Stone of Help (Annals of Lystra)

by Robin Hardy

  Yet every night, when the work was done and the head cook took a candle and left her and Arund alone, Deirdre would dig out Josef’s pages to read. She clung to them as a bridge, a link between herself and him, and the wonderful power of God in him. In her longing for Roman, she put all her hope in that power to reunite them.

  Mostly, however, she just worked at the chores assigned to her. As of late, she perceived that, perhaps because of her willing attitude or pleasing appearance, she was often given the least offensive tasks. Early one morning as the servants lined up to receive their assignments, the mistress directed them one by one to varied duties until only Deirdre and another girl remained—a large-boned, ugly girl.

  “Now,” the kitchen mistress spoke to herself distractedly, “the nuts must be shelled, and the slaughter room floor must be scrubbed.” As she glanced at the pair, Deirdre put on her most tender face. “Goldie, you sit here and shell the nuts. Almetta, take the brush and pail and scrub the slaughter room floor. There must not be a drop of blood left. Now go!”

  Almetta obediently took up the pail and Deirdre sat smiling. Things are getting easier here. At least I’m above some things now, she thought.

  At that moment a guard put his head in the door and exclaimed, “Almetta!” The head cook, Almetta, and Deirdre all looked. “The Surchataine’s favorite hound is whelping and something’s gone awry. Lord Troyce sends for you straightway.”

  “Go,” directed the cook, and Almetta hurried off. Then the mistress turned to Deirdre and said, “You go wash down the floor. I’ll shell the nuts.” Deirdre, stunned, hesitated and the mistress thundered, “Go! And make it shine!”

  Deirdre grabbed up the bucket and brush and ran to the slaughter room. She stopped dead at the door, observing the mess of blood and entrails, pieces of bone and—she retched violently. She dropped on all fours, sobbing, to plunge her hands into the pail. “How long must I endure this?” she sobbed. “I am nothing here, nothing but a wretched slave, above nothing and no one.”

  Shaking in misery, she cleaned with forceful abandon. One floorboard at a time, she gathered the refuse, threw it out to the dogs, and scrubbed the boards fiercely with water and lye soap.

  When finished, she calmly stood. The floor glistened. No one could have cleaned it any better. I am beginning to think I can do anything, she decided. If I must be a servant, I will be the best there is.

  Something Josef had said recalled itself to her as if he himself were saying it: You are a servant of the Most High God. Deirdre walked out of that slaughter room as if she were draped in gold and jewels.

  She returned to the kitchen to find Arund fussing. Having just nursed him an hour ago, she doubted he was hungry. When she knelt to pick him up, he held his head steady to look at her. “How big and strong you are getting, my little man,” she murmured. His skin was pink, his eyes were clear, and his bottom was—very messy. Still, the rash had long since disappeared.

  Deirdre laid him down to remove the dirty wrap and patiently clean him. As she wrapped him in the last dry cloth she had, she asked, “Mistress, may I boil Arund’s wraps now?”

  “Is the floor clean?” the head cook demanded without raising her face from the bushel of nuts.

  Deirdre stood. “It is spotless. You may inspect it yourself.”

  The mistress looked up then, surprised at the note of pride. “Very well. Go draw your water.”

  Deirdre stepped out of the warm kitchen with her bucket and hurried through the courtyard to the stream. Glancing up, she startled, seeing the stream shrouded in a thick, eerie mist. She relaxed upon coming closer, realizing it was steam from the warm water into the cold air. She lowered her bucket into the stream, then checked herself as a field slave approached the other side and knelt to drink as before.

  It was the same one she had seen earlier—she was sure of it. Yet she was appalled to see that, in spite of the deepening cold, he wore only a ragged tunic over his brief rags. She cast a cautious eye around, then braced herself to speak to him. But he raised his face out of the water and said softly, “You were with him.”

  She startled. “What? Who?”

  “Josef. Is it true?”

  “Is—is what true?” she stammered.

  “His face was like an angel when he died. Is it true?”

