The Raven's Head (37 page)

He says no more. Does not ask her for an answer or specify a day. The suggestion merely hangs in the air for her to pluck or not.

They reach the tower and she steps aside so that he might enter ahead of her, for he is her master.

He stands close to her, always too close. ‘Today all I have striven for will be set in motion, like the first trickle of water that turns the mighty wheel of the mill and then the stones begin to grind. I must prepare myself, cleanse myself. You will help me.’

He closes the door of the tower, plunging them into deep shadow. She hears the key grate in the door. He is locking them in. Panic rises in her and she has to stop herself yelling at him to unfasten the door. What does he mean to do?

Brushing past her, he bends down and tugs at an iron ring recessed into the third step of the wooden stairs, a ring she has never noticed before in the gloom of the chamber. The three lower steps lift upwards, like a trapdoor, revealing a hole that glows red as if a great fire burns beneath their feet, but there is no heat. A wave of cold, damp air rolls up from the shaft beneath. Sylvain beckons to her and, as she inches closer, she sees a set of wooden steps descending into the maw below. For a terrible moment she fears he is going to shut her down there. She backs towards the door even though she knows it is locked and the key hangs about Sylvain’s neck. But without even glancing at her, he edges down the staircase, calling her to follow, and she does. She dare not refuse.

The chamber beneath is round and small, the floor made of beaten earth, the walls rough stone. Four candles burn on spikes on the walls above her head, each flame shielded by a translucent blood-red stone, which she recognises as dragon’s blood. The red light is so dim she cannot see the expression on Sylvain’s face, only the glitter of his eyes.

In the centre of the chamber there is a long stone trough, like a coffin, almost covered over with a slab of stone, which has been pulled away from one end. She can see the glint of water inside, or she
thinks
it is water. It is hard to tell in the ruby light.

Sylvain faces her across the trough. ‘I must descend into the first death. I must be cleansed. It has taken weeks to prepare the
aqua vitae
, the water of life that springs from death, the water of the flood that drowned the boy. It has been distilled many times over, till there is nothing left of his body. Only the pure essence of his spirit remains. Now you must add the drops of the distillations you prepared from the moon plants you gathered the first day you came to me. The essence of the moon, gathered by a virgin, added to the death of innocence.’

She does not understand. Who has drowned? Where did the boy drown? Peter swims into her thoughts, but he is not drowned, though daily she fears it. Besides, Sylvain does not know about Peter. He speaks in riddles. These are just words, symbols like
grey wolf
and the
green dragon devouring the sun
.

He hands her the flask. ‘Pour it all in.’

She hesitates. This is too simple. Surely he brought her down here to do more than this. As she tips the liquid into the stone trough, Sylvain unfastens the neck of his robe and pulls it over his head. She gives a little cry of alarm for he is naked beneath. Her hands shake as she empties the last drops. She can see almost nothing of his wrinkled body in the dim light, but still she looks away, ashamed, embarrassed, fearful that he will force her to undress too. And what then? What then will he do to her?

‘When I am inside you must pull the lid into place so that it covers the stone coffin. Then you must wait with me. Whatever you see or hear, you must not be alarmed. It is the cleansing and I must endure it. When the last candle has burned away and extinguishes itself, you will push back the lid and release me. But not before then, however much I might scream and beg you to let me out, for I must pass through the terror. But if you do not release me as soon as the last flame dies, I shall drown.’

He places his hands about her small neck, massaging her throat with his thumbs. She shudders at his touch and the closeness of his naked body, the stench of stale urine on his skin.

‘See how much I trust you, little swan. I am putting my very life in your hands.’

She jerks away. ‘What if I cannot move the lid? Odo is far stronger.’

‘Only a woman, a
virgin
, may do this.’

She can feel his stare on her body, as if he is peeling away the layers, stripping off her clothes, her skin, and burrowing deep inside her to assure himself she is still a virgin.

She turns her face away as he grasps the edge of the trough. She hears the sharp intake of his breath as the icy water touches his skin. She hears the water slap against the stone as he eases himself down inside the coffin.

