“Yes. Fourteen of us have emptied, but we the rest endure with the clavas.”
“So you trade silver to the miners in exchange for the corpses, which are the soil on which your food grows.”
“Yes.”
“It is this tunnel that leads back to your home?”
“Yes. Through this one we came. This tunnel is the path to the home, where the tribe roams the long caverns.”
“Is there no other path?”
“None. Many watches we have looked. Many watches we have dug. We wait in a trap.”
“Can you not climb to the surface? Find another entrance into the depths?”
“The Blinding burns us. The water poisons us. We cannot reach them. We are in a trap.”
“Can you not dig your way back? You are miners, are you not?”
“We dig in the earth. We dig, but slowly. We who came to be trapped here scout only when first we come here. We left the strong tools behind. Also, we are too few to dig so far within the span of our life. We will die here, waiting. One by one.”
He nodded. “I’ll go. I’ll swim as far as I can and see if I can get to the other side.”
“The water does not poison you?”
“No. I can’t drink it, but it does not poison me as long as I do not drink it.”
“Why.”
“I don’t know why. The salt is too strong. That’s why we can’t drink it.”
“No. Why do you help us? Do you not wish to escape back to the Blinding?”
He sank down cross-legged, rubbing his eyes. “Why would I not help you? You are trapped. Maybe I can free you by telling your kinfolk that you still live. If I climb back up the shaft, they will kill me, so I am doomed anyway. Maybe God sent me here to help you, seeing your need.”
“Who is God?”
He laughed, and the sound of laughter spooked Pewter-skin, who leaped backward and rolled up into the curled position, like a turtle retreating inside its shell. Yet his laughter acted like a knife, cutting one of the strands of the rope that chafed him. So many things bound him: his empty memory, his aching head, the mystery of his anger and grief. Still, laughter was its own enigma, a tonic to ease the burdens of life.
“Let me gather my strength first. I am so tired. I hurt. I need water to drink. Share your clavas with me, if you will. Tell me your stories while I rest. Then I will see how far I can swim.”
3
ZACHARIAS’ days fell into a routine. On fair mornings, Hugh presided over the schola, such as it was, with certain likely children seated on the ground before him as he taught them to write and read. Zacharias was never allowed to come close enough to listen, for if he had, he would have learned to write and thereby have a means to speak, and it was obviously Hugh’s intention to prevent Zacharias from ever speaking in any form again. He had, therefore, to content himself with scratching letters in the dirt with a stick when he thought no one would observe him, and from these bent and crooked symbols he tried to puzzle out a meaning, for since he knew the liturgy by heart surely he must discover the secret that allowed words to be poured into letters, the Word that brought forth Creation according to the Holy Book in which he no longer believed. Yet there was something, surely, to the Logos, the thought and will that nestled at the heart of the universe, its kernel, its soul—if the universe had a soul. If any man had a soul.
Hugh had long since given up his soul, yet how might a man appear so beautiful and so kind and at the same time hide within himself such a poisoned heart? How could any great lord stand so patiently before a dozen dirty Salavii peasant children and teach them their letters? A pious churchman might, who hoped to see them become deacons and fraters in their turn who could minister to their countryfolk and thus bring their heathen relatives into the Light. Did that mean Hugh was a pious churchman? Or a cunning fraud? Yet he labored in support of King Henry and Queen Adelheid as their loyal servant.
These contradictions Zacharias could make no sense of. He did not understand a man of such elegance who could nevertheless live in this wilderness without complaint, keep his hands clean and yet bloody them with such cruelty as cutting out an innocent man’s tongue, teach snot-nosed common children like any humble frater and yet walk among the great nobles in Darre with the arrogance of a man born to the highest rank. Be ruthless and yet seem so compassionate when mothers brought hurt children to his care, or his soldiers confessed their cares and worries and little crimes to him, for which he always prescribed a just penance leavened by the kiss of mercy.
If I did not hate him, I would love him.
