Faces Under Water

  One by one the men came up through the skin of the lagoon. They were behind a small islet with fishing boats. The open water lay spread beyond. Across the surface, the stain of San Fumo’s fires. There was no sign of the funeral barge.

  One of the men undid the lacing of the leather brace, and lifted off Furian’s globe. Its air was oven-hot and sour, and meeting the cleanness of the night, he coughed.

  “We must go down again, Signore. For us it’s nothing, but you needed to renew the breath in the globe.”

  “Thanks for my life,” he said. “Why did you?”

  The speaking man smiled. “You’re all one to us, Signore, you’re landsmen. Say perhaps we judged you weren’t ready to die. Not in a state of grace.”

  The other laughed. The boy looked serious. He said, overriding the uncaring adults, a serious teacher, “Breathe much now, Signore. As though you drank when thirsty. It’s another long swim.”

  He did as the boy told him, and when they put the globe over his head once more, the air smelled cool and clean and raised his spirits like good brandy. He was happy to descend again. He wanted to see more of the water City. He was alive. He had lost everything else. They dived.

  The lagoon was changing color again, bluer here.

  Beyond the sunken church, and the hill that supported the tiny fisher island, was an avenue of pillars. On each was mounted a marble statue. They were of gods and heroes, classical, with faces melted by a century or more of the lagoon.

  He passed them marveling, looking in their hyacinthine sightless eyes that seemed to follow him. He sensed their heads turning on white limestone necks. Could not catch them at it.

  Fish small as fingernails, bright as mirrors, flushed between. He swam seventy feet above the place where the street had been, when men walked there.

  He wanted to sink further, root through the palaces, among the waterlogged gardens where flamy anemones grew and caught their light, sift through his fingers the capitas of vanished emperors, the bronze pennies slung overboard for luck.

  But the air was stale again, and he kept on after his guides.

  Another shape came in his way. On a pedestal sat Neptune, turned to verdigris. Furian punched the trident and it broke off, spiraling down to the paving of the swallowed street below.

  Nothing else was important. The world did not exist. You need not think.

  He saw a transparent mermaid behind a wall. An hallucination probably, the dying air, or not.

  And then the plan of streets and masonry gave way, and there unrolled beneath him an incredible vista of the ancient earth—an amphitheater of the Romans, many hundreds of feet across and more in length, an oval, whose tiers of seats cascaded to a dubious hollow floor. What cheering and screaming, what scenes of battle and death had been there, where now the milky water curled, and fishes eddied in their own cool and indifferent crowds. To go down to this was almost an imperative, to press on the stone and penetrate the walks beneath.

  But just past this place was a wavering forest of the weed, and into it the divers were just now flickering.

  Years on, would he recall this sight, and how he had been cheated of it? Maybe not. For there were other memories above.

  He followed into the weed. As he did so, he saw the tendrils were strung by diamonds, emeralds, purple jacinth. Next moment the jewelry fled. Fish. After all, how like the bloody world.

  A black tunnel roared. The divers proceeded into it. Why go on? Why go on and come to land. Why trouble.

  But instinct was too vigorous. He propelled himself also into the tunnel.

  After a moment they were rising up again. Something sucked at them, some current from above.

  They emerged into a chamber of blackest water, and the boy swam straight up and pushed at a huge lid in the roof. The lid unfolded, unhinging like a clam shell. There was somber and unwelcoming light. Furian shot into it and his head was above the water.

  The boy helped him out on to a shelf of wet stone, and undid the brace again from about his neck. Furian pulled off the globe and breathed a stinking clammy atmosphere far worse than staleness.

  “Where is this?”

  “The tomb vault of the ancient Ducemae of Venus,” chanted the boy, crossing himself. “They’re buried in lead boxes under the water.”

  Furian thought of the lead weight. He glanced about below, and saw through the water now, or thought he did, black coffin shadows, each surmounted by a prone granite figure.

  “The Island of San Fumo.”

  “Yes, Signore.”

