The Testament of Yves Gundron (38 page)

His glance toward me was shyer than it needed be, more apologetic. His mind was turning faster than mine, and it bothered me that I could not keep up.

Ydlbert said, “That will be fine. If you return him to me speedily.”

“By all means.”

Mandrik and Ruth nodded to one another as if they were dancing. Winter's first chill was coming on, and blowing through the cracks in the door. He led the boy out with his head bowed like a prisoner, and nodded again, a slow, noble nod, as he left the house. Ydlbert clapped my shoulder. “Thank you for finding my son.”

“He came of his own volition. I am glad we found him safe.”

He went out and mounted his cart.

Adelaïda bolted the door against the wind, and Elizaveta twisted in her midday sleep. “Is this your doing, Ruth?”

Ruth opened her eyes wide and paused, as if waiting to spring upon the next question.

“This strange village past the hills.”

“It's none of my doing, Adelaïda. Be reasonable.”

“If it's reason you want, wouldn't it stand to reason that Mandrik would have passed such a village on his way to the sea? Or perhaps,” Adelaïda said, throwing a heap of quartered turnips into the boiling
pot, “so much else happened in his wanderings that he neglected to tell us the lesser wonders. Like a village across our own hills.”

Ruth began to walk a circuit around the hearth, and trailed her dusty blue hem behind her on the floor.

“Perhaps,” I offered, without the fire of conviction, “there are many places from which he might have set off.”

“Ruth,” my wife said, “you've been writing down Mandrik's tales. Has he spoken of people nearby?”

“I can't remember if he specifically, you know, if he said anything about a town over that part of the western ridge, on the coastline.”

“Answer me plain.”

Ruth stopped walking, gathered her hair roughly to the back of her head, and said, “He said nothing.”
¹

“Then you must have brought a hex upon us when you made us open those tombs.”

“Adelaïda,” I said, for that thought was too much to bear.

She turned back to her pot.

Adelaïda was surely mistaken, and Ruth surely lying, and in all my years, with every terror that had befallen me, nothing in my memory had raised such a fire in my breast. If my brother had seen such wonders even in our own land and kept them secret, it was too much. But there was no authority I could consult—Ruth would say nothing, and I could hardly call on my siblings from beyond the grave to harry them with such questions. My mind raced, but there was nothing I could do. I had no choice but to know nothing.

My wife walked into the bright yard and vomited forth her breakfast. “It's nought but the child within,” she said, grimly wiping her chin on her sleeve. She returned with a brisk step and kept on with her cooking.

By sunset the whole village had heard of Dirk's adventure, though I, for one, had resolved not to tell the tale before hearing my brother's verdict. Naturally, all the questioners congregated at my door, since
none would dare disturb Mandrik in his hermit's cell. Gerald Desvres knocked impatiently as soon as we sat down to supper. He had, at least, brought a pudding from his wife.

“Sorry to interrupt, Yves, but, of course, the news.”

Elizaveta ran to greet the sweets.

“There's no news yet,” said I.

“Either way, it's news. If Dirk von Iggislau found us new neighbors or his own strange path to God—why, either way, that's an event.”

Ruth looked ill.

Adelaïda placed another bowl on the table. “Until they come back we know nothing, so you might as well eat.”

It was all I could do to keep from running to my brother's, to question him or to beat him, I knew not. Pudding seemed hardly more inviting than gruel, and I did not like Ruth's wan look.

“Dirk,” Gerald said, looking eagerly about at us, “always seemed the most normal boy you could imagine. Not a strange bone in his body.”

Before he could finish speaking, I heard another carriage, and in came Jude with a bucket of cream. “Sorry to bother you—hello, Gerald—but I wanted to know what happened to the lad? Reports are abroad, you know.”

“Abroad how? Who's been out spreading rumors?”

“The little ones—I never can keep them straight. One of the middle-sized ones.”

“Jowl?”

“Been running about the township, doing cartwheels, saying his eldest brother figured out the route to Indo-China.”

Miller Freund came with a neat bundle of kindling. “Strange news, Yves,” he said when I opened the door.

“Lord knows,” Gerald said, “how it spreads so quickly.”

