Well in Time (15 page)

After Lone-R had helped her rise from the bed and sit at the table, Calypso tried again.

“I guess what I really mean is,” she said, holding the fork poised over her food and shooting him a glance, “am I safe here with all of you?”

Lone-R didn’t answer directly. He looked at the floor for several seconds, while Calypso dug into the pile of black beans and rice on her plate and found them disappointingly bland.

“I’m going to tell you a Mexican joke,” he said at last. “Up in the Sierra, there’s a knock at the door of this little cabin. The owner goes to the door and opens it. On his doorstep there’s this seven-foot tall Indian, a real
hijo de la chingada
, wearing a double banderilla, a .9 stuck in his belt, and he’s carrying an AK-47.

“The Indian says to the guy, ‘I’m a householder and I need your help.’

“The guy’s pretty tough-lookin’ himself, with three days growth of beard and a pistol stuck in the waistband of his pants. He doesn’t even answer. He just takes out his gun and shoots the Indian dead.

“The guy’s pal gets up from the table, where he’s been drinking tequila and taking little hits of coke from the end of his knife, and he comes over and looks down at the dead Indian and says ‘That guy was a real
hijo de la chingada. Muy peligroso,
very dangerous
.
Tiene el derecho
. You did the right thing to shoot him.’

“The guy looks at his friend and says, ‘You fool! I didn’t shoot him because he was dangerous; I shot him because he was a householder!’” Lone-R threw back his head and laughed uproariously.

Calypso managed a half-hearted smile. She understood the joke because she was inured to the upside-down, macho humor of northern Mexico that vaunted death. No man of the Sierra would admit to being afraid of a seven-foot Indian
hijo de la chigada
, but his overblown machismo would demand death to tender feelings for a householder in trouble.

“Good one,” she whispered.

“So how can I tell if you’re safe or not? You’re no seven-foot Indian—but you’re probably a householder.” He watched for her reaction with his fathomless eyes.

Calypso kept her head down and toyed with her food.

“What do you want?” she asked finally. “Money?”

Lone-R shrugged. “Not for me to say.”

“Whose job is it to say?”

“The brotherhood’s. It’ll be put before all the Ghosts.”

“What will be?”

Lone-R grunted and shrugged. “Your fate.”

“And what about my friend? Is he okay?”

Lone-R shrugged again and turned away. “
¿Quien sabe?
” he

§

The food must have been laced with drugs. When Calypso came to, she was in a barren room of the same plastered stone, lying on the floor on a bare mattress. A flat screen TV was playing a rerun of
The Sopranos
without the sound. She tried to sit up, was hit with a headache as if a hatchet had been buried in her skull, and flopped back with a groan.

She lay looking around the simple room: the bare, ticking-covered mattress and the television made up the furnishings. There was a hearth, on which a fire had burned down to embers, and a small barred window. In the corner a door stood wide open, revealing a tiny cubicle holding a listing toilet and a basin with exposed pipes underneath.

She sat up, holding her head in her hands to stifle the headache. Her mouth was dry as dust. She staggered to her feet and made her looping, weak-kneed way to the window. Even though she was accustomed to the canyons, where the ground refused all horizontality in favor of universal verticality, the view out the window made her gasp. She was perched high on a cliff that plummeted at least a thousand feet, to be lost in the tops of trees. Immediately below her she could see, by craning her head, that there were two stories of stone building beneath her, blending seamlessly into the living rock below.

She reeled to the door and tried the latch. Locked. She went to the bathroom, used the toilet, washed her hands, dashed water on her face, and drank from the faucet. Then she collapsed back onto the mattress, pulled her knees into fetal posture, and stayed that way for hours.

Sunlight swung a slow arc through the room and then, with a burst of rose light against the eastern wall, died. From where she lay, she watched a few stars emerge, pale and glittering against the lingering electric blue of the sky. There was no sound except her shallow breathing and the shove of wind against the outer walls.

