by David Waid
“I think I have it, too.”
“You have many fine qualities, Teresa. This that I speak of is not one of them.”
“He told me to come to you.”
The priest bent an alert, piercing gaze on her. “You saw him before he died? What did he say?”
“He spoke to me…ah…he spoke to me after he died.”
“I have never known you to be a cruel girl. Why are you saying this?”
“I am telling the truth.”
Father Hugh stood laboriously, placed his hands on the back of the chair, and looked at her. “Teresa, I forgive you…”
“What?”
“…The loss of your brother has disturbed you, but do not persist…”
He turned, walking to the door.
“Father, he wanted me to talk to you.”
“…for there are things in motion that you do not understand.”
“He said I am a geistmage!”
Father Hugh stopped, hand resting on the door latch. He turned slowly.
“What did you say?”
“A geistmage.”
“If you knew what that word meant, you would not say it as though talking about treacle tarts on a baker’s board. There has not been a living geistmage in more than two hundred years.” He looked away. “Even Ignacio was not one, though I believe he was close. Perhaps if he had lived and married, Ignacio’s issue could have produced one within a generation or two. Where did you hear of this?”
“He told me. And I found it in his journal.” The book she’d taken from the Maestro’s apartments had also spoken of geistmagen, though she didn’t mention it. A lie by omission, yes, but she wanted to read further and Father Hugh would take it away.
“A journal.” The priest shook his head. “He should not have written any of it. The information is dangerous for you. Things would end poorly for your family if it should fall into the hands of the wrong people.” He held out his hand. “Give me the book.”
Ignacio’s journal she had read and could relinquish. The Maestro’s book she could not — would not — until she knew why Ignacio wanted her to have it. With her head down and heart hammering, Teresa crossed to the pine chest and drew the slender journal from within the folds of linen. She brought it across to the priest, carefully avoiding his eyes.
“That was uncommonly easy,” Father Hugh said. She could feel him studying her face. “Is there, perhaps, something else you have not told me?”
Teresa couldn’t remain silent, nor could she lie to the priest. She was going to confess wholly, in one long, babbling stream. It was coming. Without a distraction the grimoire would be lost. She thought of the magic she’d tried the night before when every attempt had been accompanied by frustration and doubt. Seizing on it, she acted reflexively, almost without any thought at all. Picturing the candle in her mind, she gave it a mental shove in a desperation-fueled burst of concentration.
Instead of tipping over, the candle and its holder shot across the chamber like an arrow, shattering a vase with such force it exploded. Hundreds of tiny ceramic shards ricocheted off furniture and rattled like broken teeth across the floor. Opening her eyes, Teresa spun around. She looked from the empty end table to the scattered pieces.
“What happened? Did I do that?” She wheeled back to Father Hugh. “Did I do that?”
For the first time in her life, Teresa saw the priest at a loss for words. The old man moved back to the chair he’d been in, put a shaking hand on the armrest, sat.
“I thought Ignacio…I had no idea. My God, it is a miracle.” Looking at Teresa with a dazed expression, he whispered to her. “Universa propter semetipsum operatus est Dominus . . .”
The words were half a sentence from the bible, words they’d studied during her lessons. It meant, ‘The Lord works out everything for His own ends,’ and she knew the rest. She spoke it now, chest burning as she uttered the final words.
“. . .Impium quoque ad diem malum.”
Even the wicked for a day of disaster.
18. Out of the Mountains
Leinster
Eamon sat outside Nairne’s farmhouse as the washed-out white of winter’s sun broke above the surrounding trees. Against all hope, they had killed the brigands. The old woman was eager to be off, but she would no longer let Eamon run for the help of her neighbors — at least not until the treasures were once more in their wrappings and she’d had a chance to examine Caitlin. Until then, Eamon’s stepfather must remain in the cellar, for he was too heavy to carry out. Nairne checked his bandages and layered blankets over him for warmth.
