In the Garden of Iden (17 page)

Suddenly festoons of tiny colored lights were blinking inside Sir Walter, all over his lungs and heart and liver, as though his organs were throwing a block party. It was pretty, in a ghastly sort of way. One of Sir Walter’s thumbs began to waggle back and forth.

“Good. Great.” Joseph twisted the pliers and leaned with all his strength. Something gave a little click, and the blinking stopped, the lights shone with a steady soft glow. “Now take the hemostim out of his nose.”

I obeyed gingerly and dropped the tool into a sterilizing pail. The lights continued to shine. Joseph exhaled loudly and began to close up Sir Walter.

“If you don’t need me for anything more …” I moved toward the door.

“No, stick around. Your boyfriend noticed some stuff he couldn’t account for, didn’t he?”

“You mean, like scars vanishing? He’s not an idiot. Don’t worry, though, I explained it all away.” I leaned against the wall and folded my arms, grinning. “I did
my
job. Your little mistake won’t leave any lasting suspicions in his mind.”

“It wasn’t
my
little mistake after all, wiseass. See this?” Joseph slam-dunked something into the sterilizer. I peered at it. A little Bakelite box, twin to the first but obscured by a film of blood and tissue. “Defective. If I ever get my hands on Flavius again—”

“Wow. What was it supposed to do?”

“Regulate the release of pineal tribrantine 3, not dump a week’s worth into his system.” Joseph reached for the skin plasterer.

“No!” I whooped with laughter. “No wonder he went tilt! You’re lucky you didn’t have to get him down out of a tree!” Joseph just glared at me and troweled new flesh into Sir Walter’s wounds while my snickering subsided. After a moment a thought sobered me.

“How come you’re giving him tribrantine anyway? I thought only we got that.”

“Special case.” Joseph put away the plasterer and grabbed up the retoucher. “It can be given to mortals, and it’ll do for them what it does for us; it’s just that their systems can’t learn to produce it like ours can. Costs a fortune to keep pumping it into ’em, too.”

“But it wouldn’t make them immortal, would it?”

“Nah. But they’d be good-looking corpses when they finally died, believe me.” Joseph looked up at me. “Thinking of the boyfriend, huh?”

Sir Walter twitched and groaned. His eyes had closed. I stared at him, watching the color return to his face. “No, actually,” I lied.

Joseph appeared at supper grave and solemn as a church elder, close at Sir Walter’s elbow. “Nay, I thank ye, I am very well now.” Sir Walter waved easily at everyone. “It was but the falling sickness, brought on by immoderate diet. Doctor Ruy hath explained it all.”

There were some dark looks in Joseph’s direction from the household staff, but the truth was that Sir Walter did look perky as a cricket again. He reached out now and dragged a bowl of watercress across the table to his place.

“What’s this? Cresses? You, Dick, this wants oil and salt! Alexander the Great was much given to the falling sickness, did you know that, madam?” He turned to Nef abruptly.

She blinked. He had scarcely ever spoken to her before. “Why—no, señor, I knew it not.”

“Verily, Lady. Julius Caesar, too. And Pompey, so I believe.” He stroked his beard complacently as one of the scullions fussed with the salad. “The ancients, being deluded heathen, held it to be a sign that Jupiter, who as you know was their principal idol, had marked a man for greatness. God’s marrow bones, fool, I said
salt!
” he shouted, glaring at the boy. It was a loud and deep shout, a resonant sound, very striking on the ear, as it came from old, dry lungs. The boy cowered. Everyone at table stared.

“Perhaps it would be wise to take but little salt,” reminded Joseph.

“Well, well.” Sir Walter dredged up some cress between his thumb and forefinger and stuffed it in his mouth. He wiped his hand on a piece of bread and turned back to Nef, chewing busily. “Where was I? Aye, aye, that great ones were ofttimes marked. Or so the Romans held. I myself was born with a mark like a cobbler’s awl upon mine elbow.”