Something in the austerity and loftiness of the room soothed her. Despite Rancho Cielo’s vertiginous perch on the edge of the Urique Canyon and the miles of unimproved roads between it and the nearest town, the house was often as busy as a Greyhound bus terminal. Ranch hands, indigenous women and children coming for classes, and local elders holding political meetings with Javier, all passed through, day and night. She and Javier lived busy lives.

She lay listening to the whine of the wind against the window and fell into a deep reverie that took her far from her fear. Something in her situation haunted her with its familiarity, and she thought of her manuscript and the story of the locket. She fingered the necklace through her shirt. Surely, if the Ghosts hadn’t stolen it while she was unconscious, it was a good sign.

And then it hit her: Lone-R, huge and black, sitting beside her bed! The strangeness of her predicament and the odd parallel of his presence swept her back nine hundred years, to the part of the locket’s story that she had related to Hill, as they navigated the cave.

The shock of icy water, as I plunged headfirst into it, brought me again to my senses. I went down and down into absolute blackness, fighting with arms and legs to slow my dive, and then to regain the surface. I came puffing and blowing into air again and clung straight away to the rocks of the wall, although they were slimy and smelled most dank.

As I hung there kicking my legs to stay afloat, my eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom. Around me, I could see nothing, so profound was the darkness but looking above, my eye could follow the shaft of the well to where it ended in a dazzling dot of light, far above me.

In very truth, I did not know whether to congratulate myself for having survived this ordeal, or to be bitterly disappointed that my fall had not been my demise. For it seemed my condition was now hopeless beyond redemption and that I were better dead.

Just as I was thinking that my situation could not be worse, it swiftly became so. I looked above me and, around the light at the top of the shaft, I could see dark dots that must surely be the heads of those who were peering within, hoping for sight of me. Then I saw something cross the disk of light and fall, and I realized in terror that they had thrown the bucket into the well!

Hastily, I filled my lungs and dove, and not a moment to spare, for the bucket hit the water above me like an explosion. In the darkness, I felt it drift down to my right, as I fought once more toward the surface.

The bucket was immediately pulled up again, and then those on the surface commenced pelting me with stones. These came rattling down the shaft like thunder and filled me with terror. I dove again and felt a stone graze my shoulder as it plummeted past me through the inky water into oblivion.

I stayed beneath the water until I could no longer and then I surfaced. Still rocks rattled down toward me, but I must have air or die.

As I struggled, gasping and thrashing in the water, I heard a sudden noise that sounded like an exclamation of astonishment, a sound I was sure that I myself had not made. As I blinked water from my eyes and looked frantically about me, I saw a faint glow coming from the far side of the shaft.

To my amazement the light grew brighter, until I could plainly see an opening, like that of the tunnel of a mine, and therein, straining my own credulity, stood a woman, bucket in hand, staring at me in alarm.

I floundered toward her and reached out my hand to her in desperation, and she, in a reflex of common human solicitude, reached back to me. Our hands met and she pulled me toward her. At that moment, a stone came racketing down the shaft and as I was almost saved, struck me on the head with such force that I was instantly senseless.

§

Now begins what is surely the strangest part of this chronicle, for if I had not myself experienced what follows, I doubt not I should believe another such account to be a lie. And yet, these things did happen to me and I am rendering as honest an account of them as I am able. I beg the reader, therefore, to remember my status as a highborn lady and to consider my character, known by all to be unblemished, as he reads what next befell me and to credit me with speaking the truth.

For when I came again to myself, I found I was in a most strange and marvelous setting! What first I saw was the face of her whom I assumed to be my rescuer, bending over me in honest concern. As I came slowly back to myself and was able to look around, I found I was lying in the oddest chamber imaginable.

It appeared I must be still underground. The ceiling and walls of this room were hung with stones in the shape of rough cylinders and cones. Some hung from the roof, pointed at the ends, like daggers suspended there. Others rose from the sandy floor on which I lay, like teeth embedded in a jaw. Still others extended from the floor full to the ceiling, making columns. And withal, these shapes were of the purest white, but in the light of the many oil lamps burning there, glowed with a moving and swirling opalescence like the aurora borealis that once my dear father showed me on a cold winter’s night in Muret.

