Judith Merkle Riley (10 page)

“He must have bribed the steward—”

“Oh, it happens. It happens all the time. Here within the walls, we have them, too, these abductions, despite the city watch. Villasse always was impetuous. A bad trait, don’t you think? Now, look, isn’t the moon splendid? Help me up; I want to lean out the window and speak to them. To whom? The stars, of course. There, see the North Star? That is my guide. A sure harbor, said my late husband. Let the others move; that one is constant. I have never forgotten you, Sibille, though they would have liked me to. Some things are right, some are wrong. The North Star is always right. Villasse, my dear, bores me already. He was evil. He will be buried in the great tomb of secrets already hidden beneath this city. How very appropriate that a murder has brought you back to me. Someday you may understand why.” All of a sudden, a pang of conscience shot through me. She noticed it and said, “What’s wrong, dear, have I said something to shock you? I’m afraid I’ve grown used to shocking people over the years.”

“No, not that, Auntie. I’ve something on my conscience. I’ve a sack full of salt that’s not mine, and I don’t know how to find the owner, who was so helpful to me. But if I throw it out, I’ll feel guilty.”

“Let me call Arnaud,” she said, having heard my story. “The whole thing sounds rather suspicious to me. From what you tell me, this man sounds like a sly fellow bent on some scheme to get his sack into the city without inspection. You could very well have been arrested yourself. You are a bit of a goose, my dear, to be so trusting of strangers.” She rang, and the peg-legged valet returned with another bottle of wine, filling both our cups. “Arnaud, fetch me the sack that was with my goddaughter’s chest; I want to see what’s in it. I’ll be very surprised if it’s salt.” She had me repeat the story. Arnaud listened silently. “It is my opinion that he may be back for it,” she said.

“It is also mine, Madame,” said her servant. “I will notify the household,” he said, stumping off to return with the sack for Aunt Pauline’s inspection.

But as he opened it, there on the table, the candlelight caught on the sharp glitter of metal, and we sucked in our breath as one person. It was a heavy leather case, sealed with the arms of the Queen of France.

“Sibille, my dear, I fear this is worse than I thought. Your stranger has robbed a royal courier.”

“A royal courier would rather die than give up his charge,” remarked Arnaud. “I fear there’s murder in this somewhere.”

“That is my thought as well,” said Auntie, wiping grease off her little mustache with her napkin. “The question is whether we should bury the case, or whether we should send it to the
bailli
in the morning, saying it was found on the road. Luckily, the seals are intact, so I think we can risk the
bailli
. Word will get around, and the robbers will not return here to find their prize. Arnaud?”

“It shall be done, Madame.”

“Excellent. Put it back in the armoire where you found it. We’ll get rid of it tomorrow. And a little more of that sweet wine over there. It does help me to sleep.”

Hours later, tipsy with godmother’s wine, I followed the discreet valet with the wooden leg back to my room. The stolen case, the murder I had done all began to work on my mind and fill it with fears, which swarmed and grew in the alien, mildew-smelling house. The light of the candle Arnaud carried through the winding corridors and rooms ahead of me illuminated bizarre foreign objects roosting between the tapestries of saints and the statues of nymphs. Here were painted leather shields, the spears and clubs of savages, long tubes with clusters of sharp arrows arrayed beside them. Hideous masks leered down from the walls. As we entered the high-ceilinged room where I was to stay, I, the woman who had shot off a musket without flinching, had begun to shiver. At that very moment, Gargantua began to growl, then bark and leap about. Suddenly, with a strange cry, something hairy, smelly, and clawed leaped on my back and seemed to entangle itself in my hair. I shrieked, and tried to fling the hairy thing off me. It vanished into the dark, and I heard the sound of scuffling, climbing, as the dog barked at the bed canopy as if it had treed a cat. A strange chattering sound came from near the ceiling, and the candle showed the canopy dipping and swaying as if something were on it.

“What is that awful thing?” I cried, trembling all over.

“Ah, so there you are, Señor Alonzo, you jealous devil,” said the valet, speaking for the first time. “Madame has been missing you. Come down, come down.” He set down the candle, made a chirruping noise, and reached into a pocket for something; it looked like a piece of cake. There was a sort of blurring rush, and the thing leaped from the canopy to the valet’s shoulder. Brown and hairy, long-tailed, wearing an embroidered velvet jacket. As it stuffed the cake into its mouth, it looked at me with beady black eyes out of a face that seemed indescribably old and forlorn.