“Doubtless a prophecy of your piercing wit.” Joseph smiled.

“Ha, ha, ha! Though I may tell you, Doctor Ruy, that I have made good fellows to laugh in my day, forsooth! I was once sought after for my good conversation.” He coughed modestly.

Well, he was boring enough now. Not my Nicholas, though. I gave him a sultry smile, but he was watching Sir Walter, frowning a little. A moment later he noticed and smiled at me, and gave me a compensatory nudge under the table. Then his gaze wandered away again.

“Lewd fellows, those Romans,” Sir Walter went on, digging out another handful of cress and wolfing it down. “They cut an image of Hercules in one of our chalk hills and—well—hum.” He glanced over at me and then back at Nef. “I shall tell you of it another time, Lady. Take some of the cress, I pray you, it is very good. Now, Master Ffrawney, did I not call for a capon to table?” Hurriedly the serving boy presented a whole roast chicken from the sideboard. “Aah,” cried Sir Walter; and as he leaned forward to pull off a drumstick, we all heard a distinct tearing sound. He froze.

“Your doublet is broke open behind, sir,” observed Nicholas.

“Is it so?” Sir Walter scrabbled at the front buttons with greasy fingers. “Well, out upon it, it was an old thing and shabby besides. I shall have a new one! Nicholas, bid Master Fish the tailor to call upon me. I must have six doublets cut in the new fashion. See that it is done.”

He got his six new doublets, and new shirts and hose as well; and the tailor went away shaking his head, because everything had to be made bigger in the neck and the shoulders. There was talk in the servants’ hall, let me tell you.

There was more talk when Sir Walter began to sleep with the laundress. She was a well-mannered person remarkable chiefly for her cleanness—she must have taken her line of work seriously—and for her breasts, which were like river rocks. Pretty soon she was making regular calls at Sir Walter’s creaking ancestral bed with the Iden arms on its hangings. I think the servants felt an obscure pride that somebody their master’s age should have a backstairs squeeze at all. But they really did not approve of his flirting with Nef too.

O
NE FAIR BRIGHT
morning, I was running along an aisle of the privet maze, ever so picturesque: my hair down, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling, et cetera. Just like the beginning of a historical romance. Never mind what I’d been doing. I found a green alleyway and ducked inside. My breathless giggling and the whining of the gnats sounded loud in my ears. There was a rustling from the hedge, and I poised to shriek: but it was Nef’s long profile that came around the corner.

Pop went the ambiance. “What the hell are you doing here?” I snarled.

“Hiding,” she said gloomily.

“Well, go hide somewhere else!”

“Ssh.” She put out her hand. We listened for a few seconds but heard nothing.

“Who are you hiding from, anyway?” I resumed in a stage whisper.

“Sir Walter.”

“You’re kidding!” I began to giggle again. She favored me with a look that would have frozen anybody older and less stupid.

“He keeps trying to get me to ride down to Dorset with him to look at this Hercules thing. From the way he leers, I get the impression it’s something improper.”

“It sure is! It’s a Neolithic nude with a twelve-foot penis.”

She rolled her eyes. “Why me?”

“Because he figures you’re a gentlewoman, what do you want to bet? And with all the improvements Joseph’s making, the old man’s fancy must be heavily turning to thoughts of love. I bet he feels like a million bucks. I bet he’s beginning to regret that he never married and furthered the heroic Iden line. And you’re the only available female of his social status, right?
Quod erat demonstrandum!
”

She took a swing at me with her rosary, which was solid silver and would have done me injury had it connected, though of course it only whirred harmlessly through the space where I’d been a nanosecond earlier. “Mendoza, you’re a rotten kid.”

“Don’t you feel honored? How many years do you think it’s been since the old boy thought of anything but his garden?”

She slumped down to a sitting position on the grass. “This is too embarrassing.”

