Part 11 (1/2)

No, not now, I thought desperately.

The ghost had vanished.

Every portable object in the room seemed suddenly to be flying through the air. The candles were blown out.

In hopeless darkness, I dropped the candelabrum, turned and ran towards the dim light at the top of the steps. I was certain I could feel hands pulling at me, fingers s.n.a.t.c.hing at my hair, breath against my face.

In sheer panic, I kept going until I could grab ahold of Pico, and push him out of the way, and slam the cellar door. I threw the bolt.

I lay back catching my breath.

”Master, there's blood on your face,” Pico cried.

From behind the door came the most piteous howling and then a thunderous noise as if the large wine casks were being rolled across the cellar floor.

”Never mind the blood,” I said. ”Take me to Signore Antonio. I have to speak to him now.”

I headed out of the house.

”At this hour?” Pico protested, but I wouldn't be deterred.

”He knows who this ghost is, he must know,” I said. I tried to remember what I'd been told. A Hebrew scholar had lived in the house, yes, twenty years ago. This Hebrew scholar had arranged the synagogue on the top floor. Had Signore Antonio never guessed that this man might be the ghost?

We pounded on the doors of Signore Antonio's house until the night watchman appeared and, seeing who we were, sleepily let us in.

”I must see the master immediately,” I told the old man, but he only shook his head as if he were deaf. It was amazing, I thought, how many elderly and infirm servants this house included. It was Pico who took up a single candle and led the way upstairs.

Signore Antonio's bedchamber was filled with lighted lamps. The doors were wide open and I could see him plainly, kneeling in his long wool robe on the bare floor at the foot of his bed. His head was bare and sweating in the light, and his hands were outstretched in the form of a cross. Surely he was praying for his son.

He started when I appeared in the door. And then stared at me with muted outrage.

”Why have you come here now?” he demanded. ”I thought you'd fled for your life.”

”I've seen the ghost who haunts the other house,” I said. ”I've seen him plainly and surely you know who he is.”

I came into the room, and offered my hands to help him to his feet. This he accepted, as it was very difficult for him at his age, and then he backed up and, turning, found his way to one of his many enormous heavily carved chairs. He sank down on the cus.h.i.+ons and, rubbing his nose for a moment as though he was in pain, he looked up at me.

”I don't believe in ghosts!” he said. ”Dybbuks, yes, demons, yes, but ghosts, no.”

”Well, think again on it. This ghost is a small elderly man. He wears a black velvet tunic, long, like that of a scholar, but he has blue ta.s.sels sewn on the edges of his mantle. He wears the yellow 'badge of shame' on his tunic, and peers at the world through spectacles.” I made the gesture to describe them with my fingers before my eyes. ”He has a bald head and long gray hair and beard.”

He was speechless.

”Is this the Hebrew scholar who lived in this house twenty years ago?” I asked. ”Do you know this man's name?”

He didn't answer but he was mightily impressed by what I'd described. He stared off, stunned and seemingly miserable.

”For the sake of Heaven, man, tell me if you know who this man is,” I said. ”Vitale is locked up under your roof. He'll be tried by the Inquisition for having a-.”

”Yes, yes, I've been trying to stop all this,” he cried, raising his hand. He drew in his breath and, after a moment of silence, he seemed to surrender himself, with a long sigh, to what had to be done. ”Yes, I know who this ghost is.”

”Do you know why he haunts? Do you know what he wants?”

He shook his head. Clearly all this was excruciating for him.

”The cellar, what has it to do with the cellar? He led me to the cellar. He pointed to the stone floor.”

He let out a long agonizing groan. He put his hands to his face, then stared forward over his own fingers.

”You really saw this?” he whispered.

”Yes. I saw this. He rages, he bellows, he cries in pain. And he points to the floor.”

”Oh, no, don't say any more,” he pleaded. ”Why was I fool enough to think it could not be?” He turned away from me, as if he couldn't bear my scrutiny, or anyone's for that matter, and he bowed his head.

”Can you not tell everyone what you know?” I asked. ”Can you not testify that this thing has nothing to do with Vitale, or poor Lodovico, or Niccol? Signore Antonio, you must tell what you know.”

”Pull the bell rope,” he said.

I did as he asked.

When his servant appeared, another ancient relic of a human being, he told the old man that at dawn he was to gather the entire household to the nearby house where the ghost raged. This gathering must include Fr. Piero, Niccol and Vitale and that all were to be a.s.sembled around the table in the dining hall, which should be dusted and provided with lamps and chairs. Bread, fruit, wine, all should be furnished, as he had a story to tell.

I took my leave of him.

Pico, who'd been hovering in the pa.s.sage, took me to Vitale's door. When I called Vitale's name he answered, in a low dispirited voice. I told him not to be afraid. I had seen the ghost and its mystery would soon be explained.

Then I allowed myself to be led to a small bedchamber with painted walls, and curious as I was as to everything about it, I sank down on the coffered bed and went fast asleep.

I awoke with first morning light. I'd been dreaming of Ankanoc. We'd been sitting together, talking in some comfortable place, and he had said, with all his seeming charm, ”Didn't I tell you? There are millions of souls lost in systems of pain and grief and meaningless attachment. There is no justice, no mercy, no G.o.d. There is no witness to what we suffer, except our own.” Spirits using you, feeding off your emotions, no G.o.d, no devil... Spirits using you, feeding off your emotions, no G.o.d, no devil...

Quietly in the small bedchamber, I answered him, or I answered myself. ”There is mercy,” I whispered. ”And there is justice, and there is One who witnesses everything. And above all, there is love.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THE FAMILY WAS GATHERED IN THE DINING ROOM OF the unfortunate house when I arrived. The ghost was rampaging in the cellar and now and then sending great howls and roars through all the rooms. the unfortunate house when I arrived. The ghost was rampaging in the cellar and now and then sending great howls and roars through all the rooms.

I saw at once that there were four armed guards in attendance on Signore Antonio, hovering about his chair at the head of the table. He looked rested and resolved, and solemn in his black velvet, head bowed, and hands pressed together as if in prayer.

Niccol looked marvelously improved, and this was the first time I'd seen him in regular clothes, if the clothes of this time could ever be called regular. He was clad in black like his father, and so was Vitale, who sat beside him, and looked up at me with timid eyes.

Fr. Piero was seated at the foot of the table, and beside him on his right were two other clerics, and someone with a stack of papers and an inkwell and quill pen who looked, of course, like a clerk. Abundant food lay on the immense carved sideboard, and a collection of frightened servants, including Pico, cleaved to the walls.

”Sit there,” said Signore Antonio, pointing me to his right. I obeyed.

”I say again I am opposed to this!” said Fr. Piero, ”this communing with spirits or whatever it is reasoned to be! This house must be exorcised now. I am prepared to begin.”