  “Yes! But more than that. His whole body had changed—he was young and strong again. He—”

  He had no time to chat about particulars. “Yes. And you have his holy Scriptures.”

  “Yes,” she answered slowly.

  “We want them,” he said flatly. “We want to read where it says that Messiah came to free the prisoners.”

  “But—” Deirdre fought to find a base for her objections—“can you read?”

  “Not I. But Volne reads. He will read to all of us.”

  “But. . . .”

  “Will you give them to us?” asked the slave who had nothing.

  Her heart sank as she found no ground to refuse him. “Yes. But how?”

  He stood. “Tonight, bring them to the northwest corner of the field house—” he jerked his head toward the wooden structure Deirdre had seen. “Tap on the wood.” Then he swiftly moved off as she rose in panic.

  “Wait!” she whispered loudly. But he was out of earshot. “I can’t leave at night—or cross the stream—how do you expect—wait!” In despair she watched him disappear, then she tensely drew her water and ran to the warmth of the kitchen.

  As she put the water on to boil, she shook her head. It was impossible. She could not risk it. She would just have to explain to him—suddenly Arund began crying and she knelt down to attend him. Finding him wet again, she muttered to herself in exasperation. Her bowl of tallow was empty, as well.

  As Deirdre rolled him over on the quilts, his little flailing hand found Josef’s pages and scattered them. Flustered, she began gathering them up lest the mistress see, but stopped in mid-motion when her eye caught this passage: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because He anointed me to preach the gospel to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives, and recovery of sight to the blind, to set free those who are downtrodden, to proclaim the favorable year of the Lord.” Her heart pounded as she read. Sighing, she slid the pages under the quilt and leaned back. Somehow, she had to do it.

  The remainder of the day Deirdre was an exemplary servant, somehow hoping to stave off trouble that night by performing well at her duties during the day. When Almetta returned, Deirdre volunteered to help her finish shelling the nuts. It was tedious work, cracking and cracking until her fingers were sore, but it ate up hours.

  That completed, preparations for dinner began. “What are we serving tonight, mistress?” inquired Deirdre.

  “The cod, with the onions and potatoes, the exotic fruits and herbed bread, barley soup, and shrimp,” she thought out.

  “Shall I clean the fish, mistress?” Deirdre asked.

  “It has been done already,” the mistress answered, open-mouthed.

  “The shrimp?” Deirdre asked crisply.

  “Ervie is drawing out traps now,” the mistress replied, frowning.

  “Then the potatoes must be peeled.” Deirdre marched to the store-room while the mistress stared after her. She returned with a bushel and promptly set herself to washing and peeling them.

  The mistress watched her bemusedly a moment, then muttered, “Hmmph. Someone taught you well.” She then poked her head out the door to scream for Ervie.

  Hours later, the sumptuous dishes were served to Sheva and her court. It seemed to Deirdre that they ate with excruciating slowness. As she stood waiting behind Sheva’s chair, the Surchataine said without preface, “Why didn’t you tell me of the uprising while I was away, Troyce?”

  He appeared caught off balance for just an instant. “Frankly, Surchataine, it was so insignificant it slipped my mind. A minor disturbance.”

  “Did you hang the offenders?” she demanded.

  “Certainly, my lady.”


  “And how many were hanged?” she asked suspiciously.

  “Twelve, Surchataine.”

  “Only twelve?”

  “As I said, it was a little thing,” Troyce answered lightly.

  “If you are so concerned about the number of slaves here, perhaps you should have hanged more,” Sheva purred.

  He replied, smiling, “Those slaves cost my lady much money, and I did not wish to waste her wealth by hanging servants who had proved themselves loyal and hardworking.”

  Without deigning to look at him, she said coldly, “I wonder whether it was the loyal ones you spared, Troyce.” His face froze.

  By the time the Surchataine finally arose from the table, Deirdre was taut as a bowstring. She ate handfuls from plates as she swooped down the table, cleaning, then took out the leftovers before the mistress had even vacated the kitchen. Shortly thereafter, the mistress took her candle and nodded goodnight to Deirdre.