When Eamon and Caitlin had run back to the farmhouse after Corc fell through the river ice, the old woman hugged them to her and spoke old blessings in the Gaelic. She listened close to their story. As Eamon explained the part Caitlin played, Nairne grew pale and swayed on her feet. The next instant she flew into motion, feeling her way through the wreckage of the house, stoking the fire and setting water to boil. Muttering, she opened boxes and drawers, gathering dry weeds and herbs that she dropped in the pot. She pressed a palm to Caitlin’s forehead and bade her sit on a stool by the hearth.
“On my oath, I should have seen this, blind or no.”
“How did she get out of the cellar?” Eamon turned to Caitlin. “How did you get away?”
His sister’s hands were between her knees and she shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Ye’d only just left when yer sister went silent,” said Nairne. “Not silent as ye might think it, boy, but silent as only the blind can tell. I whispered her name and no answer did she give. She moved up the steps, slow and quiet as a cat. When I first heard her, she was openin’ the trap. Do ye remember it, girl?”
“No.”
“I cried out as the stone fell back into place, and cursed these eyes — torn between followin’ to little purpose and stayin’ to less. I pursued, climbin’ halfway into the room when I heard that snip of a bandit enter the house in wild fettle. He quieted soon enough, seein’ his chief on the ground. I ducked back and have been wringing my hands from that time to this.”
The old woman clapped her hands together and clucked her tongue. “But now we must move quickly. I will care fer yer sister and ye must do as I bid.”
Caitlin sat quietly on her stool and Eamon snorted. “What care does she need? She’s not hurt.”
“Never ye mind.” Nairne waved his question away. “Return my son from the barn so he’ll have his end in dignity. When yer done, remove the bandit chief from my house. Cast him on the hillside by his fellow, fer all I care.”
Nairne shuffled off to tend her brew on the fire. Caitlin looked as she always did, perhaps a little color in the cheeks, but fine. Eamon opened his mouth to ask another question, but before he could speak, the old woman barked, “Whist! Be about yer business, boy.”
Stepping outside, he tramped up to the barn to retrieve Baodan, his breath steaming in the cold air. He passed Mabon’s massive, white-frosted form. The giant man had slumped over onto his side and Eamon praised the angels that this one, at least, he did not need to move. Baodan alone proved near impossible. He rolled the man onto a piece of canvas sacking from the barn and dragged him through the snow, down the slight slope and into the house.
When he entered, Nairne was pouring a draft of hot medicine for his sister. The old woman blew across the top of the cup and Caitlin wrinkled her nose. He pulled the sacking out from under Baodan’s heavy frame, huffing and puffing and moving him onto first one side and then the other to do it. It seemed right to put the man’s feet together and cross his arms over his chest. He looked as peaceful as a man might get whose clothes were stiff with blood from the wounds that killed him.
“Och! Close the door, boy.”
Arms and legs shaking from the exertion, Eamon wrestled Cahill onto the canvas. He passed through the door, leaving it open behind, but soon enough Nairne slammed it. With his back to the slope, he pulled Cahill along the track Baodan’s body had smoothed. He l
eaned into it, falling more than once. Though the slope was a gradual one, it didn’t make much difference. Cahill’s thin, bony frame felt impossibly heavy. Staring at his own hands, Eamon concentrated on putting one foot behind the other, determined not to stop, knowing if he did he would never start again. By the time he saw Mabon’s heavy shoulders from the corner of one eye, all dusted with blown snow, his breath came in steamy gasps.
He sidled around the bandit chief, focused on completing the task. Kneeling beside Cahill’s corpse, he pushed with one shoulder and rolled him off the canvas. The man’s body chuffed into the snow beside the giant. Still bent over, Eamon turned to lift the canvas away and stopped.
No more than twenty feet away — behind him as he’d backed up the hill — the wolf pack stood arrayed in a half circle. There were seven. The same that had attacked the wagon at night. Eamon straightened cautiously, and two of the animals began to pace. When he took a step back, one snarled. A wolf pushed its snout forward. Its head wavered and the black of its nose twitched, catching scent. Its ears went flat and the wolf resumed its pacing, head swinging low to the ground, and every time it looked at Eamon, the beast whined.
