***
Was this his diary then? Jack held the leather cover he’d seen his friend consult regularly during their time together. He’d lost count of the occasions Zarius sat nodding and occasionally saying “Ahhh” or “Hmmm” or “That’s right” as he read its pages.
Although barely the size of his palm, it was heavy and Jack had almost dropped it back on his cousin’s side table. The cover was smooth and warm, almost sweaty, to the touch and he could almost taste the tang of aged paper on his tongue.
It was old; many, many years old. On the spine, spidery letters were too faint to be read. How could anything so ancient possibly contain anything useful to their endeavour?
Before he did anything else, Jack glanced around the room unconsciously. He clenched and opened his hands. His ‘cousin’ had refused to say where he was going or when he would return.
He still didn’t know who Zarius was, not really. He sensed that he meant well. That he was lucky. Things happened around him. But he was oblivious to the world, the way it worked and the people around him.
Jack’s hand rested on the cover. There had been no instruction against reading the book but instinctively, he knew it was wrong. The unexpected weight, the musty smell of it age aroused an unclassifiable dread inside him.
Visions of Zarius’s secretive manner, the furtive concentration with which he studied the book’s pages, fuelled his curiosity. It was only a book. Words printed on a page.
He forced the covers apart, running his finger down the page, searching for first elusive entry. The words were handwritten in the same angular script which adorned the book’s exterior, yet this time, somehow, the letters were as clear to him as print. Underneath the deliberate, careful pen strokes, the yellow paper looked hundreds of years old and had a sweet, damp aroma.
Jack blinked hard and tried read again. The entry continued over the page, followed by another, then another. It was clearly a reference book, an encyclopaedia of sorts, but what it described was unclear. He turned the pages, following the alphabet towards its zenith. Pages fluttered like wind through long grass. He started to read one entry:
PERTH, WILLIAM of (a baker). Although he could not read in Latin or speak a word of French his simple trade brought him closer to God than the finest sermons of any bishop. He spoke neither oath nor used His name in vain. Every tenth loaf would be set aside for the poor and any beggar that appeared at his door would not leave unsatisfied. This honest man had a boy, who, though not his flesh and blood, for William had never taken a wife; he loved just as much and instructed him in his trade. But the lad, called David but known as the Foundling, was not given to follow his adopted father’s Godly ways and instead of attending to his chores would rather spend his time idling in daydreams or listening at the alehouse door to the gossip of travelers. William one day was visited by God’s messenger and told he must travel to the Holy Land. He set out that very day, leaving his door open and his oven still smoldering. The boy too came with him for it was his first time outside of the town and his mind was full of intrigue about the wider world and he sought the opportunity to fulfill his speculations. They traveled across the border, for William had mind to seek the blessing of the Bishop of Canterbury before crossing the water. Although a man of slender means, the blessed baker had no mind for money, having left his home with but a few coins to his name. Although his purse was full, no innkeeper would take a coin from this holy man and when he gave freely to the beggars on the roadside, always the same few coins remained.
William thought nothing of this strange miracle – trusting in God’s will – but the younger man was amazed. His heart grew heavy with envy as he thought of what riches the man who owned such a marvelous purse could enjoy. In Rochester they stopped three days, for William was stricken with a cholic and confined to his bed. The blessed town of Canterbury was but a day’s journey and from there they would make port for Jerusalem.
But this was not to be, for the foundling boy, given his name because he had been discovered abandoned in forest near Dunsnane, had been plotting secretly to kill his benefactor and take his miraculous purse. During his master’s illness he had fallen in with an ill crowd and discovered the pleasures of drinking and whoring.
“Why should I follow this pious fellow to Jerusalem?” the baker’s apprentice asked himself. “Surely there is money enough in that purse that we can have as merry a time here as abroad.”
