“Father, I can do this as any priest can do it,” said I. “But what if we do hold through Christmas? Why will they back away then? Why will they not come down upon us at any moment that our sheep and our grain are gone?”
“Christmas is the time of their hate, Ashlar. It is the time of the richest Roman ceremony. It is the time of the finest vestments and incense and candles. It the time of our greatest Latin Mass. And old superstition grips Scotland, Ashlar. Christmas in the pagan years was the time of witches, the time that the restless dead walked. Outside this valley, they say we harbor witches, that indeed, we of Donnelaith have the witches’ gifts in our blood. They say our valley is filled with the little people who carry within them the souls of the restless dead! Papists, witchcraft-these denunciations are mixed together by men who fight to the death for the right to say that Christ is not in the bread and wine! That to pray to the Mother of God is a sin!”
“I understand.” Inwardly, I shuddered. The little people carry within them the souls of the restless dead?
“They call our saint an idol! They call us Devil worshipers! Our Christ is the Living Christ.”
“And I must strengthen the people…” I murmured. “This does not mean that I myself shall shed blood.”
“Only raise your voice for the Son of God,” said my father. “Rally the people, and silence the malcontents! For we have them among us, Puritans who would turn the tide, and even those who claim that there are witches in our very midst who must be burnt if we are to prevail. Put a silence to this squabbling. Call the entire people in the name of St. Ashlar. Say the Midnight Mass.”
“I see,” I said, “and you will tell them that I am the saint come from the window.”
“You are!” he declared. “By the love of God, you are! You know that you are. You are Ashlar who comes again. You are Ashlar who is born knowing. And you know what you are. For twenty-three years you have lived in sanctity in the arms of the Franciscans and you are a true saint. Do not be so humble, my son, that you lack courage. Cowardly priests in this valley we have already, trembling down there in the sacristy, terrified that they will be snatched from the very altar by the town’s Puritans and thrown in the Yule fire.”
At these words I remembered that long-ago Christmas. I remembered when my grandfather gave the order that I was to die. The Yule log. Would they bring it in this very night and start it to burning, after the Midnight Mass, when the Light of Christ was born into the world?
I was suddenly brought out of my thoughts. A deep sultry fragrance came to me, a thick and unnameable perfume. I smelled it so strongly that I was confused.
“You are St. Ashlar,” my father declared again as if piqued by my silence.
“Father, I don’t know,” I uttered softly.
“Ah, but you do know,” cried out a new voice. It was the voice of a woman, and as I turned around I saw a young female, my age, perhaps a little younger, and very fair, with silky long red tresses down her back and a thick and embroidered gown. It was from her that this fragrance emanated, causing a subtle change within my body, a longing and a slow fire.
I was struck by her beauty, by her rippling hair and her eyes so like those of our father, deep-set and bright. My eyes were black. My mother’s eyes. I remembered the Dutchman’s phrase-a pure female of your own ilk. But she was not this. I knew it. She was a human woman. I could see that she more resembled my father than me. When I saw my like I would know it, just as I have always known certain things.
This woman came towards me. The fragrance was inviting to me. I had no idea what to make of it; I seemed to feel hunger, thirst and passion all at the same time.
“Brother, you are no St. Ashlar!” she said. “You are the Taltos! The curse of this valley since the dark times, the curse that rises without warning in our blood.”
“Silence, bitch,” my father said. “I mean it! I will kill you and your followers with my own hands.”
“Aye, like the good Protestants of Rome,” she said, mocking him, her voice very clear and ringing as she lifted her chin and pointed her hand. “What is it they say in Italy, Ashlar? Do you know? ‘If our own father were a heretic, we would carry the faggots to burn him’? Do I quote it right?”
“I think so, Sister,” I said softly, “but for God’s sake, be wise. Speak to me in patience.”
“Patience! Were you born knowing? Or is that a lie too? In the arms of a queen, was it not? And for you, she lost her head.”
“Silence, Emaleth,” cried my father. “I am not afraid of you.”
“You are the only one then, Father. Brother, look at me, listen to what I say.”
“I don’t know what you are saying, I don’t understand this. My mother was a great queen. I never knew her name.” I stuttered as I said this, for I had long ago guessed who she might have been, and this was stupid for me to pretend not to know, and this woman knew it. She was clever and she saw past my gentle Franciscan manner and the startled look of innocence on my face.
In an ugly dim flash, I remembered my mother’s loathing, the touch of my mouth on her nipple. I brought my hands up to my face. Why had I come back to learn these truths? Why had I not stayed in Italy? Oh, fool! What had I thought an ugly truth could do?
“It was the Boleyn,” said the woman, Emaleth, my sister. “Queen Anne was your mother, and for witchcraft and for making monsters she was put to death.”
I shook my head. I saw only that poor frightened woman, screaming for me to be taken away. “The Boleyn,” I whispered. And all the old tales came back of me of the martyrs of those times-the Carthusians and all the priests who would not ratify the evil marriage of the King to the Boleyn.
My sister continued, emboldened when she saw I did not contradict or even speak at all.
“And the Queen of England on the throne now is your sister,” she said, “and so frightened is she of the blood from her mother that makes monsters that she will never suffer a man to touch her, and never wed!”
My father tried to interrupt her, but she drove him back with her pointed finger as if it were a weapon that weakened him where he stood.
“Silence, old man. You did it. You coupled with Anne when you knew she had the witch’s finger, you knew it-and that, with her deformity and your heritage, the Taltos might come.”
“Who is to prove that such a thing ever happened?” said my father. “You think any woman or man from those times is alive now? Elizabeth, who was then a baby, that is the only one who is living. And the little princess was not in the castle that night! If she knew she had a living brother, with a claim to the throne of England, he would be dead, monster or no!”
The words struck me as does everything-music, beauty, wonder or fear. I knew. I remembered. I understood. I had only to dwell for a moment in pain on the old story. Queen Anne accused of enchanting His Majesty, and bearing a deformed child in the royal bed. Henry, eager to prove he had not fathered it, had accused her of adultery, and had sent five men-of known laxity and perversity-to pave Anne’s way to the block.
“But they were not the father of the bairn,” said my sister. “It was our father, and I am a witch for it, and you are the Taltos! And the witches of the valley know it. The little people know it-the trivial monsters and outcasts driven into the hills. They dream of a day when I will take a man to my bed who carries the seed in him. And from my loins might spring the Taltos as it did from poor Queen Anne.”
She advanced upon me, looking up into my eyes, her voice harsh and ringing in my ears. I went to cover my ears, but she took my hands.
“And then they would have it again, their soulless demon, their sacrifice. To torment as never a man or a woman was tormented! Ah, yes, you catch this scent that comes from me, and I the scent that comes from you. I am a witch and you are the Evil One. We know each other. On account of this I have taken my vow of chastity as devoutly as Elizabeth. No man will plant a monster in me. But in this valley there are others-witches whether they would be or not-they can smell the scent of the Strong One, the perfume of evil, and it is already in the wind that you have come. Soon the little people will know.”