Beyond the Raging Flames Read online

  Assisi, Sunday 23rd, 1611

  Orsini stood in a strange state of reverence and near frustration as the priest of St Francis’ Basilica engaged his congregates in his, sombre, Mass dedicated to St Oda. The Priest drolled out the virtues of the Saint that gave up her life as a princess and dedicated herself to the poor upon the death of her husband. Some wealthy widows in the congregation rolled their eyes before whispering to their relatives, or friends, behind their fans. Orsini's mind wandered until he saw himself, some time ago, when he had carried out the service in his own church the year before. He reflected on the reversal of his position, a Cardinal disguised as a mere commoner, as he had squeezed in with the congregation and his fellow pilgrims: each complaining in the morning of their aches and pains. He mused how his compact straw bed had been a peculiar source of comfort to him. Orsini, within himself, disobeyed the Priest, and instead focused his prayers not on Saint Oda, as directed, but two weeks before to the feast of the Virgin - The Lady of Good Remedy. He crossed himself, focused, and sought her intercession on behalf of Illawara for the great predicament that he saw her in.

  Saint Anthony’s

  Illawara, however, sat and watched her sermon halfway between yawning and laughing. She glanced around herself and wondered how any of the congregation took their priest seriously as they answered in prayer when prompted by the Deacon, with such pliant conformity. Only a random cry here and there from a baby could punctuate the rhythm as Cesario marched through his sermon with fervent grandeur to traverse the collect, the epistle, the tract, the gospel, and the homily. After the credo, Illawara’s vision had blurred, so she blinked several times and gave an involuntary roll of her head.

  That’s when she caught the concerned look on Bianca’s face when the priest began the Mass of the Faithful. Illawara saw a handful of people stand up to leave and walk to the back of the church. Bianca looked again at her. She nibbled her lip and dabbed at herself with her scrap of lace:

  ‘What’s happening?’ Whispered Illawara. The mistress fidgeted, ‘they have to leave because they’re not baptised’ she said.

  ‘Does that mean I have to leave too?’ Bianca turned to look at Hermes and Antonio behind her before she turned back.

  ‘I’m not sure. But I suppose you should’ she added before she winced and nibbled at her fingernails, ‘I don’t know what to do.' Bianca fanned at herself with pace and tried to avoid the look of anyone who may have caught her eye.

  ‘She’s baptised’ whispered Hermes over Bianca’s shoulder.

  ‘What?’ said Illawara who tried to choke back her surprise.

  ‘Don’t fret Bianca: Illawara’s baptised’ Hermes continued, the mistress looked relieved.

  ‘But how would you know that?’ said Illawara in a hard whisper, but Hermes then felt a familiar sweep of nausea envelope him which almost made him swoon.

  ‘I can’t say now’ he said before he held his stomach. Illawara sat wide-eyed behind her veil, while mother and son exchanged glances with one another. Bianca whispered to Hermes for assurance, and the youth nodded, all he could manage, while Cesario progressed through the offertory and Illawara turned back to wonder what else Hermes knew about her life that he was yet to tell her.

  ◆◆◆

  In Assisi Orsini stumbled forward with the thrust of the congregation behind him to receive the sacrament from his priest. But Illawara stood almost alone when Bianca prodded her forward to receive the Holy Sacrament, the body and blood of Christ. Bianca whispered to her, and Illawara knelt to receive the blessed wafer and wine - as Orsini did so in Assisi. Many of the Paduan congregation, of one mind, held back to observe Illawara. A palpable gasp came from the assembly when she lifted back her veil to reveal her face and shining hair. Muttering rippled amongst the gathering:

  ‘She’s as beautiful as the Madonna’ one crone uttered to another: both elderly women having seen anything worth seeing in all of Padua.

  The Deacon’s hand trembled as he reached forward to place the delicate wafer in Illawara’s open mouth, while a more confident hand did the same for Orsini in Assisi.

  Illawara thought the wafer tasted almost of nothing as it melted on her tongue, in stark contrast to the pungent and sweet wine that filled her mouth from the golden goblet, over-poured by the Deacon. Illawara swallowed the wine, as Orsini did in St Francis’ and became struck with a vision: her hands flew out to her sides, and the congregation gawped as her head fell back.