  The two others bobbed easily under the opened lid.

  They watched him, impartial yet unfriendly.

  “I’d pay you,” he said, “but alas. I think I may have been robbed in your house.”

  “You would have been, if you’d had anything.”

  “And you’d have earned every ducca.”

  The boy took Furian’s globe, securing it to his belt.

  None of them was out of breath.

  “The door to the vault is simple to force,” said the man who talked. “It’s already ajar.”

  The other did speak. He said, “All the men you know from the Mask Guild came to the Island. But their guild chapel is a mile or two away to the east from here. And they think you’re dead, wouldn’t you say.”

  “Yes, it’s nicely convenient.”

  “But then,” said the boy, “there is your lady.”

  “Which lady’s that?”

  “The butterfly lady.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  Furian shivered. It was dungeon-chill in the vault, and the water seemed finally warm. It was better here than the canals, and he had swallowed none of it. (And that was as well, because no one here would fold him in her arms, tend him, bring him back to health.)

  The best course would be to go around the island, find some wanderer or fisher, get out to sea, to the larger shipping.

  As for—as for the butterfly lady—she had shown her concern for him this time. Sitting at peace in the funeral boat as they flung him over.

  “It’s a shame,” said Furian, “love doesn’t last.”

  The boy said, “My sister told me, the lady wouldn’t cry, though her father was dead.”

  Furian stood up. He said, “If I prayed any more, I’d speak for all of you.”

  “There are too many gods,” said the talkative man.

  He drew breath in one long, rushing, inward sigh, and sank straight down. The other did the same. The boy lingered,

  “What is it? Do you want my coat?”

  “Keep it, Signore. Try to light a fire and dry it. The night will be cold.”

  “You’re too conscientious.”

  The boy spoke softly. “My sister said, your lady walked up and down, up and down. When a priest came, she sent him away. She wrote something, but then a masker went in and she hid it.”

  “She isn’t my lady.”

  “Then she has no one now.”

  The boy drew in breath, leapt, turned in the air like a dolphin, and clove the water. He disappeared at once. They had left Furian to replace the lid of the hidden entry. He did so, then climbed the passage from the stone shelf. Above was a ruinous chapel, full of loose stones and ivy. The iron door, as promised, cranked ajar, and needed only a shove or two to let him forth. He wrenched it back where it had been once he was out, and turned to see what the world now offered.

  He was in a walled grove of elderly unflowering myrtle trees. On the gate was an old escutcheon of Venus, the star and goddess symbol, and the coronet of a Ducem. But the gates too were half open.

  Beyond he saw the sweep of a hill, drenched in night, the cypresses standing like black pens, and the fields of little humps and markers and tiny statues, and here and there the great ghostly summerhouse of a mausoleum, fluttered by the merciless wings of basalt angels.

  Over the slope, about two miles off, the sky was terra-cotta red, and the malevolent smoke funneled into heaven all the way to God.

  The n
ight smelled of ashes, and of dew. Of roses also. Of the most bitter and unacceptable flavors. But it was cold. And the boy had been right. A line of woods ran away to the left. He must make for those, (shoeless, maskless), and set to work the tinder he had somehow had and they had let him keep. Light a fire. Dry himself. Think of where next to take himself. Since it would not be back to her, then where?

  3

  THE ISLE OF DEATH WAS ALL in this fashion, the endless grave yards with their miniature graves, the occasional tall and imposing tomb. Through everything, the woods and orchards of the Island threaded, old trees girdled by late flowers, a statuesque oak, a beech, a pool of water with some funereal nymph, a willow leaning in sallowing autumn hair.

  By night, everything was grisaille, or black or coal blue, or lit by the hell fires russet and priestly magenta.

  He made his own fire soon, under the trees. He stripped when it was alight, and rubbed himself with clumps of the sandy grass. He dried his clothes, put them on again. He longed for brandy, more than any lost love. Or less? If she had been with him, would he have cared only for her? He would have held her, lain over her to keep warm. Sex for food and drink, and her sweetness to hold in faith.