“A monkey,” I said, recovering myself. “What’s a monkey doing here?”

“This is not just any monkey. This is Señor Alonzo, my second in command,” said the valet. “We once sailed together, him and me.” At this, the monkey on his shoulder grimaced, showing sharp little eye-teeth. “We keeps things in order for Madame, doesn’t we, Alonzo?” Gargantua was snuffling and whining among a mound of petticoats on the floor.

“Oh, my things! They’re all undone!” I said, rushing to pick them up. What a disaster! The armoire doors stood open. Petticoats and manuscript pages were crumpled and scattered all together, a bottle of scent poured over the lot, and the whole thing trod together as if the monkey had danced on them in a rage.

“Sorry, Mademoiselle. The Señor must have smelled the dog on them. And he’s angry at you for staying here and keeping Madame company. I’ll put things to rights for you. Say, this is a beautiful box you’ve brought. What an odd design.” As he picked up the silver-gilt coffer and set it on top of a tall chest of drawers, the monkey began to chatter, and jumped to the top of the huge, ornately carved armoire.

“It’s not mine—I’ve never seen—oh, no—” On the floor lay the leather case, wide open. The monkey, in his orgy of destruction, had opened the seals and undone the buckles. “The box,” I said. “That was what was inside the dispatch case.”

“Well, well,” said the wooden-legged valet. “I think this finishes the plan of handing it over to the
bailli.
They’ll ask too many questions that you are not prepared to answer. I will consult with Madame. But it seems to me the best course of action is to put it back in the case and drop it on the road outside of the gate tomorrow morning, and let fate do what it will. Either that, or drop it down a well.” My insides cringed at the thought of my naïveté, at getting my own godmother entangled in such a dangerous mess. The sooner I was rid of it, the better.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Dreadful dreams kept awakening me. I saw again the vicious mob, and heard their sinister chant, only this time it was father in his shirt, carrying the faggots. But when I looked at the scaffold, I didn’t see him there, but a different execution, someone to be beheaded. “Oh,” said the passersby, “a woman who slew her betrothed. Dreadful. Unnatural.” The block, dripping with blood…and through it all, a sly little voice seemed to say, “I can give you anything you wish. Just open, speak the words engraved above the lock, and your greatest dreams will be yours.” Who could be saying that? I’d wake up and stare into the dark, hearing nothing but Gargantua breathing. Again and again it happened. Then I became aware of something else breathing. Breathing very, very softly, almost not a breath at all. That awful monkey, I thought, he’s sneaking back. But no, the door was closed. Then a soft sound, like whispering, coming from the top of the chest of drawers. It is the monkey, I thought, and he’s afraid to come down, because Gargantua’s here. I pulled the covers over my head, as if that would keep him from me, and turned over and tried to sleep again.

At last, as the silver light that leaks from beneath the rosy curtain of dawn penetrated my chamber (ah, that’s very good, Sibille, you must save it for your next poem), I pulled the covers from my head and saw the monkey wasn’t there. Pen and paper, I thought, I need to put down that curtain of dawn before I forget it. Poetry, once my splendor, now you will be my consolation…Barefoot and in my nightgown, I began to rustle around the strange bedroom. It was then that I heard the whisper more urgently than ever:

“You conceited female, aren’t you in the least curious? Open the box, and you will find inside a secret that will make you the greatest poetess in the world.”

Without even thinking, I answered back, “What good is that? There are hardly any women Truly Dedicated to the Muses anyway. Being the greatest poetess, that’s like being the Emperor of the Antipodes.” At the sound of my voice, Gargantua awoke.

“Poet then, poet. Author of all authors, divinely worshiped, quoted everywhere by lovers—” The whisper was hurried. Yes, definitely—it was coming from the top of the chest of drawers. I stiffened. There was something, something awful in that box. And it was whispering my fondest dreams to me. My skin prickled. I was also humiliated, hearing my secrets all repeated in that vulgar, insinuating whisper. I resolved never to open that box. The sooner at the bottom of some well, the better.

“Your dreams, at the bottom of a well? How could you do such a thing?” Gargantua growled, as if he could hear it, too.