“Seriously, though, would you mind being embarrassed somewhere else? Nicholas and I were—”

That was when the unicorn appeared. Tiny and demure, he came around the corner nibbling daisies from the grass. He halted when he saw us. Nef sat bolt upright, staring.

“What—” she said, and I started to explain; but she put out her hand, and the little creature ran to her at once. It nuzzled her, and she swept it up into her arms. “Little baby, what’s the matter?” Her hands found the twisted stumpy horn, and she gave a cry.

“It’s the unicorn,” I said uncomfortably. “The one I keep telling you about. Sir Walter’s pride and joy. You know.”

“Oh, the poor little thing!” There were actually tears in her eyes.

“See, somebody took a baby goat, and they did some sort of primitive surgery on its head—”

“I can see what they did, damn it!” She was examining its little feet. “And somebody gilded its hooves once, too, look at this, that’s why they’ve grown out this way. What kind of bastard would do a thing like this?”

“Somebody who wanted to make some money.” I shrugged. “Look, if it makes you feel any better, remember that at least he’s running around in a nice green garden this way. If he were still a goat, he’d probably have ended up as somebody’s barbecue by now. And it’s not as though he’s in any pain.”

“How the hell would you know?” She gave me a truly savage look. “How would you like to have a pair of your wisdom teeth bound so they grew into each other?”

How graphic. I backed off a pace. “Okay, okay, so it’s cruel. What can we do about it, though?”

“You’ll see.” Grimly, she rose, the unicorn docile under her arm, and swept away with him.

“But you can’t—”

Crash. Nicholas burst through the hedge, breeches already at half-mast. His whoop of triumph was strangled as Nef turned to glare at us. “God save you, madam,” he choked, sweeping off his biretta.

“Buenos días, señor,” she replied icily. The unicorn bleated. She turned away and marched on. We stared after her.

“What ails the lady?” he inquired at last.

“She hath discovered Sir Walter’s unicorn, and the truth of it hath moved her to a great passion of rage,” I explained.

“Charity to dumb beasts?” His eyes began to spark again. “Why, perhaps she should have been a shepherdess. God knows she’s no duenna.” And with that we changed the subject and had great joy of each other, there and then. Still, in the back of my mind a small beacon flashed red, red. I’d never seen Nef angry before.

It was a week before anybody found out what she meant to do, exactly a week to the day, and in that seven-day span summer left us: overnight. Nicholas and I went to sleep sprawled on top of his blankets and in the morning woke huddled under them.

I sat up in astonishment, in the dry cold air. The green leaves at the window stared in at me with a shocked look. What was wrong with them? I slipped out of bed to stare back. Yellow edges like fire beginning all around, chlorophyll breaking down, sugars blooming. I turned away. Nicholas lay watching me, an odd expression on his face.

“It’s so cold,” I said. “And the air has a smell.”

He nodded. “Autumn,” he said. “Time to put the pavilion about the Portingale orange, lest it die of cold. Come back into the bed, love, lest thou do likewise.” I scrambled back in beside him gladly enough. He pulled me close to his body.

“It is very deciduous in this country, is it not?” I remarked. I could feel him bemusedly sorting out the meaning of the word, and then his heartbeat quickened. He burrowed down to face me and said in Greek:

“Leaves fall in England, yes. But do they not also fall in Spain?”

I answered warily. “Yes, we have autumn in Spain. But not so much. There were not many trees where we lived. Pines there were. So, you see, I have never seen such a season.”

“I thought you said you also lived in France. And there are many trees in that country.”

“We were in the south of France,” I countered. “In the spring and summer.”

“Aah.” He narrowed his eyes.

“And perhaps I went to Egypt once,” I added.

“Egypt.” One corner of his mouth lifted. Sneer or smile?

“Yes. Or somewhere in the Holy Land. I remember seeing great seas of sand when I was small. There is no autumn in the desert, you know.”

“Truly?”

