Garbo’s Faces

a Novel — Part 10: Theater

“Whoa, who goes there?” said a deep, not friendly voice.

It belonged to a tall, gray-haired man who now stepped out onto the landing, shimmering with new snow and yellow light from what turned out to be a thousand candles.

“Ah, so it is you, Phantom,” he said to the horse. “You’ve kept us waiting, and you’ve kept us wondering.” Then he saw us, looking up at him from the bottom of the steps. Took me in, then Harriet, then me again. With interest. “And what have you brought us this fine morning?”

The horse, quite at home apparently, gently ascended the broad steps up to the man, who patted his head in welcome. Phantom — if that was his name, it surely was an apt one — snorted in reply, and then, as gently, proceeded into the church. I heard the soft thunder of heavy wood falling back into place behind us, and the clank of large locks. Halfway down the aisle the horse stopped, snorted again — as if to say this is as far as we go, end of the line — then kneeled again, both front and back (horses just don’t do that) to let us off.

I slid down first, and then Harriet — whom I prepared to catch but whom the tall man, brushing me aside, caught and helped instead.

“Welcome,” he said, mainly to Harriet. “And just in time for our play.”

:

The inside of the church was much larger than it had any right to be judging by the outside, which only told of a small chapel with a high spire.

It was warm, and it glowed as if lit by a thousand candles. Looking again, and closer this time, I realized that it indeed was lit by a thousand candles. At least. Candles everywhere.

And people, filling every pew, spilling into the aisles, standing along the walls. A thousand faces, perhaps one for each candle, old and young, a thousand men and women and, yes, many children, each turned in our direction, each curious, each expectant, anticipating. Large-eyed. Smiling some, serious others. None welcoming.

Harriet looked around her as well, then took my arm, but said nothing, still taking in the place. I think we noticed it at the same time: quite out of place, at the end of the center aisle, or rather, occupying the very end of it, was a large stage, about four feet high, a hundred or so feet wide, and perhaps fifty feet deep: empty as yet. I could see the boards and planks holding it up: it seemed quite well constructed.

Our host — that was my initial impression of him, and it proved pretty much correct — stood by while we got our bearings, then said, again, and in the same dark, decidedly not friendly voice, “Welcome.”

We both turned to him.

“Welcome to the den of thieves,” he said.

The den of thieves?

I looked around me again, at the thousand faces looking at us. The den of thieves?

“Why, thank you,” said Harriet.

He held out his hand, and Harriet took it. “Pearly Soames is the name. Head thief and principal scoundrel. Legally and democratically appointed. Fair and square.”

Some chuckled at that. Some shifting about in the pews now, the better to hear. More chuckles. Then someone very close and to the right of me, tossed a “Fair, my foot,” in our direction, loud enough not to me missed.

“Fair and square,” said Soames again, louder this time. More chuckles. Ripples of laughter along one wall.

Then he looked at the horse, which seemed both whiter and larger than before, “And this,” he said, and patted his large white head again, then found some sugar cubes in his pocket and fed them to him. “This is Phantom, my pride and joy.” Then added, almost shouting now, making sure he was heard throughout, “Best transportation in all of New York.”

This gave rise to more chuckles and laughter. Though I didn’t see the joke, I could tell there was one in there somewhere.

“Well, I’m glad,” said Harriet, who seemed to have gathered her wits quickly and adapted to the odd surroundings. “We’re still in New York, then. I must confess I was worried for a while.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Soames. “New York City, the greatest city on Earth.”

“And is this by any chance the Gustavus Adolphus Church?” she asked. That, I thought, would be a coincidence beyond the believable. I had no idea what made her assume that it was, but I could tell that she did.

“This is a church,” he answered. “But that is not the name of it. I’ve never heard of the one you said.”

Harriet looked over at me. We’re in the wrong place. Then back at Soames.

“Which church is this?”

“This is the Church of Saint John the Baptist,” he answered.

Harriet looked back at me. Had I ever heard of such a church? I hadn’t.

“The Church of Saint John the Baptist?” she said.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You wouldn’t know where is the Gustavus Adolphus Church?” she asked him.

