Tears of the Salamander

by Peter Dickinson

  “Good boy.”

  Alfredo wandered in a seemingly aimless manner out to the driveway in case Uncle Giorgio was watching from the study windows. For a while he simply stood and stared at the lava flow, lying massively inert in the dappled shade. At length he lay down once more, molded his body to the coarse rock and waited. This was not something he could make happen in a hurry, or even coax into happening. A bird fluted and was answered from deep among the trees. A faint breeze blew and died away. And then, slowly, slowly, the mountain drew him into itself as it had done before, and they became one. Far off and faint, he heard the singing of the salamanders.

  Again he waited. The music changed, telling him they were aware of his presence. He shaped his question formally in his mind.

  You have shown me how my father and my mother and my brother died, and who killed them. What proof can you give me that what you tell me is true?

  The answer came instantly, in a rapid burst of excited song, and he was back in the furnace room, gazing, as he had done barely half an hour ago, at two small rectangular pans, one empty, the second half-full and with a thin molten layer covering the solid metal beneath, and a hand closing round a small gold bar.

  That was all, and the salamanders showed him no more.

  What did it mean? The answer came like a thunderclap. He lay and forced his mind to do the sums. Five days ago Uncle Giorgio had drawn a pan and a half from the furnace. In those five days enough more matter had passed through the salamander’s body to add little more than a film of gold to what was already in the pan. How many such fillings to fill a whole pan? Eight? Call it six, to be on the safe side. Five sixes were thirty, plus half of that was forty-five, so it had taken forty-five days to produce the gold that Uncle Giorgio had drawn the day after his return to Casa di Sala. Perhaps it was less. Call it forty, to be on the safe side again. And perhaps he hadn’t drawn any in the last few days before he left, so call it thirty-five. He must have been five weeks away from Casa di Sala, at least.

  But sixteen days after the fire in the bakery Uncle Giorgio had told the priests in the cathedral that he had come posthaste on hearing the news of the tragedy. That can’t have been true. A house fire in a distant northern city? Not the sort of news that travels fast. But suppose Alfredo’s father had made arrangements for his brother to be told at once if anything should happen to him—in that case how long for the news to get to Sicily? Say five days. That would leave eleven days for Uncle Giorgio to travel north, setting up the elaborate arrangements for their escape route. Yes, it could just be done.

  So if Uncle Giorgio had left Sicily only on hearing the news of his brother’s death, he couldn’t have been away from Casa di Sala for more than twenty-two days, at the outside. How much gold would have gathered in the bottom of the furnace in that time? Not enough to fill one little pan, nothing like. So he had been away from Casa di Sala much longer than he said.

  He must have started out at least a fortnight before the fire.

  Why?

  Because he needed to be in the city for several days before it, to set up his plan, to find his informant in the cathedral, to hire the first boat to be ready and waiting to take them to the island, to rent an upper room at the inn across the road from the bakery, and so on. And then, on that final dreadful evening, to go to the room and summon his powers as Master of the Mountain, and draw the fires of the bakehouse ovens bursting out of their fire beds to burn and destroy. And all the while the salamander’s gold was settling slowly into the bottom of the furnace, until there was enough there for him on his return to tap off one full pan and half another one.

  What if the priests had decided to perform the operation sooner? Or later? (That was why he had needed the informant—one of the vergers or canons—to tell him that kind of thing.) Sooner, and he’d have had to invent some story about being already traveling in Italy when he got the news, in case Alfredo asked. Later and he’d have needed to claim Alfredo before the decision had been made, but for different reasons that wouldn’t have suited him as well. What he’d wanted was what had actually happened, that he should intervene at the last possible moment to save Alfredo from the operation, thus binding his nephew to him with ties of gratitude and trust, with the tears of the salamander keeping him alive but losing their potency day by day.

  Perhaps the priests had waited longer than he’d expected, and he’d hung on till what he’d thought was the last safe moment. But he had miscalculated the time it would take for the Bonaventura to sail the final leg home, and so had indeed come very near death for Alfredo’s sake.

