Authors: Margaret Weis
He ran through the camp. “Douse that fire! You, girls, pretty yourselves up.”
“What is it?” Evelina demanded, as Glimmershanks came bursting into the
wagon. “What’s wrong?”
“A mob, headed this way.”
“A mob?” Evelina repeated in disbelief. She caught hold of a shawl, wrapped
it around her naked body, and peered out the open door. “But where did they
come from? The nearest town’s ten miles away. And why? We haven’t done
anything.”
“A mob doesn’t need a why,” said Glimmershanks. “Hand me my shirt.”
In truth, there were so many possible “why”s that he would have been hard
pressed to have picked just one. There wasn’t a town or village in these parts
that he hadn’t visited in the past few years, leaving pregnant girls and
cheated tradesmen in his wake.
“You better stay in the wagon,” he added, seeing Evelina drawing on her
chemise. “I’m going to have to talk our way out of this one.”
“Then you will need my help,” she said.
“Boss!” The drover appeared at the door. “It’s not a mob! It’s—you’re not
going to believe this—it’s a group of holy men and there’s a nun with them!”
“Holy what?” Glimmershanks paused in the act of thrusting one knife up his
sleeve and tucking another into his boot. “Are you sure?”
“There must be twenty of ‘em, Boss. All dressed in brown robes, their shaved
heads a-gleaming. The nun’s all in black and she’s at the head of the line. See
for yourself.”
“How strange,” said Glimmershanks, frowning. “There isn’t a monastery within
a hundred miles of here.”
“They’re likely on some pilgrimage or other,” suggested Evelina. Now that
the excitement was over, she sank back on the bed with a yawn, her skirt half on
and half off. “They’re just passing by here on their way somewhere else.”
Glimmershanks was not so sure. His fingertips still prickled and the back of
his neck itched. Snatching up his hat, to make himself appear as respectable as
he possibly could, he left the wagon and went out to the road to where the rest
of the troupe had gathered, chatting and wondering. He could see the group
clearly in the torchlight and there was no doubt that they were holy brethren
of some sort. There was also no doubt but that they were walking toward the
caravan.
The monks and the nun were in no hurry. Their progress was slow, solemn, and
inexorable. They did not have the look of a friendly audience. Glimmershanks
could not imagine what he had done to draw the wrath of a group of holy men,
for he made it a practice never to go near a church. He put on his best
manners, pulled off his cap, and went to meet them.
“Brothers,” he said, bowing humbly, not being exactly certain how to address
them. He bowed again to the nun. “Sister. You are welcome to our camp. Please,
come, seat yourselves by our fire. We are a troupe of poor players and we do
not have much, but what we have is yours.”
He cast a worried glance over his shoulder at his troupe, but they knew the
way of the world as well as he did. The women, who had been dressed for bawdy
comedy, saw that they were going to be in a miracle play and changed their
costumes to suit the action. They scrubbed the rouge off their faces, threw
scarves over their heads, and covered up their bosoms. Evelina, accompanied by
Ramone, and looking very much the virginal daughter, came to stand meekly
beside Glimmershanks. She dropped a graceful curtsy and demurely crossed
herself. The bullyboys sobered quickly. Dropping their clubs, they stood
twisting their hats in their hands, looking uncomfortable.
The nun was at the head of the procession and she was the one who advanced
to receive Glimmershanks’s homage. She was stout, middle-aged. Her expression,
bound by the wimple, was severe.
Glimmershanks made a welcoming gesture toward the fire. “Please, Sister,
Brothers . . .”
The line of monks came to a halt. The nun cast a look around the caravan.
Her gaze fixed on the cage covered in canvas. She turned glittering eyes back
to Glimmershanks.
“We hear that you are harboring a demon in your midst,” she said gravely. “Where
is it?”
Glimmershanks gaped. He could not for the life of him imagine what the woman
was talking about.
“D-demon?” he stammered, looking at Ramone for inspiration.
Ramone shrugged and shook his head.
The nun pointed a plump finger at Glimmershanks. “Speak, man! Tell us where
to find the demon. Every moment that passes puts you and all here in peril of
your immortal souls.”
Glimmershanks was beyond mystified. “I am sorry, Sister, that you have come
all this way for nothing. We have a man with two heads and a—”
Evelina elbowed him in the ribs. “The monster, you ninny,” she hissed.
