“Aucassin.” Nicolette cuddled up to him, clearly sensing what he was thinking. “Do you know the saying: out of the frying pan into the fire?”
“Fear not,” he said, overcoming his constricted throat. “Fear not, Nicolette. I won’t let any harm come to you. I’ll get you out of here. And I certainly won’t abandon you.”
“I know,” she replied at once, so trustingly and warmly he immediately regained his courage and confidence—qualities that, to be frank, had almost utterly deserted him. He raised his head bravely and courteously offered the girl his arm, then looked around with a brave, even arrogant, expression.
They were overtaken by a hamadryad smelling of wet bark and passed a buck-toothed dwarf whose naked belly, shining like a watermelon, stuck out from beneath a short waistcoat. Reynevan had seen a similar dwarf before. In the cemetery in Wąwolnica, the night after Peterlin’s funeral.
More flyers of both genders were landing on the soft slope beneath a cliff, their numbers constantly growing, slowly adding to the crush. Fortunately, the organisers had taken care of order and designated stewards were directing the arrivals to a clearing where they could deposit brooms and other flying equipment in a specially made enclosure. They had to wait in a queue for a while. Nicolette squeezed his arm harder when a thin creature in a shroud—smelling quite corpse-like—joined the queue behind them. In front of them were two rusalkas with hair full of dry ears of corn, stamping their little feet impatiently and nervously.
A moment later, a fat kobold took Reynevan’s bench from him and gave him a receipt—a freshwater mussel shell with a magical ideogram and the Roman numeral CLXXIII painted on it.
“Look after it,” he snarled routinely. “Don’t lose it. I’m not going to search all over the place if you do.”
Nicolette cuddled tightly to him and squeezed his hand, this time for a more specific and obvious reason that Reynevan had also noticed.
They had suddenly become the centre of—by no means well-disposed—attention. Several witches were staring at them evilly. Beside them, Formosa of Krossig would have seemed a pretty young thing and a rare beauty.
“Now, now,” croaked one, her ugliness distinguishing her even in such an assemblage. “It must be true what they say—that you can buy flying ointment at every apothecary’s in Świdnica! Now everyone flies: lizards, fishes and toads! Any moment now, and those Poor Clares from Strzelin will start flying here. Are we to put up with it, I ask? Who are they?”
“You’re right!” said another hag, showing a single tooth. “You’re right, dear Madam Sprenger! They ought to say who they are! And who told them about the sabbath?”
“You’re right, you’re right, dear Madam Kramer!” croaked a third, bent double, with an impressive collection of hairy warts on her face. “They ought! For they may be spies!”
“Shut your trap, you old cow,” said the red-haired witch in the black hat. “Don’t put on airs. I know these two. Will that suffice?”
Madams Kramer and Sprenger wanted to object and argue, but the red-haired witch cut short the discussion with a menacing shake of her clenched fist, and Jagna summed things up with a disdainful burp, loud and long, emerging from the very bottom of her guts. Then the adversaries became separated by a line of witches walking across the slope.
The young witch with the foxy face and the unhealthy complexion, the one who had prophesied in the wilderness, accompanied her sisters.
As before, a garland of verbena and clover rested on her fair hair. As before, her dark-circled eyes shone. And she was staring at Reynevan unceasingly.
“Others are also observing you,” said the red-haired witch, “so to prevent further incidents, you must, as neophytes, come before the Domina. Then no one will dare to pester you. Follow me. Up to the top.”
“May I presume we’ll be in no danger there?” asked Reynevan, clearing his throat.
The red-haired witch turned and fixed him with her green eyes.
“It’s a bit late to be afraid,” she drawled. “You needed caution when you were rubbing on the ointment and mounting the bench. I don’t want to be overly nosey, confrater, but at our first meeting, I understood that you’re the kind of person who always gets into trouble and ends up where he shouldn’t. Though, as they say, it’s none of my business. But are you in any danger from the Domina? That depends on what you conceal in your hearts. If it be anger and treachery—”
“No,” he retorted at once. “I can assure you of that.”
“You have nothing to fear, then.” She smiled. “Let’s go.”
