The World Above the Sky (9 page)

“Yes, yes. I know all that.”

Eugainia raised her face, stared straight forward again, her attention forced backward in time by unhappy thought. Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk saw her sorrow, a sorrow he felt deep in his own grieving heart.

“Come, Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk,” Keswalqw said. “Your time of mourning is past.”

“She's burdened with grief. As am I, Aunt. As am I.”

“A winter has come and gone since your Muini'skw died. Yet you you still weep, Nephew.”

“
E'e
! For the beautiful Eu'gaini'a.”

“Walk softly, Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk....It's dangerous to talk to unknown Spirit Persons. She may not be for you.”

“In my sorrow I am one with the beautiful Eu'gaini'a,” Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk persisted. “Perhaps she is for me.”

Henry pulled the muslin curtain aside. “My Lady? Listen. A feathered throat welcomes the Goddess.”

Ignored, Henry pressed on. “I've seen the little creature. It's like our own song sparrow, but with a white throat. Particular to this New World, I think. Listen. Dah...dah...da-dah! And look there! How sweet. Summer's mysteries live in every bush and flower. One can almost hear the sound of a new leaf unfurling.”

“One does.”

“Yes. Of course. Forgive me.”

“There—listen....Not ten feet distant: a blade of grass twists up to drink the yellow sun. And there....Well. Happily, you and the others are spared this constant barrage of blood and bloodied nature. Life endlessly reinventing and devouring itself.”

“My Lady?”

“See that small conifer at the far edge of the clearing? A weasel has taken a meadow vole.” She set her needlework aside. “War and death, disease and suffering. Monstrous deeds of selfish women; the bloody crimes of surly men. Europe a rotted shell. My infant son born twisted, dead, unfinished. Morgase gone.”

“And yet you live. The Royal and Holy Blood has found its Eden, Lady. As you strengthen, the sacred cauldron of the five trees will yearn to be filled again. Lord Ard will be brought from Frislandia. There will be another child. With you restored, the great work will begin. The time has come. Temple Knights have re-emerged to build a New Jerusalem. And in the breast of our dominion, the Royal and Holy Heart will beat secure. You and your children, My Lady, and theirs, will rule this New World until the next great turning of the wheel.”

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk was touched by the tenderness with which Henry addressed Eugainia. “See how kind he is, Keswalqw? Perhaps the 'Enry Orkney comes especially to show The People his great canoe with its wind-catching blankets. Comes to share, to give knowledge and receive our wisdom; we'll learn the other's tongue. He'll show me how to make a great canoe. I'll give him wisdom. You The People's medicine. This is good.”

“Perhaps it's good. Perhaps not. Eu'gaini'a. Once she had strong medicine. Something weakens her.”

Eugainia rose. “This will not do.”

She refused Henry's hand, stepped from the litter to the ground.

“My Lady?”

“I can't lay about like some half-living thing.” She approached the table. “What are these?”

“Maps. Fragments, really. Somewhere out there, encoded here, is the route to the Grail Castle, and the Well of Baphomet.”

“The southwest quadrant is incomplete.”

“Admiral Zeno has the critical fragment. The segment held by the Vatican these last hundred years bears the key and is of particular interest. First we'll find the Grail Castle, then the Well of Baphomet.”

“No,” Eugainia's tone was flat and cold. “First the Well of Baphomet and the Stone Grail.”

“Circumstances have changed, My Lady.”

“I yearn for her comfort.”

“We have no idea where the Well of Baphomet and the Stone Grail are, Eugainia. Like as not it's a long and perilous journey. One thousand, one hundred and fifty souls taken in an instant. We've lost all but fifty of our numbers. I haven't enough men to properly protect you—”

“Protect me? From whom? These sweet people?”

“I can't guarantee your safety.”

“Go ahead. Reconstruct the Grail Castle first. Then install my skeleton. That's what I'll be unless I am refreshed by the Stone Grail. And that soon.”

“I thought to secure you, then fetch your Lord; by now he will have reached the Friars of—”

“The poor old fool.”

“My Lady. He dotes on you.”

“Mindlessly, as dotage dotes.
Reclamation
lies on her side in the mud of the bay. You say yourself we have no men to spare, no crew. Leave old Ard in Frislandia to fade among the friars.”