“No, ma’am. As I said, never heard of it.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, finally finding my manners. “Or thank you,” I said to the horse, “for finding us and bringing us here to safety. That was an amazing storm out there.”

Pearly Soames smiled. Not kindly. “The pleasure is all ours,” he said. “We are the ones who should be grateful.” Then added, “And I’m not so sure about safety.”

“What do you mean?” said Harriet. Looked from him to me then back to him again.

“What do I mean?” he said. Then, louder, and apparently more for the benefit of the congregation than for us, “Whatever do I mean?”

This brought more laughter from the pews and more shifting in seats.

“Well, how can I put this?” Then he fell silent, as if deliberating, or looking for the right words to break the news. I got the strong feeling, however — no, it was a certainty — that this was all for show, played by Mr. Soames for the benefit of the gathering.

“Well,” he said. “You set out looking for Christmas Mass, did you not?”

“Yes,” said Harriet. “How did you know?”

“This is such a one,” he said, ignoring her question.

“Fine,” she said. “So we are in some sort of right place. When does it start?”

“But,” he went on as if she had not spoken, “as Christmas Masses go, this is not yours, this is ours.”

Harriet did not understand, and neither did I. But what I did grasp was the subtle movements of large men which resulted in sentries by all exits; the sense was that of a sealing.

“Welcome,” he said again, and again for the benefit of the congregation, not ours. “Welcome to the beheading.” Then he bowed deeply and with flair, at your service.

“Beheading?” I said. “What do you mean?”

“Whose beheading?” said Harriet, who seemed to take him at his word, or had decided to play along, I could not tell which.

“Ah, yes, that is the question, isn’t it. And that is our little problem this fine morning,” said Soames. “You see, our mighty steed Phantom here normally brings only the one guest for the show, and now he’s gone and brought us two. Our play calls for only the one head to roll, the one head of Saint John the Baptist, our Lord and Savior. But now he’s gone and brought us two heads.”

Harriet cleared her throat. “You don’t really mean beheading?” she said. “Cutting someone’s head off?” Still playing along, or perhaps not.

“Yes, indeed. Beheading, sweetheart.” He mock-sliced his own head off with a finger. “Chop, chop. With a sword.”

“You’re not serious? You’re actually going to cut someone’s head off? Or,” she looked over at me for support. I shook my head slowly, no idea. “Of course, you said it’s a play. It’s a pretend beheading.”

“No, ma’am. It’s a real one. Gushing blood, the lot.”

Harriet’s throat must have been running dry, for she cleared it again. “And that is why your horse found us? And brought us? Heads to cut off.”

“Yes, ma’am. But he was only meant to bring one head.”

“And the storm?” She said. “Does it have anything to do with you?”

That had occurred to me as well. As unreal as the predicament we found ourselves in.

“I don’t know about any storm,” said Soames. “Hasn’t been much storming around here. Storms uptown, does it?” More chuckles, shiftings in pews, expectations.

Harriet didn’t answer, but looked at me again, uneasy. Scared now, I think.

It now seemed my mouth had realized the danger we were in before the rest of me did, for it had gone parched, and I had trouble swallowing. The sight of many flames and the smell of melting tallow, warm and cozy only moments ago, had turned oppressive; and my eyes, curious and impressed surveyors until now, suddenly found themselves alarmed and very awake informants.

Things around me were suddenly very three-dimensional, with an emotional depth that added a fourth. The expectation, the anticipation, had turned visible, and as palpable as an extra dimension, and in that depth I could see, quite clearly, that I would not live to see sun again. This man Soames was not joking, that was a fact, and his flock knew it. The gathering was too eager, too tuned to me, and my head.

My head. Of course my head. John the Baptist was a man, and suddenly I was dead sure that the play called for a head, a man’s head.

I was a man.

I had a head.

Then I heard myself saying — it was some part of me I had assembled at King’s College — “Perhaps you should send him out again, this Phantom of yours, to see if he can get the count right this time.” It was not a suggestion, no not really, just words, I think, to see if I still could produce coherent noises. British ones.