  She and Arund were alone. Deirdre waited as long as she could for the general activity in the palace beyond the kitchen to wind down. She even let the fire die down low, to hide her absence. Then she decided it was time to go.

  She sat still in the darkness a moment longer, calming her heart to pray, though she had no idea what she should ask of God. “Just help me do this and live,” she whispered. Gathering Josef’s Scriptures, she tied them in a bundle. She wrapped a thin shawl around her shoulders and rags around her feet. Then she kissed the sleeping baby bundled in his box, and inhaled courage to open the kitchen door and step into the cold night.

  Her chest tightened as she heard the crunch of her feet on frozen ground and saw the steam of her breath in the bright moonlight. A scene flashed before her mind of every guard in the palace being alerted by the noise and surrounding her at the gallows.

  She crouched in the shadows until the solitary guard lolled by, then she ran to the stream, encased in its billowy shroud. She located the little footbridge in the mists and crossed over on feet nearly frozen.

  From there she ran through an open field to the huge black shape of the field house. It was farther away than it appeared, and by the time she reached the safety of its shadows, she was utterly winded. Now, the northwest corner. Or was it northeast?

  Exasperated, she thumped her head. Northeast or northwest? She steadied herself and studied the building in relation to the palace and cliffs. Northwest. It had to be. That was the corner farthest from the palace.

  She slid along the field house, remarking its size, until she reached the corner. Nervously, she tapped. A board popped out and a manacled hand gestured her closer. She hesitated, then put her head in—

  And gagged. All along the long, narrow walls were slaves, chained by their ankles to iron rings set in the ground. They lay or sat on dirty straw, without even the accommodation of stalls. Just men and chains and dirty straw.

  Deirdre reeled back from the stench and gasped in clear, stinging air. Steeling herself, she leaned in again and held out the bundle. The slave nearest her, the one from the stream, took it as all the slaves strained to see. He turned it over in his hands, then handed it to another slave, who passed it to another, who passed it on.

  The first turned back to Deirdre. “We will not forget this.”

  “Neither will I,” she gasped.

  “I am Nihl.”

  She paused. “I am Deirdre.”

  He nodded, and there was something in his face that made her ache for Roman. She drew back and pushed the board in place from the outside. She ran stealthily to the stream, crossed, and started across the courtyard. Then she stopped dead at a low growl.

  She turned, very slowly, to see one of Sheva’s hounds baring his teeth at her. “Good boy,” she whispered, glancing around for the guard. “Good boy.” She crouched and cautiously extended her hand to pat the dog’s head. He sniffed her fingers, then licked them, wagging his tail. She smiled at this unforeseen benefit of working in the kitchen: the dog recognized her as the one who fed him scraps at the end of the day.

  She gave him a farewell pat, then crept to the kitchen door just as the guard came around again. Holding her breath, she slipped into the kitchen and sank in relief beside Arund.

  Sleep was unthinkable as she turned over and over in her mind what she had seen. Suddenly she sat up, aware of a perplexity. She had seen the slaves from one end of the building to the other. But she should not have been able to see anything. It should have been utterly black inside.

  Probing her memory, Deirdre finally decided that there must have been smudge pots among them. How perilous, she shuddered as she added wood to the fire. One single straw set aflame would turn that field house into an inferno. She lay down again. They must want the message of those pages badly to risk being torched alive.

  Then a new revelation stunned her with its simplicity: They did not like slavery. They did not accept their condition as slaves any more than did the domestic servants who revolted. They, too, considered themselves worthy of freedom, regardless of what others called them. What stunned her even more was the realization that somehow she had assumed they shared her hopeless resignation—that they would not change their condition even if it was in their power. How could she have overlooked the significance of those chains?

  And yet, Josef had said he accepted his chains, and he seemed right in doing so . . . so what was the difference between him and them? She struggled mightily to understand this, and soon the answer came.