“He is your husband.”

“I will never submit myself to such humiliation again. I'd rather consign the Holy Blood to oblivion.”

“All I ask is two months, My Lady. I'll have your husband here by summer's end.”

“Husband!” Eugainia fixed Henry with a cold, hard stare. “How should I call that desiccated old
queue sur l'étagère
husband? He brought the Goddess a feeble, misshapen child. I'm saturated with the Holy Blood. I've no more need of poor old Ard.”

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk stepped from the sweat lodge into the sunlight. Eugainia watched the hide flap fall back into place.

“I need the Source,” she said. “I need the Holy Grail.”

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk walked the short distance to the fire. Eugainia lingered on his strong tapered back, followed the glistening trail of sweat running down to powerful thighs and legs.

“The Well of Baphomet and the Stone Grail, Lord Henry. Then the Grail Castle. These are my priorities. And your orders.”

Eugainia walked toward the terrace trial. Henry followed.

“My Lady—”

“Let me alone.”

“We hoped you'd stay, and direct our council.”

“You know my wishes.”

Henry returned to his table. In the middle of the clearing, her green dress glittering, Eugainia raised her arms to the sun, arched her back, sighed and continued on her way. Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk stared after her.

“I was wrong. She is not like the larch after all,” Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk said. “She has great Tree Power. Power of the great pine. I see that now.”

“Yes. Pine and oak.”

“From such Power, Tree Power, came Lnu'k—The People,” Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk said. “
E'e
! She is beautiful.”

Eugainia slipped into forest shadows, unaware that Keswalqw followed silently behind.

• • •

It was some time before Sir Athol reappeared in the meadow, Templar tunic ablaze, three paces behind Antonio Zeno. Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk sat near the sweat-lodge entrance. Antonio's glance passed over him as though he were no more than a stick or a stone. Antonio wore moccasins Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk had made with his own hands, moosehide moccasins taken from his own feet, going barefoot until he'd had a chance to cure, tan, cut and stitch another pair for himself. Open-handedness was central to The People's nature. Goods circulated easily. The tribe's needs superseded one's own. In The People's cosmos, guests were honoured without question. Antonio Zeno's lack of grace was noted. What interested The People more was Henry's generosity.
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was open to all, her contents judiciously shared.

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk forced his attention back to his task, shredding broad, fragrant tobacco leaves into strips. He raised each dry leaf in a perfunctory manner, the ritual today lacking solemn purpose. The preparation of the
nespipagn
respectfully alerts the Creator that prayers will soon arise on its smoke. He stuffed the shredded
nespipagn
roughly into a small leather pouch.

Antonio approached the canopied table, settled in what had been Athol Gunn's chair. He shuffled the maps, awaiting the arrival of Prince Henry who had strategically retreated, seeking the advantage of last arrival to strengthen his hand in the negotiations to come.

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk calmed himself, apologized to the
nespipagn
.

This is no way to prepare, he thought, struggling to defuse his annoyance. I'm sorry, Great Spirit. But that little man, that little dark Anto'nio...from the moment we met, he wanted to cut me in pieces. He wanted to feed my body to the wolves, then scatter the ashes of my bones to the Six Worlds. 'Enry Orkney, he wouldn't permit it. Did he not know this would be the end of Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk for all time? No man or woman, no creature of woods or meadow, no bird of the air or fish of the sea may return from the Ghost World if their bones are not preserved. I don't like this Anto'nio. He is
Jipijka'maq
, Horned Serpent Person. He bursts into the Earth World from the World Below the Earth, and leaves a trail of destruction and woe.

In one clean motion, Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk rose from his cross-legged position, rose straight up without bending his torso, without the use of his hands. Up he flowed, pivoting as he ascended and, without pause, vanished into the shadow of the trees.

Henry paused at the edge of the clearing. Antonio waited to be formally addressed for no reason other than to impress his authority. How uncertain of himself he must be, Henry thought as he approached the prim and priggish little figure. And how unlike his brother Nicolo Zeno, heaven rest him.

No explanation for the long delay was offered, none asked.

“Well, Lord Henry,” Antonio began, certain his quick glance at Henry's tunic had been noted. “I see despite your great charade these past months the dogged Templars rise again.”

“We never died.”