  Flames burned in front of her eyes, and she felt the intense heat and heard the loud crackle of a bonfire as if she were in the midst of it. She gasped for air.

  'The girl is choking' exclaimed a member of the congregation. But the Deacon stood transfixed as he saw Illawara's eyes roll back and her body become rigid. Bianca, Hermes and Antonio all rushed forward with their hands clasped to their faces as Illawara’s vision unfolded. She saw a baby girl baptised: cradled in brown arms before being dunked into a stone bowl filled with water. Illawara felt her body cooled and quenched from flames before the fire returned more intense than before. She cried out as if in the grips of a nightmare.

  Orsini, for the first time in his life, slipped into a trance when the blessed wafer touched his tongue. He watched, in a waking dream, a young man, who resembled him, upon the back of a winged horse that cut through the air like an eagle, sweeping all before it with its mighty wings. Tears ran down his face, his heart stopping, as he beheld his vision and a sweep of euphoria engulfed him.

  Somewhere within a dark place the eyes of stone serpents glowed into life and hissed in the darkness: awoken from their slumber.

  Illawara cried out again before she fainted after the grip of the fire had left her, and Bianca was the first to catch her, then helped by the Deacon. They laid Illawara on the floor with her head in Bianca’s lap:

  ‘She's had a vision. I saw it’ said one of the crones out loud to the congregation. Many people nodded and started to cross themselves, convinced of what they saw.

  ‘Bring some holy water’ the Deacon shouted to an acolyte who then sprinted off to the font. All eyes were upon Illawara and Bianca.

  ‘She’s very pious’ Bianca said as she waved her fan over Illawara in frantic fashion. The gathering hushed themselves to hang on the mistress' every word. She did not waste her chance: ‘she’s from very far away; she's a foreign gentlewoman and my deceased brother’s virgin daughter - Illawara.' Much muttering and debate ensued in the gathering. Antonio and Hermes looked at each other quite baffled at Illawara's collapse and Bianca's improvisations. The mistress looked up from the floor at the people that crowded around, filled to brimming with pathos. 'My dear niece' she continued, 'She’s very shy: so modest and mild, sweet and good. I begged her to come to Mass today, and I fear she’s overwhelmed.' Bianca felt Illawara begin to stir but wasted no time to pull Illawara’s veil fully to the side, as she stroked her shining hair so that all eyes could feast upon her before she revived.

  The congregation leant forward. Not one person missed the opportunity to look at Illawara's loveliness. All were captured and convinced, except Antonio: who, knowing his mother’s flair for spectacle, suspected that she had coached Illawara into to such antics.

  But Hermes stood in genuine shock as to what had stricken his friend.

  ‘I have the holy water’ came the eager cry of strong Gregorio who had used his greater bulk to yank a spare goblet from the hands of Lucca, and pushed forward through the crowd with every intention of administering the cooling liquid to Illawara.

  ‘Let me handle this’ said Cesario to the crestfallen Gregorio as he pried the goblet from the acolyte’s hand and knelt low next to the pair. Everyone pushed forward again for a better look at the maiden, and everyone held their breath, as the priest dipped his hands into the holy water and drew a crucifix to wet the smooth brow of the young woman he wanted to anoint the most.

  Illawara revived in that instant to find herself on the floor surrounded by onlookers. Bianca helped her to her to h
er feet before she mumbled a disjointed apology. She shook her head and blinked before she thanked all present. Illawara tottered somewhat before she used her veil to shield the deep blush that had risen from her neck to her forehead.

  ‘Tis a pity to veil such a face’ sighed a middle-aged man, who then got jabbed in the ribs by his wife.

  ‘I must take her to the Madonna to pray’ said Bianca, ‘I think we need our Lady’s intercession.' No one argued.

  'She’s had a vision!' The two crones cried in unison.

  'The Madonna will soothe her' said one,

  'And reveal the meaning to her in her dreams' said the other. Bianca and Illawara, along with Hermes and Antonio were given blessings by the priest and the Deacon to pray to the Madonna so that Mass could continue.