  Josef was a man on a special mission. He had voluntarily taken upon himself the degradation of their condition in order to serve them, to do them good. He was where his Lord wanted him, doing what his Lord needed him to do. And when his work was completed, the Master had appointed him to nobler service in higher realms.

  But these slaves were serving no one but Sheva, and hating it. Josef had agonized over their enslavement, petitioning the Lord continually for their deliverance. . . .

  Deirdre lay down in the cool satisfaction of insight. At last, she knew her purpose here.

  At daybreak, she left Arund in the kitchen and deliberately tarried in the courtyard, shaking out rugs and sweeping the steps, until she spotted Sevter. He saw her at once and pointed: “Goldie! There are loose chickens in the servants’ house. Get in here and get them out!”

  She hastened behind him to the room she had shared with Josef. “Sevter—”

  “Deirdre, how are you faring in the kitchen? And the baby? Has Caranoe molested you?”

  “No—we are well—all is well. Sevter, did you know that Lord Troyce is a believer?”

  His forehead crinkled. “No. Are you certain?”

  “Well, he said he was . . . and he was asking about Josef’s death.” She caught up one hen and threw it out the door.

  Sevter asked hesitantly, “Did he declare himself so in front of others, or to you alone?”

  “Why, only to me. But what difference does that make? Why would he say he was if he weren’t?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, rightly.” Sevter gazed absently as she shooed out another few hens. When she came back to his side, he said, “Just be careful, Deirdre. There’s unrest all over—the recent plot was just a hint of the trouble at hand. There are rumblings of a possible overthrow of the Surchataine—by Troyce or Caranoe, most likely. Just . . . be careful who you commit yourself to.” He took her hand and looked anxiously into her face.

  She returned his gaze and asked, “Would the slaves be freed in the event of her overthrow?”

  Sevter blinked. “No, of course not. Caranoe certainly would not free you, and Lord Troyce—who knows his mind?”

  Deirdre diverted her gaze into space, and a moment later murmured, “The domestic servants are free of chains, at least during the day. Are the field slaves always chained?”

  “Yes. The irons on their arms and necks are never unlocked. At night, each is chained in place in the field house. I fear to think what they would do to this place if they were ever released!”

  “W
ho has the keys to unlock them?” she demanded.

  “There is only one key which unlocks their field house fetters, and Caranoe carries it with him at all times.”

  Deirdre’s brows contracted in puzzlement. “With only one key, it must take ages to unlock them every morning.”

  “No,” said Sevter. “There are two long chains passed through their anklets and the ground rings. Those two chains are all that must be unlocked. And the keys which open their neck rings are hung above the doorway of the field house—to taunt them, I’m sure.”

  Deirdre stared up at Sevter with such cold determination that his eyes widened in alarm. “Deirdre—what are you thinking?”

  “Nothing,” she said, turning her eyes away and smoothing her face. But she was thinking: Only one key. Placing that one key in their hands would free them. And Caranoe carries it. . . .

  As Sevter continued to gaze at her, holding her hand, she looked back at him and asked, “Sevter, where is your wife?”

  “I have none,” he said lamely.

  “Why not? You should,” she observed.

  “Sheva allows none of her officials to have wives,” he said bitterly, releasing her hand. “We may have lovers, yes, but not wives.”

  “Why?” she demanded, shocked.

  “To prevent divided loyalties. She must have the whole man. I believe she is more interested in keeping Troyce tied to her than any of us. But we are just as bound.” Deirdre avoided his angry eyes, remembering with discomfort a certain maid named Angelina who had once loved Roman.

  As the days passed, Deirdre found herself watching for Caranoe, observing his movements and habits. One morning, she made as if to pass by him in the courtyard when he brusquely blocked her path.

  “Listen quick, Goldie,” he snarled. “I don’t know what influence you have with Troyce or why he’s protecting you, but you’re as good as dead now. I gave you your chance, and if you were smart you would have sided with me. I could have made your life here sweet and given you fine things. But no—you made your choice, and when these cliffs fall down around you, wench, just remember I could have saved your life!” He spat the last words in her face and stalked toward the fields.