“I understand what you were imprisoned for,” said Reynevan, biting off a mouthful of apple.
“You’ve understood nothing. But there’s time for you to learn—it’s a long way to Hungary.”
“Do you think I’ll make it there? In one piece?”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Because the more I listen to you, the bigger an idiot I feel. An idiot who any moment may become the victim on the sacrificial altar of his own convenience.”
“You see, you’re making progress,” Scharley said happily. “You’re beginning to reason sensibly. Apart from your unwarranted sarcasm, you’re now beginning to grasp the fundamental principle of life: the principle of limited trust, which teaches us that the surrounding world is ceaselessly lying in wait for us, and never passes up an opportunity to cause you insult, distress or harm. That it’s only waiting until you drop your breeches to kick you in your bare arse.”
Reynevan snorted.
“From which two conclusions can be drawn,” continued the penitent, without faltering. “Primo: never trust or believe people’s intentions. Secundo: if you ever cause anyone harm or distress, don’t fret over it. You were simply quicker, you acted preventatively—”
“Be quiet!”
“Why? I’m telling you the honest truth and I believe in the principle of free speech. The freedom—”
“Be quiet, dammit. I heard something. Someone’s sneaking up on us—”
“Probably a werewolf!” Scharley chuckled. “A terrible manwolf, the scourge of the parish!”
As they were leaving the monastery, the thoughtful monks had warned them to be on their guard. They said that for some time, especially during the full moon, a dangerous lykanthropos or werewolf had been prowling the vicinity. The warning had greatly amused Scharley, who for a good few furlongs had split his sides laughing and mocked the superstitious monks. Reynevan didn’t really believe in werewolves, either, but he didn’t laugh along with Scharley.
“I can hear footsteps,” he said, pricking up his ears. Somebody was approaching, there was no doubt.
A jay in the undergrowth screeched in alarm. The horses snorted. A branch snapped. Scharley shielded his eyes against the setting sun.
“The Devil take it,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s all we need. Have a look, someone’s arrived.”
“It might be…” stammered Reynevan. “It’s—”
“The colossus from the Benedictine abbey,” said Scharley, confirming Reynevan’s suspicions. “The priory giant, Beowulf the Honey-Eater. The pot-licker with the biblical name. What did they call him? Goliath?”
“Samson.”
“That’s right, Samson. Pay no attention to him.”
“But what’s he doing here?”
“Pay no attention and he might just go his own way, wherever that leads.”
But it didn’t look as though Samson intended to go. On the contrary, it looked as though he had reached his destination, for he was lounging on a tree stump a few yards away with his chubby, gormless face turned towards them. But his face was clean, much cleaner than before, and the dried-on mucus was gone from under his nose. What’s more, the smock he was wearing was freshly laundered. In spite of that, he still exuded a faint smell of honey.
“Oh well,” said Reynevan, clearing his throat. “Politeness requires—”
“I knew it,” interrupted Scharley, sighing. “I knew you’d say that. Hey, you there! Samson! Vanquisher of the Philistines! Are you hungry?”
Without waiting for a reaction, Scharley tossed a piece of black pudding towards the colossus, as one would a treat at a dog or cat. “Grub! Do you understand? Grub, over here! Foodies! Yum-yum! Do you want some?”
“Thank you,” the giant replied, unexpectedly clearly and alertly, “but I’ll decline. I’m not hungry.”
“This is a strange matter,” muttered Scharley, leaning towards Reynevan’s ear. “How did he get here? Was he following us? After all, he supposedly trails after Brother Deodatus, our recent patient… We’re at least a mile from the priory, so he must have set off immediately after us and followed our trail at a brisk pace. To what end?”
“Ask him.”
“I will. At the right moment. For now, just to be sure, let’s talk in Latin.”
“Bene.”
The sun was sinking lower and lower over the dark forest. Cranes flying westwards gave their bugle-like calls as frogs in the swamp by the river began a raucous concert. And the dry hillside at the edge of the forest resounded with the language of Virgil.
