In the Shadow of Lions (2 page)

Chapter Two

I grabbed the IV pole and stood, careful to conceal that awful opening in the back of my gown. I expected to find my leg muscles as sturdy as pudding, but his life had found its way into them, too.

He saw my undignified writhing to get the gown’s gaps in order but made no move to assist. “A desk job hasn’t been kind to you, has it?”

I followed him down the hall, glaring at his back, the size of a billboard, and shaking my wrist. The Rolex still stayed frozen at a few minutes before 1 a.m.

A nurse pushing a half-awake Crazy Betty wheeled past us. I flattened myself to the wall, bracing for the screams when the two women saw this man.

The nurse didn’t see us.

Crazy Betty did. She began yelling at him, shaking her fingers in fury. “Go back where you belong and leave us alone! Always sneaking around, in and out of rooms whenever you like, always scribbling in your little book!”

I froze.

The Scribe kept walking, pressing a finger to his lips to urge her to be quiet.

The nurse rolled her eyes and shushed Betty. “We’ll get you some tea and get you back in bed,” she comforted her.

Betty was hearing none of it. As she was wheeled away, she turned and screamed at him, “What are you writing, anyway?”

The Scribe kept walking.

“What was all that?” I asked.

He shrugged and kept walking. “Not everyone is happy to see us.”

“She could see you? She’s not crazy?”

“She’s crazy. But she can see us.”

He arrived at the nurses’ station.

Mariskka was there, her tone sharp as she argued with someone on the phone. “I said no. It’s against our policy here, David. I refuse to give her hope when we both know she’s going to die.”

Mariskka didn’t miss anything, especially when wealthy patients were nearing death but still lucid enough to update their wills. When she finally whirled around in her chair, she would faint from shock to see me up and walking, never mind with a Jolly Black Giant.

He leaned down behind Marisska. I covered my mouth with my hands and held my breath.

Resting his hands on her shoulders, he whispered into her ear, “You need chocolate. Right now. There’s some in the kitchen.”

“If you show up here, I’ll call the cops,” Mariskka spat as she slammed down the phone. “I think there’s some chocolate calling me.” She kicked back her chair and stomped off, in the direction of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” I hissed at him, watching him remove her Mac and tuck it under his beefy arm. It was barely visibly in between folds of bicep and elbow.

“Borrowing her laptop. You need it.”

There were so many reasons this night was all wrong. I could only come up with one to say. “That’s a Mac. I don’t use Macs.”

“Macs don’t need as many miracles,” he said. “I’m an angel, not a genie.”

I stood there, my mouth opening and closing again, trying to say something cruel or anything at all. The jolly freakish giant took off, with strides that outreached mine three to one, heading back to my room.

I should have been out of breath by the time we reached my room, but I was feeling stronger. I was stronger when he was near. When he exhaled it entered my body as a second wind. I edged closer and inhaled as we crossed through the threshold to my room. He turned and smiled, the first smile I had seen. I had almost rather he not do it again. His face was so big that even a smile made me edgy. I’d prefer for a man of this size to have as few emotions as possible.

He went to work plugging the Mac in, moving my bed to find the closest outlet. When it was plugged in, he set it on the edge of the bed and turned to me. My body went bloodless, like fish diving to the deepest refuge, all of my extremities going pale and limp, abandoned. He walked toward me, and my mouth stayed open, with not even the strength to close it. He reached out and took my arm. His warming touch did not hurt, though if I had tried to resist him he could have snapped my arm like a twig. He ran his finger down my arm, resting it on the IV line. Closing his eyes, he opened his hand and gently wiped my arm. The IV line fell to the floor, my arm whole and without a mark.

“It will be easier to work without that,” he said.

Blood began to flow back into my arms and legs, and I made my way to the bed as he propped up a few pillows for me. I climbed in, and he handed me the laptop. I began to type, just to feel the keys under my fingertips. It was like coming home.

I’m dying in the middle of the wildest dream!
I typed.

He crossed his arms. I could see his jaw shift and set.

Another voice growled. “You wanted the heir.”

“She’s difficult,” the Scribe replied. He didn’t turn his head to any direction, and I couldn’t tell where the voice came from. “Writing her story for years was easier than living with her for a few minutes.”

“She is the heir,” the voice replied.

“I’m the heir of what?” I asked. There was a sound like wind, but nothing moved in the room. The Scribe shook his head and looked for a place to sit. The steel-armed chair wasn’t large enough. He ran his hands along its frame and it groaned, stretching in all directions until he could comfortably sit. He opened his palms and a book appeared in them, a book bound in black frayed leather, with gold dust along the edges and thick iron locks keeping the pages sealed tight.