Glimmershanks cast a nervous glance at the draped cage. He was reassured to
see that the canvas was drawn tight-shut.
“Your Holiness, we may be actors, but we are god-fearing men and we would
never—”
The nun turned her head to speak to the monks. “Brother Jon, Brother Mikal.
Search the wagons.”
“Now see here, Sister,” Glimmershanks said heatedly, moving to intercept the
two monks, “you have no right—”
“You would do well to stand aside, sir, and let us proceed.” The nun’s eyes
narrowed. “I would not like to think that this fiend of hell has seized hold of
you and speaks through your mouth. There are ways of removing the devil from a
man.” The nun calmly folded her hands, one over the other, inside the sleeves
of her habit. “These ways are not pleasant. Stand aside.”
Accustomed to performing before unfriendly crowds, Glimmershanks was used to
thinking on his feet. He did as he was told, with a great show of humility.
“Ramone, escort the brothers to the first wagon,” said Glimmershanks in
defeated tones. “Show them
everything.”
He laid emphasis on the word. “We
have nothing to hide.”
Ramone took the hint. The wagons were parked in a haphazard horseshoe around
the fire. The prop wagon was at one end of the horseshoe. The cage holding the
monster was at the opposite. Knuckling his forehead, Ramone bade the monks
accompany him. The prop wagon to which he led them held the stage sets, the
costumes, and the troubadour’s instruments. It would take the monks a long
while to sort through the tambours and cymbals, drums and wigs and petticoats,
castle walls, a bright orange sun and a shabby moon that had seen better days.
Glimmershanks looked back at the nun. She stood alone, aloof, her gaze fixed
now on nothing, her eyes unfocused. She might have been listening to a distant
voice.
“Daft old bitch,” muttered Glimmershanks. “I’ll just go see how they’re
getting along, Sister,” he said aloud.
As he turned away, he made a motion to his bullyboys. Each man slipped his
cap back on his head and, moving slowly and silently, picked up the club he had
let fall. Evelina, who had been fidgeting in the background, saw the gesture,
understood its import.
“Are you crazy?” she demanded, pouncing on her lover. “You can’t beat up a
nun! It’s . . . it’s . . .” She wasn’t sure what it was. “Bad luck.”
“Bad luck for her, not for me,” growled Glimmershanks. “We made twenty
sovereigns off the monster this one night alone. I’ll be damned if I lose that
kind of money!”
“But suppose she’s right?” Evelina whispered nervously. “Suppose he is a
demon who’s here to steal our souls? We might all be damned!”
“He’s welcome to my soul if he can find it.” Glimmershanks grabbed hold of
her, pulled her close to whisper, “I’ll stall them. You fetch a blanket and
throw it over the monster’s legs.” He fumbled in his pocket. “Here’s the key to
unlock the cage.”
Evelina cast a trepidatious glance at the cage. It was all very well to
taunt the monster when he was on one side of the bars and she on another. But
to be in the cage with him . . . And if he was a demon . . .
“I don’t know—” she faltered.
“Hurry, damn you!” Glimmershanks gave her arm a painful twist for emphasis. “Before
you’re missed.”
Evelina looked at him and then at her father, who stood near the wagon,
watching the monks and wiping sweat from his forehead. She took the key,
gripped it tightly in her hand, and, rubbing her arm, turned to walk back
toward their wagon.
“Where is she going?” the nun demanded, her eyes focusing suddenly and
unpleasantly on Glimmershanks.
“To open up the other wagons for inspection,” he replied. He pressed his
hands together in a prayerful manner. “Would you like something to eat while
you wait, Sister?” The nun did not deign to answer.
Glimmershanks stood with his arms crossed, one hand toying with the hilt of
the knife in his sleeves. The two monks had entered the first wagon. There came
the tinny clatter of a cymbal falling and a bang as a prop toppled.
Glimmershanks hoped it fell on their tonsured heads. He kept Evelina in sight
out of the corner of his eye. She had entered their wagon, grabbed up a
blanket, and now stood hesitating on the stairs. He scowled and made a jerk
with his head, to urge her along.
Another bang and a clatter drew the nun’s attention to the prop wagon.