So odd was all this that I immediately surmised that I was dead and had arrived at some wondrous Purgatory or the antechamber to Hell itself. This caused me great confusion, between terror and wonder, at the beauty of a place so ill reputed. And so I lay for many minutes with both my eyes and my wits wandering freely.

About me were other people moving around the room, performing various tasks. There was nothing particularly odd about their faces. They looked much like the people of the world I had just departed. I was drawn, however, to notice their clothing, which was spotlessly white, but rather than falling to their ankles, ended at their knees. This same simple tunic was worn by men and woman alike.

At last, the shock that had held me immobile released me and the pains of all my injuries came throbbing back. I was tormented by a headache and upon exploring my pate with careful fingers, discovered a bump as big as a hen’s egg on the top of my skull. I drew my hand away and found it bloody. My elbows, too, and my knees were scraped and bloodied and I was beginning to be cold as well, for I lay still in my wet clothing and without a blanket.

Now, to add to my miseries, came a new shock, for there was a movement on the far side of the room, and through a low door appeared a man more curious than I had ever seen. I knew instantly that I was in the presence of the very Devil Himself.

The man who approached me was a good two meters tall, with huge shoulders and a body powerful as a bull’s. His skin was as black as midnight and emblazoned upon his forehead, because it was branded into his flesh, was the sign of the Cross.

I shrank from him in terror. At this, he stopped and came no further nigh me but began to address me in a strange tongue. When he saw that I understood not a word, he spoke again, in a language different from the first. This he did several times until, as clear as the May sky, he asked me in French, “
Êt
es-vouz
française?
”

I could barely speak from fright but answered in a weak voice, saying “
Oc!
”

He smiled then, a huge smile full of teeth and so jolly that I ceased to fear him, even if he were the Devil. Then he told me that if I would permit him, he would take me to a place where my wounds could be tended and where I could rest comfortably.

To this I readily assented, as I now ached from top to bottom. My pains seemed to be growing steadily rather than diminishing, and I was shuddering from cold.

It was nothing for him to scoop me up in his arms, as I have seen shepherds lift up a little lost lamb. This act was both so tender and so inherently painful that I began to cry, and once the tears had started, I could not stop them to save my soul.

He carried me through the doorway and down many strange corridors glittering with crystals and hanging with the long rocks. Everywhere, light was provided by oil lamps burning in niches along the walls. I lost all track of the countless turnings we made, but at last he brought me to a chamber wherein was a bed and on this, he lay me with infinite tenderness and then withdrew.

Soon he returned, bringing with him a small woman with a round and serious face, withered like a winter apple and her gray hair gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck. This task accomplished, he bowed from the waist to me and departed.

The woman carried with her a basket filled with small jars stoppered in crystal and semiprecious stones, carved in delightful shapes. Also, she had small bits of clean cloth and a pail of warm water that, by its scent, was tinctured with herbs. With these, as soon as she had relieved me of my dress, she began to wash, anoint and bind my many wounds.

We quickly found we could not communicate in a common language and as I was suffering greatly, I lay back quietly, glad that I did not have to speak. Finally, her work accomplished, she covered me with a soft blanket.

Just as she was finishing, a second woman arrived bearing a bowl of soup. As my elbows were now tightly bandaged, I could no longer bend my arms, and so this kind woman held the bowl for me as I drank the warm broth, which had an excellent effect on my chilled bones. These two then withdrew and I soon slept.

§

When I awoke, I knew not whether it was night or day, for this community under the ground had no sun. I was surprised to find the black man sitting beside my bed, patiently awaiting my awakening.

“Where am I, please, sir?” I asked, for all that had befallen me had left me most confused. “Am I in Hell then?”

At this, he laughed a most uproarious laugh! “
Ma pauvre petite
,” he responded, “you have never been farther from it! By falling down the well, you have entered a heaven such as this world scarcely dreams of. You are greatly blessed by your accident this day!”

