“Eia!”
“Magna Mater!”
Another long-drawn-out cry and wild music sounding from God knew where gave the signal and the dance began, the circles starting to move and whirl. Each circle spun in the opposite direction from the ones adjacent. The sight itself made one dizzy, the hectic music and frenetic cries complementing the movement. The sabbath dissolved into a kaleidoscope of shapes before Reynevan’s eyes, and his legs seemed not to touch the ground. He was losing consciousness.
“Eiaaa! Eiaaa!”
“Lilith, Astarte, Cybele!”
“Hecate!”
“Eiaaaa!”
He didn’t know how long it lasted. He came to lying on the ground, among other people who were slowly getting to their feet. Nicolette was beside him—she hadn’t let go of his hand.
The music played on, but the melody had changed, the frenzied and high-pitched monotonous accompaniment of the whirling dance replaced by ordinary pleasant and lively notes, in time with which the rising witches and wizards were beginning to hum, jiggle and cavort. At least, some did. Others didn’t get up from the grass where they had fallen after the dance. Staying on the ground, they formed pairs—mostly, at least, for there were also threesomes and foursomes, and even larger configurations. Reynevan couldn’t tear his eyes away, involuntarily licking his lips as he stared. He saw that Nicolette’s face was flushed and not just from the glow of the campfire. She pulled him aside without a word, and when he turned his head back for another look, she scolded him.
“I know it’s that ointment…” She cuddled up to him. “The flying ointment excites them like that. But don’t look at them. I’ll be offended if you do.”
“Nicolette…” he squeezed her hand. “Katarzyna—”
“I prefer being Nicolette,” she interrupted immediately. “But I’d… I’d prefer to call you Reinmar. When I met you, you were—I don’t deny it—my Aucassin, and you were in love. But not with me. Please don’t say anything. Words aren’t necessary.”
A flame from a nearby campfire leaped upwards and a cloud of sparks shot into the sky. The people dancing around it cried joyously.
“They are making such merriment,” he muttered, “that they won’t notice if we slip away. And I think it’s time we did…”
She turned her face away and the glare of the fire danced on her cheeks.
“Why all the hurry?”
Before his amazement faded, he heard footsteps approaching.
“Sister and confrater.”
Before them stood the red-haired witch, holding by the hand the young oracle with the foxy face.
“We wish to talk to you.”
“Go on.”
“Eliszka, here, has finally decided to become a woman.” The red-haired witch laughed freely. “I was explaining to her that it matters not with whom—there’s no shortage of willing candidates here, after all—but she insists, like a stubborn ass, on one and no other. That means you, Toledo.”
The prophetess lowered her dark-ringed eyes. Reynevan swallowed.
“She’s too shy and hesitant to ask outright,” continued the bona femina. “She’s also a little afraid, sister, that you might scratch her eyes out. And since the night is short and it’s a waste of time running around the bushes, I’ll ask directly: are you together? Are you his joioza? Is he your bachelar? Is he free or do you assert your right to him?”
“He is mine,” replied Nicolette, concisely and without hesitation, absolutely dumbfounding Reynevan.
“Then the matter is clear.” The red-haired witch nodded. “Oh well, Eliszka, if you can’t get what you want, you must… Come on, we’ll find someone else. Farewell. Enjoy yourselves!”
“It’s the ointment.” Nicolette squeezed his shoulder and her voice made him shudder. “It’s the fault of that ointment. Will you forgive me? For perhaps you desired her?” she said before he could cool down. “Ha, I’m sure you did, because the ointment acts on you as it does… I know how it works. And I interfered, I got in your way. I didn’t want her to have you. From pure jealousy. I took something away from you without promising anything in return. Like a dog in the manger.”
“Nicolette—”
“Let’s sit down here,” she interrupted, pointing towards a small grotto in the mountainside. “I haven’t complained before, but with all these adventures I’m about to collapse.”
They sat down.
“My God,” she said, “so much excitement… And to think, when I told the story of that chase by the Stobrawa, no one believed me; not Elisabeth, Anka nor Kaśka. And now? If I tell them about the kidnap, about our flight? About the witches’ sabbath? I don’t think…”
She cleared her throat.
“I don’t think I’ll tell them anything at all.”
“And rightly so,” he said, nodding. “Quite apart from the incredible things we’ve seen and experienced, I wouldn’t come out too well in the story, would I? From the ridiculous to the nefarious. I went from being a jester to a robber—”
“But not by your own will,” she interrupted him at once. “And not as a consequence of your own deeds. Who ought to know that better than I? It was I who tracked down your comrades in Ziębice and disclosed to them that they’d imprison you at Stolz. I can imagine what happened next and know that it’s all my fault.”
“It’s not so simple.”
They sat for some time in silence, engrossed in the singing and gazing at the fires and the shapes dancing around them.
“Reinmar?”
“Yes.”
“What does Toledo mean? Why do they call you that?”
“There’s a famous magical academy in Toledo, Castile,” he explained. “It has become widespread in some circles to use it as a form of address for people who have studied magical arcana at universities, as opposed to those who have innate magical powers and to whom knowledge is passed down through the generations.”
