He can hear her fear in her voice, hear how she is trying to keep it from quavering. He is rather impressed – for a weak creature, as all women are, she is showing a surprising fortitude. But then she is not absolutely a normal woman. If her powers are indeed as strong as he told the priest, then he may be putting himself in great danger by his actions. But no matter: he must hold firm.
She continues, ‘I know that he behaved badly, sire. But that is my fault, not his – I promise to train him properly. He has been my loyal companion since I arrived, and I miss him greatly.’
She hasn’t guessed, he thinks. Or perhaps she has – and is using this pretence as a way of calming herself.
The craft waiting for him in the harbour is a far smaller vessel than he is used to – but it is perfect for this: easily manoeuvred, and fast. And the wind is good: it will be behind them for most of the journey.
Only twice has he questioned this plan. The first time, when she stepped into the craft, and looked up at him, questioning. Her face then appeared so pure that he could not believe any wickedness of her. The second was when she had asked him where they were headed, and had done so with such seeming innocence that he could hardly believe his own answer to the question.
The place is a secluded bay, hidden in trees, where an ancient abbey of pale stone watches over the water. San Fruttuoso. He has decided that the proximity of such holiness will sanctify his actions. And, with the moon shining, the abbey glows with an unearthly light. He chooses to take this too as a sign that the act he is about to commit is something done with divine permission. Only when he comes to tie the rope about her legs does she begin to struggle. She makes quickly for the side of the craft – and he throws himself at her bodily, drags her back by her ankles, uses his weight to pin her down so that she cannot thrash away from him. Now he understands why she has been subdued. She was not resigned to her fate after all: she always intended to escape this way. She has already proven herself to be a strong swimmer. He cannot allow that to happen.
Now she begins to scream – a terrible, animal sound – and when he presses his palm into her mouth she bites the flesh so hard that he feels the skin break. It has become nasty, brutal: this is not how he intended. He must be quick about it. With a blow of his hand, her eyes close, her head falls back. He drags the anchor towards himself, and fastens it tight about her legs. A true man of the sea, he knows the right knot to use in any circumstance.
When it is done he looks back at the shore, suddenly convinced that he has been observed. The beach is deserted – and from that distance very little of what has occurred would be visible. And yet the windows of the abbey have become so many hollow eyes, impassively watching. He can no longer find any validation in its presence. He is struck by the sudden knowledge that he has acted alone, without any form of divine support. His whole body trembles with the horror of it. He steels himself to look down into the black water, certain that he will see her white form, far below. But there is nothing – not a ripple, not a bubble. Instead, in the moonlit surface, he sees his own face. And he looks like a man who has lost everything: his faith, his sanity, himself.
He needs to get away from this place. But he seems to have lost all sense of the way. He gropes in his cloak for his compass: his trusted companion since his first sea voyage. But something is wrong. The needle refuses to still, tracking, instead, in a continuous circle. He watches in horrified fascination until he can’t bear the sight of it any longer, then tosses it to the boards. The stars, then. Any sailor knows how to navigate by the constellations. And yet when he looks heavenward, all he sees is an empty void. The moon, too, has been lost to view. What had been a clear sky has filled suddenly with clouds. The wind has stilled. But on the horizon comes a white streak, blinding in its brilliance.
He understands, now. He is nothing but a piece of jetsam, caught in the calm before the storm.
41
Essaouira, Morocco, 1955
I was only in the cell for a few hours. Several people – including Earl Morgan – could vouch for my having been seen asleep in the library during the hours under scrutiny. I think, more likely, the officers had chosen it for me as a form of punishment, for insulting their integrity.