“Yves,” Ruth said, “everybody's coming, it's only a matter of time. You ought to get the fire going in the barn.”

“Do you order me about in my own house?”

Her eyes were red as embers. “I'll help you get a cask of cider.”

As we rose I realized I did not feel well at all—my eyes burned in my head, and my back, which had rarely been so blessedly relieved of labor, ached. I heard the horses thundering along the road.

“Come,” Ruth said. “Is there bread to spare?”

“In the kneading trough,” Adelaïda said, gesturing behind her. “Four new loaves in the kneading trough.”

Gerald and Jude watched this scene with some interest. I hated Ruth with all the force of my convictions, and yet, as she directed, I went out and prepared my threshing floor for the evening's somber gathering.

Before the stars had time to rise in the sky, the whole village had gathered—including Stanislaus in his most humble winter cassock, dun in hue—around the great fire in my barn, where, in calmer days, we had gathered to drink whiskey and show one another tricky new kinds of knots. Adelaïda brought the bread and all our cups and gourds in her apron, and deposited them on the floor. Ydlbert remained apart, sober of aspect, and sipping at a nipper of spirits more likely to succor him than the still-young cider. Sophronia, perhaps sensible of his distress, kept up a low moan of complaint.

“Gentlemen,” I began, then cleared my throat. “The life of Ydlbert von Iggislau's eldest hangs now in the balance, and with his fate will all our fates be decided.”

“How so?” asked Anya. “My husband tells me our son fares well.”

“If what Dirk tells us, of a land beyond the hills, is true, then it will change our lives in Mandragora forever. And if it be but the work of his fertile imaginings—”

“Then I should have been called first,” said Stanislaus, his tone quiet, yet full of conviction. “If it be a demon in him, then none but a priest can get it out.”

Mandrik opened the barn door and stood in the light of the fire, in sharp contrast to the deepening night. It was clear from the faraway look in his mild eyes how difficult a day he had passed. “My brothers,” he said simply, entering the barn, and with a single will my countrymen rose to hail him.

Ydlbert said, “Where is my son?”

“Asleep by a well-stoked fire, with a pear tart by for when he wakes.” He coughed hollowly. His voice, usually rich as church song, wavered thin as a flute.

“Sakes, man,” Ydlbert whispered, a shiver more of fear, it seemed, than of bodily chill coursing through his frame, “you might shut the door.”

He allowed it to creak shut on its hinges, and stood in the glow of the fire and regarded us all.

“Have you gone to see?” Jepho asked.

“If it took Dirk four days to get there and back, how should I have journeyed thither in an afternoon? I have not gone. I have no need to.” He was studiously not looking at me, his hands each up the opposite sleeve. “Gentlemen.”

The sheep were snuffling, but all the assembly was quiet.

“I have suffered to arrive at an explanation for you—for if Dirk is found mad, the rest of his young life is ruined, and if a strange village is found but a stone's throw hence, our life as we know it changes forever.”

“Not mad, but possessed,” Stanislaus offered. “If this be not the truth, it is the Devil's work, sure.”

“You're right, Father.” Mandrik breathed in deeply, and closed his eyes—speaking inwardly, I imagined, to Marvin and Clive—and when he opened them again they were clear and blank as the wide autumn sky, empty, I was certain, as the day he was born. “I come to tell you that Dirk von Iggislau, though a fine young man, is no visionary.”

Bodies shifted, leather boots creaked. Jude said, simply, “What, then?”

Ydlbert said, “I'll thank you to know that my son is not mad. Or possessed.”

“Not mad, no. Nor yet, good Father, in the Devil's thrall.” Mandrik closed his eyes against the tears which threatened to cloud them. “We are not alone on this island. The world is greater than you who have never left this village can possibly imagine—and so near, only a hair's breadth separates us from it. There are people more numerous than the stalks of wheat in the summer field, places more various, wonders the mind cannot contain.”

The chill in the air was not that which lingered from the harvest moon. Ydlbert wrapped his arms around his shoulders as if holding himself back from a fight. “I don't know what you're driving at. In the Orient, sure—”

“Here, Ydlbert., Across the mountains to the west, the north, the south, the east. Past Nnms and the farthest boundaries of your own fields. It is everywhere, so close we can touch it. Our island is far from populous, but the world is nearby.”