They passed campfires surrounded by groups of witches and other participants in the sabbath conversing, greeting new arrivals, making merry and arguing. Cups and bowls were being passed around, filled from cauldrons and vats, and the pleasant aroma of cider, perry and other fermented beverages floated up, mixing with smoke. Jagna was about to stop there, but the red-haired witch restrained her with a sharp word.
A huge fire roared on the peak of Grochowa Mountain, throwing up great flames; millions of sparks flew up into the black sky like fiery bees. Below the peak was a hollow, ending in a terrace. There, beneath a cauldron on a tripod, burned a smaller campfire with faint shimmering shapes around it. Several figures were standing on the slope beneath the terrace, clearly waiting for an audience.
As they approached and passed through the veil of steam belching from the cauldron, the indistinct shapes materialised into three women holding brooms decorated with ribbons and golden sickles. A heavily bearded and very tall man—made even taller by a fur cap with a set of forked stag’s antlers attached to it—was busying himself near the cauldron. There was also another motionless, dark shape beyond the fire and steam.
“The Domina,” explained the red-haired witch, after they had joined the queue with the others, “will most probably not ask you anything; we aren’t customarily curious. If she does, remember to address her as ‘Domna.’ Remember also that names aren’t used at the sabbath, unless you’re among friends. You are joioza and bachelar to everybody else.”
The petitioner preceding them was a young woman with a thick plait hanging down beyond her waist. Although very pretty, she was disabled and walked with a limp which was distinctive enough for Reynevan to diagnose congenital hip dislocation. She passed them, wiping away tears.
“It is impolite and unwelcome to stare here,” the red-haired witch reprimanded Reynevan. “Go on. The Domina is waiting.”
Reynevan knew that the title of Domina—or Old Woman—belonged to the head witch, the leader of the flight and the sabbath’s high priestess. So although he had hoped, in his heart of hearts, to see a woman slightly less repulsive than Sprenger, Kramer and the hags with them, he had still been expecting an old crone. What he hadn’t expected was Medea. Circe. Herodias. A staggeringly attractive incarnation of mature womanhood.
Tall and well proportioned, her physique emanated authority, intuition and power. Her high forehead was decorated by a silver sickle, a blazing, horned crescent, and a gold ankh—crux ansata—hung around her neck. The line of her mouth spoke of determination, while her straight nose brought to mind Hera or Persephone from a Greek vase. Her serpentine cascades of jet-black hair tumbled down in splendid disarray, flowing over her shoulders to merge with the black of her cloak. Her gown, visible under her cloak, glistened in the light of the fire, shimmering in many shades: now white, now copper, now crimson.
There was wisdom, night and death in the Domina’s eyes.
She recognised them at once.
“Toledo,” she said, and her voice was like the wind coming down from the mountains. “Toledo and his noble-born joioza. Is it your first time among us? Welcome.”
“Our greetings,” said Reynevan, bowing.
Nicolette curtsied. “Our greetings, Domna.”
“Do you have a request for me? Do you seek an intercession?”
“They want only to pay their respects,” the red-haired witch said behind them. “To you, Domna, an
d the Great Triad.”
“I demur. Go in peace. Celebrate Mabon. Praise the name of the Mother of All.”
“Magna Mater! Praise her!” repeated the bearded man beside the Domina.
“Praise her!” chorused the three witches standing behind him, raising their brooms and gold crescents. “Eia!”
Fire shot upwards. The cauldron belched steam.
This time, as they descended to the hollow between the peaks, Jagna refused to be held back and immediately strode towards the noisiest place with the strongest aroma of distilled drinks. She had soon pushed her way to the keg and was drinking apple brandy in great gulps. The red-haired witch didn’t try to stop her, and willingly received the keg herself from a long-eared, shaggy creature almost identical to Hans Mein Igel, who had visited the camp of Reynevan and Zawisza the Black of Garbów a month before. Reynevan, taking a cup, considered how time had passed and what time had changed in his life. The drink was so strong it made his nose run.
