Chapter 15 #2
There was nobody around when I approached the carob tree.
I expected the earth would be entirely dry, but to my surprise, the book-sized puddle was still there.
How had it not evaporated over the past week?
I did not linger over it long. I accepted the presence of the puddle with the kind of philosophical wholeness that I had adopted in recent weeks.
At its edge were some limp flowers, probably from the bouquet that I had left there last week.
I pulled out my pink razor but did not dare to slice my wrist as Jean had.
I made a tiny cut in my index finger, waited for the drop, and said aloud, “I drip the holy liquid of life in order to pass through the waters between the worlds and meet Jean d’Ibelin, Count of Arsur.
” I took the silver necklace from around my neck and wound it around my wrist, then I gripped the Ibelin coin between my thumb and bleeding finger and dipped both fingers into the puddle.
One, two, three, I counted, then surrendered to the phosphorescent explosion.
I lay on the ground, not opening my eyes, clutching the thing that was wound around my hand.
I trembled for a while, still recovering.
Gradually, I caught my breath. I opened my eyes a slit and was met with the vision of the expansive green carob canopy above me.
Dazzling sunlight played between its leaves.
I emerged from the tree canopy and sat in silence, looking at the horizon, letting the delicate colors wash away all fear and worry.
Then, I went back under the tree. I did not know if guards were patrolling, and I did not want to overuse the “Lady of the Spring” trick.
I wore gray linen clothes—a tunic and harem pants—which I had worn for the mushroom trip with Halimi.
It was a little colder in the past, and I was sorry I hadn’t brought a shawl or something.
I had made no effort to look like someone who could blend in because I had assumed I would wear the clothes Jean would bring.
But where was he? At least half an hour had passed since I arrived, and there was no sign of him.
I began to walk. If he turned up, it would probably be from the fortress, so I walked in that direction.
There was a weird feeling in my ears, like they were filled with fluff, like everything I heard passed through some kind of insulation.
I swallowed again and again. I drank from the bottle of water I had brought.
I squinted in the direction of the beach, trying to see if any knight on horseback was galloping in my direction.
The walk lasted for some time, and I was a little tired by the time I reached the beach.
I sat down on the sand, the high wall to my left hiding the town, and looked at the sea.
All I could see before me were stormy waves breaking and the lonesome tower on the rock in the sea, a few hundred meters north of the citadel.
It seemed to me that I caught sight of some movement.
And I could hear muffled sounds beyond the wall—chickens squawking, a hammer or something heavier knocking, sawing of some kind, and people’s voices.
The beach was empty and clean. The plantations and salt pools bordered the wall to the south, and the strip of sand continued until it disappeared from sight to the north, into the stormy sea ahead.
No barbed wire, no rusty metal signs, no diapers among the bushes, no trailers with their little patches of synthetic grass.
I glanced toward the place where the Crusader cemetery was supposed to be. I saw a few dozen tombstones.
I mustered my courage and turned to the gate in the wall.
I hoped there was no password. I wondered if I would have to pass through the town.
I remembered from literature and movies that people from the Middle Ages did not like foreigners, and for a moment I imagined old, screaming, toothless women rallying everyone against me, and me ending up burned at the stake.
I stopped and took Lily’s coin from my pocket.
I glanced over at the salt pools and the plantations, to the area of Le Destroit, where my spring lay.
I took a deep breath and knocked on the gate.
I waited several seconds, which became a minute, and I thought to myself, Okay, I’ll come back some other day, and then a hatch in the door opened. A pair of suspicious eyes peeked through the lattice.
“Oui?” came a coarse voice.
“Greetings to you, sir,” I said as politely as possible. “I am seeking Jean d’Ibelin, Count of Arsur. I have reason to believe that he is here at the fortress.” I was proud of myself for coming up with “reason to believe” in French.
“Oh?” the voice replied.
“I must see Jean d’Ibelin, Count of Arsur. It is urgent,” I repeated as respectfully as I knew how.
“The Pilgrim Castle does not admit women, much less prostitutes,” the coarse voice said and slammed the hatch shut.
I stood there shocked. I filled with rage and a strong, slightly hysterical wish to laugh, but I held it in. I reminded myself of how Jean convinced me that I am a lady, with the hands and hair and fine French and all. I am Monsieur d’Arsur’s cousin, I repeated to myself.
I knocked again, and the moment the hatch opened, I said slowly, in Jean’s accent and a lordly tone, which came to me so naturally that I was surprised, “Listen, you leprous dog. Let me in at once; if you will not, you will regret it. Inform Lord Arsur that the Countess of Atlit is here and must see him at once.” I glared at him through the lattice.
“Countess who?” the voice said in a hesitant, more courteous tone.
“Tell him that his cousin is here, Lady édith; he will understand,” I answered, sounding self-important.
The hatch shut more politely, and the gate opened with a screech.
I entered slowly, and the first thing I saw was the guard, a knight in a helmet, scale armor, and a black mantle with a red cross on it.
I managed to keep my expression inscrutable, but I was pumping deep breaths through my tightened jaw.