Devil's Lair (28 page)

“You rejected yourself.”

She paused. More blood
dribbled from the wound in the bark. “I wanted to hurt you.”

“You did.”

“Good. Why should I be the
only one who suffers?”

“Everyone suffers,” said
William. “Why add to the world’s pain?”

“You added to mine.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Maybe that helps you. It
doesn’t help me. I’m here because of you, William. It’s your fault.”

“Perhaps,” he said. He
traced a black vein in the bark with the tip of his finger. “What would you
have me do?”

“Don’t leave me here alone.”

He surveyed the forest of
racinated souls. “You’re not alone.”

“Please, William. Stay.”

And there it was, the choice
laid bare. All his life he had wanted to be with her, to hold her in his arms
again, to feel her skin against his own. He might have returned to her someday,
might have left his brothers to take a wife, might have followed his heart and
not his head, but she had robbed him of that hope, had taken it with her to the
grave. There was a moment, once, when he heard the news of her suicide, that he
thought of joining her. Now here he was, in the arboretum of the damned. He
could stay. Of course he could. It seemed easy enough. A fall might do it.
Better yet, one of these sharp branches. He could cut his own throat, impale an
eye, pierce his heart. What then? When his flesh fell away, would he take up
roots beside her? Would they grow together? Would their branches intertwine?
Is
this really what she wants?

“I can’t,” he said. “My
friends are waiting for me.”

“I waited for you.”

“I know.”

“Me. The one you said you
loved.”

“I did love you.”

“Love me now.”

“I fell in love with God.”

“Stay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What good is that?
Is that why you’re here? To leave an apology in your place?”

Why am I here?
At the edge of the wood, all he could
think of was seeing her again. The hounds had chased him here. William got what
he wanted, but why? He could not stay with her. And yet, he owed her something.
She felt wronged. How had he wronged her? By leaving? Did he owe her his life
because she offered love? No. He had chosen God. That was no betrayal. He was
here for another sin.
I lied to her.
Weak, he had dissembled. He told Evette he would come back for
her, but knew even then it was a lie. He offered her hope, and she took it for
despair. Now he owed her the truth. “I came to say what I could not say
before.”

“What is that?”

“Goodbye.”

Her scream sliced through
his heart. Her branches fought him all the way down. William endured the
scratches without complaint, letting her have that last taste of vengeance. He
dropped to the ground and walked away, forsaking the twisted soul he once loved
more than God.

The hellhounds sat on their
haunches, watching him, but let him pass unharmed.

When he stepped back into
the lancelight, Nadja said, “I thought we lost you.”

“A trick of the wood,” the
friar said.

Giovanni said, “When they
stopped chasing us, you were gone.”

“It was me they were after.”
William noticed a twig poking through his robe. He plucked it out and tossed it
aside.

Marco clapped him on the
shoulder. “At least they didn’t get to you.”

“They did.”

The ground rose ahead and
the trees grew sparse. The friar set a brisk pace. Each step felt lighter than
the last. God had not forsaken him. William walked out of the valley of the
shadow of death, and feared no evil.

Beyond the wood stretched a
merciless desert where hot sand denied passage and fire fell like rain. The
pilgrims circled left along the edge of the forest until they came to the river
of blood, which cut a path to the abyss. The ground was passably cool along the
edge of the bloodstream; where blood met sand, a long scab formed. It cracked
and crunched beneath their feet as roils of steam doused the fiery rain.

Not far from the forest, the
pilgrims came upon a group of naked men who lay on their backs in the scalding
dunes, screaming curses into the boiling air.

“War!”

“Crusade!”

“Burn the Jews!”

“Kill the Saracens!”

“Sack their heathen cities!”

Nadja turned to Giovanni. “Who
are they?”

“Blasphemers.”

“They sound like preachers.”

William said, “More evil is
done in the name of God than in the name of the Devil.”

“Is that blasphemy?”

Giovanni singled out one
sinner. “Who are you?”

“A prophet of God.”

“What did you prophesy?”

“Death. Destruction. Eternal
damnation.”

“Reliable themes,” said the
poet. “Why are you here?”

“God is testing me. He once
threw me into the belly of a fish, but I was delivered. Now I am in the belly
of another beast, the beast that is the world.”

“Then you are Jonah,”
William said, “son of Amitai.”

“I am.”

Giovanni said, “Now you lie
with the blasphemers. Did you curse God in anger?”

“God promised to destroy
Ninevah.”

“Ninevah repented,” said
William. “You did not.”

“I did as God commanded. I
preached His wrath.”

“But did you preach His
mercy?”

Jonah grimaced. “The wicked
deserve no mercy.”

“Love is the great
commandment,” William said. “You preached hate, not love. Vengeance, not
forgiveness. You invoked the name of God to sanctify evil. There is no greater
blasphemy.”

The friar dipped his toes
into the scalding desert and kicked hot sand in the sinner’s face.

Jonah, son of Amitai,
screamed in agony.

The pilgrims passed on.

Nadja followed her friends
along the river. The scabby ground was hot and her leather soles offered little
protection. She worried for William, who wore no shoes at all. The river boiled
on their left, sending a vapor into the air that quenched the falling sparks.
They fell as wet ashes through the mist, recalling to Nadja the scent of her
baby’s breath.

She heard music over the
dunes: the sound of a lyre and a voice like an angel. From somewhere unseen, a
man sang the same song Giovanni had sung in Padua, though this man’s voice was
better that Giovanni’s. It was the sweetest, clearest voice she had ever heard.