  Yes. Proof. Proof at last. And the salamanders told the truth.

  Long after the singing of the salamanders had died away Alfredo lay where he was, thinking it through. But the cold fire in the rock did not die. Instead it seemed to gather itself together and flow upward, out through the surface, into his innermost body and become part of him. Thus Alfredo di Sala discovered his ancient inheritance of anger. The anger of fire. His birthright. Yes.

  Now he was at last unshakeably certain what he must do. The whole of his life had narrowed suddenly to a single purpose: to take vengeance on Uncle Giorgio for the murder of his family. He still had no idea how he was going to achieve it, but nothing else mattered till it was done.

  Still he lay where he was, feeding on the strength of the mountain. He must become like the mountain himself, standing calmly above the Straits, flanked with peaceful olive groves and vineyards, hiding its roiling inner furies until the time came for them in their turn to burst out and burn and destroy. Yes, it was like that that he would destroy Uncle Giorgio. With fire.

  Now he must think how.

  He began with the freeing of the salamander. Finding a way into the furnace room was the first serious problem. He pushed himself up off the rock and went and poked around among the outbuildings, looking for tools with which to break down the door. He found a crowbar too heavy for him to wield and an even heavier wooden mallet. Toni could have managed them if he could be made to understand what was needed, and if Annetta would have let him, but it wouldn’t be fair for Alfredo to ask her, knowing what Uncle Giorgio might do in his fury when he found his salamander gone. For himself, he was prepared to take the consequences, but just freeing the salamander wasn’t enough. He wanted more than that. Uncle Giorgio must be destroyed, and know as he perished by whom, and why, and that the salamander was free once more.

  He was in the stables, thinking about this, when he found the harness for the three mules. There were several sets, used for different purposes. Above them, on a couple of brackets, lay a long contraption, two poles joined at intervals by shorter ones, hinged at the joints so that when not in use the poles could be laid side by side. A heavy iron hoop dangled from them. He could guess what he was looking at. He had seen this sort of thing down at the harbor. It was slung between two horses standing fore and aft and was used for carrying a load too heavy for a single animal—yes, this was how Uncle Giorgio had carried the salamander down from the mountain. The hoop was the right size to hold the big pot he had seen in the furnace chamber. More proof, he realized. The salamander had told him the truth, about its own capture, at least. How else could it have known about these objects, out here in the stables? Not that it mattered.

  What mattered now was that this was how Alfredo was going to carry the salamander back. Not at once, though. When the time was right. First, though, there was the problem of getting through this coming Monday without confronting whatever destiny it was that Uncle Giorgio had chosen for him. He got no farther with this before it was time to return to the house for luncheon.

  SURREPTITIOUSLY ALFREDO STUDIED UNCLE Giorgio while they ate. He was reading a book, but not in his usual steady, absorbed fashion. Instead he seemed to be flipping impatiently to and fro, reading a page or two, and then skipping to somewhere else. Alfredo realized that his uncle must be just as much on edge about the next few days as he was himself. Then, abruptly, he closed the book and pus
hed it aside.

  “I hope you spent a pleasant morning,” he said.

  Alfredo was taken by surprise. He had in fact been thinking about how he was going to manage both mules on the mountain path. Toni was very good with the mules, and could take the lead one, but it would have to be arranged so that Uncle Giorgio didn’t find out that he’d done so, and again, what could he say to Annetta to persuade her to let him? He stammered for a moment, then said the obvious thing.

  “You told me to rest, so I went up to my room and read for a bit. Then I went out and just wandered about. I’m not used to having so much time. At the cathedral we mostly did lessons when we weren’t singing. And you said I mustn’t sing at all while I’m here.”

  “Soon you shall sing all you wish. As for lessons, there is no suitable school in the town, but I will make inquiries for a tutor for you. You have something else on your mind, I think.”

  He’d noticed! He’d guessed. Thoroughly rattled now, Alfredo again stammered the first thing that came into his mind.