Eamon knew he should be afraid, but wasn’t. It was the opposite; he felt excitement, anticipation. Dim echoes of the wolf in the wagon bed stirred. The memories moved like ashes in a breeze, lifting, twirling and twisting upwards. The pack seemed content to watch. Wind, cold off the mountains, ruffled the deep grey of their winter pelts. He had hunted and fed with them in autumn, lapped water at their sides, surrounded by the smell of heather, thrift and pine. Yet the memories of this unending winter were all of hunger and starvation, the long dying of the pack.
Bending to Cahill’s body, Eamon tugged at the brigand’s clothes, pulling them off. He became lost in the task so that when finished, he was surprised to find the wolves clustered around. Their shoulders brushed his side. Their strong, familiar scent tickled Eamon’s nose, bringing comfort, and he felt their eyes on him. When he stepped back to watch, the wolves stepped forward to feed.
Caitlin looked up as he re-entered the farmhouse. Nairne was brushing hair away from her face, but all the while Caitlin continued to stare. She looked the same as ever.
Baodan’s body was wrapped in a broad ell of coarse linen. The fabric’s fusty smell filled the air. Making her way across the room, the old woman knelt beside it.
“Is Caitlin going to be all right?” Eamon asked in a soft voice.
“The power ye carry is rare. Two at the same time? In the same family? No. It has never happened.”
“Will she be all right?”
“What? Ah, I’ve done what I could and that was but little. Arra! I’m old enough to say it without shame.”
Eamon looked over his shoulder to where Caitlin still sat. She seemed sleepy, but small wonder for that after this night. Nairne guessed his thoughts.
“What’ll happen is still to come. ‘T is a sickness that assails a body after the first bloom of power. Fer each it’s different. It might come quick or no. Its effects might be slight or strong. My herbs dampen the fever and blunt the worst. Had I guessed she had the Gift, as I did with ye, I’d have given me remedy to her earlier, when it might’ve done more good. Yet even the cure can be dangerous.”
“Did you put herbs into the bowl of broth you fed me when we arrived?”
“Aye. Ye’ve guessed it.”
“But now Catie has taken your medicine, too.”
“Late, but it should help. Be it so. Yet that this power came into her, and she so young, that’s bad by any measure.”
“Why is she too young? Hasn’t it happened with someone her age?”
“I’ve never heard tell of it. A vick! I’ve never even heard of two with such a gift born to the same family.”
Nairne scratched her chin. “Perhaps what brung the change so early is the hardship she’s seen. ‘T was more than’s right for a child, that’s sure. Or being near as ye came into yer own gift. A bit of both together, I should think.
“We must get her to one whose knowledge runs deeper than me own. We’ll find help fer yer Duff, but must leave him in the care of others now an’ travel fast.”
Nairne sent Eamon running then for the home of Selig Mór. Had she known the wolves approached so close as they did in daylight, she would never have let him go, but Eamon knew he had nothing to fear. So he made the trek and The Mór’s people were roused. Word went out and the parish rang with bells of warning. Men gathered with hammers, staves, pitchforks and the like, prepared to scour the land for any survivors of the brigands’ shattered band. A contingent of grim-eyed farmers listened to Eamon’s story, giving small credence to the idea that two youngsters and a blind woman could lay low the bandit lord and his men. Nonetheless, they accompanied him back to Nairne’s farm, along with a wagon and a dray horse to pull it.
The men seemed stupefied by what they found. Nairne told them some tale of explanation, but Eamon didn’t hear it. He stood alone in back, by the low stone wall, staring across the snow-covered field at a line of trees, searching for wolves.
