The Phoenix and the Mirror

by Avram Davidson

  “You are the boy who ran to tell me of the fire!” he exclaimed. The child gave a vigorous nod, looked at him with keen, bright eyes, large in his pinched face. “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Morlinus, lord.”

  “I offered you money before and you did not take it. There is, in fact, scarcely enough money in Naples, to pay you. Have you a family for whom you want something done?”

  Morlinus shook his head. “I work the bellows for Lothar,” he said, naming a small baker of the district. “He gives me bread and a place to sleep. But what I want — I’d like” — he hesitated, then words came out in a rush — “lord, I’d like to be a magus, too! And I can’t even read.”

  The smell of the fire hung heavy in the house. To Iohan, Vergil said, “I hope the damage was not great.”

  “No, sir. Fortunately. But there was a loss of good seasoned timber.” Behind him, in the murk, an apprentice sat, still weighing bits of charcoal in the scale, still checking the hourglass before adding them to the fire beneath the closed vessel.

  Vergil pointed to him. “Was much time lost from that?” Four years the steady fire had burned, and there were two yet to go before the year in which the heat would be slowly reduced, then the six months of cooling.

  “Sir, no time was lost from that at all.”

  Vergil looked at the man’s back. Thus he had sat and performed his careful tasks in the early days; thus he had sat, concentrating and carrying out when the projectile came sounding and crashing; and, while the flames rose and the smoke billowed, he — not knowing but what the very house might burn around and above and beneath him — or, rather, utterly confident that his master’s craft and cunning would prevent any such thing from happening — had continued to sit, intent and diligent.

  “Have him take his pick among the small instruments in my cabinet,” Vergil said. “Astrolabe, horlogue, or be it what it may. If it is silver, have it enchased in gold. If gold, in silver. If neither, then in both. And upon the chasement let the engraver write the single word Faithful.”

  He turned to the boy at his side. “Morlinus, could you serve like that? Carefully, and without fear?”

  The boy hesitated, then said, “Sir — lord — I would try to be very careful-careful. But I would probably be a little bit afraid.”

  The Magus smiled, “Iohan, start this one off as a forge boy, and have someone teach him his letters — just Latin ones for a start. Greek, Hebrew, Etruscan, Saracen, Runic, the character of Bouge, and the others can wait till he has encompassed ciphering. If he learns well, advance him. If he learns ill, he shall have a place at the forge as long as he cares to keep it, with food, clothing, lodging, and wages.”

  The boy gaped, wide-eyed, said nothing.

  “If you learn well,” said Iohan, voice rumbling in his great chest, “then you shall lodge with me. And if you learn ill” — he bent his huge arm till the muscle swelled — “then I shall beat you until you learn well.”

  Morlinus rolled his eyes, trying to take all in at once. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his scrannel throat, and in a thin voice he said, “I give you leave.”

  Again, Vergil smiled. “Iohan, send word to Dr. Clemens that I am leaving soon and would like to see him even sooner. Perrin, Tynus, judge when it is best suited that I speak to the men about affairs during my absence, and tell me a while in advance. You have helped me arrange my gear for a journey before, and I will have you help me for this one.”

  But he had never made a journey like this one before, and deeply and dismally he knew it.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE PHOENICIAN WAS engaged in telling tales from his lost home’s voluminous history once again.

  “Our chief demigod was named Melcarth,” he said. “In other words, Melec-Cartha, or King Arthur, the one who . . .”

  Vergil sat placidly, certain that no response was expected of him and that as long as he sat in a posture of listening, An-Thon would be content. Having many thoughts of his own, he remained quiet, not moving enough to have tinkled a hawk’s bell. The ship rode well, the sea was clean, the sun warm. He had left Clemens in nominal, titular charge of the preparations for casting a speculum majorum — without ever stating or even implying that the charge was not intended to be actual. Left to do all by themselves, the chief artisans, though intrinsically capable, might well have become divided and resentful among themselves. This way, they would combine as one against the basically harmless vagaries and idiosyncrasies of the alchemist.

  If Clemens had any notion of this, Vergil did not know. But some mild stirrings of reproach kept him from refusing the one favor on which his friend insisted.

