The Secret Book of Paradys (17 page)

She was now in famed Paradys, without a coin or a scrap of food, clad in her brother’s clothes and her sister’s cloak, and the shape of a boy, knowing only the name of an artisan to whom Pierre had been assigned. But armed with this, and the meal the apothecary had given her, Jehanine looked about her boldly.

She knew nothing of Paradys, scarcely its title, which was almost as much as Paradys knew of itself.

She wandered a while, carelessly aware of everything, for everything was different from all she had ever known, and consequently she observed it through the lens of familiar concepts, and could by this means discount it. The people pushed and shoved at her like herds. The bulging, craning and leaning buildings, which frequently met overhead in the narrower thoroughfares, reminded her of defiles among the rocks, or overgrown woods. The air, rank or sweet with smells of cooking, perfume, humanity and filth, was only an outdoor variety of the air of farmhouse or hut. Since she had nothing worth stealing, no one attempted to rob her, or if they did, it was performed – and disappointed – without her knowledge. Climbing up the hills of the city, even as the sun began to slide down them, she started to catch glimpses high above her of a massive form, in fact a building that was in the process of birth. Brown walls and skeletal scaffolding towered into the sky. This was unlike anything from experience, and must be one of the churches the apothecary had mentioned when inducing her to sin. At length, remembering a conversation between Belnard and Pierre, Jehanine detained a pedlar, at this moment the only creature in sight.

“Is that the great Temple-Church they’re making there?”

“Is so,” said the pedlar, a tall dwarf she now noticed, the crown of whose head reached to her ribs. “The Temple of the Sacrifice of the Redeemer.”

“Then,” said Jehanine, “does Master Motius” – the name of the artisan – “live hereabouts?”

“Oh, are you going to be apprenticed to him, or to model for the class? You might buy a ribbon for your sweetheart. Here, look –”

Jehanine pushed the tray aside. She frowned.

“Tell me,” she said, in a tone Belnard used with his slaves. “Or I’ll tip your tray in the muck and black your eye for you.”

“Vicious thing,” said the dwarf, skipping back. He grinned. “It’s one of the young men you’re after. Who is it? I tell you, you won’t find him here. He’ll be in his lodging. Or in the tavern. I can guide you there,
where all the students of Master Motius go drinking. Buy a ribbon for your sister.”

“I haven’t any money,” said Jehanine. “Sod your ribbons.”

The dwarf spat neatly on the cobbles between them.

“See that alley? They call that Satan’s Way.”

“Take it then and go to Hell,” said Jehanine. Her male attire, freeing her tongue, pleased her. She went by the dwarf and continued up towards the gaping caverns of the part-built Church. However, to her annoyance, she realised the dwarf was creeping after her. There was nothing lying about suitable to throw. He must be ignored for the present.

Above the alley, circling the Church, a street of decent houses followed an old walled garden. A trough and an impressive well stood in the midst of the street, with steps, and carved figures holding up the well’s cowled roof. Something again fluttered in Jehanine’s memory. This was the very street where the artisan lived and had his studio.

Jehanine ran to the first house and spontaneously struck the door.

A small panel was opened. A pudgy face looked out.

“What do you mean by it?” a voice demanded. “Be off.”

“Wait!” cried Jehanine, her own voice rising to a wail. “Is this the house of Master Motius?”

“It is not. Be off.”

And the panel slapped shut.

From the tail of her eye, Jehanine was aware of the irksome dwarf still watching her. She walked across to the well, released the bucket and let it down into the water. As she was hauling it up, another house opened itself, this time by means of a small side-door, and out came a fat woman with an apron and keys at her belt, attended by a boy with a cudgel.

“Hey! What are you doing there?” bawled the woman.

Jehanine leant to the bucket and drank from it. The woman flumped over, the boy at her heels.

“As you see,” said Jehanine. “Isn’t God’s water for all?”

“Indeed not. We pay taxes for it,” said the woman. She eyed Jehanine, Jehan to her, with a round eye. “But the damage is done. Pray Heaven you’ve not let loose some disease in the water.” The round eye was now a lascivious eye. Jehanine played her part. She smiled at the woman, and leaned on one of the carved figures of the well. “Lady,” said Jehan, “I’m looking for my brother, one Pierre Belnard –”

“Ah!” cried the woman, and threw up her hands. “What a beauty he is. And a proper resemblance. You’ll be one of those younger brothers. Not trouble at home?”

