Lapvona(51)

Lispeth picked red zinnias, poppies, roses, peonies, and red chrysanthemum, all growing in the indoor flower garden, which was protected from frost by a constantly burning fire. She and the servants were tasked with garlanding the blooms into miles-long strands for the wedding. There was to be a rope of red, like a line of blood, leading from the manor on the hill down to the road and into the village, ending at the apse of the church, where the priest would be robed in red as well. Villiam’s attire would be red. The villagers were to wear red, too. The guards had gone around to every home in the village with packets of bath of madder and instructions for all Lapvonians to dye their clothes as many times as necessary to produce a deep crimson. This was Villiam’s idea, as he’d had a dream in which everyone wore red at his wedding. He wasn’t particularly fond of the color, but he had respect for his dreams and liked to see them actualized.

Although dying their clothes was a chore, the people of Lapvona were happy to participate in the celebration, as they’d been promised a day off from their labor and a zillin each. And word had gotten out that the nun was pregnant. The priest had spread the story through Ina. Along with it was the promise that touching the belly of the virgin would bring health and prosperity, and Ina advised the female villagers in secret about exactly how to place their hands on the belly. ‘Your fingers must be spread like this,’ she said, and however they spread them, she corrected them until they were so fussed that they paid her over and over with food and ale to teach them once more.

Grigor was ever suspicious of Ina’s lessons, as well as of Villiam’s coming nuptials. People were so pleased to dye their garments, ‘Oh, our lord is getting married! Isn’t this good news?’ they squealed. They were idiots. But that was all Grigor knew. His sour face had turned his neighbors against him. They no longer welcomed his herbs or flowers grown past the line between their gardens. He understood. ‘I remind you of too much,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen it all.’ After his fight with Vuna, he said nothing more about Ina, but he watched carefully as the old woman passed, walking so strangely and knocking on the doors of houses, interrupting the people as they supped. What did she want from them? Why did no one but Grigor see that she was mad and vile, or crooked at the very least? She’d been a wet nurse to many of the men she now massaged. Was that not perverse? What would the priest say? And what had she done to her eyes? Grigor could not shake his unease. It was keeping him up at night. He went to confession, finally, in October.

‘Forgive me, Father Barnabas.’

‘Never mind,’ the priest said. ‘Begin.’

‘I hit my son’s wife across the face,’ Grigor said.

‘And?’

‘I suspect there’s a witch in Lapvona,’ Grigor said. ‘Her name is Ina. Calls herself a doctor. Bent on indecency. She’s been rubbing the men.’

‘Medicinally, I presume.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You sound tired. And?’

‘And I’m angry.’

‘At whom?’

Grigor couldn’t answer. There was not a soul he was not angry at. He cycled through his options: God, the bandits, Villiam, his family, his neighbors. The list was too long to speak aloud. Grigor was ashamed of that excess, and so he lied.

‘I’m angry at myself,’ he said after a long pause, ‘for not protecting my family.’

‘Then bring a gift to the old lady and she will relieve you of your anger. And in so doing, you will relieve yourself of your suspicion. Do it before tomorrow so that you can enjoy the wedding.’

Grigor found the advice clever. If Ina was a witch, she could cure him of his uneasiness. If she was not, he had nothing to worry about. He agreed that he would do as he was told. He thanked the priest for his ear and counsel and left the confessional.

As he walked out of the church, Grigor followed the flowered garland snaking its way from the apse to the door, the already withering blooms tied in knots with what looked to him like human hairs. He found it strange that such flowers could grow in the fall, but again, everything seemed strange to him since his grandchildren had been slain. He didn’t like to remember Easter—it felt like years ago, given the famine and upheaval of the drought—but he thought of the day now, how the whole town had been fasting for the holiday, had been weakened by their hunger already, which made them more vulnerable to the bandits. And why had the bandits come just before the spring harvest, and not after? If they wanted to pillage properly, they would have waited until all the crops were picked and ready to be sent to the coast. They could have made off with carts and carts of crops. Had they come simply to torture the villagers? To haunt them? To deter them from hope? What use was it, he wondered? If the bandits were not at all practical, did they act according to the whims of hatred, or was there something even more sinister about them, more intelligent?

Klarek was there at the church, managing the lesser guards who were instructing the villagers in how to position the garland of red flowers. Lispeth had tied them all together with hairs that had fallen from Dibra’s head. Many hairs came from her hairbrush. Jenevere untangled them and laid them out carefully on a white sheet as they tied the flowers. Other hairs were peeled off her gowns and coats, her armchairs, wherever she had set her head. The servants missed Dibra. She had been something of a mother to them, had remarked upon their growth and appearance in a way they appreciated. They neither approved nor disapproved of Villiam’s marriage to the nun. It meant nothing to them, only a bit of extra work now in preparation for the wedding. The servants’ faith excluded marriage. They didn’t believe a man should own a woman, nor should a man be responsible for her welfare. They believed that everyone should be free to do as they please. The guards were a bit different, of course. Their duties required that they believe in human authority.