“The Tablets of Destiny,” he said. “It was last seen in the days of ancient Mesopotamia. It is referenced in the Bible, though never by its name.”

My fingers were raised above the keypad but didn’t move.

“Names have power,” he said. “The past has power. The two meet in this book. No one among you will be allowed to know its full contents until the Day.”

My fingers were still immobile.

“Two thousand years ago, on an island infested with fleas and thieves and the condemned,” he said, “a dying man was allowed to see the invisible world. He recorded this vision in the book that came to be called The Revelation. He saw that every church has an angel, every nation has an angel, and every child has an angel.”

My fingers had begun to move.

“But there was one class of angels he could not see. There are archangels, the strangest and fiercest of us who remain always near the women. Every bloodline of women has been followed by the same archangel since the beginning of the line. The angel of your line has watched you grow from a child into a woman, and he knows your past far beyond what is told to you by your mother and aunts. He knows who your women were, and who you can become.”

He stroked the book lovingly and its hinges sprang open, the pages fluttering and turning, settling at last on a dark page. It looked brown from age or heat, its edges crumbling and flaking onto his leg. The ink was faded, almost to the color of the page, and I couldn’t make out the words or language, though it was ornately drawn.

He sighed and touched the page. “These words die. They have not been spoken for so long.”

“Long ago, in the kingdom you call England, under the reign of King Henry VIII, there lived two women. One loved God, one hated Him, and neither knew Him. Both women, however, heard tell of a book, a dangerous book. When it touched the world around them, it burned all to the ground. When it touched the women, it consumed everything they had built their lives around, until all that is left of them today is rumor and innuendo. For this reason you are brought to this story, for the women of your past have seen this book and its great power. They bought it for you with their lives and know that it is watching you, listening, waiting….”

The ink of the words grew darker, and the page began to turn brighter. He smiled and stroked the words.

I continued to type as he closed his eyes and began. His voice moved all around me and multiplied, changing. I began to see as he saw, the people and voices coming together as my fingers stayed on the keyboard, flying to keep up with the vision as it unfolded….

Chapter Three

The rain made the April air cold. Water ran in ripples down the path that led to the church with a crucifix hoisted above the door, Christ’s bleeding arms outstretched as thunder punctuated the voices of men digging with shovels. The despised Grimbald stood to their right, his candlebox giving them a palsied light as they worked. The rain had let up enough that the flame was in no danger.

She saw they had kicked over the headstone, dragging it away and throwing the dirt over it as they worked. She heard the shovel strike wood and the men growl with pleasure. They dropped ropes to a boy, who shimmied through the mud to the coffin and worked to secure the ropes around each end.

She crept closer to watch, careful to let the trees shield her in her shame. Blood had clotted on the underside of her dress, soaking through to the final outer layer of the skirt. The rain had dispensed with it well enough, but he would get no further remembrance of her body. She cursed her body, and the rain, for soiling the last thing on earth she had. The dress was blue silk, an illicit treasure she had found in an untended parcel outside a gentleman’s house. Silk was forbidden for her class to wear, so she found the courage to wear it only on her worst days. Some woman had a beautiful life; this dress was its proof. As she slid into a stranger’s dress, she willed that woman’s good fortune to befall her.

One man wore the robes of a statesman: golden damask and linen, with an ermine collar around his cloak that she could smell from where she was. The rain was unkind to the rich and poor alike, for it made the poor cold and the rich stink.

Another man wore scarlet robes of a thickly done fabric, with a gold chain looping at his neck and a cross swinging from his breast—a cardinal from the church. She recognized him, her knees going soft, sinking her into the buried memories. She remembered the last time she saw him as he proceeded down the London streets, boys carrying gilded silver crosses running ahead and children begging alms running behind. He would always stare straight ahead, oblivious to both cross and hunger. But she knew his secret.

He commanded the men at their work, simple men from nearby, probably Southwark, who had no qualms about raising a man if it meant they drank well later. One man jammed an iron into the casket, prying it open. The cardinal peered into it, shoulder to shoulder with the statesman. They looked at each other and conversed.

“Set a stake.”

The boy ran to fetch the stake as the diggers pierced the earth, rending a deep hole to set the stake in, filling it back with dirt and rocks, testing the stake to see if it would hold the body. Grimbald hauled chains to the foot of the stake and waited while the men lifted the man from the coffin. She watched in horror as a priest, dead and limp, rose in front of her from the dark pit where death’s seal had been broken. His priestly robes were rotted, hanging in loose shreds, some staining making the holy inscriptions unreadable. His eye sockets were sunken and black, and his mouth hung open stiffly, as if he had one last word to preach.

The statesman and cardinal motioned for them to stop, and approached.

“The knife,” the statesman said, his palm extended to the cardinal.

