In the Arms of Immortals Read online

  She wanted them gone.

  They smelled of her past, of the baking hot cement at Disney, the stale hospice gelatin and turpentine odor of capsules and medicine bottles. Mariskka remembered throwing open her mother’s bedroom door and shaking her mother by the shoulders, trying to force her to sit up. “Wake up!” Mariskka had screamed. “You don’t get to sleep through this!”

  Her mother had swatted her away, missing Mariskka by a yard. She looked like a windmill, cranking her arms in circles. Mariskka let her fall back into bed and return to her snoring.

  Mariskka had crawled in, under the covers. Wrapping her arms around her mother, she tried not to cry as she fell asleep too. She had been only nine. And there had been no one to help her. She was alone when her mother died. She had always been alone.

  “Get out,” Mariskka said to the men. They didn’t move.

  Jumping up, she went to the closet to get her fire safety box, a relic from her mother’s estate that didn’t lock. She yanked out the plastic bag she had stuffed the original manuscript into.

  Dragging the bag to the fireplace, she started the gas flames.

  Flames were soon eating the bag, the plastic melting in noxious, warping shreds. The paper inside caught, the words disappearing into black, burning patches that glowed red at the edges.

  “Get out,” Mariskka said again.

  “What is done cannot be undone,” the Scribe said.

  “She have no Blood of Christ!” Mbube shouted. “No one protect her!”

  “You can,” the Scribe replied.

  Reaching for his book, the Scribe stroked its spine. He whispered something to it, and the iron clasps released, the book opening. Pages began turning front to back, back to front, fast and repeating, like cards being shuffled.

  “What do you want from me?” Mariskka asked.

  “I am the Scribe, the first writer. My books lie open before the throne of God and someday will be the only witness of your people and their time in this world. I will tell you a story of your own,” he said.

  “You want me to watch a story and write it down, like Bridget?” Mariskka asked.

  Mbube shook his head, not looking her in the eyes. “You not write this one. You live it,” he said.

  Sounds began rising from the pages, filling the kitchen, with shadows floating in the air. She heard women’s voices and horses on cobbled streets. Men were laughing as if they shared a secret, and somewhere, far down another land, a child was calling for its mother.

  “No,” Mariskka yelled. “No, I burned the book! You can’t do this!”

  “You now enter our story as a wandering, lost woman,” the Scribe said, “dirty and unpleasant to be near. If you try to speak, they will not comprehend you. They will think you mad. The kindest among them will pity you. The rest of them, well, how little work there is for the Devil when men walk the earth!”

  Chapter Three

  Blood Month had begun. Panthea Campaigna watched the sunburned peasants drive the lean cattle up the cobbled streets as horses with braided manes and genteel riders picked their way through the hungry, tired masses. Roasted chestnuts were for sale on every corner of the piazza, the carts surrounded by begging children and lazy old men who eyed her boldly and gave her harmless, toothless grins.

  The shops surrounding the piazza, with its church tucked neatly in the center, were swarming with nobles and commoners alike, though the peasants knew better than to look upon what their labour had bought the ruling classes. She would have to shop later, much later perhaps. She had to reach the church and return home before it was too late. She would not spend her lifetime regretting how a wasted moment at market had cost her everything. Not that she wholly believed it would work, though she had brought plenty of money. She had generally avoided God when she could. Kneeling in church ruined her fine skirts and humiliated her. The common people looked at her, which she hated.

  Lazarro, the village priest, had once said churches were quiet because God was always listening. Everything depended on it now. The negotiation would be straightforward.

  Winter was not yet in the air, which was still perfumed by roasting meats, drying herbs, and stalks of dried flax bundled and laid in carts. A few ambitious boys ran from cart to cart, asking for a bronze token to separate the pith from the fiber. The sun was the only true monarch here in Sicily, and even in October it reigned in splendor, sending warmth to the stones and cheer for the final harvest festival. Free wine would flow tonight, the vineyards celebrating the last grape harvest of the year. She wanted so badly to stop; this was the last of the good milk, too, before cows were fed fermented grain, not fresh, and threw off tainted-tasting milk. October was the end of every good thing, she groaned to herself.

