LEGEND
The Shoulder-blade of St Joseph
THERE WAS A man called Paulu, of the clan of Kalaz, being second cousin to the Kas, though his mother was a Bulgar. He came to the Kas and said, ‘See, Lash the Golden is swaggering round our camp. His grandfather killed my grandfather, who was your own grandfather’s brother, by the Iron Gates and threw his body in the river. My grandfather’s spirit moans to me in my dreams, asking how I can endure the shame.’
The Kas Kalaz said, ‘That feud is frozen. I have sworn on the shoulder-blade of St Joseph that while Turk abides on the soil of Varina we will do no harm to Lash.’
Paulu said, ‘Not so. That oath was fulfilled many years ago, when we drove the Turk away. Did not Lash himself know this and flee? Have you re-sworn the oath since he returned?’
‘I have not,’ said the Kas Kalaz.
‘So is the feud frozen, or is it not?’ said Paulu. ‘Tell me, and I will abide by your judgement, for you are the Kas.’
Then the Kas Kalaz looked at him sideways and said nothing, for he too had heard the spirit of his great-uncle moaning in his dreams.
Then Lash the Golden came to Restaur Vax and said, ‘The men of Kalaz look at me with bullets in their eyes, though they have taken oath on the shoulder-blade of St Joseph that our feud is frozen.’
So Restaur Vax took thought and saw what was in the hearts of the Kas and his clan, and gathered his chieftains and said, ‘Selim is come, and Varina is in such peril as she has not seen since the days of the Red Serpent.1 We have no time for feuds or thoughts of feuds. Let us travel then to Riqui and renew our oaths on the shoulder-blade of St Joseph.’
But the man Paulu, hearing this, went swiftly by night, journeying by goat-paths and the paths of the hunter, and found the priest of Riqui at his midnight prayers and crept up behind him and put a dagger to his throat and said, ‘Do what I say and tell no man, or the manner of your death will be remembered through seven generations.’
He made the priest lie in a chest and closed the lid so that he should not see. Then he took the shoulder-blade of St Joseph from its reliquary and replaced it with that of a dog, which he had found by the way as he travelled, and released the priest and threatened him once more.
The priest knew well that some sacrilege had been committed, but said nothing when the chiefs came to Riqui, for he was afraid. Thus it was that the Kas Kalaz and the other chieftains swore their new oath not on the shoulder-blade of St Joseph but on that of a dog.
When it was finished the man Paulu went to the Kas Kalaz and told him what he had done and asked him again, saying, ‘Tell me, is the feud frozen, or is it not?’
The Kas Kalaz crossed himself, but looked sideways at the man Paulu and said, ‘For myself, I do not know. But let no shame fall on my house.’
1 Nothing is known about the Red Serpent. This is the only reference to the creature in the surviving literature.
SEPTEMBER 1990
WHEN THEY GOT home Grandad told them that there’d been nothing from the hospital, but Biddie had called to say that her parents were going out to the cinema and would Letta like to come and spend the last evening of the holidays with her. Once more Letta felt a wave of sick guilt at the way everything seemed to be helping her in her lies and betrayals, but Momma said, ‘It will do you good, darling. It’ll take your mind off things. I can see you’re upset. No point in our all sitting round being miserable together. I’ll be all right.’
So, feeling worse than ever, Letta went and put the grip and carrier up in Van’s room and took the packages up to her own room, where she hid the yellow one behind her paperbacks and the black one at the back of her jeans drawer. On the way down she copied Mr Orestes’ number out of Van’s address book. Normally she’d have gone up and said goodnight to Grandad, but she was sure he’d look at her and see she wasn’t just upset about Van, and ask her, so she didn’t.
Biddie was watching EastEnders.
‘I’m not allowed to if Mum and Dad are around,’ she said. ‘I feel I’m not normal if I don’t give it a go, and . . . What’s up?’
‘Van’s in hospital. He’s had a smash on that bike I told you about.’
‘That’s awful. How bad a smash?’
‘He’s not going to die unless something goes wrong, but he’s broken a lot of bones and they might have to cut his foot off. Momma’s very upset.’
‘I bet she is. We could go back up to your place, if . . .’
‘No, it’s all right. Besides . . . Is there a call box near here?’
‘Nearest one’s at the station.’
‘Look, don’t ask what it’s about, but I’ve got to go out and make a call and then I’ve got to come back here and wait for someone to call here . . . I’m sorry. It’s important. Van asked me, and I promised. Is it all right?’
‘I suppose so. You’ll have to warn whoever it is they only get three minutes.’
‘Oh, God, I’d forgotten. I suppose it’ll have to do. At least it’ll get it over. Thanks. See you soon.’
The payphone in the station was occupied by a girl in a black leather miniskirt with lank black hair and a ghoulish white face who babbled on and on, chain-smoking, while Letta hung around feeling more and more sick and anxious. It must have been at least twenty minutes before the girl stopped. Letta had the money ready and dialled. Mr Orestes answered at once. Letta knew it was him by the permanent slight whine in his voice.
‘I’ve got a message from Vivian,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘He’s in hospital.’
Pause.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. I shall send flowers. Do you know his favourite colour?’
Letta answered on the spur of the moment. It was something to do with Mr Orestes’ voice. She could hear, as sure as if he’d told her, that he didn’t give a damn about Van lying in hospital in an agony with his foot so smashed he’d probably never walk properly again. It didn’t matter that Mr Orestes didn’t actually know about that. If he had known, he wouldn’t have cared. All he cared about was his conspiracy, and the secret messages, and the excitement of what he was planning to do with the packages. Till that moment, Letta had been telling herself that though she didn’t like it at all, and was badly frightened, at least passing the message on would mean that Mr Orestes would come and take the packages away, and the whole thing would be out of her hands, out of the house, clear, nothing to do with any of them, even with Van, because it’d obviously be months before he was well enough to do anything much except lie around and get better . . .
Now, because of Mr Orestes’ voice, she changed her mind and said, ‘Red.’
Another pause.
‘You’re sure?’
She gulped and said, ‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you had better give me the number so that I can enquire for myself.’
Letta had written it down while she was waiting for the ghoul-girl to finish. Half-panicking she read it out.
‘Thank you. I will call in a few minutes.’
‘Wait. I, er . . . there won’t be anyone there for about ten minutes.’
‘Very good. Thank you.’
Only as she put the receiver down did it strike her that she ought to have made a mistake over the number. Then he couldn’t have called back. She’d have time to think. What could she say now? She couldn’t find the bike? No, it mustn’t be anything that he could find out in the end was a lie, because then he’d know she’d been lying about the packages. He could find the bike himself somehow. He could ask the man at the garage. He’d known she and Momma had been there, taken things away. The panniers had been locked.