The Passion of Dolssa (24 page)

The child stirred in his hands. Little squashed nose, a jutting, wrinkled forehead, and long twiggy fingers. This had to be the ugliest infant in Christendom, but for all that, he was much, much too perfectly formed to die. Martin kissed his nose, then nuzzled it with his own.

Lisette let out a cry. Was she hurt? Was the strange
femna
doing her an ill?

Then Lisette called to him.
“Lach!”
she cried. “Martin!
Lach
!”

Milk.

The woman appeared again beside Martin, wide-eyed and smiling, reaching for his son. He hesitated. If he parted with this peaceful, breathing child, would he ever see him again? Would this fairy, this specter, restore to him what she now demanded he relinquish?

“Martin,” Lisette urged. “Hurry. Give him to me.”

So he poured his tiny son into the woman’s waiting arms and watched as she brought him to Lisette. She knelt and adjusted him upon a pillow on Lisette’s lap. She fussed over him and murmured to his wife.

Martin couldn’t bear it any longer. He scooped his unconscious
filha
into his long arms and arranged her bony limbs upon the bed in the corner. She moaned and stretched. He hurried to his wife’s side.

Her eyes shone as she smiled up at him. “It’s
lach
, Martin.” She couldn’t tell whether to laugh or cry. “This Dolssa has recovered my
lach
for our son.”

Martin de Boroc’s thoughts moved as slowly as the tide. It was no wiser, thought he, to plunge into hope than into love.

“But,
galineta
,” he said, “you had
lach
before, and he wouldn’t drink it. What he drank, he didn’t keep.”

The woman named Dolssa ceased her fussing and stood back to display her handiwork. There lay the child, his mouth latched firmly on to his mother’s breast. His cheeks and neck pulsed with his suckling like the rhythmic throbbing of gills on a sea bass.

Little
tozẹt
. His little
filh
.

The stillness of the room filled with the whiffling, snorting, smacking sound of the child’s breathing and swallowing. He kicked and grunted in his eagerness to eat. Martin knelt and took the child’s wrinkly foot and kissed it.

“What’s come over you?” teased his wife. “Next thing you’ll be playing nursemaid to the wee babe.” She beamed down at her infant. “Little swine,” said she. “My greedy baby pig.”

At last the child relinquished his hold, and Lisette patted his back over her shoulder until she was rewarded with a fruity belch. She offered him more to drink, and he settled in eagerly.

“I don’t know, Donzȩlla, how we can ever thank you,” said Martin. His throat would not cooperate, and his words squeaked. He turned in embarrassment toward where the mysterious
femna
sat watching.

But she wasn’t there. She wasn’t anywhere. As silently as she’d come, she’d gone.

BOTILLE

f I dozed the rest of that night, it was only to rest my eyes. I watched over Sazia, but my thoughts were on Dolssa.

Dawn was not far off when I thought I heard footsteps from Dolssa’s room. I stole out of bed, took my still-lit candle, and poked my head inside her chamber.

She glanced up in wide-awake surprise. She was sitting upright in her bed, adjusting her blankets as though she were just now settling down for the night.

“Haven’t you slept either?” I asked her.

She seemed unsure of what to say. “Not yet.”

I couldn’t bring myself to meet her gaze. All my rudeness and ingratitude barred my way. But I had to fix it. “May I come in?”

She watched me strangely. “It’s your
maisoṇ
.”

A reminder of my coldness. “It’s yours now, too.” I sat at the foot of her bed. “If the food ran low, Plazi would kick me out and keep you.”

Laugh, Dolssa. Relieve my guilt.
But she didn’t.

“I’ll try not to eat much,” she said.

“No! Eat all you want,” I stammered. “It was a stupid joke. I didn’t mean . . .”

Her wide lips smiled, a little. “I know.”

Then neither of us knew what to say.

“Does the food run low sometimes?” Dolssa asked.

“Not since you’ve been here,” I told her. “But,
oc
, of course it does. That is life. That’s why we love harvest time.”

She watched me curiously. “Yet you would bring me here and share with me what you have, when you don’t always have enough.”

Who would not do the same? I wanted no praise for that.

“And you expect nothing from me. No payment. No service.”

No prostitution,
I almost said. I stifled a smile. “Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “We may eventually have you slice a carrot or two. Chop an onion. But only when it’s safe to come out of hiding.” Then I remembered that she had probably never done either thing in her comfortable former life. “Never mind. I didn’t mean that. You don’t need to—”

“I would be most honored,” Dolssa said with a smile, “to chop an onion with you.” She laughed. “If you’ll teach me how.”