‘The lid.’

She does not want to see his eyes staring up at her out of the blood-red water. She goes to the far end and pushes the lid forward. Although it is heavy, it slides easily, as if the surfaces have been greased. It fits perfectly, seals stone to stone.

The red light flickers in the chamber, making the stones of the wall undulate, as if they, too, are liquid. She longs to run up into the light and air, even though she knows she cannot escape the tower. But she cannot see how thick the candles are through the shards of dragon’s blood to determine how long they might burn. Suppose they go out while she is upstairs? Suppose she cannot open the stone coffin again? Panic seizes her and she wants to drag the lid off at once, just to be sure that he is not already drowning. But the fear of his wrath stays her hand.

She can hear voices, faint murmurs, snatches of words, as if people are passing by outside the tower. She cannot understand what they are saying. The muttering grows louder, and she realises that what she can hear is not coming from above her but through the walls around her, as if a great crowd is crawling through the earth towards the cellar.

The muttering gives way to discordant shrieks and moans. Dull echoing thuds shake the walls, as if bones are being struck violently against the stones, as if the dead are trying to break through the walls. Terrified, Gisa races up the stairs, but before she can reach the top, the three steps above her fall back into place with a crash and the staircase is plunged into instant darkness. She pushes and pushes against the wood above, but it will not yield.

Behind her the din stops abruptly and in the same breath, the first candle is extinguished.

Using the wall to guide her, Gisa edges down the stairs, feeling for each one with her foot until she reaches the bottom steps, which are illuminated by the glow of the candles inside the chamber. Something is moving on the dark earth floor. It is liquid, thick, glowing in the red light. Water is seeping up through the floor, creeping up the walls. It will rise and rise until it fills the chamber. It will flood the stairs. She is trapped!

She turns to try again to open the trapdoor above her and then, at the edge of her vision, she sees the liquid is forming itself into a ring about the chamber, a ring of quicksilver. It swells and a great silver head rises from it, with huge black eyes and a long viper’s tongue that flickers in and out, tasting the air. The snake slithers towards the stone coffin, wrapping its coils around it, squeezing until the edges of the stones begin to splinter.

The second candle goes out, leaving a wisp of smoke. The snake vanishes.

The creaking of a rope makes her look up. A naked man is hanging from a noose above the stone coffin. He is struggling to free himself, gasping and wheezing, trying to force his fingers behind the rope biting into his neck, but he cannot loosen it. He spins round, thrashing on the rope, his eyes bulging, his face swollen purple and black in the red light. His features are so distorted she cannot recognise him, but yet she knows him. She searches desperately for some means of cutting him down. She scrambles on top of the stone coffin, trying to reach him, to lift his legs, support his body, but as her fingers almost touch him, he is jerked upwards out of her reach. She stares up into the dark dome. She cannot see what he is hanging from. It is as if she is staring down into the deepest well.

Then she hears a scuttling, the sound of a hundred sharp claws. The rope is alive with mice that swarm down it and over the choking man. He opens his mouth to scream but no sound comes out except a dreadful gurgling. He is thrashing, trying to fling the mice off, but they are eating him alive, stripping the flesh from his limbs and face. Gisa shrinks back in horror. There is nothing she can do to help him.

The third candle is snuffed out. The space above her is empty.

The chamber is almost in darkness. The single flame cannot push back the shadows as they flood towards it. Gisa bends to lower herself off the coffin and onto the ground. Then she freezes. Something is standing on the stairs, where the shadows are deepest. It moves, unfolds, rises up. Two bat-like wings open like a cloak, revealing a woman’s body with great pendulous dugs and a swollen belly. Her long hair whips and writhes about her head as if she is being buffeted by a violent wind. The woman slowly lifts her head to gaze at Gisa. Her face is gaunt as a skull, and a black fire blazes in the sockets of her eyes. Her wings flex, their leathery skin rasping on the stones behind. She opens her mouth and shrieks in fury, the scream so high-pitched that Gisa thinks her ears bleed. The wings beat wildly as if the creature means to fly at the girl. Gisa throws herself from the stone coffin and crouches on the floor, cowering against the wall, her eyes clenched shut, her hands over her ears, as a whirlwind rages around her.