  “I am sending my gargoyle with you,” the great-bearded, shag-pate savant had said. “It is a sacrifice, I must admit that, but I will be safer here without him than you would be. Up, Kiss the Magus’ hand. Guard him in all things, obey him in everything. Vergil, may the Fair White Matron and her consort, the Ruddy Man, both shine favorably upon you. If you meet any in Cyprus who are skilled in the Spagyritic Art, inquire concerning antimony. I, in return, will oversee the work of preparation for the making of the maiden mirror. Since there will thus be no time for me to engage in any major work of my own, I will pass the few hours available to me, lightly — my editing of Catullus, my Galenical studies; and my transposition into current modes of music of the ancients. . . . Up, Gunther! Up!

  The gargoyle had lumbered onto his hind legs and, with a slaver and a slobber, kissed Vergil’s hand, then sank with a grunt to his common posture, and mumbled the ruins of a blood orange — his favorite tid-bit. It was long since that Clemens, returning from a consultation with the Druids of Transalpine Gaul, had come upon a rachitic mountain hamlet where he was obliged to spend the night. The place was in some degree of excitement — a party of hunters, out after wild goat, had met with a horde of gargoyles on a windswept plateau. The creatures fled incontinently, leaving behind one sickly whelp, which was captured without difficulty. The horde father, following at a distance, growling and lowing and making fierce gestures, was at length dissuaded by a shower of stones from further pursuit. Clemens had gotten the whelp for half a ducat and a flitch of bacon; and, by means of infusion prepared from the humors of bullocks, effected a cure.

  Gargoyles proverbially seldom lived long in captivity, but Gunther was now in his second decade with Clemens. Great tongue lolling far out, bat ears either a-prick or a-flap, tushes sharp and given to clashing noisily, as near to no neck as made no matter, back covered with broad shoulders and forepaws (on the back of which he walked), short hind legs bowed, the talons on their spatulate feet clicking and clacking as he sloped along, casting suspicious glances from side to side, Gunther was worth a cohort in protection by his looks alone.

  Vergil made the voyage on the Messina carrack without molestation, arriving there a day before the rendezvous. He had acquaintance and other claims to hospitality there, to say nothing of what he might demand by reason of his letters of state. It seemed, however, easier all around to stay at the Great Serail, widely known as the finest inn in Sicily. The table was excellent, the gardens beautiful, the chamber well appointed and comfortably furnished and clean. He had had a curious dream that night, of a marble slab sinking back into the wall, and a hand coming out, of Gunther rising ponderously from beside the foot of the bed, shutting out his view. Everything was, of course, in perfect order the next morning when, first warm water, then breakfast, was brought in. Aware of some minor annoyance, however, Vergil, frowning, had looked all about before realizing what it was: a noise which Gunther had been making.

  The gargoyle sat on the floor contentedly enough, chewing and sucking something. He glowered when his surrogate master demanded it, but finally and reluctantly spat it into his hand that Vergil held out.

  It was a human finger.

  Vergil finished his own breakfast rather thoughtfully. All in all, Gunther, though certainly useful on occasion, had better go; and go he did, on the Naples car
rack, supplied with a hamper of blood oranges, which he crunched and swallowed, skins, pips, and all.

  As agreed, Vergil had taken to water from Messina’s Tartis Port, a small boat carrying him and his gear so far to sea that the City of the straits became a mere blur. The scent of oranges grew fainter, and a touch of a hot, dry wind passed over his face.

  “The Saracen wind,” the Tartisman coxswain said, observing the effect on his passenger. “It blows from Lybya. It blows no good.” And would say no more, but only shrugged.

  Presently a dark patch showed against the sea. Vergil thought it was An-Thon’s ship, but it was merely his boat — a tiny thing, no bigger than a scull, with scarcely room for two; the other being, to his surprise, the black man, Boncar. The Tartismen turned about with no word of parting, Boncar smiled his welcome, and the little craft skimmed along the sea. like a fish in search of sprats. The Red Man’s vessel waited on them in the lee side of a tiny island which was all rock and offered only concealment.

  “Greetings, patron,” said the Phoenician, directing, with a gesture, the lading aboard of the scant baggage. “You left your lion ashore, I see.”

  “My lion?”

