Lapvona(28)

‘Begin now,’ Villiam said, repositioning himself on his pillows and sucking on a fig. ‘More wine, Lispeth,’ he muttered. ‘Marek, get up and stand before me so I don’t have to turn my head to look at you while you tell the story.’

‘What sort of story would you like, Father?’

‘I don’t care. Something strange. Something scary. Should we close the curtains? Lispeth!’ he cried as the girl was bending with the decanter to refill his glass. ‘Turn off the sun. I think Marek’s story will be better in the dark.’

Lispeth went to the windows and unhooked the heavy curtains from their catches so that they swung in a puff of dust across the glass. The room was nearly pitch black. Marek stood across from the settle and felt himself dissolve into the darkness, floating. He cleared his throat and heard Lispeth take her seat in the corner. The chair creaked like a bell donging to signal the beginning of an incantation.

‘Once upon a time,’ Marek began.



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*

Jude didn’t want to spend any more time at the lake than it took to dip his body into the cool water, gulp as much as he could, and find a hidden place to scoop enough soft mud into his mouth to fill his stomach. Other people made him nervous. The mud drowned his hunger but did not alleviate the pain in his belly or the ache in his bones. He knew that he was dying. He had no need for life anyway, he thought. Ought he pronounce his demise to the villagers and say goodbye? They were scattered along the shore, some naked and covered in mud, which was supposed to have healing qualities, some squatting in the water, and others under little tents they had fashioned from tablecloths and sticks. If Jude had been more keenly aware, he would have noticed the silence of the scene. No babies cried. No one spoke. In the blur of his fatigue, Jude couldn’t recognize anybody but Klim, a blind man, who gripped the leash of his dog as he stepped cautiously toward the water. Klim looked very thin, thinner than Jude. His knees were like fists, his feet like huge scraps of tree bark. He moved stiffly and uncertainly, pulled by the canine, whose skin sagged from its sharp ribs. Jude could see the dog strain against the rope, desperate to drink.

Jude stepped back in the water and let his body rest from the heat for a while. Klim was edging closer and closer to the shore. The dog pulled. ‘God help them,’ Jude said to himself, remembering Marek’s piety and how it had annoyed him. He splashed water on himself to forget the thought, and as he wiped his eyes, he saw Klim trip and fall on the bank of the lake. His dog broke loose and galloped into the water. Klim cried out to it—the first time Jude had heard his voice—a searing caw like a bird being torn apart by wolves. Klim turned onto his back, his blanket fell beside his emaciated body, his blind eyes opened to the sun, and then he died. The dog gulped water, unaware, then returned to its master, sniffing and licking him with growing panic. Then it sat by his side and began to howl, drawing the attention of the villagers. Jude could not stand by and watch them do what he feared they would do: slaughter the dog and eat it. He could see it in the way the people turned their heads, bloodthirsty. And what about Klim? Would they eat him, too? Before Jude could think, he barreled through the water, determined to get to the blind man before the villagers did. Others were running from their tents and the shadows of the trees on the other side of the lake, hearing the howling dog. Jude arrived first. The dog started barking and nipped at Jude’s wet leather shoes. He picked up the dead man and hoisted him over his shoulder—half the weight of Jacob, he thought—and plodded away as fast as he could back through the woods. He heard a yelp as the villagers got hold of the dog.



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*

    ‘I was thinking today we could play a little game,’ Villiam said, already bored and tired of Marek’s story. Marek had barely gotten through the preamble: ‘Once upon a time, there was a man whose name was Villiam, and he was the greatest man in the land, and among his servants was a fine girl named Lispeth, and one day Villiam was sitting eating grapes, and his son Marek came in . . . ’ It was very dull.

‘Never mind the story, Marek. Let’s have a battle,’ Villiam said. ‘Who can eat the most sausages while Lispeth holds her breath?’

‘All right.’

‘Clod?’ Villiam called for his man. ‘Get us some sausages. Enough to feed a hundred people.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘In the meantime, Lispeth, sing us a song.’

Lispeth curtsied and sang while Marek and Villiam waited for the sausage. She sang very quietly, so that Marek had to strain to hear the words. Villiam picked at his cuticles, only vaguely aware of the song, just enough so that he would not have to endure the silence as he waited for his food.


To sing I must, of that I would rather not

so bitter I am toward he who stole my love

for I loved him more than anyone;

my kindness and courtesy make no impression on him

nor my beauty, my virtue or intelligence;

so I am deceived and betrayed,

as I should be if I were ugly . . .

One thing consoles me: I never wronged him,

And if love could bring him back

It would, so much I have to give.

I am glad that my love is greater than your vanity.



‘Sing it again,’ Villiam said, yawning. ‘A little louder this time. Clod! Hurry up with those sausages!’