  Let her go. She was a bitch. She was insane and all the filthy things he had ever thought. She had let him be sent into the water. One shudder, one outstretched arm, however powerless. But not. Not she.

  Her hands, so white. Her stroking, her caressing, her teasing of his body. Her full warm breasts, her slenderness, the wonder of the core of her. Her face. Which he had thought he had begun to read like his Bible.

  Let her burn in hell. Let her go.

  SOMETHING WAS MOVING in the wood. There had been bear and lynxes once on the Island, but no longer. (Although now and then, they or their revenants were sighted.) Probably rats, a large bird—But they did not wear boots.

  Furian got up. He stood aside into the shadow of the trees, leaving the fire to burn. He had made a makeshift weapon, a stick sharpened in the flames. He toted it, ready.

  Into the clearing came a man. His head was shaven, shining like tarnished copper in the firelight. On his shoulder was a magpie, also color-changed, black and pink from the glow.

  Shaachen walked straight to the fire. He posed beside it, capering a little. “A friend and he hides.” His little old female face stretched in an evil grin. “Come out, handsome.” And the bird cawed.

  Furian walked into the light.

  “If you’re here, I hope you’ll be useful.”

  “What am I? Your saint? Of course I shall be useful.

  See what the old bugger has brought you.”

  Shaachen unslung his satchel. Out came a loaf and some cheese, a brandy bottle and a bloated skin of wine. “Thank God,” said Furian. He let himself down on the ground, and took the brandy, drinking off five or six raw gulps. “Last time you were no use, under the window acting beggars.”

  “My darling brought you up a letter.”

  “That was so much what I needed.”

  “The paper was invisibly traced with symbols of magic to keep you safe. It seems it has. Where is it now?”

  “In my coat. It got wet.” Furian felt for the letter and found a dryish mush.

  “Keep it still,” said the Doctor.

  “And how did you find me this time?” said Furian.

  “And why did you bother?”

  “I enjoy you,” said Shaachen. “You are so flamboyantly much what I anticipate. It’s like the play.”

  “My thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. As to finding you, I knew they would come here. I waited, watched. I saw the charon off and came after in a little fisher boat. At the Island all of them come forth—but for my dear Furian. So, you have escaped them.”

  “Didn’t you see something drop in the water?”

  “The charon was some way off. But yes, perhaps. Was that you?”

  “It was me.”

  “You jumped and swam.”

  “They threw me in with lead on my feet.”

  Shaachen had sat down. He fed cheese slowly to the magpie. He said nothing; then, “But why would they do that?”

  “Unlike yourself, they don’t care for me.”

  “They hate you, doubtless. But I’d thought—perhaps not already having slain you—they must want to keep you. Didn’t they offer to make you one of their own?”

  “Yes. And how did you know that?”

  “I too have been searching out, asking here and there. The guilds are known, in some form, to each other. I am an alchemist. Within my own circle, I may hear things not broadcast on the street. I might have warned you, but you went too fast. Straight in at her door, the Virgo with blue eyes. There was a rumor too, of her. Is it true, her face doesn’t move? Fachia Pietra. A fascination.”

  “Her face. Her heart.”

  “Another rejection?

  “She was willing enough. But when they drowned me, she sat by serene as Sunday morning in the Primo.”

  “I begin to see,” said Shaachen. “I begin to. Not quite.”

  “They kill for hire,” said Furian. “Those who wear the most celebrated masks seem to be their victims.”

  “Yes, I have that already. They are of few numbers. Three or four men, forming a secret guild within the Guild. Not all the rest are so tainted. This limits their scope a little. You may trust me on this. But they kill for hire, you say?”

  “And to gratify some foul urge for chaos, power, viciousness. God knows.”

  “And he—the raging one who showed his animal in our rite?”

  “What rite?” said Furian. He took some bread and ate it. But he was hungry, and put it by…there was no longer any reason to behave logically with drink or sleep or food.