  “Rumor credits you with having embarked from Neapolis with a creature variously described as a lion, a gryphon, or a mandrilla.”

  “Rumor, I fear, is scarcely as accurate as he is rapid. No, Captain, the creature was my friend Clemens’ tamed gargoyle. I sent him back to his master, thinking that the longer sea trip might not agree with him. You have a new bosun, Captain.”

  “Yes. The old one unwisely chose to dispute possession of a wench with someone younger, stronger, and more agile. Boncar, meanwhile, had become bored with ferrying sacks of wheat. Thus do the workings of the Major Principles arrange all things in ultimate order. You may have my cabin, I prefer to sleep on deck. In good weather it is pleasant and in bad I dare not stay long below anyway.”

  The bird prow lifted oars, dipped its nose into the sea, and was off. The Straits were unusually quiet, for which all were thankful, and a loaf of bread was thrown over for the Prince of the Sea — one of his emissaries, a dolphin, appearing at once to claim it. A small sea monster broke water some leagues off, once, but made no attempt to break the sacred peace, merely staring at them with its great moon eyes before diving again. The waters were the color of lapis lazuli; in the distance rose mountains of a smoky blue-gray; the nigh shore was a dim green, and the off shore — far, far across the white wave seas — lay dun and gaunt. Clouds paced across the Heavens like giants’ sheep, newly washed and fleeces combed; their dark twins and double-goers grazed upon the seas beneath. Here and there from time to time a flash of lime-whitened houses and thin plumes or clouds of smoke marked the settlements of mortal men

  who must till the soil for bread, or perish.

  Once the Tyrian lifted his red hand and pointed toward the crag shore. “In that cave, patron, do you see . . . ?” Vergil, carefully following the long finger, saw on the drab escarpment a black speck which might have been the mouth of a cave; he nodded. “In that cave dwells a puissant guardian, the Cherub Dys, upon my life! When voyagers over the sea, being of good intent, such as lawful trade and traffic, are beset by that cruel fey which haunts the shores of that sharp rock — do you see, patron? there — so Dys, with his flaming sword, sallies forth and saves them. But if they are of bad intent, bent on war or plunder, or fleeing from the just wrath of the All-Maker, the Cherub does not help them. No, if any are able to escape the shade or djinn or daemon which dwells on Sekilla — meaning, in my language, the Rock — then Cherub Dys assails them, too, and serve them right, say I.”

  Vergil listened, vaguely aware that the Red Man’s tones and words now seemed, as he half-said, half-sang, these legends of his kith, far different from the manner in which not long ago he had spoken crisply enough of cargoes and charters, of fees, and demurrages. He realized, rather less vaguely, how little he knew about the man, his wishes, his concerns, and his brooding desires.

  Presently the sun in his fiery ship (to use the figure of the Phoenician) descended along the equinoctial wheel (to use the tongue of science). The bird prow put into shore, the natives of the region assisted the rowers and the other sailing men to pull her up upon the sands for the night, received their customary dues, brought wood and water and some handfuls of capers — all they could spare in the way of victuals. The voyagers gave thanks to the Giver of all Things, blessed their ship’s hard bread, dipped it in the salt, and ate their meal of oil and tunny, capers, wine, and cakes of figs. One of their number was picked by cast of die to stand first watch, the others hollowed out in the sand spaces for hips and shoulders, scattered herbs against fleas, rolled themselves in their cloaks, and sank peacefully beneath the weight of that grateful weariness welcomed by men who have taxed but not overtaxed their own abundant strength.

  The dark came, the moon rose and set, the Ram trampled the black soil of the sky of night.

  So simply and sweetly passed the first days of the voyage.

  • • •

  They had reached the wide waters of the Ionian Sea. Captain Ebbed-Saphir appeared upon deck with his astrolabe, as usual, and had returned to his cabin to consult his charts, when Vergil joined him. He indicated the chart just unrolled upon its ivory finials and said, “A present from the Doge of Sparta. Where he got it I do not know, but certainly such a prime specimen of cartography never had its birth in that rude province. . . . I intend, patron, to make for Zanto, or Sacynthius, for water and supplies. There we can decide upon a course for Candia . . . and in Candia, concerning Cyprus.”