“So you studied?”
“Yes, in Prague. But briefly and cursorily.”
“It was sufficient.” She touched his hand with some reluctance and then grasped it more boldly. “You were clearly a diligent student. I never managed to thank you. You rescued me with courage—which I admire—and your talents. You saved me from… misfortune. Previously I’d only pitied you, been fascinated by your story, which might be pulled straight from the pages of Chrétien of Troyes or Hartmann of Aue. Now I admire you. You are brave and wise, my Soaring Knight of the Flying Oak Bench. I want you to be my knight, my magical Toledo. Mine and only mine. Which is precisely why—from greedy and selfish envy—I didn’t want that girl to have you. I didn’t want her to have you even for a moment.”
“But you’ve rescued me more times than I have you,” he mumbled in embarrassment. “It is I who am indebted to you, and I’ve never thanked you, either. At least, not as I ought. But I vowed that when I met you again, I’d bow before you…”
“Thank me in the way that you ought.” She cuddled up to him. “And bow before me. I’ve dreamed that you would.”
“Nicolette—”
“Not like that. In another way.”
She stood up. Frenetic laughter drifted from the campfires.
Veni, veni, venias,
ne me mori, ne me mori facias!
Hyrca! Hyrce!
Nazaza!
Trillirivos! Trillirivos! Trillirivos!
She began to undress, slowly, unhurriedly, not lowering her eyes, which were burning in the darkness. She unfastened her silver-studded girdle and removed her cotehardie, which was split at the side. Then she pulled off her woollen undertunic, beneath which all that remained was a thin white chemise. She hesitated when she got to the chemise. The signal was clear. He approached, touching her gently. The blouse, he recognised at once, was made from cambric.
Pulchra tibi facies,
Oculorum acies,
Capillorum series;
O quam clara species!
Nazaza!
He cautiously as
sisted her, still more cautiously overcoming her instinctive resistance, her quiet, involuntary trepidation.
Once the cambric chemise was lying atop the other garments on the ground, he gasped, but Nicolette didn’t let him feast his eyes for long. She pressed herself tightly against him, entwining him with her arms and searching for his mouth with hers. He complied. And what his eyes had been refused, he delighted in with his touch, paying homage with trembling fingers and hands.
He knelt down. Bowed at her feet. Worshipped her. Like Percival before the Holy Grail.
Rosa rubicundior,
Lilio candidior,
Omnibus formosior,
Semper, semper in te glorior!
She also knelt, hugging him closely to her.
“Forgive my lack of experience,” she whispered.
Nazaza! Nazaza! Nazaza!
Her lack of skill didn’t hamper them. At all.
The voices and laughter of the dancers moved away a little, quietened down, and the passion in them calmed. Nicolette’s arms trembled slightly and he felt the shaking of her legs wrapped around him. He also saw the flickering of her closed eyelids and her lower lip held between her teeth.
When she finally let him, he raised himself up and gazed upon her, the oval of her face like a painting by Campin, her neck like one of Parler’s madonnas. And lower down, her modest, embarrassed nuditas virtualis, her small round breasts with nipples hard from desire. Her slim waist, her narrow hips. Her flat stomach. Her shyly clenched thighs, full, beautiful, worthy of the most elaborate compliments. Reynevan’s intoxicated head was full of compliments and eloquence. For he was a polymath, a trouveur, and no lesser a lover—in his own opinion—than Tristan and Lancelot. He wanted to tell her she was lilio candidior, whiter than the lily, and omnibus formosior, comelier than all the others. He wanted to tell her she was pulchra inter mulieres. He wanted to tell her everything, but the words stuck in his tight throat.
She saw it. She knew. How could she not? For only in Reynevan’s eyes, stupefied by happiness, was she a maiden, a trembling virgin who was embracing him, eyes closed and biting her lower lip in painful ecstasy. For any wise man—had there been one nearby—the matter was clear: she was no shy and inexperienced young lass, but rather a goddess proudly receiving the homage due to her. And goddesses know and see everything.
And do not expect homage in the form of words.
She pulled him onto her and the eternal rite began.
Nazaza! Nazaza! Nazaza!
Trillirivos!
In the clearing, the Domina’s words hadn’t fully got through to him. Her voice, like the wind coming down from the mountains, had been lost in the murmur of the throng, drowned in the cries, the singing, the music and the roar of the fire. Now, in the gentle fury of love, her words were returning resonantly, clearly. Emphatically. He heard them through the rushing sound of blood in his ears. But did he fully understand them?
I am the beauty of the green earth, 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.
Worship me deep in your hearts and 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.
They found Her at the end. Both of them.
The fires shot wild explosions of sparks into the sky.
“Please forgive me,” he said, looking at her back, “for what happened. I oughtn’t to have… Forgive me.”
“I beg your pardon?” She turned to face him. “For what am I to forgive you?”
“For what happened. I was unwise… I forgot myself. I behaved badly—”
“Am I to understand,” she interrupted, “that you regret it? Is that what you mean to say?”
