Devil's Lair Read Free Page B

wolves would hunt again.
    “We’ll keep moving south,”
William said. “If Marco has not returned to himself by the time we reach the
gate...well, I suppose we can make a final decision then.”
    “We cannot descend without
him,” Nadja said, in a voice devoid of doubt.
    William crossed himself.
“Then let us pray he makes it to the morning.”

 
    CHAPTER 3
     
     
    William woke before sunrise
to find Nadja already risen. She sat on a stone by the ashes of the evening
fire, a brown blanket wrapped around her legs, her hair tousled by sleep. In
her lap was a piece of paper on a small wooden board. She held a charcoal
stick, worn to a nub, and scratched it against the paper.
    The friar sat up slowly and
mumbled his morning prayers—twenty-four paternosters, by the Rule of
Saint Francis. The air was cool on his face. The breeze coaxed him to his
senses, and then to his feet. He stretched his limbs and took several deep
breaths. His back was stiff from lying on the ground; his knees crackled like
burning wood; his right leg tingled. Pacing about, he worked some life into the
old joints. They had served him well for three score years and five. He hoped
they still had a few good years in them. His exercises failed to arouse Nadja’s
attention, so he said in a low voice, “Good morning.”
    “Almost done,” she answered,
eyes fixed on the drawing.
    Marco da Roma was alive but
unresponsive. His breathing was slow, shallow, regular. His pulse seemed weak
but no worse than the night before. William checked the bandage, sniffing the
wound for a hint of corruption, and left the dressing in place. Last night he
had given up his only blanket for the wounded man and slept in nothing but his
own tatterdemalion robe. Saint Francis would have given up the robe as well,
but William was no saint and the evenings were chilly.
    Giovanni, on the other hand,
bundled himself in more clothes than the friar had ever owned. The poet
continued wheezing softly, chanting the refrain of sleep.
    After shuffling over to the
little stream, William scooped cold water into his hands. He drank his fill
before splashing some on his face and on the top of his tonsured head.
    Returning to camp, he looked
down at Nadja’s sketch. She limned a manticore in thick black lines: a man’s
face, but the body of a lizard; lion’s paws, but the tail of a scorpion. It
looked malignant, like something out of Dante, like some hideous creature born
of the dark. Giovanni might recognize this demon from the cantos, but the friar
did not wish to wake him yet.
    “I saw this in a falling
dream,” Nadja said.
    William crouched down next
to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I did not see
you fall.”
    There was little he could do
for her dormition, except to be there when she came back to herself. Nadja’s
epilepsy was beyond his powers to heal. For this he commended her to Christ,
who had once healed an epileptic boy, a lunatic child who fell into fire.
William told her the story often, explaining that if she had the faith of a
mustard seed, she too would be healed. But William, who had contemplated
scripture since before he could read, knew the true meaning of the text: Christ
had chastised his disciples. They could not cast out the devils from the
epileptic boy because they had so little faith. It was the disciples who needed
faith, not the boy. It was William who needed faith, not the girl. He did not
tell Nadja these things. He prayed for her and taught her to hope.
    She waved his concern aside.
“You were asleep,” she said, “and I was lying down already. No bruises this
time.”
    William smiled, waking his
cheeks. “I’m glad to hear it.”
    He rubbed the blur from his
eyes and studied Nadja’s drawing with renewed interest, trying to make sense of
it. In Munich, before Nadja’s trial, William had taught the girl to record her
visions on paper. Those drawings had nearly gotten her killed. He blamed
himself, but found