The red-haired witch had many friends among the revellers, both humans and non-humans. Rusalkas, dryads and liskas greeted her effusively, and stout, ruddy-faced peasant women exchanged hugs and kisses. Women wearing dresses embroidered with gold and ornate capes, their faces partly concealed behind black satin masks, exchanged stiff, distinguished bows. Apple brandy, cider and slivovitz flowed profusely. They were being jostled around in the crush, so Reynevan put his arm around Nicolette. She ought to be wearing a mask here, he thought. Katarzyna, daughter of Jan of Biberstein, the Lord of Stolz, ought to be masked like the other noblewomen.
The revellers, now somewhat tipsy, began gossiping and backbiting.
“I saw her up there with the Domina.” The red-haired witch indicated with her eyes the cripple with the fair plait and face swollen from weeping, limping nearby. “What’s the matter with her?”
“It’s an everyday thing, an everyday impairment.” The chubby miller’s daughter shrugged her plump shoulders, still dusted with flour. “She went to the Domina and the Domina declined her request. Told her to leave it to time and fate.”
“I know. I once asked her for something.”
“And?”
“Time brought what was needed.” The red-haired witch grinned ominously. “But I took matters into my own hands a little.”
The witches shrieked with a laughter that made the hair on Reynevan’s neck stand up. He was aware that the bonae feminae were observing him and he was angry with himself for standing rooted to the spot, looking like a frightened savage in front of so many beautiful eyes. He took a sip to give himself courage.
“Extraordinarily many…” he said after clearing his throat. “Extraordinarily many members of the Older Tribes are present here…”
“Extraordinarily?”
He turned around. It was no wonder he hadn’t heard any footsteps, for just behind his shoulder had stopped an alp; tall, dark-skinned, with pointed ears and hair as white as snow. Alps moved noiselessly.
“Extraordinarily, you say?” repeated the alp. “Ha, perhaps you’ll see the ordinary, lad. What you call ‘Old’ may become the ‘New.’ Or the ‘Renewed.’ A time of change is approaching, and much will transform. Even what many—and even some of those here—thought unchangeable will change.”
“And they still think so,” said an individual Reynevan had least expected to encounter in this company, namely a priest with a tonsure, clearly taking personally the alp’s scathing words. “They still think so, for they know that some things will never return. You never enter the same river twice. You had your time, Master Alp, you’ve had your epoch, your era, even your eon. But what to do? Omnia tempus habent et suis spatiis transeunt universa sub caelo. Everything has its time and hour, and what has passed will not return.”
“The order of the world will change,” the alp repeated stubbornly. “Everything will be reformed. Turn your gaze to the south, to Bohemia. A spark fell there and a flame will be lit from it. Nature will be purged in that flame. Evil and sick things will flee from it. The change will come from the south, from Bohemia, marking the end of certain things and matters. In particular, that book you love to quote from will become nothing more than a collection of proverbs and adages.”
“Do not expect too much from the Czech Hussites,” the priest said, shaking his head. “In some respects, they are holier than the Pope himself. The Czech reform will not go well for us, methinks.”
“The essence of the reform,” said one of the masked noblewomen in a clear voice, “is that it changes apparently unchanging and unchangeable things. It opens a crack in an apparently inviolable structure, fractures a seemingly hard, unyielding monolith. And if something can be cracked, chipped or fractured… it can also be demolished. The Czech Hussites will be a handful of water frozen in a rock. They will burst it.”
“They said the same about the Cathars!” someone shouted from the back.
“They were pebbles cast at the ramparts!”
A commotion began. Reynevan cringed, slightly frightened by the commotion he had caused. He felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked back and shuddered, seeing a tall, female creature, quite attractive, but with eyes glowing like phosphorous and green skin smelling of quince.
“Don’t be afraid,” the creature said softly. “I am only the Older Tribe. Ordinary extraordinariness.” More loudly, she said, “Nothing can hold back the changes. Tomorrow will be different from Today, so different that people will stop believing in Yesterday. And Master Alp is right, advising you to look more often to the south. To Bohemia. Because the new will come from there. The Transformation will come from there.”
“Let me have my few doubts,” the priest said sardonically. “War and death will come from there. And tempus odii—a time of hatred—will dawn.”