“Not funny, mister,” said Soames with a slow glance in my direction. Cold eyes, now, heavy eyelids. Calculating, as if sizing me up for a coffin. Then, “Come now.” And with that he turned and set out for the stage at the end of the aisle, and Harriet and I, after a not so gentle prod by one of two large men — guards, I thought — followed.

I looked around me as I walked — well, my feet did the walking, I’m not so sure I participated — took in the movements, the candles, the faces, many faces, all facing me. And more arriving.

For although full — and sealed, the sentries were still in place — the church seemed to be filling up further. Other, unseen ways in, apparently, but no ways out. Odd. More shifting about in the pews, shuffling, rustling, sounds of people moving closer to each other to make room for friends and family. Still, no doors opened or closed. Then, as we reached the stage, the movements seemed to settle. What remained was the rustle of anticipation before the show: I could almost hear the orchestra tuning up. But there was no orchestra, nor was there a conductor or a pit. Still, this was a tuning up, a beginning, of something.

“Nachiketa.”

That was my name, whispered, or spoken, I wasn’t sure which. I turned to Harriet, who looked at me with still, uneasy eyes. Then they left my face and looked past me, up at the stage, alarmed. I turned and followed her gaze. Two men in dark gray workmen’s overalls had made their way onto it, climbed up from one of the sides most likely, and others were now handing them pieces of props: boards, frames, what looked like bars, colored screens, from below, and soon — with amazing speed and skill, or was I losing all sense of time? — they had built a prison cell in one of the corners.

A man dressed only in a loincloth, with long brown hair and a very hairy chest, so hairy it made him he look more like ape than man to me, climbed onto the stage and took up his place inside the cell. One of the workmen, now stripped of the overalls and suddenly a guard, closed and locked the gate, which made just the right noise — as if the cell, built quickly from paper and wood, had suddenly turned steel and real.

“Nachiketa,” again. She tugged at my arm.

I turned to her. “Yes.”

“Do you…,” she began, but then she looked past me again, in surprise. I turned back toward the stage, to catch the same surprise: three scantily clad women and two men dressed as snake charmers — so outfitted and so tanned and beardy and turbany as to seem the genuine article — had climbed onto the stage, each of the men carrying a large wicker basket containing what I immediately recognized as bickering cobras.

There was no doubt. From where I stood — not more than ten or so feet from the baskets once the men had put them down — I could make out their muttering, their murmur, their indignation, snake to snake, to be cramped, four snakes to a basket, for the entertainment of these odd people. Still, it’s a living, what’s a snake to do in this cold, cold city. Yes, yes, agreement all around. And they do feed us well, yes, yes, no denying that. And no shortage of rats in this place, millions and millions of them. All the rats one could want. Yes, yes, beats working for a living, ha, ha. But even so, damned cramped in here and stop shoving, will you? Sorry, what do you want me to do, get out? A few snaky snickers, then more bickering. Cobras, all right.

The charmers had brought bamboo flutes as well — which they did know how to play — and soon their airy music filled the church while preparations for the play proper continued behind this, what must be the warm-up show.

The scantily clad women, who really were nothing but tall girls, were amazing dancers. Not sensual, not in the least, but aesthetic, weaving across the stage like water rippled by the music, fingers, arms, waists, thighs, knees, feet, all part of the constant flow, the weaving; and here came the first cobra, and the second, and the third, each sliding out of its cage and onto the stage and up to and now rising among the girls, swaying to the rhythm of this fine music and these fine legs, and soon there were eight snakes, each a beauty — some older and some taller than the others, but each as fine a cobra as I had ever seen — and six legs, each a beauty, forming a small forest of dance, behind which no further preparations took place, for the preparers had stopped to watch as well, the mock prisoner included, each swaying to this airy, leggy, snaky rhythm.

And the rhythm spread, a ripple across the lake of congregation behind and surrounding us, spread through the church and all its thieves, who now swayed in unison, as if hypnotized, to the dance. Even Harriet swayed; I did as well. But then I would, for I knew the snake dance and I had never seen finer.