“I must find him at once.”

“Not here,” said the woman. “Master Motius has the ‘Autumn Cough,’ there was no work today. Though why he can’t cure his cough, with all he knows – stop in a moment at the house. My old master’s off on his business – always off on something. I’ll feed you up, skinny boy. He’ll never know.”

But, “A drinking-shop …” suggested Jehanine impatiently.

“Well, your Pierre, the naughty one, that’s true. Down across the river. The
Cockatrice
is where they drink, bad fellows, and get up to all sorts. You ought to be careful of yourself. Now why don’t you come in –”

But Jehan-Jehanine was running on blistered fire-hot feet. Affronted, the woman turned to scold her cudgel-boy.

The dwarf had already vanished from the scene.

Darkness closed on Paradys. But the night City was no worse, no more impenetrable, than a night in the country. This too had its own strange sounds, its own pitfalls, and generally the City gave more light than the forests, hills and fields, which were lit only by fire-flies, fungus, stars and moon. The City moon was made of dull plate, but lower down other luminosities shone out. High round windows in various towers of a college where the students pored late over huge books and parchments, dim bars of light behind iron grills and panes of sheepskin. Sometimes, at the gates of a fine house, or along the river and its bridges, torches flashed on poles. But on the lower bank the hovels crowded to each other in sympathy, darkling, though here and there an occasional fire bloomed on stones in the street.

It had taken Jehanine a long while to find the
Cockatrice
. She had chosen wrong turnings, directions had not always been helpful. Twice, thrice, ladies of the alleys had spoken very ill of her, when the young man she was garmented as refused their services.

Above the inn door hung the sign of a cock with the head of a serpent. Superstitiously, Jehanine would not look straight at it. In the lord’s village, only twenty years ago, a man, coming home drunk one night, had disturbed a real cockatrice in the wintry pastures. One glance, and he had petrified to stone. The place was still pointed out, and the stone which stood there, hunched over in terror, ivy growing thick on him.

Having gone under the sign into the doorway, Jehanine was prompted to cover herself, head to toe, with the cloak. Pierre had of course never seen or would ever have dreamed of her in male clothing. She sensed he might in some way be offended.

Just then, men emerged from the inn, arguing. They blustered past Jehanine, partly throwing her against the timbers. Their features and expressions had the inimical alien look which the girl was accustomed to seeing on
the faces of fellow human beings. While, at the edge of the night, lit by the opened door, she beheld the tall dwarf lurking in an alley. It seemed he had stuck to her tenaciously through all her wanderings. Jehanine hastened into the
Cockatrice
.

It was a place whose light seemed only to contribute to its darkness. Beams crossed close overhead, below, a fire jerked and spits revolved. Opaque shadows had massed at tables, on benches, or passed her through the ochre gloom. The air too was thick with noise and smells. In such a place, where was her brother?

She began to wade slowly forward, looking cautiously aside into meaningless faces. Beakers clinked or were spilled. Men shouted. Serving girls screeched. Then she heard his laugh, so known, clear and musical and all embracing, across the formless din. On instinct, she swung towards it, almost collided with one of the servers – who cursed her flightily, thinking her after all a male – and got between the tables into an alcove.

Five or six young men sat there, indeterminate in the unlight light, oddly amalgamated by it to an entity. But in their midst, a holy face, sculpted and painted by sun-tan on ivory, and hair gilded by a master craftsman with costly gold-leaf mixed in honey.

“Pierre,” said Jehanine.

It was not by way of an address to him, but a magic word, spoken as an amulet.

But hearing it from an unexpected quarter, her handsome brother turned, and stared at her blankly.

“What’s this, eh, dear prince?” one of his companions, whose arm lay across Pierre’s shoulders, inquired of him. “Fallen foul again of the sorority of the streets?”

Pierre smiled, and shook his head.

“I don’t know her,” he said.

Struck in the heart, Jehanine stood in silence. For the first time since her escape, she was at a loss. She could see it was true. He did not know her.

“Well, what does she want?” said another of the men. Nearest to her, he caught at her suddenly, squeezing her flank. “We’re not ready for your single talent yet. Try us later.”

All of them burst out laughing, and Pierre’s beautiful laugh rose up again with the rest.