Up from the root cellar came the men. They carried Duff between them, laying the man out on a pile of blankets in the wain. He had still not regained consciousness. In silence, they placed the shrouded forms of Eamon’s mother and Baodan on either side, making the sign of the cross. Eamon’s stomach clenched when he saw it and he fought tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. The day was cold, but the sun on his face felt hot. His hands were in the snow, palms and fingers already pink with the cold, but the soreness meant he lived. So his hands stayed where they were and his head lolled back.
He stared at the sky so long, it took on the illusion of being beneath him instead of above. A dark blue ocean sprawled far down below, half concealed by clouds. He imagined himself a bird, soaring in the sunlight and looking down, rather than a lost boy, mired in blood, looking up.
“Eamon.” Nairne stood near. “The day is keeping fine, yet it’s time and more than time we were on our way.”
The parish men had left the surviving horse from the wagon Eamon’s family had ridden in on, as well as one dispirited nag from the bandits. So it was that Nairne rode on one horse, arms wrapped around Caitlin while Eamon started forward on the other, leading them by a rope.
He glanced back and already the farmhouse looked forlorn. Nairne’s face had set like stone and he wondered if she would ever return, and how she might fare alone if she did. He imagined her home becoming like one of the many ruins that dotted the land. Every one of those tumbled houses had a story and he wondered if they were tales of carelessly spilled coals or errant sparks in the roof thatch, or whether any had concluded like this, with blood spilled in violence and threads of the tapestry having come to sudden ends.
From a low skirt of the mountain Eamon saw across the trees, across the land, to the dim, gray expanse of the Irish Sea. He nudged the nag with his heels and the rope pulled taut, harness jangled, and together they started forward.
19. Spinning Fate
Ligurian Coast
A galley rocked in the gentle offshore waves two leagues south of Genoa. The winds had settled, rain had lessened to scattered drops and dawn was still several hours away. A long skiff rowed towards shore. The only sound in the night was the quiet splash of its cutting blades, the creak of oarlocks, an occasional hiss of harder rain running across the water. Lady Benedetta Tummia sat in front while Mina, her unspeaking servant, sat on the thwart behind her, head twitching in the dark.
Her safety was assured by the murders she’d committed. The others might not like it, but they needed five for the ritual and could make no reprisal. This was the way Tummia preferred to see fate unfold — exactly as she spun it. Besides, she would bring the Maleficarum such a gift as would wipe all slates clean. A gift that had lain unseen beneath the Maestro’s nose, yet she had perceived it.
The skiff drew close to land and it was low tide, that time when Poseidon heaves his secrets n
earer the surface and the smell of them is rot. Sliding between barnacle-crusted arms of the shore, the boat passed into a cove where the ocean lay still as a lake. Men leapt into the shallow water, pulled the vessel onto sand and the Florentine sorceress stepped out, followed by her attendant.
She would make her way into the city by dark and smiled to think of it. Sunrise of a new day seemed a fit beginning to the journey that would follow.
20. A Secret History
Genoa
In Teresa’s bedchamber, the heavy curtains were pulled aside. Squares of sunlight moved across the floor as morning became noon and the bells of distant churches rang the hours of Divine Office, first Terce then Sext. Father Hugh continued the questions of his interrogation. One after another. Sometimes the same question more than once. Girl and priest remained in this examination for so long that Maria brought a tray with mugs of fresh milk, sliced bread, beets and a capon. She peered at Teresa and exchanged a quick, unreadable glance with the priest while setting down the food.
When she left, Father Hugh resumed. His badgering questions were worse even than his lessons, and Teresa began to regret having said anything to him at all. But she answered.
She told him of the prickling sensation in her hands the first time she stood outside the Maestro’s home. And she spoke of the illness experienced afterwards where that same touch of needles washed over her in sick, feverish waves. Again and again he asked her to tell how she first saw her brother’s shade in his bedchamber and a second time in the Maestro’s cluttered, strange smelling cellar.
What she didn’t tell him was that she had stolen a tome from the Maestro’s house and that the book was hidden here, in this room. Father Hugh had his secrets, this one belonged to her.