  “I, er—I know it’s none of my business, but what’s going to happen to Toni? I mean…”

  “You need not trouble yourself about Toni. Such cases do not survive much into manhood. The idiot is not long for this world.”

  His own son! Alfredo was appalled and shocked by the casual tone.

  “That’s sad,” he managed to say.

  “Nonsense! It is much better so! Much better!”

  This time the tone was far from casual. The words were spoken with spitting venom. Uncle Giorgio snatched up his book and started to read, leaving Alfredo stiff and chilly with understanding. Nineteen years ago Uncle Giorgio had made his previous will, naming somebody as his single heir—Toni, of course, new born, and before anyone had realized what he was. But they must have known soon after that, and from then on Uncle Giorgio had begun to detest the mere existence of the son who had failed to be what he wanted, and he longed to see him dead.

  In that case why hadn’t he done away with him years ago? He was perfectly capable of it. Because…because Toni had been all there was, until Alfredo came. But now, especially after next Monday…Once again he remembered the risks Uncle Giorgio had taken to get him here, not for family love or duty or anything like that, but because for his own purposes he truly needed to have him. He remembered the strange, intense look with which his uncle had stared at him on the mountain. Even then Alfredo had guessed at the need. On this coming Monday the need would be fulfilled. And after that he would no longer have any possible use for Toni. So Toni was not long for this world.

  Alfredo munched his way through the rest of the meal, barely tasting a mouthful. When at last it was over he went up to his room to rest out the first heat of the afternoon. He tried to read, but his mind wouldn’t apply itself to anything but his problems, where it skittered uselessly to and fro between them. I must talk to Annetta again, he decided. I must tell her everything. Then she can make up her own mind what to do.

  Long before the heat was any less he crept downstairs, took the recorder from its case and went out to the rose garden. Toni was already there, sitting on the bench playing softly—not anything Alfredo had taught him but a strange little tune that he seemed to be making up as he went along, because every now and then he would stop, go back to an earlier phrase and alter what he’d done before, fiddling with it several times until he was satisfied.

  Alfredo leaned on the balustrade, watching and listening. After a while Toni seemed to be happy with what he’d invented and started again from the beginning. Alfredo took out his recorder and joined in. Toni looked up, but didn’t stop playing. The tune was trickier than Alfredo had realized, with unexpected time-changes. It was the sort of music that makes you want to dance, but you’d need to be a clever dancer not to make a fool of yourself. Alfredo made a lot of mistakes, but Toni held the tune firm all the way through. The last notes died into the breathless air and they laughed together.

  Alfredo went down the steps and sat beside Toni on the bench.

  “You made that up yourself,” he said, pointing at Toni as he asked the question.

  Toni nodded and tapped his chest. Obviously he’d understood, but from the way Annetta talked to him and about him he’d always understood a few simple things. He was probably still like that. The Angel of Fire hadn’t cured him, hadn’t disentangled whatever was wrong with his mind, but it had done something else, even more important. It had set him free, freed his spirit, his soul, freed them from his terror of the world and his shame of what he was. It had given him a life worth living.

  Alfredo thought about this as they continued to play—bits of church music, sailor songs, fairground dances, with Toni continuously decorating the music, as soon as he’d picked it up, in ways Alfredo himself would never have thought of. And he liked some things better than others, not necessarily because they were simpler; in fact rather the opposite. It depended on whether he found them interesting. So obviously there was nothing wrong with the music part of his mind. There must be some kind of kink, some blockage, somewhere else. If only…

  “The tears of the salamander. Sovereign against all ills of body and mind.”

  No, he couldn’t ask—in fact it would be a disaster. Uncle Giorgio hated his son. He wanted him dead. But…No, not yet. Wait until after Friday, when Uncle Giorgio was going to carry out some kind of test for the Second Great Work. Perhaps he’d know more then. There’d still be two days before Monday.

