The only light in the room came from dying embers. As always, the faint smell of spoiled milk hung in the air. Martin’s father-in-law slept in the cellar amid his goat cheeses to escape the child’s noise, and Martin couldn’t blame him, though he hated him for having a place to flee to avoid this sadness.
Lisette’s cheeks, once so round and soft, hung limp from her bones. Her eyes could hold no more tears, and her breast, no more feelings, and no more milk. She could only wait and watch with a slow, sustained terror for the end.
Every time she had tried to feed the child, it had tried to suckle, then given up. When Lisette squeezed milk onto his tongue, it arched its back and screamed. Other wet nurses were called. Goats’ milk was offered. But nothing could induce this child to survive.
How many hours had passed since the sun went down, Martin could not tell. But tonight, he was sure, would finish the matter.
His tongue was dry. He needed to relieve his bladder. His left foot had gone numb from the press of his little filha’s bony hip. But these didn’t seem like reasons enough to disturb her peaceful sleep upon his lap.
Martin didn’t hear the door open. He heard no footsteps. But a femna appeared where there was not one before. Slim and pale, like a ghost in the firelight, dressed only in white, and leaning on the wall as she walked. Martin could see little of her face except for her large, dark eyes. He watched her like one in a dream. She made his skin prickle.
“It is the angel of death,” gasped his wife, and she clutched the infant closer. But the young femna made no move toward the child. Instead she set to work building up the fire. She was slow. Each movement seemed hard for her. Gradually, she filled a pot with water and set it in the cinders, then draped a blanket over a peg close to the fire. She moved a chair nearer to the hearth. She gestured to Lisette, who sat in the chair as if in a trance.
Martin watched as the young woman reached her arms toward Lisette, asking for the child. She did not seize it, nor exert any compulsion. She simply held out her arms and waited.
Lisette wavered. She swayed from side to side in her chair.
“Are you living flesh?” she whispered.
“Oc. I am.”
Still Lisette rocked. Martin had to strain to hear her next question.
“Will the child live?”
The femna’s outstretched arms never faltered. “If God wills it.”
Lisette’s breath came in shallow pants. Not for the first time, Martin feared his eṇfan filh was not the only member of his family preparing for the next world.
“What is your name?” she asked the mysterious femna.
Martin watched the femna’s face. Even from across the dark room, her eyes pulled at him, leaving him longing for something, something he’d tasted once, or heard, or dreamed. He couldn’t remember what.
“My name,” said the phantom, “is Dolssa.”
Lisette seemed to struggle to think. “Where are you from?”
“I have no home,” was the reply. “Here is where I live now.”
Slowly, fearfully, Lisette surrendered her child.
As soon as Dolssa had the eṇfan, she enfolded it in her arms, cradling it close to her face. Martin blinked in the darkness. What was she doing? She was talking to the eṇfan, murmuring, singing, even laughing. And between every word, she kissed it, over and over. Kissed its cheeks, its nose, its forehead. Kissed its chin, its neck, its eyelids, its soft ribs and distended belly. Kissed its feet and knees and arms, uncurled its tiny fingers with her lips to kiss its little hands.
The child was not crying, Martin realized. He sat up with a start. Had it died? Had this Dolssa kissed it to death? His filha whimpered as his movements startled her. She shifted and nestled back into his lap to sleep.
The young woman poured a stream of soft words and kisses over the child as Lisette sat crookedly in her chair, with her limp hands hanging down. Before Martin realized how she’d reached his side, Dolssa was handing the baby to him.
He cradled the eṇfan in his rough hands and held it close to peer into its face in the dim light. It made no more mewling cries, but lay calmly, poking out its tiny pink tongue, which left its rose-petal lips wet and shining in the firelight.
Martin had never held his infant filh before. Why would he, with no milk to offer it? But as he watched the babe’s eyes open and shut, its tiny nose pulling in air, its little mouth searching for something to drink, he yearned for the child.
He brought the baby close and kissed its downy head. He drank the scent of new skin through its shock of thick black hair.
The baby kicked its little foot.
Martin kissed the head again, and kissed one smooth cheek, then the other. He kissed up and down the fragile arms, the round loaf body. The child swung an arm and poked Martin in the eye, and he laughed and realized he was crying, streaming wet tears onto his son’s head and chest, where they ran down into the crease of the neck. He kissed the tears away, only to add more.
“Live, little one,” he told the child. “Live, mon filh.”
And his heart broke, for the child would not live, could not live, and now he loved him. He would have to bury that love along with his filh’s small body. And what use would he be to Lisette, in the days to come, a shattered man comforting a shattered woman?
Lisette. He had forgotten about her. And the strange visitor.
Lisette’s back was still toward him, but where before she had sat lifeless and inert, now she leaned forward intently. Her elbows spread outward like bird’s wings, and her hands were busy doing something. Martin couldn’t tell what. The young femna knelt before her on the hearth, helping her, encouraging her.
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 relinquishe
d 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 srre 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 srre 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.
After breakfast I ventured to Na Pieret’s vineyards in search of Garcia to haggle for more viṇ. It was a perfect autumn day, with sea breezes off the lagoon cooling the warm sunshine of late September. All nature, I felt, cel
ebrated my joy with me. Blue, blue, blue were the sky and the sea, golden the hazy sunlight. Leafy vineyards chattered in the wind, but not as much as the army of Na Pieret’s harvesters did as they sliced fat clusters off the vines.
I found Jacme and Andrio lounging in the shade under an old stone wall and gave them the tongue-lashing I knew Na Pieret would wish them to have. They paid my scolding not a chestnut’s worth of attention. Perhaps I was too glad to truly harangue them.
“Find me a wife, Botille,” said the great bushy-bearded Jacme. “One who cooks fit for a queen, with an aze fit for a king!”
“Take your foolish talk away from me, Jacme,” I retorted. “I’ll find you a wife when you have more than two shillings in your pockets to feed her with. What’s your cooking wife to bake her dainty dishes with, fish bones and lizards’ heads?”
“Can you cook?” said that reprobate. “After half a pitcher of viṇ, even you’d be pretty.”
A shadow fell over my shoulder. I looked up to see Symo standing there listening to their insults.
Lovely.
He carried a long knife for slicing the woody grape stems, but now it looked like a weapon in his hands. But that may have just been his usual dragonlike expression. He said nothing, but leveled a look at the two wastrels—his own servants now. They rose to their feet and slunk back to work, muttering to each other when they thought he could no longer hear.
Symo’s glare in my direction was no more friendly than that he’d given to his hired hands. No salutation, no kindness to a femna. No courtesy whatsoever.
At least one of us bowed. “Bonjọrn to you, too, Symo,” I said.
If those glowering eyebrows were any thicker, they’d sprout leaves. When he was an old man, I’d wager, it would require a blade like his grape trimmer to mow them into submission. If he reached old age, that is—if someone didn’t murder him for general orneriness first. I preferred to avoid the brows, and their owner, so I resumed my walking along the path that wound through farm plots and vineyards, up to the high lookout over the lagoon.