Valley of the Dead (20 page)

Chapter
32

Here pity lives when it is wholly dead;

Who is a greater reprobate than he

Who feels compassion at the doom divine?

Dante,
Inferno
, 20.28-30

They walked on, past more empty tents and dead campfires. Occasionally they would see someone walking about nearby, or looking at them from inside one of the tents, but no one came close or spoke to them.

After moving north like this for some time, their path took them near an old woman sitting on a stool under a tree. She beckoned them to come nearer. Like the pimp, she had an old, battered chest in front of her to use as a table, and above her was suspended a canvas sheet to provide some shelter. On the chest was a human skull; a pile of smaller bones, like those of a chicken or other small animal; some melted stubs of candles; and a small metal bowl with curls of incense smoke snaking up from it. All around the woman were gourds and bottles and earthenware jars. Though the incense was stinging at first, once he got used to it, Dante found it made the area around the woman more pleasant than any place he had encountered since climbing the cliff.

The woman herself had long, grey hair pulled back into an irregular bun. Her dress was made of various fabrics, brightly colored, and was very loose fitting, making her exact size indeterminate to Dante’s eye. As she smiled and gestured to them, though, Dante thought she moved with the comfort and ease of someone well-fed, even luxurious, despite her humble and slightly sinister surroundings. She seemed quite cheerful and alert, with sparkling blue eyes and a bright smile. She did not seem at all demanding or accusatory, unlike the priest or the pimp. Nodding a greeting to her, Dante breathed in the scent of the incense more deeply, feeling a bit easier.

A throaty, animal snarl shook him from this reverie. Grabbing the hilt of his sword, Dante turned to see a dead person tied to a nearby tree. The creature was sitting on the ground, baring its teeth and growling at them, its head bobbing and straining forward as it did so. It had been a male, and it looked small, only a boy. The old woman also turned toward it.

“Be still!” she shouted. As in the hut the previous morning, this undead person appeared more obedient than usual and calmed down somewhat at the woman’s voice. It stopped its struggles and stared at them sullenly, its growl reduced to a grumble.

The woman turned her attention back to her guests. “I’m sorry,” she said. “He gets excited. Don’t let him bother you. He’s quite secure. And quite useful, as you’ll see.” She smiled at that, and even under the circumstances, she still looked calm and reassuring to Dante.

Dante looked at her, then back at the dead boy, studying him more closely. He was shocked to see that although the boy was sitting with his face away from the tree, his arms and legs were wrapped around the trunk, with his feet and hands tied together, binding him to the tree. Dante saw no buttons on his bloody shirt under his chin, and it slowly occurred to him that the front of the boy’s shirt must be pressed up against the tree. His body was turned toward the tree, embracing it, while his face was turned away from it; his head must’ve been wrenched all the way around when he died. Dante knew of violent convulsions, of nearly unimaginable wounds in war and in accidents, but he had never heard of or seen a human body desecrated quite like this, and certainly not one that was still moving and making sound, however unintelligible and bestial.

“Why do you keep him there like that?” Dante asked. “Was he a relative? Someone you knew, and you couldn’t bear to kill him a second time?”

The old woman continued to smile kindly. “No, no, nothing like that. All my family is dead, completely dead. This boy wandered into camp a while ago. He was quite easy to catch. That’s why I asked one of the men if I could keep him. He could barely get around, with his head like that. If he saw someone and tried to walk toward them, he’d start out going away from them. And if he tried to right it and walk backward – well, he was a little too clumsy and he’d end up just falling over. So we tied him to the tree there, so now he can help me in my work. The tying was easier, too. His arms and legs aren’t bent back uncomfortably. They’re just out like he’s hugging the tree. He can just sit there, all peaceful. It’s all quite lucky, isn’t it? I call him my little sphinx. I think it fits his personality, and bent up the way he is, he even looks something like a sphinx.”

“We don’t understand,” Adam said. “Lucky for what? What do you need this poor creature for, now that he’s dead and tied up?”

