The Book of Whispers

by Kimberley Starr

  Father and Narlo have recovered from seasickness but fallen into an exhausted afternoon sleep in their hammocks. Settling against the cabin wall, I rest the book’s covers open on my knees. As before, it opens at the unconventional poem. Thirty and thirty…the rest of the language is too unfamiliar. I turn the vellum sheets, searching.

  A rumble in the corner startles me. The book’s demon is growling. Next, the little demon who swings behind Father’s waterskin jumps to its feet. It has a big horn on its small face, above several sets of sharp, pointed teeth. Narlo’s demon also moves closer, stretching as far from Narlo’s sleeping form as it can. Narlo snores, a long leg hanging from the side of his hammock.

  The demons are interested in the book too. I peer at one image—it looks like the demon that follows Narlo. Latin letters beneath it read Invidia. In Latin that means envy. Well, that’s appropriate.

  I keep turning the pages.

  Here it is. A sheet of vellum containing many coloured drawings. Some ink has faded as though with age. A creature with four heads rises out of blue squiggly lines suggesting water. In the diagram, each head faces a different direction so its wild tentacle-like hair and pointed ears are visible, as are its long, sharp teeth.

  There’s a lot of writing under the one Latin word I can read, Hydra. Beneath is the image of a severed Hydra head. Blue blood pours from it into a silver vessel. I’d need to read the caption to understand why.

  I close the book with a sigh. How can I ever read this book?

  In his hammock, Father stirs. The demon of the book paces restlessly, watching me closely. Carefully I rewrap the book. Invidia, I think. Hydra. Two more demonic names.

  What reason might people have for collecting demon blood? Ramberti knows. I remember the incantation he recited in the exorcism all those years ago, and the holy herbs he used. It was like he was casting a charm. Is that what this is? Is he gathering Hydra blood for a charm?

  I crawl into my own hammock and prepare to sleep. I have a lot to wonder about.

  With a cacophony of instructions in many languages, and the throwing of immense ropes and pulling into docks the next morning, we finally come in sight of Byzantine land.

  I race out to the deck, where Ramberti beheaded the Hydra, and clutch the handrail. Saltier than tears, sea foam splashes my face. Pilgrims whose ships have already docked cry and cheer as they meet other pilgrims who travelled through the Kingdom of Bosnia instead of coming by sea. Their leader, Raymond of Toulouse, has often been at war with our own Bohemond. And we’ve all heard of Bishop Adhemar, whose word carries the authority of the Pope. The great Princes bow to one another, as do the demons accompanying them.

  ‘Are we nearly in Constantinople?’ I ask Father.

  He laughs.

  ‘We’ll ride through Byzantium for many days to reach Constantinople. That’s where our real troubles begin.’

  CHAPTER 5

  Twenty-six moons

  GOREME

  Suzan

  My mother had her tongue ripped out. She can’t tell me what that agony was like, but I have felt it in nightmares, and know what a tragedy it was for my mother, whose early joy was singing. It was only the priest’s certainty her muteness had infected me that allowed me to keep my own tongue. When these dreams torment me, my mother slips out of bed and lights her candle, even if she only has a little left, to comfort me, humming.

  My recurring dream is that they come for me. Father Eser holds me down on the stone altar in the underground chapel and forces my jaw open. He pushes something hot and sharp between my lips…

  I told my mother about that dream only once. She had experienced the real horror, and cried. Instead, we discuss the subjects of other dreams—the knights with crosses, red like they’re painted in blood, and the peculiar blue-eyed boy with his old leather book.

  My dreams change after the earthquake. For the next two moons, while I’m asleep, my released soul flies over Cappadocia.

  A knight rides between the steep rock towers that we’re taught are God’s way of affording us protection here. He is one of dozens. They make a trail through the fairy towers like ants through gravel. Swarms of them, swords and shields flashing in the sun.

  My dream-self flies until I’m so high above them that the line of knights is a grey smudge. I have never flown so high in dreams before. Far in the distance, the world dips away as if it were somehow curved instead of flat. If things get smaller as they get further away, eventually they must disappear. Even fairy towers.