Reynevan talked about his recent history and described his adventures. Scharley listened—or at least pretended to. The priory hulk, Samson, was staring vacantly at something or other, and his chubby physiognomy continued to be free of any noteworthy emotions.
Reynevan’s tale was, naturally, only the preamble to the main thrust—another attempt to draw Scharley into armed intervention against the Sterczas. Nothing came of it, naturally. Not even when Reynevan began to tempt the penitent with the prospect of big money—without, of course, any idea where that money would be obtained from. In any case, the issue was purely academic since Scharley rejected the offer. The dispute was revived, with both parties making copious use of classical quotations—from Tacitus to Ecclesiastes.
“Vanitas vanitatum, Reinmar! Vanity of vanities and all is vanity! Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry, ‘for anger resteth in the bosom of fools.’ Remember—melior est canis vivus leone mortuo, a living dog is better than a dead lion.”
“Come again?”
“If you don’t abandon your foolish plans of revenge, you’ll be dead, because those plans mean certain death to you. And even if I’m not killed, I’ll be thrown in gaol again. And not for a vacation in a Carmelite priory this time, but into a dungeon, ad carcerem perpetuum. Or a lengthy term of in pace in the monastery, which they consider merciful. Do you know, Reinmar, what in pace is? It’s being buried alive. In a cellar, in a cell so cramped and low that you can only sit, and as the amount of excrement increases, you have to stoop more and more so as not to scrape your head on the ceiling. You must be out of your mind if you think I’ll risk something like that for your cause. And such a murky cause, to boot.”
“What’s murky about it?” Reynevan asked indignantly. “My brother’s tragic death?”
“The circumstances around it.”
Reynevan pursed his lips and turned his head away. For a while, he looked at the giant Samson sitting on the tree stump. He looks different in some way, he thought. He still has the face of a moron, but something’s changed. What?
“There’s nothing unclear about the events surrounding Peterlin’s death,” Reynevan continued. “Kyrie-eleison murdered him. Kunz Aulock et suos complices. Ex subordinatione and for the Sterczas’ money. So the Sterczas ought to bear—”
“Weren’t you listening to what your relative Dzierżka was saying?” interrupted Scharley.
“I was. But I didn’t attach any weight to it.”
Scharley took a demijohn from a saddlebag and uncorked it, releasing the smell of liqueur. The demijohn had not been among the farewell gifts from the Benedictines and Reynevan feared the worst regarding how the penitent had acquired it.
“It’s a great mistake,” Scharley said, swigging from the demijohn and passing it to Reynevan, “not to listen to Dzierżka. She usually knows what she’s talking about. The circumstances of your brother’s death are not clear, laddie. Certainly not clear enough to instantly undertake a bloody vengeance. You don’t have any proof of the Sterczas’ guilt. Tandem, you don’t have any proof of Kyrie-eleison’s guilt. Why, in hoc casu, there’s even a lack of motives.”
“What…” Reynevan choked on the liqueur. “What are you saying? Aulock and his gang were seen near Balbinów.”
“Non sufficit as evidence.”
“They had a motive.”
“What motive? I listened carefully to your account, Reinmar. The Sterczas, your
lover’s brothers-in-law, hired Kyrie-eleison to capture you alive—the events at that tavern near Brzeg prove that incontrovertibly. Kunz Aulock, Stork and Walter of Barby are professionals who only do what they are paid to do. They were paid to get you, not your brother. Why would they leave a body behind them? A cadaver lying in the road is a problem for professionals: they risk being hunted, the law, revenge… No, Reinmar. There isn’t an ounce of logic in it.”
“So who, in your opinion, murdered Peterlin? Who? Cui bono?”
“Now you’re asking the right questions—it’s worth considering who benefits from his death, so you must tell me more about your brother. On the way to Hungary, naturally. Via Świdnica, Frankenstein, Nysa and Opava.”
“You’ve forgotten about Ziębice.”
“True. But you haven’t. And you won’t, I fear. I wonder when he’ll notice.”
“Who? What?”
“Samson Honey-Eater from the Benedictine abbey. There’s a nest of hornets in the tree stump he’s sitting on.”
The giant sprang up. And sat back down when he realised he’d been duped.
