The Soul Consortium (9 page)

Silvery fibers slide from the walls to carry me to the WOOM, and as the shackles fix me in place and Qod’s words drift to the back of my attention, a speck of light flits from above to enter the machine—the legacy of Dominique Mancini ready to imprint itself into my mind.

“Farewell, Salem. See you in thirty-one years.”

Whither wander, little man.

I wonder whether you began.

In God’s lost gardens; forgotten lands,

Gleaning life from Death’s cold hands.

M
y whole life has been leading up to this moment. Although there are heavy hearts for the sadness of this gathering, my spirit is light with the promises tomorrow will bring.

With the entire family gathered around Mama, a godly anointing warms her bedchamber, and the very air beams with the golden hue of angels. I would swear on Pope Gregory’s sanctity that the oil lamps flickering at the window have not changed since I set them there last night, yet there is a wonderful glow in this place that cannot be accounted for by natural means.

My sister, Francesca, sitting closest to Mama, would not agree with me, of that I am quite certain. Her wondrous mind sees things as they most likely are—plain and simple, black-and-white, right or wrong. She would see an ordinary flame, illuminating the withered features of our dying mother, surrounded by her two daughters and two sons, in an antiquated room in need of new furniture and a servant. With her posture rigid in the chair, avoiding contact with its back, I imagine she is afraid (if she were truly capable of fear) that her surroundings may somehow spoil her finely embroidered dress or dull its scarlet pleats.

Me, I see something different with my sentimental eyes—my kin together for the first time in seven years and the love of Christ present in our childhood home once again. I see my older brothers, the playful spark still visible in their eyes and the laughter of youth plain to me in every wrinkle that the years of hardship have tried to erase. Naturally, they are struck by impending grief, but such kindly natures cannot be concealed, even in times such as these. And I see my sister, strong and steadfast in an hour of need, stern but always practical.

“What are you staring at, Dominique? Have you nothing better to do than smile and gloat while Mama is passing away? I suggest you reacquaint yourself with your duties and attend to her fever. At least see that she has a little relief in her final hour.”

I bow my head but keep my gaze on Francesca. She is right, of course—my sentimentality has caused my attention to drift; it should be on Mama.

“No, Fran,” says Livio, moving a hand to my sister’s wrist, “there is little point in that now anyway. The cleric told us that Mama is beyond the help of care and herbs. Only the anointing of holy oil and prayer can bring her any hope, be that relief or cure.”

Fran shrugs him off. “You may be the eldest, but you are not at all wise. The anointing of oil is for those who are incapable of prayer. Mama is neither demonized nor asleep. If there is any hope left at all, she needs a physician, not this ineffectual girl.” She waves her hand toward me as if shaking a spider from her fingers.

Arrigo, the younger of my two brothers and easily the more handsome, leans in with his elbow on his knee and whispers, “You should both be ashamed. You most of all, Fran. You speak of Father Pirellio as if he is wrong, as if there is no power in the anointing of God. And, Livio, you told us that Pirellio was not prepared to perform the sanctification, so why speak of it?”

“I said that he wouldn’t perform unless he was paid, Brother.”

“If it’s money he wants, then—”

A rasping cough cuts the argument short as Mama lifts a shaking hand. “Hush. Can’t an old woman die in peace?”

From the fireplace I retrieve a cloth that’s been soaking in a kettle of herb-infused water and wring it out, then press it to Mama’s forehead, filtering out my brothers’ discussion that has lowered to whispers and avoiding my sister’s iron gaze.

“Is the water fresh, Dominique?” Fran shoves Livio before I have a chance to answer. “Go and check the water. You know what she’s like.”

Livio stands, clears his throat, and with a derisive sideways glance toward Fran, strides over to the fireplace to examine my medicinal brew. A flare of his nostrils and a creasing of his brow tell me he disapproves of the mixture.

“I drew the water an hour ago. The herbs were fresh this morning, and the cloth is new,” I say, looking up at Livio as he shakes his head at Fran.

She scowls. “And when did you last change her bedding or bathe her? Even the lavender fails to mask the stench.”

“Her?” Mama tries to raise herself but fails. “Don’t talk about me as if I’m not here—I’m not dead yet.”