  Knights going to war—there’s no other way to interpret their slow, purposeful movements. Going to war, and coming here. Foreigners with yellow and red hair, colours I have heard of but never seen.

  I keep the dream to myself. What further proof would the Sisters need of my evil nature? What creatures but birds and demons have wings?

  But one night, the parched landscape is darkened with another grey crowd like the one beneath me, but wider, so much wider. I swoop closer.

  It’s another army. Closer to them, I see the banners they carry and the red crosses they all wear. There must be hundreds of thousands of men, women and children, marching with horses, mules, goats, even chickens. It’s the migration of an entire population.

  I wake quickly and lie in the darkness, forcing my breathing to slow by counting backwards. Ten, nine, eight, I think very quickly. I make myself wait and linger over seven and six, and longer again over five

  and four

  and then I get to

  three and

  two

  and by the time I get to

  one

  I can hear my mother’s breathing again. Otherwise, the room is quiet. I haven’t screamed. My mother’s breathing continues in the rough, steady pattern of air through her scarred throat. The bell for matins has not yet sounded and it is too early to rise. I lie as still as I can.

  Could any part of my dream be real? If it is, life will never be the same.

  Eventually morning comes. I tell my mother about my dream and ask if we should inform the others.

  My mother holds my hand in hers for a long time before making shapes on it with her fingers.

  ‘An army can mean no good. But you’ll be in danger if they learn the power of your dreams. The Sisters will never thank you for telling them.’

  ‘Perhaps I can show them what I saw.’

  My mother shrugs. ‘There’s something I must give you first.’

  Reaching beneath her bed, she pulls out a basket used to store her few belongings. A plain scarf, worn in patches. A spare pair of sandals made from old leather. A light cotton skirt, large in the waistband, that she wore when she first arrived here. My mother removes the old clothing, but wraps the santur in the scarf and rests it inside the basket, leaving only enough room for me to slip my hands into the handles.

  ‘Take it,’ my mother mouths.

  I drop her basket onto the bed. The idea horrifies me. Without her santur, how will my mother have any voice at all?

  And where does she mean me to go?

  ‘I can’t,’ I say.

  ‘This was my mother’s, it’s meant to be yours,’ she traces. Her hand shakes. ‘I may have no other chance to give it to you.’

  ‘You need it more than I do!’

  My mother shakes her head. ‘You must take it with you today,’ she traces.

  ‘I don’t understand. Where am I going?’

  She loops the basket over my arm. ‘I have dreams myself,’ she draws. Tears run down her cheeks. ‘Take this basket with you today.’

  I do as she asks. I grip the basket’s handles. My mother walks beside me. Bound for matins, we both dread what the day might bring.

  The Sisters gather together outside the chapel after matins prayers. My mother walks among them, her hands raised. I carry the basket.

  ‘Ah, merciful Mary,’ Sister Aysel moans. ‘What do these two charity cases want now?’

  Sister Najat has a square of parchment with her, upon which my
mother can write with charcoal. My mother rarely has any reason to communicate, or any desire to do so. But today she holds her hands out, requesting to write. Sister Najat pulls the parchment and charcoal from her pocket, and passes them to her.

  ‘We heard something,’ my mother writes in Latin.

  Sister Aysel moans again, but Sister Najat nods. My mother points at a distant fairy tower.

  ‘Something dangerous?’ Sister Najat asks. ‘From over there?’

  My mother nods.

  ‘Sister Aysel, come with me to look,’ Sister Najat says. ‘If there’s something for us to see, you’ll do an excellent job explaining it to the others. The Lord has truly blessed you with eloquence.’

  Sister Aysel sighs and nods.

  I lead them along a curving path away from the chapel, past the huge rock that can be rolled over the convent entrance for security. Up ahead are smaller caves where dwell solitary hermits. As we walk, my mother allows her veil to slip, and turns her head. She wants to hear the approach of whatever my dream showed me.

  But the air is still and warm. Flies whisper against our faces. We brush them away. Only a few birds squawk. My mother takes my arm in hers and Sister Aysel falls behind, her breathing harsh. Sister Najat walks in the space between us.