  This was her city: the sound of carts meant she would have bread for the winter, the scent of herbs meant her foods would be seasoned. Everything seemed well enough, she thought. It was a good omen of God’s mood.

  The number of cows in the square surprised her, though. The peasants brought only the cattle to slaughter that they had not the grain to feed over the winter. This year, there were more cattle than she had seen in previous times, the caked mud around their hooves telling of their long journey. Sicily had colours of soil that surprised the traders from Europe: yellows, greens, reds. The cows, each hoof banded in mud like the rings of a magical coloured tree, lumbered on. The mud fell as they walked, ruining the stone streets swept clean for tonight, distressing the shopkeepers. Mud would be tracked in everywhere. But all the merchants held their tongues. Cows for slaughter meant peasants who would soon be the best kind of customers: drunk and unaccustomed to heavy pockets. They would spend wildly, buying in a frenzy, shoveling the money at the shopkeepers for a taste of another life.

  This would be a good week for the shopkeepers, Panthea saw. There would be much blood running from the butcher’s shop by morning.

  She would not think of another’s misfortunes. She would think of the vegetables and fruits that would store well for the cold, calm months ahead, when no man would break ground and four hours of Sicilian sun would not grow gardens. Blood Month was the final month of the harvest year, when workers assessed their state and claimed their wages, when all reaped what they had sown, and the butcher Del Grasso worked late into the night at his killing.

  It was a bittersweet time, for she loved the festivals, the bargains, the stories spilled over ale in her father’s manor, the commotion that kept her mind from feeling the emptiness at her hearth. Her mother had loved these festivals too. They would have shared a pie and paid a minstrel for a song. Her mother had usually demanded the fee back at the end of the song, claiming the minstrel had no right to charge for such a poor voice. The minstrels would laugh and play her a new song, one the others would not think to ask for. These second songs were always best. It had given Panthea a taste for secrets.

  A pregnant dog darted in between the cattle moving up the main path. She could see its ribs, every one of them, though its belly was full almost to the ground. The cattle stopped moving, their heads pulling back when they felt something at their feet. They blocked her entrance to the church, unsure what was underfoot.

  Panthea called to the peasant to move his animals. He faced her with a sneer, then, seeing her finery with the blue crest, pasted a smile on his face and bowed his head. She made a clucking sound, and the dog worked its way back to her hand.

  “Come on, girl,” she crooned. The brown fur across the dog’s head was so soft, sweeter than any of her own furs. It was a shame such an animal had no home, no one to stroke this sweet fur and feed it.

  She would save them all if her father allowed her. “If I allowed you one,” he said, “I’d have to allow them all, wouldn’t I? Yes! Well, no, I can’t, even if you have your mother’s charms.”

  Pulling a bronze token from her skirt, she bought a cold m
eat pie. Rosetta, the baker’s wife, was pushing a heavy rolling stand of pies through the crowds, though Rosetta was great with child too, Panthea realized. Rosetta had a strained bodice and a jealous eye as the street dog was given a rich pie. The dog ate with wolfish big bites, then licked the ground and sniffed round for more.

  Panthea was about to buy another pie for it when a procession pressed through the crowd, peasants and cattle pushing to either side. Women sang and played tambourines, dancing in slow circles underneath flowing black veils. They looked like the whirlpools Panthea sometimes saw in the inky blue sea that was only a moment’s walk from where she stood. Men carrying a wooden pallet came next; a body was shrouded with linen, overlaid with flowers, and bundled with herbs.