“Yes… No! No, that’s not it… But I ought… Ought to have controlled… I should have been more sensible—”
“So you do regret it,” she interrupted him again. “You reproach yourself; you feel guilty. You feel with regret that a harm was done. In brief: you would give much for what we did to be undone. For me to be what I was.”
“Listen—”
“But I…” She didn’t want to listen. “I… I was prepared to follow you. Right away, as I am. To where you are going. To the end of the world. Just to be with you.”
“Lord Biberstein…” he mumbled, lowering his gaze. “Your father—”
“Naturally,” she interrupted again. “My father will send men. And being hunted from two directions is too much for you.”
“Nicolette… You misunderstood me.”
“You’re mistaken. I did understand.”
“Nicolette—”
“Say nothing. Fall asleep. Sleep.”
She touched his lips with her hand, with a movement so fast it escaped his sight. He shuddered.
He thought he’d only fallen asleep for a moment. But yet, when he awoke on the cold ground, she was not by his side.
“Of course,” said the alp. “Of course I remember her. But I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her.”
The hamadryad accompanying him stood on tiptoe, whispered something into his ear and then hid behind his back.
“She’s a little shy,” he explained, stroking her stiff hair. “But she can help. Come with us.”
They set off downhill. The alp hummed to himself. The hamadryad smelled of resin and wet poplar bark. Mabon night was coming to an end and dawn was breaking, heavy and murky with fog.
Among the small group of sabbath participants still talking on Grochowa Mountain, they found a female creature, the one with eyes glowing like phosphorous and green skin smelling of quince.
“Indeed,” nodded the Quince when asked. “I saw the girl some time ago. She was descending towards Frankenstein among a group of women.”
“Wait.” The alp seized Reynevan by the shoulder. “Slow down! And don’t go that way. The mountain is ringed by Budzów Forest on that side, so you’re bound to lose your way there. We’ll lead you. We need to go that way, too. We have business there.”
“I’ll come, too,” said Quince, “and show you which way the girl went.”
“Thank you,” said Reynevan. “I’m very grateful to you. We don’t even know each other. But you’re helping me…”
“We’re accustomed to helping each other.” Quince turned around and pierced him with her phosphorous gaze. “You were a pretty couple. And so few of us are left. If we don’t help each other, we’ll utterly die out.”
“Thank you.”
“But I wasn’t thinking about you at all,” drawled the Quince.
They entered a ravine, the course of a dried-out stream with willows growing along it. A soft curse sounded from the mist in front of them, and a moment later they saw a woman sitting on a moss-covered boulder shaking stones from her slippers. Reynevan recognised her at once. She was the plump miller’s daughter still bearing traces of flour, another participant in the debate around the cider keg.
“The fair-haired lass?” she mused. “Aah, that noblewoman who was with you, Toledo? Of course I saw her. She went that way with a group, towards Frankenstein. Some time ago.”
“That way?”
“Indeed. Hold on, wait. I’m coming with you.”
“Because you have business there?”
“No. Because I live there.”
The miller’s daughter was, to put it mildly, worse for wear. She walked sluggishly, hiccoughing, muttering and dragging her heels. She stopped annoyingly often to adjust her wardrobe. Inexplicably, she kept getting grit in her slippers and had to sit down and shake it out—and did it annoyingly slowly. The third time, Reynevan was ready to put the woman on his back and carry her, in order to speed things up.
“Could you do it a bit quicker, peasant woman?” the alp asked sweetly.
“Peasant woman
yourself,” the miller’s daughter snapped back. “I’ll be ready in a tick. Just have to… Hang on…”
She froze with the slipper in her hand. She lifted her head and listened intently.
“What is it?” asked the Quince. “What…”
“Shh.” The alp raised a hand. “I can hear something… Something’s coming…”
The earth suddenly shook and rumbled as an entire herd of horses thundered out of the mist, all striking hooves, flowing manes and tails, bared teeth in foaming mouths and wild eyes. They barely managed to dodge behind some rocks. The horses flashed through at an impetuous gallop and vanished as quickly as they had appeared, the earth still trembling from the blows of their hooves.
Before they had recovered, another horse emerged from the fog. But unlike the others, this one bore a rider. A rider in a sallet, wearing full plate armour and a black cloak. The cloak, waving behind him in the gallop, was like the wings of a ghoul.
“Adsumus! Adsuuumuuuus!”
The knight reined in his horse. It reared up, flailed its front hooves in the air and neighed. And the knight drew a sword and charged at them.
The Quince screamed shrilly, and before the cry faded, she disintegrated—yes, that was the right word—disintegrated into a swarm of a million moths, which dispersed in the air and vanished. The hamadryad noiselessly took root, in a flash becoming slender and covering herself in bark and leaves. The miller’s daughter and the alp, lacking equally cunning tricks, simply ran away. And Reynevan, naturally, followed them, running so quickly that he overtook them. They’ve tracked me all the way here, he thought feverishly.
“Adsumus!”
The Tower of Fools Page 46