Whereupon I told him with great dignity that I had not happened to fall down the well but had escaped thereunto, and how I had preferred death in this manner to the fate which might befall me. He listened gravely to my tale and asked me many questions. For all that he was such a strange looking man, his manner was very courtly and I was sure that his lineage was noble.

Now the second woman reappeared, bearing a tray of steaming food, and my new friend withdrew so that I should eat in privacy. Again, as before, the woman fed me with kindest concern. The food was delicious, being rice nicely seasoned with herbs and mixed with vegetables. There was a cup of warm, fresh goat’s milk, as well.

When my meal had been cleared away, the black man returned and resumed his position by my bed. As soon as he was seated, I asked him, “Please, sir, can you tell me what manner of place this is into which I have fallen? For I have nothing in my experience in this world to explain it.”

He answered that he would respond to my question, but in a very roundabout manner. Looking wryly at my bandaged limbs, he made a small joke, saying that it seemed I had time to spare and wouldn’t be rushing off soon. So he began to regale me with his own story, telling how he had come to this odd place himself.

§

I am, he began, the king of a country of which you doubtless know little, if at all. Perhaps you know my country as the ancient land of Kush but to me it is called Nubia. It is one hundred days hard march to the south of this city of Cairo, or Al-Qahira, as my people call it.

When I left my country, there were sixty of my subjects with me. Ours is a Christian nation, and I had the intention to visit all the holy places of this world and they were eager to accompany me. So terrible was the journey northward, however, that by the time we reached Jerusalem, which was our first destination, only ten of these good souls remained.

I stayed in Jerusalem for six months, regaining my strength, and then I journeyed on to Constantinople. Again, the traveling was so desperately hard that when I reached that miraculous city, only two of my companions remained. We who survived gazed at that jewel of the Bosphorus in wonder, for we had not believed there could be so rich a city in all the world.

It had high walls and mighty towers that enclosed it all around and rich palaces and lofty churches, of which there were so many that one could not believe it unless he had seen it with his own eyes. By her length and breadth and her richness, she is surely the queen of all cities.

The Emperor, Alexius the Third, received me and my diminished retinue most kindly. He was amazed to see that a black man could yet be a Christian, and to learn that in my country all the citizens are Christians, and that when a child is born and baptized, a cross like mine is branded upon its forehead.

I was to the Emperor as great a marvel as his city was to me. And so he invited me to tarry there, which invitation I gladly accepted, for I had taken a fever in our wanderings through Syria and much needed rest.

The Emperor lodged me in a very rich abbey and made me the guest of it for as long as I wished to stay. What a joy it was to awaken in my chamber, high in a tower room, to the early sun streaming over that fair city of domes and towers, to hear the church bells ringing in the morning in a hundred voices, and to watch the swallows twittering and swooping over it all like spirits of gladness itself! You might imagine that I would be tempted to give up my pilgrimage and to languish there forever—and you would be correct.

Even after my fever had passed and my health was restored, I remained in Constantinople, for it was an infinite delight and every day’s exploration brought new discoveries. One of my chief pleasures was to visit the Hagia Sophia, the great cathedral dedicated to Holy Wisdom, for it was wisdom I sought on my pilgrimage.

It is impossible to describe the vastness of its dome, rising against the sky, effortless as prayer itself. Its interior was as lavish as the exterior was elegant in its austerity. The choir was adorned with silver and the place where the priest stands was upheld by twelve columns of silver. The walls were covered in holy icons of exquisite rarity and beauty. Upon the altar were twelve crosses, two of which were carved like trees and were taller than a man.

There was a wonderful table set with precious stones, with a great gem in the center. On the altar were forty chalices of gold and silver candelabra so numerous I could not count them. And there were many vases of silver, used during the greatest festivals.

There was a Gospel used to celebrate the mysteries that was painted most wondrously with rare pigments and forty censers of pure gold. In cupboards along the walls were other incomparable treasures in such quantities that it would be impossible to count them. All this in the Church of Hagia Sophia alone, and still there was the richness of the Church of Sainte-Marie des Blachernes, in whose complex the holy relics of the Virgin Mary were housed, and hundreds of other churches, as well, to admire and wonder over.