As the dance was winding down, I realized that preparations for the play must have resumed at some point, for now the stage held not only a prison, and a cell, but also a sandy courtyard surrounding a rectangular, low-walled water well, as well as an early Roman dining room with doors and large windows opening onto a blue and beautiful outside sky. And there were people milling about — tens, hundreds, hard to tell — in a town square over to the far right, the stage suddenly impossibly large.

As the snakes rippled back into their baskets, the bickering resumed. Hey, quit shoving will you, make room, here I come, good job tonight, by the way, thanks, you too, why thanks, I’m starving, you said it, I could do with a rat or two, watch where you’re going will you.

Once the snakes had all settled, the charmers tucked their flutes into deep pockets, picked up the baskets and set out after the young girls, who were now climbing down from the stage by a short ladder a little to our left.

Once off stage, the two baskets of snakes were placed somewhere beneath it and not too far from where I was standing, for I could still make out the bickering back and forth, though barely.

Suddenly the rustle and shifting and susurrus of expectation ceased and the church turned very still. The reason was:

A small boy with long, dark, curly hair, dressed in what appeared a single sheet with a braided belt, and with a scroll in his hand, was making his way across the stage toward front and center. I had the feeling that the play proper was about to begin. The boy looked very serious, very intent, and quite aware of the importance of his arrival. A magisterial approach, and very well-acted, especially considering his age.

Once arrived, he halted and surveyed the congregation for a moment. Imperially. Then, slowly unfolding the scroll, he began to read in a loud and clear, quite beautiful voice:

“After the Baptism of his disciple Jesus of Nazareth, our Lord Saint John the Baptist was thrown into prison by Herod Antipas, the Tetrarch of Galilee.”

At this point another boy, of the same general appearance, though blond, and with not a scroll in his hands but a large placard, arrived from I don’t know where. This new arrival took up station about six feet to the left of the scroll reader. On the side facing the congregation his placard — which he now held up high with its handle, for all to see — read, in big black letters, Parenthetical Notes. This boy, too, surveyed the congregation briefly, then read (I assume from the other side of the placard, or perhaps from memory), in a voice similarly loud and clear, if not quite as stunning, his first parenthetical note:

“After the death of Herod the Great, the Romans divided Palestine into four parts, each to be ruled by a Roman henchman. Herod Antipas was appointed the ruler of Galilee by the Roman emperor Augustus.”

This parenthetical piece of informative background, for some reason, brought wild applause and a not a few cheers from a small section to my left — startling both me and Harriet, but not Soames, apparently. The boy’s relatives perhaps.

The scroll boy, satisfied that the parenthetical interjection was complete, resumed reading from his scroll:

“The True Prophet of God, our Lord and Savior Saint John the Baptist, had openly denounced Herod for having abandoned his lawful wife, the fair daughter of Aretas, the Arabian king, and for unlawfully cohabiting with Herodias, his brother’s wife.”

Then he turned in expectation to the parenthetical boy. Who, right on cue, read:

“His brother’s name was Philip.”

At this moment the church was stabbed into sudden darkness by the simultaneous extinction of a thousand candles (in uncanny coordination), which darkness was almost immediately stabbed in turn by a single spotlight on a wonderful, very tall, dark woman standing by one of the dining room windows watching the sky, and a rider approaching from the hills beyond. The rider arrived, far sooner than he should have from such a distance, quickly dismounted and rushed over to the door, which he then flung open in one elegant, exaggerated, silent movie flourish. The tall woman swooned, also very silent movie-like, and the rider rushed into her arms.

Another spotlight. Two, actually: one highlighting the scroll boy, from somewhere in front and above, while another, smaller and from behind, lit the scroll.

“Oh, Herod,” read the boy. “My darling.”

The couple kissed. A silent-movie kiss.

“Oh, Herodias,” read the boy, “My darling.”

They kissed again. Another silent-movie kiss.