His imagination inflamed by ale, he saw himself dressed in finery, feted by lords, admired by the choicest damsels in England and Scotland and resolved that he would turn on his master at the soonest opportunity, taking the ever-flowing purse for his own. Now among the company he had befriended were a gang of desperate fellows who quickly agreed to his plan in the promise of a rich reward. So it was when his fever lifted, the master led his boy once again upon their path. Shortly into their journey, the foundling boy turned to William.
“Master, during your sickness I learned of a route used by local men that will half our journey. If we travel through the forest we will reach Canterbury ere the fourth hour.”
But instead he led William far from his true route, deep into the woods and into a copse where his fellows were waiting.
“William Baker, I can thole no longer this trade in which you have trained me. I crave not the life of a skivvy nor do I choose to sail to the Holy Land. Instead I demand the wages you have withheld from me. Have I not sweated by your oven and woken early to knead the bread which you have given freely to those vagrants to whom you charge no coin. Hand me that purse now and I will consider my account settled.”
“My boy, you know that I have no son of my own. All that I own is yours to have when I die. The clothes I wear now, if you will have them. Any hardship I made you endure was to invest you with a trade which will make you free of the poverty which inflicts so many of our fellows. Begrudge not their needs but relish the opportunity to do God’s work. If now you wish to leave my house and the trade I have taught you, go then with my blessing. I will not prevent you.”
He would have remonstrated further had one of the rogues spoke: “Hoi Baker! You will hand the wallet to the young master.”
But William refused to relinquish the purse for it had been given to him by God’s messenger along with a sturdy branch and he had been told no let no other man hold it or even know of its existence. Knowing that it would bring only ill to his adopted son, the poor baker begged his assailants to leave him be. But instead the brigands set about him, felling him with a blow to the head and in the next instant cutting his throat for good measure.
Shocked, the foundling boy forced the purse from his stricken father’s fingers but when he tore open its strings found there was not one coin inside. The villains he had engaged in the promise of a healthy fee turned upon him despite his protestations, bludgeoning his skull with the branch of a yew tree until he too was as still as a stone.
Now it so happened that a beast which lived in the deepest forest did at that very moment chance upon the corpse of the martyred baker. The brigands who had been engaged the murderous act fled never heard to be heard of. Although the creature made as if to consume stricken William corpse as a carrion does a felled deer, it was struck by the beauty of that silent corpse. Then God’s messenger appeared and bade the animal pay homage. The creature licked clean silent William’s wounds and placed garlands of blossom around him for it knew all the places where honeysuckle grew.
Upon hearing the tale of the miracle, the monks of Rochester went to the woods and carried William’s body back to their abbey. The beast was declared Noble by those Holy Men and tithes were paid unto it. Stories of further healings and signs spread among the people and William was named as a saint to be invoked at times of endurance and family strife.
Despite the spidery script and outdated language, Jack felt himself drawn into the tale. Almost as if he had been there watching the baker
carry out his good works, looking on as he was bludgeoned to his death. He lifted his hand to turn to the page but suddenly felt a red fire, searing his right wrist.
Zarius loomed above him.
“Just what do you think are you doing?” His voice was clear as a church bell, the pale almond-shaped eyes burned with cold fire, and the flowing robe no longer ridiculous, but flaring out with their own emotion.
Try as he could Jack could not break his gaze from the irises which flickered and spinned with energy, until it was that Zarius releasing his wrist from his grip.
Swiftly he stuffed the book inside his voluminous gown.
“I’m sorry dear boy. I reacted badly,” his mellow expression returned. “But you were wrong to read that book.”
“What is it?”
“Different people have added to it over the years. It’s probably best you don’t think about it too much. There are some things you might find… difficult to understand.”
Zarius broke off and looked to the other side of the room. Saira was standing at the doorway.
“Are you okay?” Her dark eyes were filled with concern. It was the first time they had spoken since the desert.
“We’re fine.”
Even though he had just greedily devoured the contents, Jack couldn’t now remember what he had just read. The words leapt and danced as when tried to focus on their meaning. He was about to say something to Saira but she had already turned and left the room.
Zarius looked at him meaningfully.
“I suppose you realise now that you’re going to have to marry the girl.”