Jehanine shook off her hood in terror. She clutched her hands together at her throat. “Pierre – Pierre –”

“Oh, she’s glue, this one.”

“Go on, you hussy. Clear yourself off.”

“Wait,” said Pierre. Now his voice was low and shaken. He reached
suddenly across all of them and caught down one of her hands. “
Is it you
?”

“Yes –”

“What in Christ’s name – what are you doing here? Am I drunk and dreaming you?” Then, breaking through his guffawing and shoving friends, Pierre came out to her. Ignoring the fresh outcry, he began to drag her away with him, into some darker than dark corner. Vaguely she saw skeins of onions hanging from the roof about them, vaguely she heard all the clamour recede like a rumbling in the earth. “Why are you here, Jehanine? What’s happened?”

All of her seemed to give way at once. She wanted only to weep, and that he would take her instantly to some private gentle spot, and comfort her. But something in him, something new and novel, something old and well-known, warned her not to lean on him or shed her tears.

“I couldn’t stay,” she said. “He raped me.”

Pierre only gazed at her. His eyes were wide. What girl was he seeing here before him?

“Who?” he eventually said, without interest, only bewildered.

“Belnard.”

“Do you say our father –”

“Your father. Yes. He raped me. And later another of them would have – but I –” something stopped the phrases of how she had used a sharp stone. “What could I do but –”

“Oh, Jehanine,” Pierre interrupted her. “What are you saying? As if he’d do such a thing.”

And now it was her turn to gaze in astonishment.

“Oh very well,” said Pierre. He lowered his eyes, put out that such matters must be verbalised between them. “Perhaps you were unwise with some man. I won’t judge you. But to say our father did that to you. That’s disgusting.”

She closed her eyes.
It is true
, she cried out at him, soundlessly, hitting and clawing at him with her heart as she stood there motionless, defeated once and for all. Ah Pierre. Fair hero, but a man. How could it have been otherwise?

“Well,” he sighed. “I must get you back to the farm.”

A word, despite everything, sprang from her mouth, like the frogs of witch-cursings in tales. “
No
.”

“Don’t be tiresome, girl. I’ll have to spend time on this. I’m not best pleased, I can tell you. I have other things to do.”

“No – no – let me stay with you. I’ll care for you and –”

Christ’s teeth
. You fool, Jehanine. I lodge in a sty. You can’t come there. You must go home.”

And as they stood there, among the grove of onions in the dark, the smothered light burned in his eyes, on his hair, and suddenly touched also a spark under his throat. Having glimpsed it, she could not look away from it, though she had no understanding of what it might be – a fleck of mysterious fire, or the eye of some creature clinging inside his tunic.

“No,” she murmured again, but her purpose was gone. She spoke now on a dying reflex. But he answered in anger: “Yes, by God. Home you’ll go, you damned and stupid sow. Coming here and shaming me like this. Do I want you? Stupid fool, I’d rather hang myself than say you were my sister, flouncing here like some trollop.”

And then she saw what the spark of fire, the eye, really was. It was a jewel, a perfect topaz set square into a small crucifix of gold. It was the fabled gem Belnard had promised his son at his leave-taking. A gift for the boy, an abuse for the girl. As with the rape, these harsh words, this betrayal, oh, what else?

Jehanine whispered, “Forgive me, Pierre. What shall I do?”

Her heart had now died, and she felt nothing at all as he brusquely told her. Nor did she listen. The dead have no necessity to heed or to obey.

“What’s up with you? There now, ssh. Tell? I’ll listen.”

Jehanine struck out feebly, but the bending shadow dodged her blow. The shadow moved a space, and leaned philosophically on a wall. It sang: “Fero, fero, fero.” Then: “I could have told you. Whatever you are, girl or boy, that sort – they use you up then cast you off. No use begging in this blighted world. Stones for bread, poison for milk, kicks and cuts and cuffs and curses for a kiss.”

It was the dwarf, still following her. She supposed he would know about stones and curses. But that did not make her fond of him.

Directed by her brother to sit in a recess at the inn doorway, she had done so, the way a dog follows a command, meaningless in itself, by tone. She could not recall the direction. Other than herself, and a sleeping, toothless crone, the recess was vacant. Beyond, the drinkers came and drank and stayed or went. Pierre had also said he would return and fetch Jehanine, when he was done. Though she had not heard the words, she had assimilated the fury of his irritation.