Into black, except for the lit scroll, as the boy continued his narrative:

“On his birthday, Herod gave a banquet for his nobles, dignitaries and officers. Salome, Herodias’ young daughter, danced before the guests and she greatly pleased Herod. In gratitude to the maiden, Herod loudly proclaimed to one and all, the maiden included, that for this wonderful dance he would give her whatever she asked, even unto one half of his kingdom.”

Now the scroll light too went out and the church went pitch dark. Lots of onstage activity, all in this near-complete blackness. How could they see what they were doing?

Light erupted. We’re at a banquet. Nobles, dignitaries and officers. Salome, the lovely Herodias’ daughter, front and center, nudging the scroll boy to move aside, give her some room for crying out loud, which he did, albeit reluctantly — this was his spot. Then she began to dance. And this dance was sensual.

Herod, the rider, now sitting at the head of a table, Herodias by his side, grinned from ear to ear. His hair was slipping, though, and he had to adjust his wig several times during the dance. Still, he managed to look very pleased, very taken with the dance.

Salome finished her more or less erotic performance to a raucous ovation. The male thieves — the presumably unwed ones — having a great time. Liked this. Catcalls, shrill whistles, cheers, until Soames had had enough.

“Enough,” he said loudly, and things simmered down.

Salome withdrew a little and the scroll boy resumed his rightful place with a “so there!” look at Salome, who, although taller and quite mature, seemed to be about his age, could have been his sister. She turned to Herod. Curtsied, bowed.

A spotlight on Herod now, who rose, but did not speak — in this play, I realized, none would speak but the scroll boy. He did move his lips though, and I could not shake the silent-movie image.

“That was wonderful, Salome. Spiffing,” read the boy.

Herod looked at the boy, surprised. Then at Soames.

“Stick to the script,” yelled Soames.

The boy blushed, then set out to comply:

“That was wonderful, Salome. Wonderful. A finer dance I have never seen, nor a finer dancer. To show my gratitude and appreciation I shall give you anything you ask, up to and including — but not exceeding, mind you — half of my kingdom.”

Salome curtsied again, deeply, and withdrew farther, out of her light and then:

Into black. Pitch. Ten heartbeats, perhaps.

Lights on.

The scroll: “Salome, following the advice of her wicked mother Herodias…”

Parenthetical notes: “Herodias was the wife of Herod’s brother Philip.”

“We remember,” said someone in the crowd, loud enough for all to hear.

“Shut up,” yelled Soames.

The scroll: “…Salome would ask Herod for the head of John the Baptist on a silver salver.”

On the stage Herodias leaned over to whisper in Salome’s ear. Salome listened, then nodded, too happily. Not quite in character.

“Ask Herod for the head of John the Baptist,” read the scroll boy.

Salome nodded again, then floated over to Herod, where she mouthed the words that the scroll boy now read: “I want the head of John the Baptist on a silver salver.”

Some laughter in the crowd. Soames looked around to spot the offenders. Did not succeed, but silence was restored.

Herod looked devastated. Crestfallen. Quite convincingly.

The scroll: “This dismayed Herod, for he feared the wrath of God, which was sure to visit him were he to murder the prophet whose words he himself had heeded in the past. He was also reluctant to offend the people who loved the Forerunner.”

Parenthetical notes: “Which is what our Savior was called at his time.”

“We know,” someone else in the crowed informed the reader.

“Shut up,” yelled Soames, turning.

The scroll continued: “But due to his rash promise, so arrogantly made with his all of his guests as witnesses, he felt obliged to order Saint John to be beheaded, and his head given to Salome on a silver salver.”

More laughter. Soames didn’t bother to look for the source. Futile.

Into black.

Lights again.

Herod handed a parchment to the executioner, a tall, heavily built, hooded man with a large sword. Mouthing.

The scroll: “I hereby order you to behead John the Baptist and give his head to Salome on a silver salver.”

This was all some of the children in the crowd could take of silver salver. Giggles at first, along the far wall, then some commotion and outright laughter, then the chant that must have been brewing for the last few minutes finally came to a boil: “Silver, salver, silver, salver, silver, salver.” Then more giggles.

The scroll boy giggled too, and for a moment could not go on. Then, most likely aided by a murderous glance from Soames, collected himself, and continued reading: “Behead him tomorrow morning at sunrise, and give his head to Salome as she has asked.”

