“Hail to the Hannegan!” said Marcus the Axe.
“Hail Texark! Next case.”
Pontius felt better after that. Half-awake by now, he knew he was dreaming, but let the dream go on. The fellow’s silly explanation of truth probably had nothing to do with the silence of the first King of the Nomads, but it noisily invoked silence as policy and thus took some of the sting out of Pilate’s remembrance of the first one’s half-smiling gaze, which had seemed to say to him at the time nothing philosophical at all but had expressed an utterly intimate, infinite regress of “I who look at you who look at me who look at you…” His wife Ædrea had been frightened by the same look. It was perhaps sexy, and for that very reason insulting to those whose duty it was to see such scum as loathsome.
“What is truth?” said Pilate to the third King of the Nomads.
“Root for pearls, Texark pig!”
Blacktooth-Pilate had no qualms at all with that one.
He woke up thinking about Ædrea instead—and their coming assignation in a hayloft. A prank. Drowsily, he remembered hearing Brother Gimpus argue that a detachment from sexual passion was the essence of chastity, and that detachment was possible without abstinence. Brother Gimpus was caught naked with an ugly widow in the village who claimed she paid him every Wednesday for the eighth sacrament. “Rest in peace,” Blacktooth whispered against the pillow.
CHAPTER 6
Nevertheless, keeping in view the needs of weaker brethren, we believe that a hemina of wine a day is sufficient for each.
—Saint Benedict’s Rule, Chapter 40
HÜR HØNGAN WAS STILL ASLEEP WHEN Blacktooth started up, fully awakened by hoofbeats, which stopped near the carriage. Then he heard voices speaking softly in Grasshopper. They were talking about Shard’s cows in the pen next to the barn, until something excited them and there was another burst of hoof-beats, followed by the screams of Ædrea. The monk pulled at the edge of the tarp and peered outside. A few flakes of snow were still falling in the faint morning light. There were three horsemen, obviously Nomads. Two of them held the kicking girl suspended by her arms between them. Shard began yelling protests from afar, and the hunchback ran out with his musket. Blacktooth turned to awaken Høngan, but he was already up and moving, putting on his wolfskins and the leather helmet with small horns and a metal ornament. He usually wore the hat only when mounted. Blacktooth thrust his hand deep into the upholstery and felt the Red Deacon’s handgun. The girl had missed it.
Chür Høngan climbed out the other door and came into their view from behind the coach, yelling at the renegades in the Wilddog of the High Plains.
“In the name of the Wilddog sharf and his mother, put her down! I command you, motherless ones! Dismount!”
Blacktooth raised the cardinal’s weapon, but his hand was shaking badly. The Nomad not involved with the girl lifted his musket, looked closely at Holy Madness, then dropped the weapon to the ground. The others eased the girl onto her feet, and she promptly ran away. The riders slowly dismounted, and the apparent leader fell to his knees before the advancing Høngan.
He spoke now in Høngan’s dialect. “O Little Bear’s kin, Sire of the Day Maiden, we meant her no harm. We saw those cows over there and thought they were ours. We were only teasing the girl.”
“Only a teasing little rape, perhaps? Apologize and leave here at once. You know those tame cows are not yours. You are motherless. You ride unbranded horses. I heard you speaking Grasshopper, so you don’t belong anywhere near here. Never bother these people; they are children of the Pope, with whom the free hordes have treaties.”
The visitors complied immediately and were gone. The incident had lasted not more than five minutes, but Blacktooth was astounded. He climbed out of the carriage. Chür Ösle Høngan leaned against the coach and gazed absently after them as they rode away toward the main trail through a sprinkle of snow.
“They’re Grasshopper outlaws, but they knew you! Who are you?” Blacktooth asked in awe.
The Nomad smiled at him. “You know my name.”
“What was that they called you?”
“‘Sire of the Day Maiden’? Have you never heard that before?”
“Of course. It’s what one calls one’s sharf.”
“Or even one’s own uncle, on some occasions.”
“But motherless ones recognized you? Last night I dreamed of a king of the Nomads.”