“Yea, truly.” I kissed him, and wriggled upward to the pillow and the safety of English. It was a great language to be evasive in. “But we have no time to debate these things, señor. The season changeth! Winter is at hand! The acorn shall drop for the rooting swine, and each little herb of the field shall bear seed according to its kind, señor! The holly berry waxeth red, doth it not? And I must gather fruiting body and example of them all. Quickly, señor, quickly!”

“I’ll show thee seed enough.” He reared up like a dolphin cresting a wave.

When we waltzed down to breakfast, very pleased with ourselves, the whole house was bustling. A brisk fire roared and snapped on the hearth. Sir Walter finished his oat porridge and poached egg in a gulp and lounged back in his chair, eyeing Nef.

“I think me this would be good weather for hunting,” he remarked. “Have you never seen one of our English hunts, Lady Margaret?” I rolled my eyes at Nicholas.

“Never, señor.” Nef did not look up from her dish of eggs and bacon.

“I think they have no such hunts in Spain. Our English hound is the only beast for the chase, I may say, and our English red deer the prince of quarries.”

“I know little of these things, señor,” she said calmly, buttering a slice of bread.

“Of course, I never kept a deer park.” Sir Walter looked out of his window with a sigh. “The Idens of old, though valiant, were but modest gentlemen and had no such means.”

“Come, sir, think of your ancestor! Old Sir Alexander hunted traitors, did he not? What need to take a deer when he had taken the monster Cade, eh?” cheered Nicholas, biting into an apple. It spat wine.

Sir Walter did not brighten much, though. “’Tis true. A valorous man. Still, I could wish …”

I don’t know what he wished, because even as I sat there savoring their mortal grace and silliness, there came a terrible outcry from the garden.

Before it was sound, there was a great blast of smell: two adult males in extremes of fear and dismay. I caught my breath. Nef lifted her eyes to mine. Sir Walter maundered on, Nicholas’s fine teeth champed away at his apple, the serving boy with quiet pride lifted the cover from a dish of pudding. Then the shouting became audible to them.

“Sir! Sir! You are robbed, you are robbed outright, you are plundered!” yelled Master Ffrawney, bursting into the great hall. He had one of the servants by the collar, a little old wreck of a man. Nicholas had pointed him out to me as the animal keeper. The keeper staggered forward weeping and collapsed on his face.

Sir Walter leaped up, reeking with alarm. “Speak, man! What say you?” he demanded. But the keeper was incoherent, and Master Ffrawney spurned him impatiently.

“It appeareth, Sir Walter, that through the negligence of this lying knave one of your chiefest treasures hath been mutilated. Someone hath stolen the horn of your unicorn!”

A chorus of gasps from the assembled company. Eyes met horrified eyes, except for Nef’s eyes, which were staring straight ahead. Another horrified gasp, this one of realization, from me, and quite drowned out by Sir Walter’s roar:

“Let me see it! Is he butchered?” He did not wait for a reply but ran for the door, closely followed by the keeper, who was wailing out that it weren’t his fault; and so followed the rest of the household, nearly, streaming down the manor steps through the sweet crisp air.

The unicorn was tied near the aviary, kicking and bleating. Sir Walter dropped to his knees beside it and raised profound ululation when he saw what the vandal had done to his heart’s zoological darling. I pushed close to see. Dear, dear. The horn had been removed neatly, all the way down to the skull. Cleanly, with surgical clipping of the fur. And a tidy smooth bandage of, as I live and breathe, Graft-O-Plast.

“My unicorn of Hind!” screamed Sir Walter. “My thirty pounds!”

“Twenty pounds eightpence,” said Nicholas faintly.

“Chide me not, master, for sweet Saint Mary’s sake!” The keeper groveled. “Devils roast me forever if I ever slacked at my post. I put him in his pen last night, and shut the door fast, and when I comes in this morning, he were like that! God smite me with blindness if it weren’t just so!”