“There’s nothing like a good onion,” I said, then wished I hadn’t. But Dolssa didn’t seem to mind, nor think me a fool.

We sat in silence. Dolssa nestled down into her bed. Her eyes closed, and she began to drift toward sleep. The sight of her feeling safe and peaceful reminded me of the shivering, muttering, frightened creature we’d carried back from San Cucufati.

A nightingale poured out its morning joy, not caring that most of Bajas was still abed and wishing to remain there for another hour.

“I had a nightingale near my home in Tolosa.”

Dolssa’s voice came from far away. I was surprised she was still awake.

“He lived in some trees that grew by the river. I would lie in bed and imagine he was a fair knight, coming to sing to me outside my window.”

She opened her eyes to find me watching her, and blushed.

“I came to know his song so well, I fancied I could tell him apart from other
rossinhols
.” She laughed. “You must think I’m ridiculous.”

I patted her knee. “A lover knows her beloved’s voice.”

She smiled. “That is right.”

“And
your
beloved,” I told her, “knows yours.”

She looked at her hands. Her eyes shone wet in the candlelight.

I took a deep breath. “Dolssa,” I said. “I was wrong. My words were not only unkind, but untrue.”

She looked at me strangely. “Oh no,” she said. “You were right.”

I shook my head. “You’re not here because
I
wouldn’t let you die. You are here because God would not. You owe me nothing. He sent me there.
He kept me from telling the friar about you.” In that moment, I realized that if I had, Sazia would now be dead. It left me cold. “I nearly did tell the friar, you know. I was sure a man of God could help you.”

She shuddered. “Not that one.”

She cocked her head to one side. How like a bird she often was. And those bright, dark eyes.

“I understand you,” she said. “But I also know there were many people who passed by me on my journey. And none of them were called to hear and help me. Or if any were, they did not stop. But you, Botille. You did.”

It was my turn to stare at my hands.

“My beloved knows you, too, Botille.”

I wasn’t sure what I thought of that. But I couldn’t resist teasing her. “Are you jealous?”

She laughed. “Terribly.” Then she grew more serious. “You said exactly what I needed to hear. Don’t apologize.”

I refused to be pardoned so easily. “It was cruel. It’s not how I see you. Not at all.”

Dolssa watched me thoughtfully. Then an idea seemed to strike her. She moved over on her bed, and patted the space beside her. “Lie down,” she said. “Let’s get some rest.”

I felt shy. I should get up and go back to my room. I should check on Sazia. But she was fine, and I knew it. Better than fine, with God watching over her.

So I joined Dolssa. She nestled down under her blanket, tucked it over me, and rested her head against my shoulder. Her breath soon settled into a long, slow pulse, while her warmth spread to cover my legs and feet. There was nothing more to hear but her quiet breath, and the plaintive song of the
rossinhol
.

If I’d encountered Dolssa in her old life, we would never have spoken. Someone of her rank would have no use for one of mine. The same could be said of my sort, as we looked with contempt or envy upon our betters.

Yet here we lay, we two, after all we’d been through, after all she’d suffered, and all my eyes had seen. I’d needed her, that night, to heal Sazia. Perhaps, for a moment, Dolssa had needed me, too. How curious. How rare. How little we ever know anyone.

Between the shutters, I caught a glimpse of one bright morning star.

Oh,
Dieu, I prayed.
I have never assumed you thought much of me. Nor would I expect you to. But you’ve brought me here to help your beloved. I don’t know how, but you walk with her. My little bird I found. Show me what you want me to do for her, and I’ll try. I’ll do all I can to keep her safe. For Sazia’s sake. And for Dolssa’s.
I paused a moment.
And for mine. Amen.

BOTILLE

e slept late. I crept from Dolssa’s room with the morning sun high in the sky and found Plazi still in bed. We lay there together, drunk on joy. Dolssa had snatched our
s
rre
back from certain death. Heaven itself had come down to our little tavern.

We let Sazia and Dolssa sleep even longer. But once we’d explained to Sazia what had happened to her, she fell at Dolssa’s feet and kissed her hands. Plazi and I eyed each other. Never in our lives had we seen our surly
s
rre
behave like this. From then on, Sazia’s gaze followed Dolssa adoringly. Dolssa glanced at me in helpless desperation. I only laughed.

Plazensa cooked Dolssa and Sazia such a breakfast as Bajas had never seen. She sent me running, bartering here and there for bacon, hunting through our chicken coop for eggs, even pulling two onion beauties from my special patch for the morning feast.

We crowded into Dolssa’s room to eat it. Even Jobau came. Poor Dolssa nearly died of fright. She had no idea who he was. Jobau ate some food. Sazia tolerated him. More miracles.