Høngan laughed. “I’m no king, Nimmy. Not yet. It’s not me they recognized. Just this.” He touched the metal ornament on the front of his helmet. “The clan of my mother.” He smiled at Blacktooth. “Nimmy, my name is ‘Holy Madness,’ of the Little Bear motherline. Pronounce it in Jackrabbit.”
“Cheer Honnyugan. But in Jackrabbit, it means Magic Madman.”
“Just the last name. What does it sound like?”
“Honnyugan? Hannegan?”
“Just so. We’re cousins,” archly said the Nomad. “Don’t tell anybody, and don’t ever pronounce it in Jackrabbit again.”
Cardinal Brownpony was approaching from the direction of Shard’s house, and Chür Høngan went to meet him with a report of the incident. Blacktooth wondered if the Nomad was entirely teasing him. He had heard claims of the dynasty’s ultimate Nomadic origin, but since Boedullus made no mention of it, that origin must have been in recent centuries. At least he knew now that Høngan was of a powerful motherline. His own family, displaced to the farms, had no insignia, and he had never studied the heraldry of the Plains. Something else that piqued his curiosity about the Nomad was his apparent close friendship with Father e’Laiden, who called him Bearcub. The priest had often ridden beside the Nomad when he was driving, and their talks were plainly personal but private. They had known each other well on the Plains. From fragments overheard, he decided that e’Laiden was formerly the Nomad’s teacher, but no longer dared to play that role unasked, lest a grown-up and somewhat wicked student laugh in his face.
Blacktooth went to look for his rosary and g’tara in the barn, which was half buried in the side of a hill. Ædrea was not visible, but he could hear the muffled sound of strings being plucked. The floor was swept stone, and a small stream of spring water ran in a channel from beneath a closed door in the rear and out to the cattle pen outside the wall. Above the door was a hayloft. He opened the door and found himself in a root cellar, with a number of nearly empty bins containing some withered turnips, a pumpkin, and a few sprouting potatoes: the remains of last year’s crops. And there were jars of preserved fruits—where could they have grown?—on the shelves. There were three barrels, some farm implements, and a pile of straw for layering vegetables. There was no one here. He turned to go, but Ædrea slipped down from the hayloft and confronted him as he started to leave. Nimmy looked at her and backed away. In spite of the weather, she was wearing nothing but a short leather skirt, a bright grin, and his rosary as a necklace.
He backed away. “Wh-where’s the g’tara?”
“In the loft. It’s more comfortable up there. You can snuggle down in the hay. Come on.”
“The air’s warmer in here than outside.”
“All right.” She came in and closed the door behind her, leaving them in pitch darkness.
“Haven’t you a lamp or candle?”
She laughed, and he felt her hands exploring him. “Can’t you see in the dark? I can.”
“No. Please. How can you?”
Her hands withdrew. “How can I what?”
“See in the dark.”
“I’m a genny, you know. Some of us can do that. It’s not really seeing, though. I just know where I am. But I can see the halo around you. You’re one of us.”
“Us who?”
“You’re a genny with a halo.”
“I’m not—” He broke off, hearing her rustling skirt in the darkness, then the scratch of flint on steel and a spark. After several sparks, she managed to kindle a bit of tinder and used it to light a tallow taper. Nimmy relaxed slightly. She took down two cla
y cups from a shelf and turned the spigot on one of the barrels.
“Let’s drink a glass of berry wine.”
“I’m not really thirsty.”
“It’s not for thirst, silly. It’s for getting drunk.”
“I’m not supposed to do that.”
She handed him the cup and sat down in the straw.
My g’tara—
“Oh, all right. Wait here. I’ll get it.”
He nervously gulped the wine while she was gone. It was strong, sweet, tasted of resin, and was immediately relaxing. She came back in with his g’tara, but held it away when he reached for it.
“You have to play it for me.”
He sighed. “All right. Just once. What shall I play?”
“‘Pour Me Another Before We Do It Brother.’”
Nimmy poured another cup of wine and handed it to her.