“I’m sorry. She—”

“Oh, leave her be,” Mama wheezes. “Dominique has the strength of a kitten. If she moves me again, I fear she will break one of my bones this time. The girl is useless.”

“You didn’t think to use rose water?” Livio taps my shoulder. “Its medicinal properties are without question. The plague doctors use it all the time.”

“I’m sorry. Mama doesn’t have the plague, and I thought that a more comforting aroma would—”

“Comforting?” Fran says. “For how long have you neglected to use the common remedies and thought yourself better advised than physicians and clergymen?”

Arrigo stands from his stool after watching our exchange with mild amusement. “Steady, Fran.” A laugh hovers on the edge of his words. “We can’t expect our little sister to have the same talents as our friendly physician, can we? After all, she was never the sibling with the sharpest mind.”

“What’s in it?” Livio asks, leaning over the kettle again. “I can smell the lavender, but what else did you use?”

“Sage, valerian, and a little mallow.”

He shrugs his indifferent approval.

“Mama,” Arrigo says, a glint in his eye, “has Dominique’s witchcraft done you any service? Do you feel the vitality running like Zeus’s elixir through your bones?”

“It isn’t witchcraft,” I protest.

“Shut up,” Fran hisses. “And you, Arrigo, do you want to bring the magistrates here with your careless words?”

“He was joking,” Livio says, returning to his stool with his attention on Mama.

“Joke or not, if Dominique is suspected of witchcraft we will all be implicated. I don’t care if
she
burns, but I have an estate to manage.”

“Witch!” Mama leans forward and points an accusing finger at me. “I spit on the day my womb conceived you, and I wish a demon’s fate on your soul. You, of all my children, are my biggest disappointment and in no small way.” She slumps back, barely enough life in her to cough, but her remaining vigor is channeled through her expression in a visage of malice directed straight at me. Delirium, I hope.

An uneasy silence falls, and Mama’s eyes shut.

She doesn’t mean to be so cruel. None of them do. With Mama so close to passing away, her thoughts are confused. Nerves are frayed, and the temptation to say regretful things is great. Times have been hard, even before Mama grew ill. They say we are living in peace now that Ferdinand and Philip rule Italy, but in our village very few people have welcomed the Spaniards. It is no surprise then that my engagement to Enrique made me unpopular, and though I love him dearly, I have spent many days in tears, wishing I had not fallen for him. My family’s discontent is a terrible burden to me, and I must accept the criticism that comes.

“I’m hungry,” says Livio. “Is there anything to eat, Dom?”

“I baked bread this morning, and I have some rabbit stew heating on the stove for Enrique if he returns from the docks today.”

“He won’t mind if I rob him of his food?”

“I prepared extra today in case of visitors. We’ve been receiving many since Mama … Would anyone else like some bread and stew?”

Arrigo shakes his head. “Not hungry, Sister.”

“I’ve tasted your efforts before,” Fran says. “With culinary skills such as yours, it is no wonder your fiancé spends all his time at sea in the arms of other women. No, I’ll have neither bread nor stew.”

The brothers laugh, and I look at Mama who has not stirred since her outburst. “Mama? Do you feel well enough to try some stew?”

Her eyelids part a fraction to reveal jaundiced whites and dilated pupils. A soft whisper is on her lips, but she is too tired to answer properly.

“I’ll bring you a small bite. See if you can try some.”

“And don’t forget to bring fresh water and clean bedclothes,” Fran says as I stand.

“I won’t,” I say with a smile.

I leave the bedchamber and close the door behind me. Their whispers exchanged in sharp tones follow as I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen. They may be thinking that I am unable to hear their hurtful words, and I know that Enrique would tell me not to stand for such backbiting, but I see no point in antagonizing them with any reproach. Mama would want to see a happy and contented family around her before she leaves us. I only wish I could do something to soften her words toward me. Just once.