  The children in the piazza ran to the men, calling down blessings on the fallen soul and offering prayers for which they were paid by coins tossed in the air. The family of the dead one came last, a woman with tears in her eyes, surrounded by many friends and family who bore her gently behind the procession. Sicilians believed in God and honour, and believed no man could die well without both. This coffin was exquisite; Marzcana had spent many hours in the carvings. It was an honour for the dead man to rest in this piece; the family had done well by him. God and memories were honoured.

  To Sicilians, the manner of burial was as important as baptism; indeed, Lazarro taught, was not a body welcomed to earth with cleansing waters and prayers, in the best fashion a family could afford? In the same way, each must be offered back to God, washed by women’s hands, blessed by a priest.

  The volcano above them rumbled, lightning striking down from a cloud to its steaming core. Peasants crossed themselves and struck the cows, driving them faster. Panthea pushed a token to the pie maker Rosetta, asking her to feed the dog another cold pie. Rosetta’s fingers grabbed it too quickly.

  “Take care of this dog,” Panthea said. “If you need more money, I will be in the church.”

  Panthea ran for the church, pushing with both hands against the heavy doors weighted with iron handles.

  Inside, candles flickered at the altar, reflecting off the gold painted on the columns and the stained-glass images surrounding her. She was alone in this swirling sea of illumined faces and fiery streaks of colour. The Virgin sat enthroned above her, cradling the infant Jesus on her lap. The archangels Gabriel and Michael flanked her, their stone eyes moving in the shifting light.

  She worshipped here, of course, part of the daily crowd that attended and understood nothing of the Latin service (it was enough that God understood, Lazarro promised), but she had never been alone before God. She did not know what to say to Him. She felt she was a child again, meeting knights of great legend returning from Jerusalem. They had all towered above her, with stories of marvels seen in distant lands, and red valleys of scars that fascinated her. She longed to push her fingers in to discover their depth and ask their meaning. They had praised her for her beauty and sent her away. She was only a girl.

  Kneeling, her eyes darting to either side, Panthea wondered how this was done. With a deep breath to shake off the embarrassment, she stretched out her arms above her. She had seen a saint doing that in a painting.

  “I am afraid!” she called. “Will You delay it?”

  She peeked up.

  No one answered.

  “Do not give me to that man,” she whispered. “Delay my father’s decision, please.”

  Panthea emptied her pockets into the collection box, pausing between each coin to let the sound fully carry.

  Michael and Gabriel stared from the cold stone, unmoved.

  She dropped her face in her hands. “I am not what this man thinks I am,” she whispered, surprised to feel her palms wet from tears.

  Something rustled in the shadows beyond the altar. She wiped her face, holding her breath. It was wrong of her to be here without Lazarro to speak on her behalf. God might get angry at her impropriety. She remembered what Lazarro had said about those with pride.

  God brought disaster on them.

  Slipping from between the thick doors, Panthea ran down the lane toward the sea. A fog was coming in as the sun was setting.

  It would be a dark night, without stars.

  Turning the corner to fetch her waiting horse, Fidato, she was run over by a pile of children pulling a stick behind them, the end of which was being clung to tightly by a woman. The woman looked delirious with fear, and when she tried to speak, such horrible sounds came out that the children scolded her to be silent. It didn’t appear she understood them, which only made them shout louder. Panthea hoped they were leading her to Lazarro. Only a priest would touch this wretch. If she was still on the streets by nightfall, she would be sore abused. She wore such odd clothes, and her hair was curled in fat waves. She could not have been a woman from this city.

  The outcast stopped in front of a shop that sold paper goods from the city of Amalfi. Tears streamed down her face and grated sobs shook her shoulders, making strangers stop and point. The children shouted at her to keep moving, that Romano the shopkeeper would beat any beggar standing too long in the doorway, but the woman would not be moved. Like the others around her, Panthea craned her neck to see what was causing such a reaction from the strange woman.

  Seeing no one was observing her, Panthea reached for something set too close to the crowd, unattended among the bottles and jars.

