Lapvona(21)

What theater was this now? Villiam’s excitement grew. As the scene appeared from below, a bit more with each step he took down the stairs, the cast of characters was revealed. First Lispeth, crying with her hands covering her face. Then Pieter, the front guard, and Luka, the horseman, bent over, hunched, as though God Himself were admonishing him. Villiam slowed his step to prolong his pleasure as the play unfolded. He peered down. Next he saw Dibra on the floor, her skirt splayed out, her arms collapsed under her head as though someone had just pushed her down. Dibra had never been good at physical comedy. Her wails were far too exaggerated. She didn’t understand restraint at all. For this reason alone, Villiam supposed, they were well paired. But now another character appeared as he reached the lower stairs. He looked farther into the room, into the shadows, at what looked to him like a faun, so ugly and goatish was its skull, and the body so small and contorted, as if it had tried to fix itself of its animal form to stand upright. The twisted figure moved Villiam; he had a special taste for freakishness. The creature spoke.

‘If only God had taken me instead!’

A bit too fervid for Villiam’s taste, but he supposed the priest must have approved of the script. Was he here? No, not yet. Father Barnabas must be sleeping in. Villiam finally reached the bottom stair and shuffled past Lispeth and the men. He did not stop to address Dibra, who was wrenched in despair, her body shuddering on the floor, a lull in the audible exclamations. Good that she knew to hold her sobs while Villiam passed so as not to distract him from the direction of the drama. Well played, Villiam conceded. And he approached the ugly little creature, who immediately fell to its knees before him. Villiam cleared his throat and assumed a tone that was low and indignant and self-controlled, as he thought his role to play was that of a stern lord.

‘And who are you?’

‘I’m the wretch who killed Jacob!’ the creature cried and reached his weird arms out to grasp Villiam’s calves. Villiam could feel the hands close tight around his bones, narrow as saplings. He almost fell over trying to step away.

‘Please, my lord. Have mercy. Or I’ll burn in hell for this.’

‘Who is this, Lispeth?’ Villiam asked.

Lispeth wiped her face and ran to curtsy at Villiam’s side. The creature wept, its sorrow loosening its grip on Villiam’s ankles.

‘He came with his father,’ Lispeth said, pointing to the dark recess of the room. Villiam looked, squinted.

‘Step into the light,’ he commanded.

Jude had only stood in the great hall for a matter of minutes, but he was already shivering from the cold of the stony air against his sweaty skin. He was in a strange rage, vibrant and ignorant of any future. He could not imagine how life would go on after this and he didn’t want to. He focused on balancing the weight of the dead boy on his shoulder, which had become tiring after the long walk. He did not like people to see him struggle. His stomach growled, and he was suddenly aware of the pungent odor of wild garlic. Jude wondered to himself if he should be ashamed of the odor, assuming it was coming from his own sweaty body. But it was not him. It was Jacob, the delicate stench of his decomposing body now cleanly detectable in the coolness. The smell made Jude’s eyes water, as did wild garlic when he ate it in the fall, picking it out from between the other weeds in the pasture close to the ram’s cage. He believed that garlic was good for virility. Ina had told him that once.

Finally, Jude took a step into the light so that Villiam could see him. Villiam was immediately perplexed by the resemblance between this stinking peasant and himself. They both had their great-grandfather’s broad nostrils, pores stretched so wide, Villiam sometimes thought about filling his with tiny rubies. But Jude’s eyes were more open than Villiam’s, Jude’s forehead more manly. His jaw was wider and his chin dense with brown hair, the opposite of Villiam’s loose-skinned, bare chin. The frail man could barely grow a mustache thicker than Jacob’s—a few hairs above his top lip. But both men’s lips were thin, downturned, the color of unripe plums. Villiam stared at Jude, mesmerized, as though their similarities were a magic trick.

‘He looks like me,’ Villiam said. Nobody agreed or disagreed.

Next Villiam circled around Jude, searching to make sense of the large doll he carried. The doll’s face was terribly disfigured but still recognizable.

‘Doesn’t that doll look just like Jacob?’ Villiam asked, sincerely impressed.

‘Yes,’ Lispeth answered.

‘But this one’s dead, is that it?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And how is that?’

Villiam was asking Jude. Jude could not look him in the eye, both because he was carrying the man’s dead son and he was terrified of whatever punishment could come forthwith, and because Villiam seemed insane with denial. ‘Is that an eye hanging out?’ he asked and chuckled. He turned to Lispeth.

‘I did it,’ Marek said. ‘I did it.’

‘I see,’ said Villiam, turning his attention to the creature. ‘And what do they call you?’

‘Marek,’ Marek said.

‘What are you, Marek?’ Villiam asked.

Marek couldn’t answer. Jude spoke finally, his voice cracking from thirst. ‘He’s a boy,’ Jude said.

‘Yours?’ Villiam asked him.

Jude nodded. He seemed to be overcome with temper for a moment, as though the weight of the body on his shoulder was all that was holding him back from rushing at Marek and strangling him to death.