Giovanni cupped his hands at
his mouth and cried out, “Orpheus!”

A naked singer crested a far
dune, playing his lyre, leading a dozen naked men who sashayed in a row behind
him. Transported by the troubadour’s voice, the other shades seemed oblivious
to the blistering sand and the fiery air. The song ended as Orpheus reached the
river’s edge.

“I am Orpheus.”

Giovanni said, “We saw
Eurydice in Limbo.”

“Then you are as blessed as
I am damned.”

“She sends her love.”

Orpheus looked down at the
sand that blackened his feet. He knuckled a tear and said, “She deserved a
better man.”

“Why do you say that?” Nadja
asked.

“I was weak. Faithless. If I
had been faithful to her in life, I would be with her now in death.”

“What was your sin?”

He shook his head and would
not meet Nadja’s gaze. “Ovid knew, and betrayed my secret.”

Giovanni said:

Ille
etiam Thracum populis fuit auctor, amorem

In
teneros transferre mares...

Orpheus nodded.
“When Eurydice was gone, I could love no other woman.
Yet love is all I know.”

“So you exhausted yourself on
catamites,” Giovanni said, “and taught sodomy to the Thracians.”

“I betrayed my love. My love
betrayed me.”

“Eurydice loves you still.”

“From afar,” said Orpheus.
“The sand at my feet, the fire in the sky, these pains are nothing to me. I am
separated from the one I love. There is no greater torment.”

Orpheus turned away, leading
sodomites over the sand, strumming his lyre in an eternal lament.

The usurers ambled the sand
with heavy bags slung from their necks, their faces downcast, their eyes
focused on the contents of their purses. Giovanni recognized the shade of
Boccaccino di Chellino.
Father.
The old man approached slowly, stooped by the enormous weight
around his neck: a large bag engorged with gold.

“Giovanni?” his father said.

“Yes, Father.”

“Is that you, boy?”

“It’s me.”

The old man bellowed a
laugh. Coins jangled in his bag. “I knew you’d come around.” Boccaccino
inspected his son. “You look like a mummer.”

Giovanni glanced down at his
colorful clothes. He thought he looked good, if a bit overdressed for the
underworld. “It’s the Neapolitan style. This is what the rich men wear.”

“Only debtors dress like
rich men,” his father scoffed. “You look like a man who once had money.”

Giovanni’s heart sank. “I have
no money.”

His father looked puzzled.
“If you have no gold, how did you get here?”

“I’m still alive, Father.”

“Then you still have time.”

“For what?”

“The bank.”

“There is no bank. Not
anymore.”

Boccaccino scratched his
pate. “Yes. I forgot.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters!” his
father thundered. “You didn’t help me, boy. You should have helped me. We could
have saved the bank, could have saved it together.”

“Let me help you now.” The
string of the bag cut a deep groove into his father’s neck, forming a bright
red welt in the skin. “It looks heavy.”

Boccaccino glanced down at
the coins. His face basked in an aureate glow. “A burden, yes. It was always
that.”

“Does it hurt?”

Gold coins reflected in his
father’s eyes.

“Let me help you,” Giovanni said,
reaching for the bag.

His father recoiled, his
face twisting with rage. “Don’t touch it! It’s mine! I earned it!”

“It’s a curse, Father.”
Giovanni tried to pull the bag off, but the old man fought him for it. The bag
jolted in the scuffle. A few coins spilled out.

“I earned it!”

Giovanni let go. The old man
dropped to all fours to pick up the fallen coins. Panicky, he ran his fingers
through the sand. Giovanni watched with apprehension. Was this all that was
left of his father?

The man rose to his feet,
holding the recovered coins. Anger seemed to drain from him. “Look at that
man,” he said, pointing to a shade with a bigger bag. “I might have had more.”

“It’s too heavy for you
now.”

Boccaccino snorted. “I was a
fool. All those years I wasted.” He shook his head. “If only I had known the
secret.”

“What secret?”

His father whispered the
words like a revelation. “You get to keep it.”

“I don’t want it.”

“It’s our secret. Don’t tell
anyone. Promise me.” The old man put a cold, spectral arm around his son.

Giovanni pulled free. “I
don’t want it,” he repeated.

“You’ve still got time, boy.
Work hard. Make your mark. Come back here and make me proud.”

“I never cared for money.”

His father glared at him.
Giovanni knew that look, and felt the old daggers.

“Don’t I know it,” his
father said. “Don’t I know it. You had to go and be a poet. Ha! How hard was
that? That was nothing! What you do is nothing! Slap two words together. ‘Mama!
Papa!’ A baby can do that. Why can’t you be a man? Learn a trade and be a man?
Earn some money and be a man?”

Giovanni lowered his gaze.
“I’m sorry, Father.”

“Don’t call me that!” the
man shouted. “I don’t know you.”

“You know me too well.” His
voice broke on the words.

His father turned to leave.
The heavy bag swung pendulous, the rough string sawing at the nape of his neck.
His head, bent low, disappeared behind the mountain of his shoulders. This was
how he had looked when Giovanni was a little boy standing behind his father’s
desk, waiting for the old man’s attention, searching for a head behind those
shoulders, a face bent low over the ledger. “Go away. You’re not my son.”

Dark air shimmered above the
sand. Giovanni sat with William on a rocky promontory above the dunes, watching
miasma ripple in the heat. The air stifled him. He could scarcely breathe.