“As I suspected,” Scharley said with a grin, “you understand Latin, Brother.”
To Reynevan’s astonishment, the giant smiled back.
“Mea culpa,” he replied in an accent Cicero would have found no fault with. “But that’s no sin, after all. And if it is, then who sine peccato est?”
“I wouldn’t call eavesdropping on other people’s conversations under the pretext of not understanding a language a virtue,” Scharley pouted.
“You’re right,” said Samson, slightly inclining his head. “And I’ve already admitted my guilt. And in order not to multiply my misdeeds, I warn you that shifting to the tongue of the Gauls will not guarantee you discretion, either, for I speak French.”
“Oh?” Scharley’s voice was as cold as ice. “Est-ce vrai? Indeed?”
“Indeed. On dit, et il est verité.”
Silence reigned for some time. Finally, Scharley loudly cleared his throat.
“I don’t doubt you speak the tongue of the English equally well,” he ventured.
“Ywis,” the giant replied without faltering. “Herkneth, this is the point, to speken short and plain. That ye han said is right enough. Namore of this, enough of that. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal. Instead of showing off our eloquence, let’s get down to business, for time is short. I didn’t follow you for pleasure, but was led by a pressing need.”
“Indeed? And what is that dira necessitas based on, might one ask?”
“Look closely at me and answer with hand on heart—would you like to look as I do?”
“No, we wouldn’t,” Scharley replied with disarming frankness. “But you harbour a grudge towards the wrong person, friend. You owe your appearance directly to your father and mother. And indirectly to the Creator, although much seems to belie that.”
“I owe my appearance to you,” said Samson, completely ignoring the mockery, “and to your idiotic exorcisms. You’ve stirred up some serious trouble, boys. It’s time to look truth in the eye and begin to contemplate how to correct what you’ve done, and to think about making amends to the one you’ve made problems for.”
“I still have no idea what you’re talking about,” stated Scharley. “I swear on everything dear to me, meaning my old cock, Je jure ça sur mon coullon.”
“Such eloquence, such oratory,” commented the giant, “but not an ounce of acumen. Do you really not understand what happened as a result of your sodding spells?”
“I…” Reynevan uttered. “I understand that… during the exorcism… something happened.”
“Well, well,” said the giant, looking at him, “the triumph of youth and a university education—judging from your colloquialisms, probably acquired in Prague. Yes, yes, young man. The incantations and spells may have had side effects. The Bible says: ‘the prayer of the humble pierceth the clouds.’ Well, it did.”
“Our exorcisms…” whispered Reynevan. “I sensed it. I sensed a sudden inflow of the Power. But is it possible—”
“Certes.”
“Don’t act like a child, Reinmar,” said Scharley calmly. “Don’t let him beguile you. He’s mocking us. He’s posing as a devil accidentally called forth by our exorcism, a demon summoned from the beyond and transplanted into the bodily shell of Samson Honey-Eater, the idiot of the priory. He’s pretending to be a genie freed from a lamp by our spells. What have I forgotten to mention, stranger? Who are you? King Arthur returning from Avalon? Ogier the Dane? Barbarossa coming from Kyffhausen? The Eternal Wandering Jew?”
“Why stop there?” Samson crossed his mighty forearms on his chest. “After all, you, in your ineffable wisdom, know who I am.”
“Certes,” Scharley retaliated with Samson’s answer. “I know. But you, Brother, came to our camp and not the other way around. Which is why it behoves you to introduce yourself. Without waiting until you’re unmasked.”
“Scharley,” Reynevan interrupted, sounding serious. “I think he’s speaking the truth. We called him forth as a result of our exorcism. Why can’t you see the obvious? Why—”
“Because, unlike you, I’m not naive,” interrupted the penitent. “And I know exactly who he is, how he ended up at the Benedictine priory and what he wants from us.”
“So who am I?” The giant smiled a not-at-all foolish smile. “Tell me, please. Forthwith. Before I’m consumed by curiosity.”