“On a silver salver,” someone shouted. More giggles, laughter.

Soames, without turning: “Shut UP.”

The executioner answered silently.

The Scroll: “Yes, sir.”

Into black.

Lights again.

And a new spotlight: this one on the imprisoned, half naked John the Baptist, as he paced back and forth in his cell, three steps in each direction, then stopped, turned, grasped the oh so seemingly real bars with both hands, and screamed mutely.

The scroll: “Noooo!”

At which point Soames slid over to my side and touched me on the elbow, quite gently. Then whispered, one confidant to another, as if sharing important but secret news: “This is where you come in.”

I looked at Soames, not understanding at first. Then I understood and I asked, unsure — and not a little afraid — what the answer would be:

“This is just a play, right?”

“Oh, yes,” Soames said.

“As in make believe?”

“So far.”

“But these are actors,” I said, gesturing in the direction of the stage. “This is a play. This is not real. You don’t really mean?”

“I do mean,” said Soames, who suddenly struck me as insane, and absolutely serious about the need for my head to come off.

“There’s a man in the cell. The one looking at us. Why not use him?” I suggested. Pointing just to make sure.

Soames looked. Shook his head. “He’s a good man,” he said. “Why waste him? Besides, you’ve got just the right complexion.”

“You mean?” I asked, with difficulty.

“Yes, I mean. Sorry.”

That said, two, or three, or a dozen men appeared around me, all very alive with purpose.

Strong hands gripped my upper arms and shoulder: I wasn’t going anywhere but up on stage. Other arms at first guided, then more or less had to lift Harriet aside. She seemed too stunned to move on her own volition. Or talk. I caught her face, mouth ajar, wide-eyed, not seeing. No, that’s wrong, she saw all right, but her face did not believe.

Many hands proceeded to help me backstage, where I was rapidly stripped, loin-clothed, and bewigged as the imprisoned Saint John the Baptist’s stunt double. This area, impossibly large, as was the stage itself now, too — we were still in a small church, after all, at least I assumed so — was crowded with actors milling about, some yet to go on, some just come off from the on-stage banquet. And here was a horse, smaller than Phantom and dapple-gray; and here were the dancers and the charmers too, and over to the right — I heard them, then turned to spot the baskets, which someone must have collected from below the stage during the play — the cobras, still bickering, unfed as yet, not so happy about that, at all.

One of my guards stepped back and took a good look at me, head cocked to one side, critical-like, then nodded approvingly: “Good enough,” he said. “You’re on.”

:

I’m escorted — well, since I’m not cooperating, I’m more like thrown — onto the stage, where two different guards (part of the play and much in character) seize me from behind and with what feels like leather thongs secure my hands behind my back. And roughly: I feel the thongs first pinch then chafe my skin, and then my hands begin to hurt and swell as blood gathers, its return path expertly pulled shut. They hurt badly, and begin to throb, and I wonder how long before permanent damage, then wonder that I wonder at that, a minor point, considering.

I’m looking for Harriet at the front of the now crowded main aisle, and I do make her out, still stunned, still not believing, when another spotlight springs to life in the nearby sky with me as its focus, and I’m blinded. The last thing I see — or think I see — is a wide grin. Pearly Soames: play going off as planned. Much pleased.

My eyes adjust a little and I can see a large rock ahead; while my feet now notice that I am walking on real ground — these are not the planks or boards of a stage beneath my feet, these are pebbles, and this is dirt, a trodden path — and things suddenly seem terribly, terribly real.

The stage, the church, the world — I’m no longer sure which — has gone very quiet. The spotlight in blue sky has become true sun and the susurrant crowd has become the secret conversation among swaying palm trees to my left.

I am making progress toward the large rock ahead, guards by my side, making sure. I hear the crunch of sandals on dirt: theirs, an odd stereo effect, and mine — and suddenly can’t for the life of me remember donning them or having sandals donned backstage. My hands throb painfully, and seriously now, veins and arteries blocked by leather, and again I find myself concerned about permanent damage.