“That’s the name of the song, silly.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Well, play anything.” She flopped down in the straw. Her skirt came up. By candlelight he could see under it. She wasn’t wearing anything there. But something was unusual. He hadn’t seen a girl that way since he was a child, but it wasn’t the way he remembered. He looked at her, the g’tara, the cup of wine in his hand, and the candle. He gulped the wine, and poured another.
“Play a love song.”
He gulped again, set the cup aside, and began plucking the strings. He didn’t know any love songs, so he began singing the opening lines of Vergil’s fourth eclogue to music he had composed himself. When he got to the words jam redit et Virgo, she made a little puff of wind with her lips and blew out the candle from six feet away. He stopped in fright.
“Pour another cup of wine and come here.”
Nimmy heard the liquid splashing into the cup, then realized he was doing it himself.
“You drink it,” she said.
“How do I get out of here?”
“Well, you have to find the keyhole. It’s not very big.”
He fumbled in the area of the door.
“It’s over here.”
He felt her tugging at his sleeve, gulped the wine before he spilled it, and sprawled beside her in the darkness. “Where’s the key?”
“Right here.” She grabbed what she had grabbed when first they met. He didn’t feel like resisting. They came together, but after a lot of fumbling, he said, “It won’t fit!”
“I know. The surgeon fixed me so it won’t, but it’s fun anyway, isn’t it?”
“Not much.”
She sobbed. “You don’t like me!”
“Yes I do, but it won’t fit.”
“That’s all right,” she sniffled, sliding lower in the straw. “Just come here.”
He had not been so surprised since Torrildo’s advances in the basement. Drunkenly, he feared at any moment Cardinal Brownpony would burst out of the broom closet and yell, “Aha! Caught you!” But nothing like that happened.
When he stumbled out of the barn with his virginity diminished, a smiling Ædrea (semper virgo) sat twirling his rosary, watched him from the hayloft until he crawled into the carriage and pulled down the tarp behind him. The term “against nature” insinuated itself into his tipsy consciousness. He had never been so drunk.
“Damn that witch!” he whispered when he awoke, but recoiled from the words at once. I am my own witch! quickly replaced them. Help me, Saint Isaac Edward Leibowitz. My Patron, I looked forward to entering that barn—pray for me. I was glad she stole my things. It gave me the excuse I needed to pursue her in pretended anger. The things she stole, I should have given her. I know this now. Why couldn’t I have known it then? I wonder if I knew what I was doing with Torrildo too. I, or the devil in me. O Saint Leibowitz, intercede for me.
Blacktooth had fallen angrily in love. His sexuality had always been a mystery to him. He had wondered about his once deep affection for Torrildo, among others who once had been his friends at the abbey. His erotic dreams had more often involved enormous buttocks than enormous breasts, but now he was suddenly smitten by a girl there was no doubt at all in his mind that it was the most powerful love he had ever felt except his love for the heart of the Virgin, a blasphemous comparison, but true. Or was that lust too?
In spite of their tryst in the root cellar, during the days that followed Ædrea responded to his enamored gaze with a self-satisfied smirk and a shake of her pretty head. He knew what she meant. She, as a bearer of the curse, was forbidden to fornicate with anyone outside the Valley. The penalty was mutilation or death. She had taken an awful chance in seducing him. But what they had done in the barn was only passionate play, not against the basic folklaw. Against his fractured vows, surely. She knew that. At the end, she teased him about how easily she overcame his vows. He knew he was still bound by the vows, and straying once was no excuse for straying again. But without more surgery, Ædrea was physically incapable of normal coitus. Her father had it done to her when she was a child, probably afraid that someone like Cortus or Barlo would rape her. O Holy Mother, pity us.
No one had seen them in the barn, but the pulsation of sexuality that happened whenever the girl and the monk came together did not escape the cardinal’s attention. The Red Deacon caught him alone while Blacktooth was behind the coach lashing bundles in preparation for departure.
“It’s time we talk, Nimmy. Excuse me, Blacktooth. I hear Høngan calling you Nimmy, and it seems to fit. How do you want to be called?”
Blacktooth shrugged. “I’m leaving an old life behind. I might as well leave my name behind. I don’t mind.”