I sit on a stool by the table and look at the pot through the watery blur of tears gathering in my eyes, the pitted base glowing red above the flames, its simmering contents bubbling with meaty juices, salt, and potatoes. I breathe deep, knowing the flavorsome vapors will soothe me and the comfort of cooking will dry my eyes, but I find it so hard to ignore the pain. Unless the Lord intervenes, Mama will never leave her bed again, and the part of me that longs to hold her tightly and beg forgiveness for all the things I have done to grieve her already mourns like an orphaned child.

I wish Enrique were here. I wish my brothers would comfort me or that Fran would set me straight with words of stern reason. But how selfish I am! I should be joyful, a light to those who feel the sting of grief, and I should be content to know that Mama will soon be face-to-face with Jehovah God. My pain is nothing but a sinner’s indulgence.

I draw in a long breath, wipe my eyes, and take two bowls and a ladle from the cupboard. But before the ladle dips into the stew, Arrigo appears at the stairs, frowning. I drop the bowl, instinct stabbing my stomach with the knowledge of what he is about to say.

The clay fragments shatter against the stone floor, and Arrigo’s frown deepens as the clatter meets his ears. “Never mind. You need only one serving of stew now anyway. Mama just died.”

A
fter Arrigo told me about Mama, my mind recoiled like a wounded rabbit to its warren. I don’t remember what I did, but Arrigo told me later that I swooned at the news. I have a vague recollection of Fran’s bitter glance as Livio led her through the kitchen and out of the house, and I believe a man entered soon after to legally declare that Mama was dead, but much of those two hours was spent in the midst of a watery dream.

I’m sitting in the kitchen beyond supper time because grief has stiffened my limbs. I know I should feel happy that Mama is with the Lord now, but I am unable to think of anything but my failings. In my selfishness I hoped to console Mama in her final hours to gain her favor and receive absolution, but it was not to be.

Always a disappointment to her, I am the child who blackened the family’s reputation. Arrigo is the smiling businessman, triumphant in international success and boasting a multitude of influential contacts to rival even Papa when he was alive. Livio has excelled as a cartographer and through his envied skill in that profession risen into royal favor. And through Livio’s social status, Francesca has been introduced to men of significant standing and married into good fortune.

As for me, I did nothing other than fall in love with a Spaniard who rarely visits. I stayed with Mama and Papa, caring for them as the cruelty of old age wore them down. We had a servant, and I began to dream of finding my own way in life, but we were not able to pay her enough, and when she left I resumed my role as carer. There was hope once that Livio, Arrigo, or Fran might help, but even with their wealth, I understand that their income would not support the continual employment of a servant—Livio spoke of complications with taxation.

Two men enter the house without knocking, and Fran steps in behind them. I’m still dazed by melancholy and images of the past, so it takes me a few moments to question their presence.

Fortunately, Fran is more in control of her grief than I. “These two gentlemen have come for Mama’s body. Do you have any refreshment to offer them? Some brandy perhaps? The conditions outside are quite foul, and there is still rioting in the town square.”

I glance out the window. Through a whirl of snow-flakes, clouds sag heavily over the hills threatening even worse blizzards to come. I look at the two men—one short, one tall. They appear the same in all other respects: haggard with blotchy red cheeks and patches of melting snow covering their dark shawls as they hug themselves to get warm. Fran, though also suffering a layer of snow, does not seem perturbed. I have always admired her resilience.

“Well?” She lifts her chin.

“Did you say there was rioting?” I ask.

The short man laughs. “Of course. It’s been going on since Friday. You didn’t know?”

“I’ve been … preoccupied these last few days.”

The tall man brushes snow from his clothes. “Pope Gregory made the declaration Thursday—we’ve officially discarded the Julian calendar and started his. The locals don’t like it much, and I can’t say I do, either.”

“We’ve all had fair warning,” Fran says. “Nobody can say they didn’t know.”

The short man shakes his head, wipes a drop from his thin nose. “Doesn’t change the fact that we’ve lost ten days of our life, does it? There are plenty of us who want to know how the church is going to make up for that.”

I get up from my stool, grimacing at the pain in my lower back from sitting in the same place for too long, and move closer to the window to get a better view of the street outside. There are no riots that I can see, but a haze of smoke and an orange-red nimbus flicker behind the clock tower hinting at the violence Fran mentioned. “We haven’t lost ten days, have we? I mean, not really.”