The chamber is plunged into perfect darkness. The air is still and silent.

Gisa remains on the floor, too afraid to move, too afraid that the woman might still be in the chamber somewhere, waiting like a bird of prey for the slightest sound, the tiniest movement and then it will pounce.

All the candles are extinguished. She must move. She must find her way to the stone coffin or Sylvain will drown. Maybe he is already dead. But she cannot leave him. She cannot get out of the tower without him. What if she cannot open the trapdoor? No one knows where she is. No one will hear her calling. No one came running when that woman screamed.

She listens for the rasp of those wings. She hears only the beating of her own heart, the clawing of her own breath. She drops to her knees, one hand outstretched, feeling for the stone of the coffin. She crawls through darkness. She crawls for what seems like an eternity. And still she cannot touch it.

It is the body which retains the soul and the soul can shew its power only when it is united to the body.

Finding my beard had been shaved off without so much as a by-your-leave annoyed me. I’d been proud of that beard. It had taken long enough to sprout and there were times, when I was growing up, that I feared it never would come in, despite the copious amounts of bears’ grease I rubbed into my chin to encourage it. But I knew it was common for physicians to prescribe cutting off a patient’s hair to conserve their strength or stop their brain becoming fevered. Perhaps it was the same with beards, and at least they hadn’t shaved my head.

But they had shaved something else! Something I only discovered when I eased myself out of bed to use the piss-pot. I hadn’t looked before. I’d had no reason to, so it wasn’t until I put my hands to my cock to point it in the direction of the pot that I felt a very short prickle of stubble where for several years there had been a bush of coarse hair. I stared down, but there was no mistaking it: I had been shaved all around my cods. The thought of which of them might have done it made me blush hot and shudder at the same time. Sylvain, Odo and Pipkin. I didn’t know whose hands I least wanted fumbling around that very delicate part of me with a sharp razor. Had Sylvain ordered it, not wanting to take the risk of me bringing lice or crabs into his bed? I must say I was more than a little affronted.

I searched the room for the clothes I’d been wearing when I arrived, but there was no sign of them. Perhaps they’d been taken to be washed and mended, which was at least a courtesy of sorts, though after all those weeks I’d been lying in bed surely they’d been laundered by now. Unless, of course, Sylvain had had them burned, thinking they were lousy too.

A long loose scarlet robe hung over the chair next to the bed, with linens and a pair of leather shoes. I could only assume they were intended for me to wear, and when I reluctantly dragged them on, I was forced to admit I’d never before worn woollen cloth that was so fine and soft. But I wasn’t accustomed to a long robe – at least, not since I’d disguised myself as a woman in Ricey-Bas – and I was sure I was going to trip over.

I was barely dressed when I heard a fumbling at the door. I expected it to be Sylvain, but it was old Pipkin. I recognised his voice and the smell of the stale fat, blood and onion that wafted before him, like a page announcing his arrival even before he was fully in the room. I’d half a mind to ask him who’d shaved me so intimately, but I decided I really didn’t want to know.

It was the first time I’d actually seen Pipkin, for he’d not come to the chamber since my eye bandages were removed. I discovered he was indeed as rotund as an ale-barrel, as he’d claimed, with at least three chins, though goodness knows how many more he might have secreted beneath the neck of that grimy tunic. What I hadn’t pictured was that he was as bald as a hardboiled egg, or that his eyes wandered, quite of their own accord, in different directions, as if they’d quarrelled bitterly and were determined to have nothing more to do with each other.

‘Good to see you on your feet,’ he said cheerfully. ‘At least I won’t be having to cook up any more of those broths, or feed you like an old gammer.’

He set down half a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and a whole roasted pheasant. My head was clearer now. But how long had I been asleep this time?

‘Is this dinner or supper, Pipkin?’

He shook his head, amazed at my stupidity. ‘Noon bell’s only just rung. Why would you be wanting your supper now?’