“It comes as no surprise. Though I expected you'd wait until you'd rid yourself of your obligations to my family and were shed of me to don your heretical rags.”

Henry held his peace.

Antonio extracted the Vatican-held quadrant of the Grail Map from its tooled leather case, roughly the same shape and size of those already displayed, openly and in good faith, before him. He lay the rolled fragment in his lap, folded his hands, rested them lightly on the table.

Antonio waited.

Henry waited.

Then...

“Before we begin, Admiral Zeno, let me remind you: I require
Reclamation
immediately after her repairs are—”

“You take a high tone, Lord Henry. I remind you: the ship is mine. Before you dash away on your zealot's quest, you'd do well to remember what prizes you may unearth in this new land are already owned. All is claimed in the name of His Holiness Pope Boniface IX, this day, July 5, in the year of Our Lord one thousand three hundred and ninety-eight.”

“This isn't Europe, Antonio. We're a long way from the crowned head upon which, given half a chance, you'd cock the feathered hat of your ambitions. No papal provenance is established here. Quite the opposite, in fact. Look about you. History tells us Templars walked these hills one hundred years ago, almost to the day. Far as the eye can see, and beyond. We were here first, my dear man. The future wears the Templar cross, not that of papal Rome.”

“The ‘future' will be plucked like an overripe plum when we decide the time is right.” Antonio lifted the ragged map from his lap, secured it firmly under his arm. “Without my southwest quadrant, you are lost.”

“That fragment was torn from Templar maps, wrenched from our broken hands by Inquisitorial hounds of Rome not fifty years ago—”

“Maps first stolen by bloody Templar Knights from heathen Arabie.”

Henry leaned back. He folded his hands in his lap. “Let me remind you, merchant, without my Templar maps your fragment leaves you deaf, blind and dumb. We had a deal. If you wish to reconsider—”

“I do not.”

“Good. Then let's begin again. These three fragments spread before you—in all good faith—lead to the Gold River. The fragment you withhold bears the key to our destina—”

“Yes, yes. Your hole in the ground at the edge of the sea. We know what you seek. We also know where the true Grail lies—in His Holiness's vaults at Rome. Off you go. Waste your time. We don't care. Nor would we give a fig for the pile of rubble you intend to restore—your so-called Grail Castle. Nor the counterfeit paragon, the close-bred girl you call Goddess and intend to install as queen of your New Arcadia.”

“
Radix malorum est cupiditas.
We have only to sit by and watch your fate unfold, Antonio. Your love of gold will be your undoing. In the meantime, will we or nil we, you and I have no alternative but to co-operate.”

“There's always an alternative to co-operation.”

“But none to servility,” Henry replied.

Antonio's hands fell back to his lap, where he held them loosely joined, jewelled fingers interlaced. “We're reduced to one ship, which you may use when I'm finished. Then, with your business done, we return to France and go our separate ways, as agreed.”

“You raise an interesting point. What prevents you from sailing back to Italy when
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is repaired?”

Henry's question hung until he chose to answer it himself.

“Ah, yes. The paper admiral. You'll have a ship but no crew. We were aware of the wolves you attempted to conceal in our fold before we embarked. Most of our lambs and the greater number of your wolves lie drowned, may God forgive the sins that brought His tempest down upon all of us. Supposing you could seduce a bare-bones crew from amongst my men. You might even augment it by enslaving some of these good people—God and the Goddess know you've enslaved whole nations before. Even then...there remains one problem—you don't know the way home. As to the future? I put my faith in God, as always.”

“You set sail from Edinburgh, of your own free will, encumbered with the weight and might of the One True Church at Rome. Men of honour acknowledge their debts.”

Henry rose, walked to the edge of the high bank. The waters below teemed with the means to sustain life: seal and walrus littered coastal islands in the hundreds and thousands; forests ran with game; the sky flocked with swan, duck, partridge, quail and pheasant. He'd watched as flights of geese and pigeon darkened the sky. What could cause his New Arcadia—his kingdom of the Grail—to fail to flourish here?

