ZITCHI - CHAPTER 16

Hungary, 1590

Gáspo Thurzó looks at the oak tree and the letters A and E and sighs deeply within himself. He is an old man, too old perhaps; one who has seen too many things to be surprised by any thing any more, one who has learned the ways of the wise, but sadly too the ways of the terminally stupid. He suspects that what he will find, when he breaks the seal on the letter he now holds in his hands, will have more in common with the latter.

He is unprepared for the begging note in the words he reads.

He sighs. On the pretext of re-reading what he has already committed to memory, he takes a little more time to study, out of the corner of his soul, the young man who stands before him.

Aside from the mundane, such as the fact that he has the demeanor of a servant, it is blatantly obvious that this Míhaly is wedded, in spirit at any rate, to the Zitchi of this letter. Not in body though, thinks Gáspo. Interesting. History there; there must be. Planetary influences not quite right, stars not in line. And the future? Massive intervention by the malign. Inside his mind, he shakes his head to himself, sadly. Nothing he can do, nor should he.

Gáspo knows he will have to act, but the time is not yet. Any efforts he could make at this stage will cause no ripples in Cjesthe's pond. It must already be too late for Zitchi; this he knows. But what to say to the boy? Fredek Agaroz Ecsed is not a name to ignore out of hand. But it is a pebble next to the edifice of the house of Bathory.

Yes, yes, he hears himself saying. Don't worry. Nightfall, you say? Come come - why the drama? Tomorrow will be soon enough. I can get you a bed at the inn, you must be weary.

Míhaly is not a sharp chap, yet he knows he is being brushed off. The bluff note in Thurzó's voice gives him away. But what can he say? He is cold, and tired, and he is a servant, and there is only one of him.

He wishes someone would tell him what to do.

In response to the only guidance he's had for a week, he finds himself stopping at the Crossed Thorns Inn, a room over the courtyard gate. Out of one window he can watch the horses being brought in, brushed down, fed, stabled. Cross the room, look out the other window, see the road, see the river, see the watery sun setting behind the Carpathians.

Míhaly has a sense of time not really meaning anything any more. As he takes out his knife and watches himself cut some bread, it seems there is no roughness of crust or smoothness of metal under his fingers. Even the table - which has seen so many suppers with so many travellers - is not really there. There is nothing, already, nothing, and Thurzó knew that. He jumps up, and the table, for all of its not being there, clatters over against the wall.



He has not reckoned on the wind, nor the fact that he cannot find his way in the dark, yet he does find his way, eventually. Blind with cold, he approaches Castle Cjesthe as dawn breaks. Through the snow, there are shapes. A large shape, a cart maybe. Two people. He tries to run towards them, but the ice is in his lungs and he cannot take enough air to run. His breath feels like a knife.

Now he is closer he can hear their peasant chatter, and their laughter. They have a cart. There are shapes on the cart and they are hauling the shapes out onto the snow. There is more laughter, and one of the women breaks wind like a ratchet, and there is more laughter. The acrid stench of it comes to him on the wind and hits him, and he is shocked that now, now he is feeling everything again, and everything is real. Is that castle - that hulk of stone there, glowering through the sleet, is that where she is? Is Zitchi there, looking after her mistress, caring for her countess, helping her with her toilet and her clothing? He gets a sudden flash of Zitchi's pale beautiful hands, and now he does run, he runs the last few feet towards the cart, towards the old women.

Towards Dorko, and Illona.

But he doesn't look at Dorko and Illona, because he cannot, because he has seen their precious cargo. At his feet, his pearl without price. Zitchi my love. What are you doing? Wake up, wake up? Give me your hands, come on, come on, it's time to go. It's me, my darling. Wake up!

And why will she not? She is cold, she is curled, she is furled tightly like a bud, but look at me, her eyes are open. Staring. What's over there? Where are you gone?

Míhaly looks over his shoulder to see where she is looking but there is no one and nothing there. He looks at her beautiful hands and sees they are ruined, black with bruises, wet with pus, crabbed with scabs. He looks into her eyes and sees that she is not there. Her lips, swollen and split, are parted a little. Still, he tries kissing them. Then he puts his ear to her mouth and listens.

He cannot know that the last thing she said was "Míhaly".