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Chapter 32 - Old Friends

The great Roman paving stones were deeply rutted by wagon wheels, but otherwise were smooth. The few hills seemed easy to ascend, steeper on the far sides, which lent a spring to her step. The sunshine was bright, the air dry and cool; the shadows of olives and platanes, oaks and willows, were soft and welcoming. The stones were still and silent, without discernible spirits—unless they merely slept, and dreamt of other times, when they were strong and vital, and men left gifts for them, when they passed by.

She made a simple camp near the breast of a low range, where a tiny spring grudgingly gave forth cool, sweet water. If there was a goddess in the little trickle, she was not a voluble one, and did not respond to Pierrette's "thank you." Her fire-making spell again created only a tiny spark, enough to ignite a morsel of charred linen tinder. She had to feed the minuscule glow that ensued very carefully, blowing lightly, before she had a tiny flame. But that was good, because everything felt quite normal again. When she fell asleep, she was undisturbed by dreams.

* * *

Halfway through the morning, the road took on an uneasy familiarity. She stopped abruptly. What was it? There, a short way to her left, branched a southerly trail. Then, as if reality had suddenly changed again, she saw around her, like faded ghosts, the headless bodies, the scattered goods. Cold fog enveloped her, and she heard the drumming of horses' hooves—but then the vision faded, and the fog, which was only in her mind, dissipated as well. This was where, in a different universe, she had been arrested by the Gaul Segomaros. And there, where the trail breasted the rise, was where she had witnessed the slaughter of countless refugees fleeing the terrible change. . . .

But now it was only another crossroad, without bodies, or the memory of them, not important enough to have a shrine, even a simple crucifix on a nearby tree.

Pierrette turned southward onto the narrow trail, and near dusk she saw the gray scarp of Sainte Baume, too distant to discern the dark spot of the cave halfway up its face. Tomorrow she would arrive fresh in the valley, then would press on to the cave.

* * *

She awakened to the thud of heavy footsteps and crashing in the brush. She leaped to her feet, afraid it was a bear, or worse. It was as large as a bear indeed, but . . "Master Cerdos!" she exclaimed.

"Eh? hello, boy—do I know you?"

Pierrette's head spun. Did he know her? Of course he did . . . but if she had changed the past, and no Gallic empire would arise, then in this world she would never have been sent on the mission that led to her meeting Cerdos. No, he did not know her. Not anymore.

"Everyone knows you, Master Cerdos of Tarascon. Haven't you built bridges from Tolosa to Nicaea, and didn't you recently build the Frankish king's new palace? Aren't you even now laying the foundations for the new hostelry of St. John Cassien?"

"Oh—looking for work, are you? Well, you won't get it with flattery. You're far too small for a mason's apprentice. But maybe the glaziers or carpenters . . ."

"I'm not looking for work. I'm just passing through. But what are you doing up here?"

"There's a spot where I can see the hostelry almost as if I were a bird. I come up here once a fortnight. Are you sure we don't know each other? You look strangely familiar, as if . . . as if . . . no, it is gone now. But come. Perhaps my friend Ferdiad can explain it. He's an Irish rascal, who believes in ghosts, and has such strange moments all the time. Come. There'll be a hearty breakfast in it for you."

"Thank you, master mason. I will. Perhaps Master Ferdiad will sing for us. I long to hear him. It's said his voice is a songbird's, and that he knows the most ancient tales, like the song of Master Jock."

"That does it! I do know you! I remember . . . but it's as if in a dream." He tapped his head as if to shake out cobwebs.

Amid the once-familiar bustle of the laborers' camp, they found Ferdiad gaming with two carpenters—and winning, of course. Cerdos introduced them. Then: "Breakfast, boy. Come."

"You go, great ox," said Ferdiad. "By the time you finish your first helping, we'll be along." Cerdos needed no urging. Ferdiad then swept up his winnings. "Another time, fellows," he said. "The boy and I have things to discuss." Pierrette was quite puzzled. What did he mean? "I've kept your donkey, Gustave, for you," he said.

"You remember me! Oh, Master Ferdiad! How can that be?"

"In the fog on the hillside, you disappeared. Something very strange was happening, and I became afraid, for myself as well as for you. I sang a very old song, and slipped into the Otherworld, though it was not Samhain. Then I understood, and did not forget who I was.

"I lingered there, a shadow, while the world around me changed. I watched my friend Cerdos lay the foundations of a shrine dedicated to the goddess Sequana. I watched him carve holes in the foundation stones, where the druids put copper pots containing the heads of dead men. I did not dare come forth from my refuge until three days ago, when suddenly everything was . . . almost . . . as it had been."

"Almost?"

"The differences were slight—a wall where I remembered none, a strange face among familiar ones, and a different monk in charge of the workers. Then I found Gustave, who was entirely unchanged, and who remembered me well."

Pierrette laughed. "Of course he did. Gustave is a skeptic. He is the most skeptical creature I know. If he did not believe the changes happening all around him, then for him they could not happen, and they would not. Where is he?"

"Tied beside our tent. If, that is, he has not chewed through his rope." He had not—not quite. And was he delighted to see Pierrette? He was not.

"What you see is what you get, beast," she said, stroking his soft nose. "Yes, you'll be travelling with me again. But I have nothing heavy to burden you with—only my cloak and this small bundle of clothing and papers." Gustave did not look as if he believed her, even though she had never actually lied to him before.

"Breakfast," Ferdiad reminded her. "We mustn't let Cerdos consume everything." Pierrette slung Gustave's panniers on his back, secured them, and tossed her few belongings inside.

"Tomorrow there is a processional pilgrimage to the cave," said Cerdos, his mouth full of bread. "Are you going?"

"I'm going today—by myself. I'm all packed. I'll be leaving shortly."

"Take a few of these loaves with you. The monks bake plenty of them." He tossed two to her. She packed them away—and secured the pannier lid. There were no bags of grain for Gustave, who would have to graze along the way.

Neither Cerdos nor Ferdiad favored long good-byes. "I may visit you, before I return home," said Ferdiad. "Until then—good luck with your quest."

"Indeed. Good luck," said Cerdos, around his mouthful of cheese. "Whatever you're looking for."

* * *

The trail to the cave seemed almost too easy this time. Gustave hardly balked, even on the steepest parts. At the entrance, she tied him outside. There were thistles all about, and he began consuming them with relish, despite their thorns.

In this age, there was a stone wall across the mouth of the cavern. A door was ajar. Inside, the rough rock had been paved with smooth bricks, and an altar stood in front of the rock where she had slept, long ago, the only truly dry spot in the cave. Stone steps led down to the spring, which was now pent within a basin hewn from similar stone.

She sat for a while, and waited for . . . for someone. But no one came. No one, she decided, was going to. The goddess Belisama was not here. The girl Doreta, and now Magdalen herself, were dust and bones, in graves dug long ago. She sighed, and went back out into the light of day. If the trail over the ridge was as she remembered it, she could be well on her way to Citharista by dusk. Home. What changes would she find there?

 

 

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