Now when things are utterly illogical, it is best to meet them with logic. So instead of running mad through the corridors of the strange house, I merely addressed the top of the chest of drawers, and said, “I listened to that stranger, and brought down nothing but trouble. I’m not listening to you. Whatever you are, ghost or demon, I’ve had enough of tempters. Today is the day you go back into the pit. I’ve half a mind to have you exorcised.” An eerie wail came from the box. Definitely, a demon, or the threat of holy water wouldn’t have distressed it so. I almost felt sorry for it.

“Oh, that’s it. I’m a poor, pitiful thing, trapped in here. You’d find me darling, tender, so soft and lovely—”

“Liar,” I said. Lord, how clever it was, molding itself to every momentary desire. They say that’s how the devil works.

“Oh, not clever at all—a sorrowful, wretched little thing, only wanting a pure maiden to liberate it and turn it back into a handsome prince with a kiss—” At this notion of myself as a romance-infected, weak-minded dreamer, filled with inflated ideas of her own sensitivity, I became furious.

“That does it!” I shouted, and I pulled the box off the top of the chest of drawers and slammed it into the heavy leather dispatch case. As I prepared to buckle it in, it whispered one last thing:

“Aren’t you even interested in what I am, that the Queen of France wants me so desperately?” Then it fell silent.

Maybe I’ve killed it, slamming it around like that, I thought. It’s awfully quiet. I wonder what it is. If it’s dead, it can’t hurt me. It can’t be so harmful, if the queen herself wants it. I mean, it’s probably sealed up in a bottle or something. I didn’t hear any glass break, so it won’t be loose. A little magic thing sealed in a bottle. An imp or a fairy. One little peek wouldn’t hurt. Especially now that it’s dead or unconscious. I could close the box up quickly, and it would be as if I’d never looked. All these thoughts, and no whispering. Just silence. Unearthly silence. Definitely, it was at least unconscious. I pulled the ornate, silver-gilt box out of the case. There was not a sound, not even of breathing. If I’ve killed it, I really ought to know, I thought. Just a peek, no more. When I picked up the box, Gargantua whined, then vanished under the bed.

There was a lot of engraved writing on the box, in letters I couldn’t read because I had never seen anything like them before. The designs were alien and eerie. There was a thing in a chariot with snaky legs and the head of a rooster. Above the lock was a plaque set over the designs, with nonsense words written in the Roman alphabet. I shook the box. Nothing rattled. I smelled it, and didn’t smell anything unusual. I set it on the nightstand, and opened the catch, planning to peer in just a little.

There was a sudden roar, and the pink dawn’s light darkened suddenly to midnight, and the box lid flew open in something like a wind that tore at my nightgown and made the bedclothes fly across the room. As the light returned, I saw something unspeakably old and evil sitting on a rotting crimson silk cushion inside the box. It was a mummified head, shriveled, dark brown, covered with peeling, parchment-like skin.

“Ah, God!” I cried aloud, as I crossed myself.

“Too late,” I heard the insinuating voice say. The dried, peeling lips barely moved. “You peeked. Now I’m yours.” One sunken rotting eyelid opened, and a shining, living eye peered out at me. The monstrous thing winked, and its parchment lips seemed to stretch out in a smirking grin. With a scream, I slammed the lid shut.

Then there was terrible confusion, as Gargantua emerged, barking, servants came running in, and at last, Auntie, in a dressing gown and ruffled cap, leaning on her walking stick, came puffing into the room.

“Now what is it? What’s this commotion? Has your dog caught a rat? Surely, Sibille, you are stronger minded than that.”

“Auntie, Auntie, there’s a horrible, dried up dead man’s head inside that box.”

“Hmm,” she said, “then we can’t throw it down the well after all. It might poison it. Let’s see. A head by courier. It could very well be the head of someone distinguished, being retrieved after an execution—”

“There are probably people hunting for it right now. Maybe several sets of people. These things have sentimental value, you know,” said her valet, Arnaud.

“Then we’ll bury it in the cellar, and throw the box down the well,” announced Auntie. At this, an eerie cry rose from the box.

“Auntie, it’s—it’s alive—it—talks—horrible, horrible things—” I said, almost suffocated with the thought of that living, leering eye. The thing in the box made a sinister sound, so that even Arnaud crossed himself.

“Shut up, you, I’m thinking,” said Auntie, and gave the box several sound raps with her walking stick. She was so engrossed in her thoughts, she never noticed how she had dented and scuffed the lid of the rich metal coffer.