“Thou liest, whoreson knave!” Master Ffrawney kicked at him again, but the keeper dodged. “Well we know thou hast taken the horn for thyself!”

“By Jesu and the heavenly host, master, I never did!” The keeper grabbed Sir Walter’s ankles. “What should I do with the thing if I stole it?”

“Why, rogue, sell it for gold! All the world knoweth the horn of the unicorn hath great virtue for healing. Any learned doctor—” Master Ffrawney almost bit his tongue off, he stopped so fast.

Too late. The implication went off like a psychic bomb. The air before my eyes danced with red numbers, red readouts for eight mortals’ mounting blood pressure all trying to claim my attention at once. I could scarcely breathe for the smell. And of course here came Joseph at the run, aware something had happened but only just beginning to get an idea of what. He paused. Every head turned to fix on him. Sir Walter’s eyes were like a furious dog’s.

The reading went off the scale. Killer apes. “
Spaniard
,” someone muttered.

I edged a little backward; in another few seconds I’d be unable to resist the urge to wink out of there and reappear in a safer place, and the mortals would startle away from where I’d stood. Too bad, but I couldn’t help it. Oh, the smell. A hand closed on mine, and I jerked and looked up into Nicholas’s eyes, cold and sane.

“Doctor Ruy,” said Sir Walter. “Hast thou meddled here?” What a thick, barbarous tongue English could be.

Joseph took a step backward. He could read them all, he took in the bandaged skull of the goat in a glance, he met my eyes and knew. He turned his head to Nef, who stood still and quite composed beside me. There was an impact. I staggered. Nicholas’s arm went around me.

Joseph strode forward and went down on one knee beside the goat. “Never, sir, Why, this is German wax,” he said.

What?

Sir Walter blinked a few times. “How now?”

“This.” Joseph tapped the bandage. “I have seen it in the Low Countries. Ferriers use it, and cattle thieves. It cannot be found in England. Some villain of a Fleming hath been here, as God is my salvation.”

“A Fleming?” The keeper was bewildered.

“My friend, it is well known what price the horn of a unicorn brings in Flanders, and for what terrible purpose. Sir Walter, my heart is sick with grief at your loss. We must be grateful that the miscreant did not slaughter your little beast outright, though you may be sure he refrained only so that another horn might grow back, when peradventure the cunning thief may return, hoping to work yet another outrage! Precautions must be taken, my friend!”

They all shook their heads, trying to make out what he was saying. The violence index was dropping. Joseph turned to John, the gatekeeper. “Hath there been any come to see the garden in recent days who spake like one from Flanders?” Joseph inquired sternly. “Or ragged men, who might be soldiers back from foreign wars?”

“Uh—” John’s mouth opened. An idea was put into his head. “Aye! Aye, they was two such.”

“Two.” Joseph nodded. “You see, he had an accomplice.”

“Damned Flemings!” Sir Walter clenched his fists.

“German wax?” said the keeper.

I closed my eyes with relief. The little screen of numbers trickled down, out of imminent hazard. The mortals were only confused and angry now. Someone muttered that he had seen a soldier drinking in the village, and someone else was telling a third what his old father used to say about Flemings. Sir Walter was shouting orders to search the grounds.

Joseph walked through them to Nef. They looked at each other. Impact again. The whole garden skewed and slid over sideways, with its tiny creatures gesticulating and running about all flat and far away. Standing through that ephemeral reality were two towering clouds with edges sharp as razors, in terrible conversation: Joseph and Nef. Their words were sound below sound, unspeakable violent silence, a quarrel to break the inner ear. Off in a corner, a little squiggle of smoke, wailing and scrabbling: me. Surely Heaven was going to crack right open with that percussive wrath. Then the garden was back in real time, and I was standing, clutching my ears. Joseph and Nefer had not moved. He still looked at her, and at last she looked aside, diffidently, and arranged a fold of her skirt.