Evelina dashed out the door and ran behind the next wagon in the line.
Glimmershanks lost sight of her. He turned back to the nun, favored her with an
ingratiating smile.
“Are you certain you wouldn’t like to sit down,
Sister? This may take a while.”
Clutching the blanket, muttering imprecations against Glimmer-shanks and
stomping on him with every angry footfall, Evelina circled around behind the
wagons. She was not accustomed to being ordered about, nor was she accustomed
to being manhandled. Her father had never dared lay a finger on her. She’d have
an unsightly bruise on her arm by morning.
“The bastard will pay for this,” she promised.
She had difficultly seeing in the darkness, for the wagons blotted out the
light of the torches and she stepped ankle-deep into a puddle of slop thrown
out of the twins’ wagon. This did nothing to improve her temper. Evelina
threatened her father, her lover, and everyone else who had gotten her into
this mess and the cage holding the monster was on her before she knew it.
Evelina drew up short. Shrouded in canvas, its misshapen bulk looming large
against the cold light of the stars, the wagon had an awful look to it in the
night. Evelina clasped the blanket to her chest and slowly walked around the
cage to the rear. She held her breath, listening. She could hear nothing; no
sounds came from inside.
“The monster must still be unconscious,” she said to herself. “Unconscious
or asleep. Or dead.”
She didn’t want to do this. She lingered outside the wagon, building up her
courage. The fact that she could hear no sounds of life coming from inside
helped her—that and the thought of the money, which, in her fit of temper, she’d
forgotten. Twenty sovereigns, Glimmershanks had said. Evelina gingerly lifted
up the flap of canvas that covered the bars of the cage and slipped beneath it.
The folds of the heavy canvas fell down around her, pressed her against the
cage. Beneath the canvas, the darkness was absolute and stank of urine and
blood, leather, and wet straw. Evelina had smelled worse in her time and she
paid scant attention to the stench. She could not see the monster, but then she
could not see her own nose in the pitch darkness. The monster made no sound.
Not even breathing. She fumbled around in the dark, trying to find the lock,
and eventually was forced to thrust the canvas aside in order to let in some
light. Drawing in a welcome breath of fresh air, she glanced back over her
shoulder at the camp.
Glimmershanks and the nun stood near the fire. The monks were searching the
other wagons. For all the commotion, the night was eerily silent. The monks did
no talking. The players kept their mouths shut. Ramone wandered about
aimlessly, twisting his hat in his hands.
Ruin of a good hat, Evelina thought irritably. No one was looking at the
monster’s cage. A glimmer of light from the distant torches dimly illuminated
the iron bars. She adjusted a fold of the canvas so that she had a clear view
of the lock and thrust the key inside. Before she opened it, she took another
wary look at the monster. His eyes were closed. He lay unmoving in the matted,
filthy straw.
“And what is in that wagon?” The nun’s voice was loud in the stillness.
“Which one, Sister?”
“The one covered with canvas.” Evelina froze, the key in her hand.
“Ah, that one,” said Glimmershanks. “We had to lock up a member of our
troupe, I am sorry to say. I hired him on in the last town. Too late, we
discovered the man was a thief. We are honest folk, Sister. Traveling players
cannot afford to be otherwise. We planned to hand him over to the sheriff at
the next stop. He found out and he went berserk. He attacked one of my actors.
Perhaps you saw him? The man with the broken nose?”
Evelina couldn’t see Glimmershanks but she could almost hear him shrugging
his shoulders.
“We had to confine him and the only place we had was the empty cage where we
used to keep the lion.”
Evelina smiled sourly. A convincing liar, that man. She gave the key a
wrench. The lock clicked. Grabbing hold of one of the bars, she hoisted herself
inside the cage. She shook out the blanket and started to throw it over the
monster’s lower body.
She looked up.
Eyes looked back.
The monster’s eyes—open, dark and empty, save for two points of flame that
burned too steadily, were too unwavering to be a reflection.
Evelina shrank back against the bars of the cage. Terror, stark and numbing,
closed off her throat. She was helpless. The scream that would bring them all
running to save her was the scream that would ruin her. The monks would find
their demon. Glimmer-shanks would blame her, cast her out, and her father with
her.
The monster made no move. He said nothing. He had no need. His eyes spoke
for him.