The cardinal hesitated, then produced a knife from his cloak and laid it across the open palm. “Sir Thomas,” he replied, looking as if the knife was as foul as the corpse.

He obviously had no appetite for this work. But Sir Thomas did. He licked his lips and breathed on the knife, rubbing it on his robes so it flashed like lightning before it struck.

“
Ecclesia non novit sanguinem,
” More said. He walked to the body, kneeling before it, stroking the face with the blade. “‘Now also is the axe laid unto the root of the trees: so that every tree which bringeth forth not good fruit, shall be hewn down, and cast into the fire.’”

He plunged the knife parallel to the body and up, slicing the holy robes off, tossing them into a pile behind him. He grabbed the hat that had identified the man as a priest of God and jerked it away with such force that the head turned almost backward.

The corpse’s open mouth faced her, as if his last words were for her. She narrowed her eyes and felt hate. She would not forgive a priest.

He took the knife and lifted the head closer. Cradling the head in one of his arms as if the man were a fallen friend, he dragged the knife across the rotting flesh of the skull, scraping clean hair and bits of skin. He dropped the head, and it made a sucking thud as it hit the wet earth. Next he lifted the dead man’s fingers, scraping the knife against each one.

“You have betrayed the anointing of your office, and it is removed.” Sir Thomas stood.

She bowed her head. God’s punishment had found this man only in death. She feared her own would be slow in coming too. She wanted it now.

“Come brothers, good men of God, and curse this heretic! Send him to hell that he may trouble us no more!”

The men came round and mumbled uncertain words, until More shouted above them: “
Poena Damni.
You are sentenced to the eternal night, where their worm does not die and the fire does not go out.”

All spit on the dead man, and the boy darted in to secure the body to the stake with the irons. They stacked bundles of wood and kindling against the base, building up until the wood touched the man’s breast.

“The rain has stopped that we may finish the work,” More said. “God be praised.”

Grimbald, the parish priest who had betrayed her, took the sinking candle from its box and set the wood on fire. It snapped from branch to branch, consuming the body with great speed, death having drained it of much fluid by this night.

No one spoke as they watched the body sag into the flames and disappear.

When the flames began to concentrate their efforts at the base of the stake, they knew the body was no more. More grabbed the iron and ran it into the fire, over and over, until it hit upon what he wanted. He withdrew it, the skull sticking to one end. He crushed it under his boot with a fierce strike, grinding it down, grunting as it resisted in places.

“Boy.”

The boy ran to him.

“Scrape the shards into a bucket and dump them into the river. Do not wait for morning. The rain may grow heavy again.”

“Sir Thomas?” the boy asked.

More beckoned him closer and knelt to hear him. “You have done well tonight, my friend.” He touched the boy’s cheek. “You will make your father proud.” He slipped the boy a thick silver groat as payment.

“But Sir Thomas,” the boy asked, “what was his crime?”

More smiled. “Throwing pearls to pigs.”

The boy ran off to complete his work. While the men moved to gather their supplies and disperse, the cardinal and More began discussing something quietly between them that she couldn’t hear from her hiding place. They were walking to their horses and mounting as a new slate of rain broke above them.

His words displaced her cold repulsion with another grief, a slow, sinking guilt. His words forced themselves down her throat so that she gagged, grasped her neck, and fell to her knees. Guilt swarmed in her roiling stomach as a thousand accusations worked their way into her blood. She retched as she forced herself to her knees and to stand.

She timed it just right, staggering onto the path in front of the men on horseback, who with a smart spur had forced the horses into a dead run to beat the returning rain. She wore her best gown for this moment. Bloodstained and broken, she lurched onto the path, lifting her arms to embrace the relief of her death, lifting her angry face to heaven as the horses bore down, their hooves lifting to strike the beautiful blow. She wanted to die here, where the bleeding Christ and His cardinal would both be witnesses, and see what their work had accomplished.

Swift arms encircled her, lowering her to the ground as the hooves thundered all around her head. He lay upon her, absorbing the strikes on his back, his tears washing hers away….

When she awoke she tasted her lips. They had the taste of another’s tears, and she could smell her son again.

I stopped him there. He was ready to turn the page.

“Wait!”

He raised his metallic eyes and looked at me.

“Whose arms? Did he die when the horses hit him? Why could she smell her son? Why did they burn a dead priest?”

He began to turn the page again. “I tell this story as I choose.”

“I’ll write it as I please! Haven’t you ever heard the law of Chekov’s Gun? ‘If you plant a gun in the first act, it better go off in the third.’ I’m telling you, readers will spend the rest of the story wondering who those arms were attached to, so you better tell them, or just leave that part out. I’m not going to write a sloppy book.”

“You’re going to write the truth,” he replied. “Do you like fish?”