  Few had any interest to go on with the service by that point, but protocol won out, and one or two grizzled regulars protested that they could not sleep at night if they did not receive their sacraments.

  The Group moved across from the congregation into the side chapel of the Black Madonna: a dusky skinned Mary of sweet expression holding a Jesus, just as brown as herself, within the deep lapis blue of her shawl. Bianca led the prayers and kept vigil over Illawara as she did so as the young woman knelt next to her and swayed with her head bowed.

  ◆◆◆

  Orsini walked back to his pew and stroked away more tears inspired by his vision. The Pilgrims he arrived with admired his piety - not privy to what he had seen. The service carried on, but his fellow companions had their eyes glued upon him when he returned. They whispered to one another when Orsini sat down to watch the rest of the service. The Cardinal in his mind planned the next part of his journey to make his way north in the morning. He had no plans to leave a word to his fellow pilgrims when he departed the next day.

  ◆◆◆

  Bianca rocked and prayed for an intercession from Mary as she clutched Illawara’s hand, and prayed for safe travel for Antonio and Hermes. She insisted that she light a candle for the deliverance of her brother before she took them all to the bones of Saint Anthony and said another prayer at his side and raising her hand in the air.

  After extended farewells, Antonio and Hermes left to walk to the centre of town to take a carriage toward the docks, and take lodgings before taking a gondola to Venice. Illawara was in no position to haggle with Hermes about his departure.

  'My darlings, travel safely' Bianca cried, as the two young men took their leave. The Latin Mass was almost at its end when Illawara affirmed to Bianca that she was okay. Before the mistress left the Basilica with her protégé, she made a point to thank the Priest, Deacon and the acolytes for their help. Bianca also made sure that Illawara lifted her veil once more, 'to give thanks and say goodbye properly' as she inspected Illawara's head for bruises. The younger woman donated a coin, with genuine thanks, to one of the ushers that collected for the church.

  It pleased Bianca, even more, that Fabio had received the coin, knowing that the garrulous youth could not keep his mouth shut, even to avoid poison, if anything juicy were to be said. Bianca left with Illawara arm in arm in the firm knowledge that her protégé's name would spread throughout the community. As they walked home, she felt that Saint Oda, Saint Romanus and the Great Lady had begun to intercede on her behalf already.

  Chapter 4

  The Jeweller’s Studio

  Padua, on the edge of the Venetian lagoon, mid-morning, Monday 24th of October 1611

  Professor Sloane had taken longer than he anticipated in the eight days it took for him to arrive on the outskirts of Venice. He had slept little and ate less on his way to Bologna, but relented when in the city: which dazzled him with the variety of cuisine it had to offer. The Professor soon regretted his choice to spend an extra day in the city, when torrential rains caused land-slips across the essential north roads out of Bologna and an additional delay of three days.

  The Professor clutched at his lower back, rubbed at his legs, and groaned before he walked up to the dock in Padua - after long hours in the saddle via mule and Palfrey. The Gondoliers teetered on their bobbing boats as they sang songs and bantered with one another. The sun-bathed pontoon rose and fell with the waves of the lagoon. The men gave off an air of casual indifference in the autumn sunshine: customers were frequent, and they had seen all of life. Each man his own business in a fleet of many gondolas, that moved at the Paduan shoreline like the black upturned horns of Matador bulls. The men were confident and ready to take on passengers.

  The Professor took his time to assess the fleet and chose the gondola of the person that looked the strongest to row across the lagoon. He walked towards a tall, dark-skinned man, almost the colour of his gondola to the extent that man and boat looked like one.

  ‘He could be from Sudan' the Professor muttered to himself as he walked along to him. The Professor ignored the cheers of congratulation coming from the other Gondoliers for the foreigner when the Professor asked him to take him across the water. But the man took in his praise, and back slaps and bowed with a sheepish white smile in such contrast to his magpie feather skin. The Professor figured some men had more business than others when he wobbled down into the velvet covered seat, adorned with a bright ethnic print. The Professor sat back and smiled. 'Please can you take me to Venice?' said the Professor.