  We pass more fairy towers. Finally, we reach the highest peak that can be climbed. Wisps of grass sprout among the pebbles. Sister Najat’s veil has slipped. Strands of grey hair dance around her face. Her scars are more visible in daylight.

  She looks behind to make sure Sister Aysel can’t hear. ‘Why did you need to come out here?’ she demands. The earth’s movement has raised anxiety in so many Sisters.

  I look around. I want to see something to point to. Something incontrovertible. Something in the distance that would function as the warning I can’t give.

  The horizon shimmers hotly, blankly. Empty. And yet… while I wait and watch, I feel a dull rumbling underfoot. The earth moving again?

  I point at my own feet, and at Sister Najat’s. She opens her mouth to ask what I mean, and shuts it again, for she feels it too. Instinctively I move closer to my mother. Sister Najat moves closer to both of us. The ground beneath our feet continues to rumble, but now it’s louder. The thunder of a hundred hoofs. The approaching army.

  I look up again at the horizon. A thin grey line swells there, like fungus about to discharge spores. I grab Sister Najat’s hand and raise it to chest height, pointing. She blinks. The noise that began underfoot continues to grow. It’s all around us now, in the fairy towers, which seem to shake, and in the air.

  Sister Aysel finally reaches us, breathing loudly and apparently unaware of the thunderous noise. ‘Is this it? This is as far as we need to go? My feet hurt.’

  ‘Shhh,’ says Sister Najat.

  Sister Aysel stands up as straight as her wheezing will allow, puffing her chest out in righteous indignation. ‘I—’ she begins.

  ‘Look!’ Sister Najat points at the horizon.

  The greyness has split itself open. Flecks of it speed towards us. Sister Aysel’s eyes widen.

  ‘Soldiers,’ I say. I can’t help myself. My mother’s look of despair moves from the threat on the horizon to me.

  Sister Aysel’s eyes bulge. ‘Run!’

  ‘Sister Aysel,’ says Sister Najat, sternly. ‘Those men are miles away. They will not reach us for some time yet. We maintain our dignity and walk.’

  But it’s with hasty dignity that we return to the convent. Even Sister Aysel, puffing ever more loudly, is quick. She’s the first of us to reach the circle of caves occupied by hermits.

  ‘Soldiers!’ Sister Aysel screams up at the openings in the rock that mark their sleeping places.

  I look aghast at Sister Najat. It’s forbidden for the Sisters to address the Holy Men. She looks away.

  ‘Find safety in the monastery!’ Sister Aysel continues.

  I hear another sound. My mother has fallen. I help her to her feet, and brush orange dust from her dark robes. Sister Aysel moves on and away. Arriving at the entrance to our convent, she reaches for the alarm bell. Two Sisters will be racing for the front entrance, ready to roll the huge rock that guards it into place. While Sister Aysel slips inside, Sister Najat pauses to look back at us. She makes no move to help, but doesn’t go inside.

  My mother lays a hand on her hip, the side she fell on. Her face is white with pain.

  ‘Lean on me!’ I insist, raising her arm around my shoulder. Ahead, the two young Sisters have taken their places behind the rock and raise their arms to push it. I know that once it gathers momentum along the track it has worn in the sand, it will slide into place within seconds.

  Sister Najat is still watching us. I wave my arm at her. She needs to look after herself and run to safety. The rock ahead of us begins to roll. One Sister jumps inside.

  We make it with moments to spare. The rock is ready to close. The second Sister leaps inside. I push my mother through and squeeze in after her.

  I hear the thundering of the army’s approach. I turn to look, but all I see is the rock settling into position. We are hidden inside.

  Sister Najat finds me, soon afterwards. She carries a lamp along the narrow corridors carved into soft stone, and into the cave where we meet to share meals. Its bright lights show only her face. Her good eye is round and serious, its gaze fixed upon me.

  ‘You spoke,’ she says.

  For a long moment, all the different possibilities, all the different futures that might lead on from this moment hover between us like a collection of scarves hung out to sell.