  For the rest of the day every hour seemed to go slower than the one before. Alfredo took his History of Rome and the Latin dictionary down to supper, but could only pretend to read. Uncle Giorgio read in silence. Only as he rose at the end of the meal did he speak.

  “Tomorrow, when we have breakfasted, you will sing the chant again to me. After that I will have preparations to make, so the rest of the day will be yours.”

  The chant went smoothly. Uncle Giorgio muttered briefly before they began and the Angels of Fire did not appear, though Alfredo could sense the faint prickling of their nearness. The words still meant nothing to him, but he now seemed to feel them all as separate things, each of them full of its own dark import. Neither they nor the music were strangers in his mouth.

  “Well done,” said Uncle Giorgio. “Now, as I told you, I have much to do. How will you spend your day?”

  Alfredo had thought of going down to the town, hoping to find some friend to talk to, or at least a priest to whom he might confess his suspicions and terrors. But he guessed Uncle Giorgio wouldn’t have allowed it, and besides, who would dare lift a finger against the Master of the Mountain?

  “I thought I’d climb the mountain again,” he said. “I’ll ask Annetta for some food. I promise you I won’t sing.”

  “Excellent. But do not go far beyond the shade of the woods, or tire yourself, or stay too long in the sun. Take one of the mules to ride. It would in any case be best if you were elsewhere today. I will also send Annetta and her idiot son away.”

  Alfredo hesitated, then seized his chance.

  “They could come with me,” he said. “I need Toni, really. I don’t think I can manage a mule by myself.”

  “If you wish for such company. Send Annetta to me and I will give her instructions.”

  They climbed through the wood in silence, Toni leading the mule. Alfredo had wanted to dismount as soon as they were well away from the house, but Annetta had pushed him back into the saddle, shaking her head emphatically. She had been given her orders and she was going to obey them. It was still too early to eat by the time they came out of the trees, so they settled down for a rest, Annetta moving a little way off with Toni so as not to intrude on the gentry. It made no difference to her that Alfredo had come every evening to her kitchen and tempered her oven for her and chatted, nor that she had borne Uncle Giorgio a son. She was still, in her own mind, a servant, and knew her place, and did what she was told. Now Alfredo was going to try to persuade her not merely to disobey her master, but to help
destroy him.

  He watched them covertly. Toni was lying on his stomach, poking his finger into a tussock and peering with wonder at whatever it was he’d found there. Annetta was sitting bolt upright on a boulder, motionless, staring at nothing, her strong, proud face lined with the long endurance of grief. After a while Alfredo fetched his recorder from the saddlebag and started to play.

  Annetta didn’t stir, but Toni instantly looked up. Alfredo beckoned to him and he rose and scampered across, drawing his recorder from inside his smock as he came. Alfredo patted the rock beside him, and Toni sat and took up the tune. Annetta was staring at them now, her normally expressionless features filled with astonishment.

  They played on. The mule fidgeted, swishing at flies. Crickets shrilled. Otherwise it seemed that not a leaf or blade was stirring. Alfredo could feel the presence of the mountain behind and beneath him, the whole vast, churning inward mass of it stilled for the moment by their playing. It wasn’t something he was doing on his own—not even mainly his doing. It was the two of them together, here and for this short while come into their own, Masters of the Mountain.

  Then Toni decided to switch to a tune that Alfredo had taught him and they’d played several times before. It was one of the rollicking airs that everyone used to dance to during the great Shrove Tuesday festival, waving their colored banners as they snaked in gaudy lines through the crowded streets. After a few bars Annetta rose, moved to a patch of ground where the slope eased almost level, raised her arms above her head and started to dance, twirling her skirt out and stamping to the rhythm of the tune. Alfredo almost stopped playing in amazement as she threw back her head and laughed with the joy of the dance. Her movements were quick, easy, definite, graceful. Every time she turned, her eyes came back to Toni. This was what life should be about, she seemed to be telling him, not drudgery, not fear, not power, not vengeance, but joy, the joy of being alive.