“And a time of vengeance,” added the lame girl with the flaxen plait in an evil voice.
“The better for us.” One of the witches rubbed her hands together. “Things need shaking up!”
“Time and destiny,” the red-haired witch said pointedly. “Let us count on time and on destiny.”
“Taking matters into our own hands, if possible,” added the miller’s daughter.
“One way or another,” the alp said, straightening his thin body, “I say it’s the beginning of the end. The present order will fall. That cult hatched in Rome, that greedy, arrogantly rampant cult, stuffed with hatred, will tumble. Indeed, it’s a wonder it has survived so long, when it is so senseless and unoriginal, to cap it all. The Father, the Son and the Spirit! An ordinary triad, of which there are legion.”
“As far as the Spirit goes,” said the priest, “they were close to the truth. They just made a mistake with the sex.”
“They were not mistaken,” countered the green woman smelling of quince. “They lied! Why, perhaps now, in the time of change, they will finally understand who was painted on their icons all those years. Perhaps it will finally dawn on them what the madonnas in their churches really represent.”
“Eia! Magna Mater!” chorused the witches. An explosion of wild music, the thudding of drums and songs from nearby campfires joined their cries. Nicolette clung to Reynevan.
“To the clearing!” screamed the red-haired witch. “To the Circle!”
“Eia! To the Circle!”
“Listen!” shouted the shaman with the deer antlers on his head. “Listen!”
The crowd gathered in the clearing murmured in excitement.
“Listen to the words of the Goddess, whose arms and thighs are wrapped around the Universe!” called the shaman. “Who, at the Beginning, divided the Waters from the Heavens and danced on them! From whose dance the wind was born, and from the wind the breath of life!”
“Eia!”
The Domina stood beside the shaman, holding her royal form proudly erect.
“Arise,” she screamed, spreading her cloak wide. “Arise and come to me!”
“Eia! Magna Mater!”
“I am the beauty of the green earth,” sai
d the Domina, and her voice was like the wind from the mountains. “I am the white moon among a thousand stars, I am the secret of the waters. Come to me, for I am the spirit of nature. All things arise from me and all must return to me, before my visage, beloved by the gods and mortals.”
“Eiaaa!”
“I am Lilith, I am the first of the first, I am Astarte, Cybele, Hecate, I am Rigatona, Epona, Rhiannon, the Night Mare, the lover of the gale. Black are my wings, my feet are swifter than the wind, my hands sweeter than the morning dew. The lion knows not when I tread, the beast of the field and forest cannot comprehend my ways. For verily do I tell you: I am the Secret, I am Understanding and Knowledge.”
The fires roared and spat out tongues of flame. The crowd swayed with excitement.
“Worship me deep in your hearts and in the joy of the rite, make sacrifices of the act of love and bliss, because such sacrifices are dear to me. For I am the unsullied virgin and I am the lover of gods and demons, burning with desire. And verily do I say: as I was with you from the beginning, so you shall find me at the end.”
“Listen,” cried the shaman, “to the words of the Goddess, whose arms and thighs are wrapped around the universe! Who divided the Waters from the Heavens at the Beginning and danced on them. Dance ye, too!”
“Eia! Magna Mater!”
With a sudden movement, the Domina cast her cloak from her bare shoulders. She entered the centre of the clearing with female attendants on either side.
The three of them stood, holding each other’s hands with their arms extended behind them, faces outwards, backs inwards, as the Graces are occasionally portrayed in paintings.
“Magna Mater! Three times nine! Eia!”
Three more witches and three men joined them, linking hands to extend the circle. More came forward in response to their exhortation. Standing in the same positions, facing outwards, backs to the nine forming the centre, they created another circle. Immediately another circle was formed, then another, another and another, each with backs to the one before and larger than the last. While the nexus formed by the Domina and her company was encircled by a ring of no more than thirty people, there were at least three hundred in the final, outer circle. Reynevan and Nicolette, carried away by the frenzied throng, ended up in the penultimate circle. Next to Reynevan was one of the masked noblewomen. A strange creature in white squeezed Nicolette’s hand.
The Tower of Fools Page 45