  Sister Najat drops herself onto one of the benches carved from stone near the wall. Her expression is grave. ‘I wish I hadn’t heard it.’

  ‘Yes, I can speak,’ I say, rashly. I have never before heard my own voice spoken with this volume. Stone walls give it further resonance. ‘These are my words, not the words of a demon.’

  On another day she might have believed me. But the world has moved beneath us. Demons might be on the loose. What natural force could have made the ground move? Sister Najat coughs and turns away.

  ‘I want to believe you,’ she says. ‘But what you say is just what a demon would say.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  Her answer is the worst it could be. ‘I will ask Father Eser for advice. He is here already, come to hear Sister Miriam’s confession. We’ll go to him now.’

  She may as well rip my tongue out herself.

  My mother waits in the chapel. Candles flicker dim light over the altar. I take her hand.

  ‘Sister Najat heard me speak,’ I tell her. ‘She’s gone to Father Eser.’

  After a strangled sob, she writes, ‘Suzan, you must leave us.’

  ‘Mother,’ I whisper.

  ‘You have the basket?’

  ‘Here with me.’

  ‘Go now.’

  There’s nowhere for me to go. The rock sealing our convent can’t be moved easily. I couldn’t do it, even with my mother’s help. I hold her hand. We stare into the darkness. After a while, a light moves. A smell like sulphur and rotting meat wafts into the chapel.

  ‘Sister Helena?’ I hear Father Eser ask. ‘Sister Helena? You are required.’

  ‘At the end, Father,’ another nun says.

  Nearby, Sister Aysel moves her lamp until my mother’s face is brightly illuminated.

  Father Eser’s face comes into view, lit by his own lamp. Once again, I have the impression that what I see of him is merely a mask. Beneath his smooth features lies a darker truth.

  ‘Sister Helena,’ he says. ‘The time has come. There are signs in the moving earth and approaching soldiers. We have a demon operating here once again. I can’t allow it to win back its voice. I’m glad you’re in a chapel. This is the appropriate place for an excision ceremony.’

  Excision? The word itself fills me with horror. Father Eser is staring at me. Through my tears, I see his mask waver. Two nuns seize me. They make me drop the basket and, as I strug
gle, pin my arms behind my back. My mother cries, the sound harsh and wordless. I struggle, and recognise Sister Aysel as she pushes me to the altar.

  ‘Don’t do this to me! Let me go!’ I cry.

  Father Eser’s eyes are sharp. ‘Don’t listen to demonic commands,’ he orders the others.

  Sister Aysel grips my arms. Terror runs through me like poison. ‘I wanted you to live, child,’ Father Eser says. ‘I know the Sisters here have been generous to you always. Sisters, place the afflicted child on the altar. We can expel this demon with a blade and flame.’

  Sister Najat wipes her eye with a raised corner of her tunic. She must be crying for my upcoming ordeal, though she’ll do nothing to stop it.

  Sister Aysel is far stronger than me. I scrabble desperately, but my feet slide on the sandy floor. Sister Aysel and Sister Najat drag me along. Sister Najat’s eyes are closed, like she’s pretending she isn’t really here, doing this.

  My mother follows, weeping.

  I wrench my neck, twisting to see her. ‘Help me!’

  But there’s nothing she can do. Two Sisters grab hold of her.

  A lamp is lit before the crucifix. I scream.

  Father Eser lays a wizened hand on my shoulder. He looks at Sister Aysel. ‘Demons screech at the sight of the cross. It’s not the voice of a child.’

  Sister Aysel glares at me.

  ‘Careful,’ Father Eser says to her. ‘Suzan has a siren’s gift and knows how to tempt.’

  ‘I’m above such temptation,’ Sister Aysel replies.

  Father Eser drops to his knees in a short, silent prayer, then turns to face us. I hear footsteps behind and realise people are pouring into the chapel, no doubt drawn by all the noise.

  ‘Father,’ I say, ‘must you believe my voice a bad thing? Did not Jesus teach us to pray in words?’

  The priest leans his head towards me. ‘Have you a confession to make, girl? This is your last chance to be heard.’