  Vergil shook his head, and, while the Red Man looked at him in surprise, placed his finger on the map.

  “Corpho?” cried the Captain. “It is leagues and leagues out of our way.”

  “We cannot continue as we are doing,” Vergil said, “hugging a shore like a bait fisherman. At such a rate we might be months reaching Cyprus. I had not informed you, but inform you now, that my purpose is to demand of the Delegate of the Sea-Huns — who has his office in Corpho — a safe-conduct to his Kings, and to obtain from them a safe-conduct to Cyprus. That way we can travel on the open seas. The time required for these two side voyages will thus be more than made up.”

  The Phoenician hesitated, considered. It was a bold venture, and a dangerous one, he said. He compared it to asking a riddle of the Sphynx. “Nevertheless . . . there is danger in any case, and if we succeed we will indeed save time. Very well, we set our course to Corpho.”

  And he gave orders to the man at the helm.

  • • •

  Ernas, or Ernalphas, the Delegate in question, was a half-Hun, his mother having been a woman of the Goths or some other tribe of the sort. His residence was in a shore-front villa half surrounded by the groves of that fragrant citron tree for which the island was famous, but Ernas himself lived in a tent in the courtyard, surrounded by unshipped masts, old and new sails, grappling hooks, and other gear. He wore a silk robe and a cap made from the mask of a wolf, and as they entered he was standing an oar.

  “Well, Pune,” he greeted the Red Man, in a tone contemptuously affectionate or affectionately contemptuous, “what are you peddling today?” Then, turning to Vergil, he said, “Shaman-i-Rume, can you don the bear’s skin? If so, I will have the drum beaten for you.”

  Soberly, Vergil replied, “There are things, my lord Ernas, which a man might do which he would be a fool to do.”

  Ernas squinted at this, pursing out his lips, then nodded. “True for you, Rumi Shaman. Time I was a boy, it’s recalled, Tildas Shaman, wise man of the Hun-folk in Atrian Sea, donned the bear’s skin at Old King’s funeral feast. They beat the drum for him, I tell thee, and the spirit of the bear took him hard and held him hard. Grew shaggy and shambled, did Tildas Shaman, nails came out as ‘twere claws. The drum beat, tum-tum! tum-tum! a-tum! a-tum!”

  Ernas, as he imitated the sound of the Hunnish tom-tom, rose to his feet, half sank into a slump, and t
ook on the exact stance and posture of a dancing bear. His eyes rolled up till only the whites were visible, his hands drooped from their wrists like the paws of the bear, and his feet, one by one, came up, came down, stamped upon the ground. Deep, harsh growls disturbed his chest; he coughed like a bear. Vergil felt his flesh shaken by a chill of fear. It seemed as though what pranced and snarled before him now was less a man imitating a bear than a bear wearing a silk robe. At length the man-bear slowed, sank to the ground, slept like a bear. Still Vergil stared, jumped back as the “bear” leaped to its feet, once again a man enacting a story (so had history been, swift the thought came, before first drama and then writing had sundered the unity).

  “By and by Huns grew tired. Time to get on with it! ‘Ahoy, Tildas, Shaman! Avast! Weigh anchor and make the neap tide!’” He kicked at the ribs of an invisible man on the ground. “‘Awake, awake! Arise, Tildas Shaman, and prophesy for us! What said to you our Old King’s ghost, and what said the ghosts of our fathers and our Sept-mothers?’”

  Suddenly the man was a bear again, it rolled over onto all fours, snapping and clawing; it was a bear. It was a bear . . . .

  Skimming the sweat of his endeavors from his face, Ernas took his seat again. “Not another word spoke Tildas Shaman, ever. The spirit of the bear took him hard and held him hard and holds him yet. He put on the bear’s skin and he cannot take it off. So! Shaman-i-Rume! It is a good thing that you said no, but it is also a good thing you did not say no as no, into my face, for a Sea-Hun does not care for that. Letters of state, why and wherefore?”

  The abrupt transition did not catch the Magus off balance.

  “To show you that I am on the Emperor’s business as well as my own, and to obtain from you a pass to visit your Kings in order to obtain from them, friends by treaty of the August House, a safe-conduct to Cyprus and back.”