The woman nodded, still smiling. “The luck was that I could put him to use, even tied up. I could give him scraps of dead things to eat. They like those. Did you know that? Most people don’t. I know, they don’t like them as much as what they really want, but we all make do with less than we want, so why not them, too?”

She produced a small, dirty, blackened carcass. She held it by its long, thin tail, so it must’ve been a rat, though she or someone else had bludgeoned it down to an unrecognizable piece of fuzzy jerky. Getting up, she held it before the dead boy’s mouth. “He really likes little birds, but they’re hard for me to catch. He doesn’t mind rats, do you, my boy?” She moved the foul meat a closer and he got a hold of it with his teeth, then pulled it in further with his lips and tongue. She waited patiently, holding the tail, as he set up a sickening chorus of crunches and grunts. When he’d gotten most of his meal into his mouth, she let the tail drop, and Dante couldn’t help but watch it disappear into the boy’s mouth, looking like a real person eating pasta, or a bird eating a worm.

“So little by little, with some feeding and some kind words, he’s come to trust me. I even think he likes being here and helping out.”

“Yes, that’s nice you could make him calmer,” Bogdana said. “But how does he help you? What is it you need help with?”

“Ah, yes,” the woman said, looking more serious. “I know you are new here. I know much, but sometimes I forget others do not know all I do. My name is Manda, my friends. All my life, I have had the gift of a keen mind’s eye. An eye that can see into the future, a mind that knows what others do not, but wish to. When I was young, I was nearly as beautiful as you, my dear.” She smiled and nodded toward Bogdana. “So I ignored my second sight, and did what others expected of me, gave others what they wanted from one so beautiful and desirable. I married and raised children. I was happy, in a way, though it seemed nothing special to me. And when my husband and children died in the plague – probably before you were born, my dear – I was still young enough to try my hand at the world’s oldest profession, much to everyone’s satisfaction and gain. But as I got older, I knew there was no use in that. Men no longer desired or paid for my body, so the time had finally come for me to profit from my mind. And I have done moderately well. Let me show you.”

Manda motioned them closer, and Dante took a step forward, though he constantly glanced over at the dead boy who continued to watch them. The woman took up the small pile of bones and cast it back on the table, inspected them, then leaned her head back, eyes closed, and took a deep breath through her nose. She opened her eyes and looked at Bogdana. “You, my dear, you are fleeing after your husband and,” she paused and nodded, “child were killed. Just one child, correct?”

Bogdana nodded. “Yes, my husband and son were killed.”

Dante watched her features. She didn’t look surprised or convinced, but she didn’t look as skeptical as he felt. Manda’s supposed second sight hadn’t even told her the child’s sex, and the number of children was a reasonable guess, based on Bogdana’s age. So far he saw no keen eye at work.

“Yes,” Manda continued. She turned to Radovan. “And you, young man, you were in the army?” Dante thought this obvious enough from his clothing. “And you left, not because you were scared, of course, but because you hated killing so many people. Perhaps they asked you to kill someone you knew? Is that it? You saw a friend or family member among the crowds you were ordered to kill?”

“No, just ordinary people,” Radovan said quietly, looking down.

“Good, I sensed such great kindness and mercy in you, and I assumed it must be for someone close to you. Forgive me, young man: I live here among such wicked men, and your compassion went beyond what I have come to expect, and even extended to strangers. You are truly blessed and virtuous indeed.”

This was a brilliant, skillful touch, Dante thought, trying to use a bad guess as further confirmation of her statement, then turning it into a fawning compliment. The woman clearly had great insight into human nature. Radovan looked slightly more impressed than Bogdana had, but mostly he just looked ashamed at his participation in the slaughter, embarrassed to have it brought up again.

Manda turned to Adam. “And you, sir, you are one of those monks from the monastery on the island.” As Dante noted before, with his distinctive clothing this seemed no great feat of prognostication. “You have come along with them to help them. You are going to lead them across the pass that goes over the mountains to the west.”