  When she saw what the woman looked upon, Panthea grinned with the others and made her way to her horse. The woman had only been staring at a calendar, which proclaimed it to be Anno Domini 1347.

  The woman was surely mad.

  Panthea’s horse moved quickly on the rough paths, picked clean often by her father’s servants. Even one piece of volcanic rock could hurt Fidato, and she worried often for this. She did not like taking him out at dusk for this reason.

  On any other night, she would tend to his feet herself, but there would be no time tonight, so he must not step on anything sharp. She would miss the nightly ritual of grooming him. A brush in her hand was as good as a prayer book, she thought. Only when she stood before Fidato did she sense a world bigger than herself. He had comforted her many nights, his mane soaking up her tears, his heart reminding her own to beat. He was a pristine white, perfect Andalusian, and no horse was his equal, save one. That horse had been bought by her father for someone else, the man who caused her such fear.

  She loved Fidato, just as he was, not even minding the way his tail tangled endlessly, no matter how many times she reminded it to lie straight. She loved him deeply because it was so easy. Panthea knew Fidato loved her back, too. He was always kind, always longsuffering, always gentle. Panthea had heard of Saint Paul’s commands to practice those ideals and thus please the Lord.

  “You see, you’re a good Christian, Fidato,” she said, noting she would have to bring him an extra sweet after the feast. It would all be over then. Surely she would have a lighter heart. Father could not do this to her. Not tonight. She needed time to convince him that she did not need a husband.

  She marked the setting sun, thankful she had stolen cinnamon at market today for her father. He was often unwell, fits of sweats and shaking seizing him. No one could communicate with him when he was having a fit. Of course, Panthea had relied on the priest for the first diagnosis. Only God sent illness, only God could cure illness. Lazarro had examined her father’s urine, tasted his blood, and consulted his charts before declaring him to have a classic case of an abundance of bile poisoning. Cinnamon on the tongue was good for this, he said, as well as more frequent confession. Her father applied both, with somewhat mixed results. His breath was better, but he sinned and sweated every day just the same.

  In her worst moments, Panthea was tempted to call upon Gio, the herbalist who lived close to the volcano. Panthea would have to walk—she could not take Fidato up that road. The path was sharp and dangero
us, and only the poor or desperate would bother. Gio did not charge the peasants, but the noblemen could be expected to pay twice the fair fee. That did not surprise Panthea. Everyone hated the rich. The rich only hated being poor.

  Her servants whispered that Gio was a witch. Panthea considered this likely although she had never met Gio and had no real opinion of her. She had heard tell of miraculous cures and fires that burned bones until there was only black ash, which Gio gathered up as if it were manna. Gio did not attend church, and Lazarro had been urged many times to stone her.

  No, Panthea should not bother with a woman like that. Besides, the Church controlled all healing arts and Panthea had just made a significant donation. She was in good favour. Even if God refused her own plea, He might still answer a prayer for her father. Everyone in the village looked up to him.

  She rose higher on the winding road that would bring her home in a few more steps. Had God heard her in the church? When would she know if she had been delivered? She was stupid, she thought, to leave so much money. God had made no promises. She had much to learn if she would ever become as great in business as her father.

  Fidato slowed, choosing his steps with care, and Panthea saw he was disturbed by little bursts of fur fleeing on the path. The rabbits who lived here had never bothered him before; why would they run from him tonight? There were rabbits and other little animals everywhere underfoot, running up, away from the sea, up toward the volcano.

  A blast from a ram’s horn signaled a ship arriving in the port below, startling her. She caught her breath and leaned far to the right in her saddle, peering over the edge of the path. Ships arrived in port every day in their season. This one was late but still welcome. Yes, any ship arriving would delay her father’s decision. This must be God’s answer.

  She saw the outline of a ship cutting through the fog. The masts were stripped bare, so that the wood beams showed. The ship was like a skeleton with one blinking yellow eye that shifted and roamed. Someone on board was holding a candle box, staggering from side to side in the winds.