“All right, Brother Nimmy. Just don’t leave behind your promise of obedience. I remind you that Ædrea is a genny. Watch your step very closely here. I’ll tell you, Shard’s was not the first exodus here from the Valley. It’s been happening for years. This place is more than it seems, and Ædrea is more than she seems.”
“I had begun to suspect, m’Lord.”
“You are not to intentionally see her again. If you ever see her again in Valana, avoid her.” He commanded Blacktooth with his eyes. “This has nothing to do with your vow of chastity, but let this help you keep it. They are hiding a large genny colony back there in the higher hills, but don’t let them know that you know. They’re frightened enough of us to be dangerous.”
“Yes.”
“And there’s something else, Nimmy. Chür Ösle Høngan is an important man among his people, as you found out from those outlaws, but you were not supposed to know, and it is not known in Valana. Now I have to ask for your silence. There is a need for secrecy. He is an envoy to me from the Plains, but you must not tell that to anyone. He is just a driver I hired.”
“I understand, m’Lord.”
“Father e’Laiden is another matter. I had no need to read your mind to see your curiosity about him. About him, you must also say nothing. He grew his beard for this trip, to avoid recognition. I picked him up forty miles south of Valana, and will let him off at the same place, which will make you even more curious. Not even my friend Dom Jarad knows who he is. I’ve told travelers he’s just a passenger to whom I gave a ride. You know I introduced him to Dom Jarad as my temporary secretary. No more of that. You will not mention him to anyone. If you meet him in Valana later without his beard, do not allow yourself to recognize him. His name is not e’Laiden, anyway. About these two men, you will be absolutely silent.”
“I have had much practice at being silent, m’Lord.”
“Yes, well, I took a big chance with you, Blacktooth. Nimmy. For now, your job is just to keep your mouth shut. I may find other uses for you in Valana.”
“That would please me, m’Lord. I have felt useless for years.”
Brownpony turned to look at him closely. “I am surprised to hear it. Your abbot told me you are quite religious, and seemed called to contemplation. Do you think that useless?”
“Not at all, but it’s my turn to be surprised the abbot said I was called to it. He was very angry w
ith me.”
“Well, of course he was angry, partly at himself. Nimmy, he s sorry he made you do that silly Duren translation. He thought it would be useful.”
“I told him otherwise.”
“I know. He thought you were ducking hard work. Now he blames himself for your revolt. He’s a good man, and he’s really sorry the Order lost you. I know how humiliating it was for you at the end, but forgive him if you can.”
“I do, but he didn’t forgive me. I wasn’t even allowed to confess.”
“Not allowed by whom, Dom Jarad?”
“The prior said he would ask the abbot. I suppose he did.”
“Nobody shrived you, eh? Well, Father e’Laiden can confess you if you can’t wait until we get to Valana. I can imagine you need it by now.”
Blacktooth blushed, wondering if the remark implied a reference to Ædrea. Of course it did!
He approached the old whitebeard priest later that day, but the cleric shook his head. “His Eminence forgets something. I’m not even supposed to say Mass. You have seen me do it, but I don’t give the Eucharist, and I don’t do confessions. Saying a private Mass is my own sin if it is one—not involving others.”
A wild and sorrowful look came over the old man’s face, as if he were at war within himself. Blacktooth had seen the look before and shivered. Father e’Laiden was just a little crazy.
Strange traveling companions, he thought. A priest under interdict, a seaman-headsman-warrior, a wild but aristocratic Nomad, a disgraced monk, and a cardinal who was not more than a deacon. Brownpony, Blacktooth, and Høngan were all of Nomadic extraction, and e’Laiden obviously had lived among Nomads. Holy Madness, whose mother’s family was called Little Bear, and e’Laiden seemed old friends, and often talked of Nomad families known to both of them. Only the executioner was unrelated to the people of the Plains. Blacktooth was more puzzled than ever about the Red Deacon’s intentions. The cardinal, he had learned, was head of the Secretariat of Extraordinary Ecclesiastical Concerns, an obscure and minor office of the Curia which he had heard someone call “the bureau of trivial intrigues.”
Saint Leibowitz and the Wild Horse Woman Page 8