A wayward breeze disturbed the strait's glassy calm. The sun, exalting in its own glory, sent light glancing off the rippling surface until the passing breeze abated and the mirror was restored. Henry drew great strength from long panoramas spilling from elevated landscapes, carrying the eye to a far horizon, lifting spirit and imagination up to the veiled glory of heaven itself. A sky this blue, its bold, improbable clouds arranged as in a child's drawing, never failed to deepen Henry's sense of gratitude and of wonder.

He returned to the table, his moment's doubt dissolved, the sting of the insult dispersed. He did not sit.

“Who dared sail west, past Frislandia, past Engronelanda, to savage Estotiland, then the new found land itself?” Henry asked Antonio. “No crowned king of Europe. Not your bloated pope at Rome. No Venetian scion imposing Rome's belligerent misery. It was my people. Northern fishers. Adventurers. Sailors drawn from hearth and home, bound for the greater glory of the Goddess and Her earthly God. When we've found what we seek,
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will be at your service, as agreed, with free men of my choosing set to sail her where you will. Take her back to Venice and be damned. It makes no difference to me.”

“Strand you here?”

“Was it not your original plan? When the time is ripe for my return, I'll simply build another ship.” Henry resumed his seat. “Athol. Conduct the exchange.”

“Yes, My Lord. Lay the fragments on the table, each of you. Then step back,” Athol directed. “I'll hand them simultaneously.”

The fragments were passed hand to hand, unrolled and laid flat. Rot had consumed both ink and hide: patches of mould obscured much of what remained. Where patterns should be clear, the mysteries deepened.

Henry scrutinized the Vatican quadrant.

“Ancient, beyond doubt. The mark of the library at Alexandria. It's a miracle it has survived.”

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk emerged from the spruce surround carrying two willow-ribbed birchbark pails from each of which he withdrew slings of woven roots, both thoroughly soaked and dripping water. He lay them close to the rocks shimmering with heat, took up a stout forked stick. He manipulated a hot stone into the centre of each hissing sling, hefted them to test their weight, secured rough handgrips padded with meadow grass against blistering the skin of his palms. He gingerly made for the sweat lodge, glancing at the table as he passed.

Henry rotated the fourth quadrant, first clockwise then, still baffled, a full one hundred and eighty degrees to the left.

“We were led to believe this fragment would render our predecessors' maps complete,” Henry said, his suspicion aroused.

A certain sense of order began to emerge for Sir Athol, “No, no. It's here. Look.”

He repositioned the fragments. “This is the northwest, I say, the northwest quadrant.” Athol raised his hand from the map, pointed northeast to the red island across the strait. Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk emerged from the sweat lodge. He caught Sir Athol's gesture.

“And this, the northeast,” Sir Athol continued, indicating the map. “Look. There's the red island, remarkable for its mastworthy pine. Note, I say, note, how elegantly its trees are represented on the map. Very like the real thing I might add.”

Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk approached the table. The image spoke aloud to him immediately. “How is this drawing made?” he asked his uncomprehending visitors, to no reply. He held the opinion that if one spoke quietly, and slowly, all would be understood. He spoke slowly, softly and carefully. “It…looks…very…old.” Blank faces stared back. He knew persistent repetition was the best teacher when dealing with the tribe's children, or those slow of wit, and saw no reason to apply other tactics here.

“We have a marking system as well. The Old Ones say persons from across the sea with hair as black as ours, not berry- or sun-coloured like yours, and brown with eyes the colour of oak bark—not sky-coloured—came from the far side of the sea. You came from the home of winter. They came from the place where summer lives. Came in ships made of reeds. The old tales, they tell their ruler's name was Pharo…”

Blank gazes showed they understood nothing of what he was saying. “The place where summer lives,” he repeated, pointing south. “The place from where summer comes and sends winter back to the home of all cold.” He pointed north. Nothing. He pointed south. Bafflement.

“Anyway,” Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk persevered, “they brought picture signs that speak, like these, a long time gone by, back beyond the distant edge of story and of memory. See this picture mark here? It is like our picture mark for creek. And that island? These picture marks beside the drawing mean Apekwit.”

“What's he saying?” Antonio asked.

“That word
Apekwit
...it's what they call the red island,” Athol ventured. “I heard it mentioned frequently.” He turned to Mimk
ɨ
tawo'qu'sk. “We had a grand weekend there, didn't we laddie! He's a great wee lad, this Mimk— Mimtic—”