  “You forget it so soon. When the Zodians towered in my chamber, and I told you the murderers were in the Mask Guild.”

  “Oh, that time. Yes. I remember the animal with a barb on its penis. That was him, was it? Lepidus? Well, he was angry with her. With me. With everyone who had something he hadn’t, or cheated him in some way, as he saw it. He must be a bellowing ghost. He’s dead.”

  “Ah!” Shaachen exclaimed. “I see more. How do you know he died?”

  “I saw his corpse and so did she. Its whole face was off. He was our ally, or presently he was. Someone didn’t find pleasure in that, and had him seen to, and I was next. But she knew. Either that, or she didn’t mind it.” Furian stood up. He said loudly, too loudly for the wood, “She sat and watched them throw me over. She couldn’t speak, but in extremity she could make a sound—I know, I heard it over and over in her bed. She didn’t even rise, or fidget.”

  “But they had hold of you,” said Shaachen. “two or three of them, surely, to be certain. And there were the other men on the charon. What could she do?”

  “Nothing, nothing. But in God’s name—not one flick of her hand.”

  “Sit,” said Shaachen. “Tell me how you came here with lead feet. I’ve been searching you out for a great while.”

  Furian sat. He took the wine skin and drank. He told Shaachen of the divers and the underwater entry at the tomb of ancient Ducemae. All the glamour of the journey was gone now. He knew Shaachen would have been avid for descriptions of the drowned City, the statues, the amphitheater, and withheld them meanly. Furian was tired with the old tiredness which precluded sleep.

  Shaachen did not inquire anything about the swim, the tomb, apparently aware of this. The magpie drowsed on Shaachen’s shoulder. It was young and splendid as a new-minted coin, and knew the tricks of the dead. The loyalty too. Some were loyal. Could you only expect it from a beast or a bird?

  “Did you keep the fishing boat by the Isle?” Furian asked. “We can use it to go back. Then I have a choice, it seems to me. To make inland from the City, or take ship elsewhere. I might evade them now they think they’ve done for me.”

  “This is your sole choice?” said Shaachen.

  “I think so. They revel in what they do, bu
t I’m a small enough fish to them.”

  “But no,” said Shaachen, “I think not.”

  Furian blasphemed softly and obscenely. “I’ve had sufficient of this, Dianus Shaachen. I’m off to save my worthless life.”

  “And hers? Is that also worthless?”

  “To me, yes, if she thinks nothing of mine.”

  Shaachen took the magpie from his shoulder. He held it in both hands and cooed to it and kissed its demonic head. The beak, which could have taken out his eyes, stayed still as carving. It made back to him a silly little love-cackle.

  “Consider,” said Shaachen, “unlike other women, she can’t speak to plead for you, or beg you to await her in heaven. And surrounded by the men who are enemies, she is without physical recourse. Consider, perhaps, she’s as shocked as yourself to see you suddenly bound and thrown to your death. All of her turns in terror to stone. You pierced her body, but did you possess her brain? How do you know she betrays you, or has no concern. Perhaps, as you sank, she fell dead on the deck from the agony of what had happened.”

  “You saw them leave their boat. Was she dead, then?”

  Shaachen said, with grizzly lugubriousness, “She walked heavily, like a woman sick or half asleep.”

  “She was a little tired. Bored by such an uneventful day.”

  “No, Furian Furiano. She walked as if she were laden down. With lead.”

  Furian slung the wine away.

  “She has no friends with them, that’s all. Dreads them. She had a friend in me and didn’t want me, any more then she wanted del Nero that she let them kill two feet from her sublime blue sala. Or in front of her, even, as she thought I’d been.”

  “Only suppose,” said Shaachen, “there is one chance you may be wrong. That she loves you and her heart, which isn’t stone like her face, but glass, like the hearts of all lovers, is in little bits, cutting her breast. Only suppose she’s in the Mask Guild’s grip and thinks you dead, and can’t cry her tears of alabaster. And you sit here to speak of foreign ships.”

  “In Christ’s bleeding name—”