“Did I not say so?” Adelaïda whispered.

“How can that be?” Jude asked.

Said Stanislaus, “How can it be if I know nothing of it?”

“Why was it my son who discovered this?”

“Sooner or later someone would have found out, but Dirk it managed to be.” Ydlbert was still rocking, so my brother placed a hand on his shoulder to still him. Ydlbert regarded him, but said nothing.

Said Dithyramb, “Our first adventurer.”

“Aye,” said Jepho solemnly. “The first, no doubt, of many.”

My brother said, “If the people of this village decide to venture forth, then yes. Dirk reports that our far neighbors are anxious to meet you.”

“Why,” asked Dithyramb, “would we decide to do anything else?”

“Because we do not know,” said Stanislaus, “if our neighbors are men of God.” He and my brother regarded one another, their blue eyes equally weary, their brown cassocks each the reflection of the other.

“Nay,” said my brother. “I am certain they are not. Think you all upon those who have visited us from beyond. Did they seem to bear the mark of God's grace upon them?”

“But these are different,” said Ion Gansevöort. “These are our neighbors. We should set out tomorrow, all laden with gifts, to bid them welcome to our valley. Our Archduke should lead us forth as the army of peace.”

“Don't,” I said, before I could stop my mouth.

Ydlbert turned toward me. “What do you say, Yves?”

I steadied myself. “I don't think you should go. Let Dirk's report lie, and get back to your farms. Winter is coming.”

“Yves,” Ion said, “of all the men in this village, you're the last I'd expect—”

“I think we should keep our distance from our neighbors as fiercely as we did, however unwittingly, before. We should stockpile for winter, and see how we like our prospects come spring.”

Ruth paced about the edges of the gathering like a shade.

Ion shook his head. “After all you've done for us—after you alone looked forward when all of us clung like moss to the past—how can you say that?”

I could not dredge up an answer.

Ydlbert said, “He's right, brother. Tell me, what ails you?”

“I would,” I said, “give Dirk a parcel of my land, if he would still consent to farm it. I would carve off a good living for him, that he might marry Martin's daughter and settle down to the soil like all his ancestors before him.”

Ydlbert shook his wide head. “Perhaps Bartholomew may yet work the land, but after such an adventure, Dirk will want to go among the new folk, sure. My Cod, man, they have the sea.”

“Would you let Dirk go, across the hills?” asked Yorik.

Ydlbert's brow wrinkled with care. “I would pine for him each day of my life—”

Anya said, “My heart would break open.”

“—but with six other sons to provide for, it might not be the worst thing for one to strike off on his own. I do appreciate your offer, Yves. A kind offer, indeed “

“He'll die,” I said, the surety as certain as the walls of the barn were solid.

“What do you mean, lad?”

“Among the new folk. Their ways will be so different from his own.”

“I am afraid,” Mandrik said, “that my brother speaks truth.”

Gerald meted out more cider, and the congregation settled against the posts and one another to listen. Ruth sat down by Enyadatta's stall.

“Good farmers, recall the pestilence that came to us from the sky, your terror and despair that such a dark end could befall us.” Except for the crackling of the fire and the sighing of the beasts as they settled down to sleep, the barn grew still. “Our neighbors to the west are not likely to set upon us with the weapons of death. But that they will destroy us is nonetheless sure.”

“But,” said Gerald, “Dirk reports that they wish to meet us.”

“Aye,” Mandrik continued, “they do wish to meet you. As curiosities, as creatures from another world. They want to gawk at you. I ask you to imagine people coming and going, day in and day out, carrying equipment—like the machine Mr. Fiske bore upon his shoulder—and pointing it everywhere, shining lights in your eyes and asking you questions upon questions. They'll want it to be bright everywhere, all the time; wherever you go, there will be no peace or darkness. Do you understand me? You will literally be deluged with attention—not with
help or with friendship, but with the relentless pursuit of information. You will have no time to farm, only to answer questions.