  The dark man accepted the request with a thick accent, but his Italian sounded good enough for the Professor to understand. The man did not seem fazed at all by his passenger’s shock of bright silver hair which caught the light splintering off the lagoon in the crisp afternoon sunshine. The other gondoliers muttered with one another before calling out:

  ‘Niello! Niello!’ after the pair, for their own amusement, a word the Professor did not understand. The men were two oddities that were to cross the Lagoon together.

  There was no time, in his hasty escape from San Matteo, to consult Lucia about where to find the rare spiders Hekate spoke of or the person that could craft the design of what he had drawn on paper. The Professor shook his head and rubbed at his brow, and then closed his eyes as if to try and eradicate the images of the Goddess, and those of the Devil, that burned in his mind - against his better judgement. He used his hand to try and shield his pale eyes, but the bright sunshine punctured his sight as it reflected off the lagoon.

  The Gondolier admired his unusual passenger and thought that in all his life he had never seen anyone with such silver hair, which blew like threads of platinum in the dazzling light.

  Professor Sloane allowed the undulating rhythm of the gondola to soothe and calm his thoughts as he pondered, yet again, his questions on religion, and his stance on what he thought to be his mother’s blind faith - as he had done over the passing weeks. He had seen and experienced what he believed to be impossible, even ridiculous. His rational mind said Lucia had him drugged, and that chemicals and compounds induced his experiences. But his soul and his hair had changed. His spiritual experiences were also physical and real. His breakthroughs in science were not the only forms of transformation he had come to know. The old ways had shown their strength and frightening powers that he could not dismiss.

  When the Professor had first seen himself in a tavern mirror, he knew he could never be the same man again.

  Professor Sloane had chosen well, and the strong Gondolier, keen to impress his client, crossed the lagoon at fierce pace as the floating city began to emerge like a mirage from the water.

  ‘How can it be possible?’ Said the Professor as he looked upon the glittering floating city that came dreamlike into view. The place in its majesty and beauty seemed less real to him than the experiences he had had in the previous days. Only the Goddess had been more mysterious and resplendent as the near miracle of the Serene Republic drew closer to him on the curved black boat, which rode the waves like a seahorse as the Gondolier propelled the vessel forward with the snaking motion of his powerful arms. The Professor pondered the Gondolier. ‘Have you been here long?’ He said as the turqu
oise water lapped at the side of the boat in the briny air. The man seemed surprised to be asked a question.

  ‘Just a few months now’ he said.

  ‘Where are you from?’ The Gondolier laughed.

  ‘You won’t know it.'

  'Try me.'

  'I’m from Sennar.’ Smirked the Gondolier as if he had once lived on the moon.

  ‘Ah, The Blue Sultanate’ smiled the Professor. The Gondolier almost dropped his paddle:

  ‘You know it? My parents were from the south. Have you been to my homeland?’ he said incredulous.

  ‘No, but I’ve heard of it’ said the Professor. So, he is from Sudan he thought, smirking to himself at his accuracy. ‘Tell me’ the Professor continued aloud, ‘do you know who’s the best jeweller in Venice?' The Gondolier did not understand the question at first, so the Professor repeated it slower.

  The dark man furrowed his brow and squinted before he answered:

  ‘I don’t know all of the city, not yet. I am learning. But I take many people to the Rialto bridge.' The Professor nodded with thanks but wondered to himself if it would be full of the gaudy tack that he had seen on his visits in modern times. He thanked the Gondolier and asked him to drop him off near the landmark.

  The Gondolier performed his manoeuvres with skill to settle the Professor on the banks of the Grand canal some way up from the new Rialto Bridge as requested. He felt no need to rush, sensing his internal pressure to flee everything leave him as soon as he reached Venice. He had decided to get off early.

  'What's your name?' asked the Professor. The Gondolier expressed surprise before he smiled.

  'My name is Zarif, but the men call me Raven.' The Professor raised his brow.

  'Which do you prefer?' The Gondolier shrugged.

  'I don't mind Raven, I know the bird is dark, like me, but they say it's also wise and has a long life.' The Professor nodded at the logic, although unrelated to what he considered good taste.