“You’re a wanted fugitive, Samson Honey-Eater. An escapee. Judging from your colloquialisms, probably a runaway priest. You hid from your pursuers in the priory, pretending to be a halfwit, assisted considerably by your appearance—no offence meant. Since you’re clearly not a halfwit, you instantly saw through us… or rather me. You weren’t listening to us idly. You want to flee to Hungary and knew it would be difficult by yourself. Our company—a company of cunning and worldly men—is heaven sent for you. You’d like to join us. Am I right?”
“No, you’re wide of the mark in every detail but one: I did see through you right away.”
“Aha.” Scharley stood up. “So I’m mistaken, but you speak the truth. Go on, prove it. You’re a supernatural being, a resident of the beyond, from which our exorcism accidentally extricated you. In that case, show us your power. May the earth shake. May there be thunder and lightning. May the sun rise again in the night. May the frogs in the swamp sing in unison the Lauda Sion Salvatorem instead of croaking.”
“I’m unable to make any of those things happen. And even if I were, would you believe me if I told you so?”
“No,” admitted Scharley. “I’m not by nature gullible. And on top of that, the Bible says: ‘Believe not every spirit. Because many false prophets are gone out into the world.’ In short: liars, liars and more liars.”
“I don’t like to be called a liar,” replied the giant, gently and calmly.
“Oh, indeed?” The penitent lowered his hands, leaning slightly forward. “What do you do when you’re lied to, then? Personally, I dislike hearing barefaced lies so much that I’ve been known to break the liar’s nose.”
“Don’t try it.”
Although Scharley was a head shorter than Samson, Reynevan had no doubt what to expect. He’d already seen it. A kick to the shin, just below the knee, the victim receiving a punch in the nose as he fell forward, the bone breaking with a crunch and blood spurting over his clothes.
If Scharley was as fast as a cobra, then the huge Samson was like a python, moving with incredible agility. He parried the kick with a lightning-fast counter-kick, deftly blocked the punch with his forearm and jumped aside. Scharley also jumped aside, flashing his teeth. Reynevan, surprising himself, leaped between them.
“Peace!” he spread his arms. “Pax! Gentlemen! Aren’t you ashamed of yourselves? Behave like civilised people!”
“You fight…” Scharley straightened up. “You fight like a Dominican. But
that only confirms my theory. And I still don’t like liars.”
“He might be speaking the truth, Scharley,” said Reynevan.
“Indeed?”
“Indeed. There have been cases like this. There are parallel, invisible existences… Astral worlds… They can be communicated with, and there have also been… cases of visits…”
“What are you drivelling on about, O hope of married women?”
“I’m not drivelling. They lectured on it in Prague! The Zohar mentions it, Rabanus Maurus writes about it in De universo. According to Duns Scotus, materia prima may exist without a physical shape. The tangible human body is only a forma corporeitatis, an imperfect shape, that—”
“Stop, Reinmar,” Scharley interrupted with an impatient gesture. “Temper your ardour. You’re losing your listeners. One, at least, for I’m going to take a shit in the undergrowth before bed. Which, incidentally, will be a hundredfold more productive than what we’re doing here.”
“He went off to defecate,” commented the giant a moment later. “Duns Scotus is turning in his grave, as are Rabanus Maurus and the rest of the Kabbalists. If such authorities don’t convince him, what chance do I have?”
“Slim,” admitted Reynevan, “because you haven’t dispelled my doubts yet, either. Who are you? Where did you come from?”
“You won’t comprehend who I am,” the giant calmly replied, “or where I came from. I don’t fully understand how I ended up here, either. As the poet said: ‘I cannot clearly say how I had entered the wood.’”
Io non so ben ridir com’i’ v’intrai,
tant’era pien di sonno a quel punto
che la verace via abbandonai.
“For a stranger from the beyond,” said Reynevan, overcoming his amazement, “you have a pretty decent command of human languages. And Dante’s poetry.”
“I am…” Samson said after a moment’s silence. “I am a wanderer, Reinmar. And wanderers know much. It’s called the wisdom of roads travelled and places visited. I can’t say any more about that, but I will tell you who is to blame for your brother’s death.”
The Tower of Fools Page 22