetz leaned out himself and touched the cold, white hand, saying ‘Morgan.’ She inhaled deeply as if breathing him in and she moved aside to let her sisters come in front of her.

  Then Dragonetz was pulled rudely back from the barque, the moment spoilt, his way blocked so that he could not reach the fées who awaited him. Nor could they step out of the barque and come to him. The music and the fées called him but he would have to get past a black knight and a small boy. This knight, however, was no giant but a slighter man than Dragonetz when he took his armour off, as he did, piling it into a heap on the grass.

  ‘Will you fight me again, my friend?’ asked Arnaut, the other-worldly blueness crackling around his eyes. ‘It is not your time. Go back. You don’t have the right to let go. You owe me a life - your life. You must live it.’

  Unable to move, caught up in the spell of the music but unsettled by Arnaut’s words and presence, Dragonetz waited for the other person to speak.

  Muganni hopped on one foot, his eyes as changed as Arnaut’s. ‘It is not your time,’ he said, changing foot. ‘Go back. You don’t have the right to let go. You owe me a life - your life. You must live it.’

  Still Dragonetz did not move. As the music grew quieter, he realised that it was the barque that had moved, floating ever further away from him, as the mists covered them all up. Then he wept for all he had lost and closed his eyes to find sleep.

  ‘Can you find me something to write with?’ Dragonetz asked.

  Estela looked at Malik, afraid to hope, but he nodded. The crisis had passed.

  ‘What for?’ she asked, curious.

  A shadow of irritation passed across his face as if it should have been obvious
to her. ‘To write the music down,’ he said. ‘I think seven voices would make something like, don’t you? You were both there. You heard it.’ He was obviously frustrated at how slow they were.

  ‘We were both there,’ confirmed Estela slowly.

  ‘We heard the music,’ agreed Malik, ‘If you write it down, we might be able to help shape it.’

  ‘That’s what I thought,’ sighed Dragonetz with relief, while Estela went to fetch her pen and her precious paper book, leaving the door unlocked, announcing to everyone she passed that the master would be joining them for evening meal.

  It was one of those crazy winter afternoons when the sunshine was almost too warm for sitting outside. The stone walls glowed golden and Dragonetz imagined his roses growing there, or in some other walled garden, wherever it should be. He must get down to the city and see his rose-grower, and his swordsmith. There were business matters to clarify. But for now, it was enough just to be here, to be himself.

  The dreams still lingered in his waking mind. He hummed phrases and changed the composition every day but his score was taking shape. He’d never written anything spiritual before but he thought he knew the very person to turn the work into performance. He remembered a monk at the Templar stronghold at Douzens, someone al-Hisba had worked with before joining Dragonetz. The monk was a man who would understand, who would find the singers and the setting for the chorale. But it all could wait.

  What could not wait was what he must say to Estela. He had turned his dreams over and over, seeking meaning, denying meaning, until he thought his head would explode. He had dark moods, moments when he felt that part of himself had left this world when he’d touched Morgan le Fay, and then he would shake off such superstitious thoughts, knowing that it was the poppy that had touched him, and left its traces. But the dreams lingered in his imagination and it troubled him that Muganni had appeared in such a guise, with Arnaut. In the same way he felt the rightness of the Grail music, he couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness about the dream-Muganni. He needed to know that Muganni was fine, that he’d reached the mountains safely. If only a pigeon could wing its way between them!