“Yes, I am,” Adam said, still in a composed voice, though his face, especially his eyes, gave away his surprise, and Dante felt that way as well. This seemed something more than just good guesswork. “You know of the pass?”

“I have heard of it,” Manda said, apparently staying a bit evasive as to the source and timing of this information. Had someone already gotten ahead of them, while they were distracted by the corrupt priest, and reported what they’d said to the pimp? Or was it a rumor she’d heard decades ago? Or was she claiming to have gotten it from some source beyond the human realm? Whichever scenario seemed more likely, Dante dreaded it when the woman turned toward him. “And you,” she said, “are from far away.” Dante relaxed, as this seemed obvious enough from his accent. “You have suffered greatly at the hands of your countrymen, your own people, and now you wander, always an exile, never at home.”

Dante struggled not to reveal how shocked he was. Here was something quite specific, though he had long wondered how much of his suffering was visible on his tired, damaged face. Perhaps his fate was known to all who observed him carefully; or perhaps something more was at work here.

“Yes, that is true,” he said.

Manda nodded, looking quite serious, though still comforting in a way. “And you loved once. You lost her.”

Dante’s struggle to remain composed increased greatly at this statement. Though it was much vaguer than the previous comment – “lost” could mean any number of things – it struck him much more deeply, for he had always hoped that pain was one he could control, direct, reveal, and draw strength from as he wished, and not one that would just be on display to any observer, manipulated and exploited by any charlatan or enemy. He felt dizzy and even angry at the woman, though he only whispered, “Yes, I did.”

Manda smiled and more of her kindness seemed to return. “Well, there’s always hope where there’s love. I have lost much, but I don’t know if I’ve ever loved. I envy you. You are very lucky to have loved so much.” She looked sideways at Bogdana, as she seemed to continue to address Dante. “And perhaps you will love again, eh?” Dante blushed more at this innuendo, though he had already come to accept that this part of his story was not particularly difficult for others to intuit.

“Thank you for telling us your story, and for sympathizing with ours,” Adam said. “But we still don’t understand how this dead boy helps you.”

“Oh, well, I found out that he has some of the second sight, too,” Manda said. “Of course, it’s very dull in his present state, and needs interpretation. But he can still answer questions that I can’t. Really hard questions. The kinds people most want to know the answers to. That’s why I called him the sphinx. So he’s very valuable to me.”

Dante was returning to his belief the woman was a complete fraud.

“But how does he answer?” Bogdana asked. “And what kind of questions?”

“I helped him remember how to speak a bit,” Manda said. “It’s really very remarkable, and so lucky for me. The kinds of questions? That depends on the person asking, my dear. The men up here are so simple and vulgar – they ask when they’ll die or where to find more jewels – nothing they need to know, and nothing I care to tell them. My little sphinx answers better questions. Tell you what. You all seem like very nice people, so go ahead and ask him one question for free. Go ahead.” She gestured to Bogdana. “You, my dear, I sense have more questions than the others and are more open to the answers.”

“No, really, I couldn’t,” Bogdana said. Dante thought it was the most unsure and nervous he had seen her. “It isn’t right to ask such things. And I don’t believe it’s possible.”

“Then you have the right attitude,” Manda said, coaxing her, flattering her more. “That is good. But what if belief has nothing to do with it? You’ll get the same answer whether you believe or not. And of course it isn’t right, but so many people come to me thinking it is right, and they always believe it’s possible. And they’re always so upset, no matter what the answer. It seems my sphinx and I can never satisfy them. But you have the right attitude. So go ahead.”

“Really, please, I don’t want to,” Bogdana said, the frustration in her voice increasing. “You may ask a question for me, if you like. Why don’t you do that and we can be done?”

Manda nodded. “That is a good choice, my dear,” she said. “I expected something so wise from you. But let me show you first that he really can answer.” She turned to the boy, who seemed to become more calm and attentive when she looked at him. “Sphinx, is my name Manda?”