Strangely, I can still make out the muttering of snakes, wondering what’s holding up the food.

Then we arrive at the rock.

The scroll boy, somewhere off stage — to my left somewhere — springs to life in his very clear voice: “Our Savior John the Baptist was led to the rock by Herod’s men and made to lie down upon it. Then he was made to offer his neck to the sword.”

Since I make no move to voluntarily dramatize this spoken line, strong hands on my back and shoulders guide me forward and down and onto the rock, my chest heavy and not in the least comfortable on the sharp and uneven surface. But down I go, with only my head hanging out over the edge, my neck quite exposed: a clean target for a skilled swordsman. And my hands are hurting terribly from the thongs.

All is quiet now. Even the palm trees seem to hold their breath — in expectation.

Then I hear the boy furl his scroll, preparing for the next section. Then the snakes again, still not fed, still waiting, not happy about it, not at all, and suddenly I think about Madhuri: if only she were here, at least for a goodbye.

The swordsman steps up to my right. At first just a towering presence. Then I turn my head to see him: massive, hooded. His lips move in the narrow mouth opening of his hood, or perhaps I’m just imagining that. There are no words, of course, and it is the scroll boy, to my left who, and so clearly, asks me: “Have you any last words before you and your head part company?”

After perhaps two heartbeats the boy and I begin to speak at the same time. An odd jumble: my snake talk and his scroll talk. I’m asking — more like begging, and very loudly — the unhappy eight for some assistance here, while the boy shouts what I presume I should — had I been in willing character — be mouthing: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

Next — and this only took seconds — one of the eight cobras has slipped out of his basket and onto the stage, heading for where I lie, not quite soiling myself. I’m oddly terrified, not of the sword now so much as of what will follow once it has done its killing-me business.

The snake reaches me and rises to my eye-level, flaring his hood. He is very big, and old. Black eyes, curious.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Nachiketa,” I say.

“You know snake talk?”

“Clearly.”

“And you need our help?”

“Clearly.”

I recognize Soames’ voice, loud and irritated, from the darkness beyond the horizon: “Who let the damned snake out? Get it out of here and get on with it.”

The hooded man’s reply is muffled, but it has to do with the snake and about easier said than done.

“His head,” shouts Soames. “Now.”

“Stop the sword,” I ask the snake.

The cobra elder turns and hisses at the hooded man, who freezes — then orders another cobra I cannot see, but who has now joined the action: “Bite.”

The panicked swordsman screams. I turn my head to get a better look. The new arrival — a younger, smaller cobra — has found bare arm, sword in hand and bent back to delivery my death blow, and is now hanging full-length from it, tail touching the floor, while injecting his venom, squirt by squirt. The young snake’s venom is potent and the man soon drops the sword — a loud metallic complaint — then the man himself drops in a heap, wide-eyed in death rather than panic.

The cobra elder speaks again and the six remaining snakes arrive and now form a semi-circle by my head, risen, hoods fully flared, sentries all.

With some difficulty I turn my head to the left, finding one of the two guards who brought me. He stands not two feet from hood and fangs, seconds away from sharing the fate of his swordsman brother: not in a position to argue.

“Untie my hands,” I say. He complies, nervously but instantly. Fumbles the knot. Fumbles some more. Finally succeeds.

I now scramble off the rock and onto my feet, then actually scream with the pain that is suddenly released from my hands. It rushes out from them with the blood leaving and seems to gain further strength from new blood returning. It takes me a while, a full minute perhaps, to find my way back to surroundings other than burning hands.

“What next?” asks the old cobra. Apparently for the third or fourth time, a little vexed at not being heard.

I look at him. Grateful, impressed, relieved, a jumble of feelings. I’m still alive.

“Not sure,” I finally answer. “But thanks for stopping the sword.”

He does not answer.

I look up toward the sun. “Kill the spotlight,” I ask of I have no idea whom. “Please.”

That whom does, and slowly the audience, including Soames, huge and fuming, return. Harriet too, I can see her now, a step behind him, to his right. Very wide-eyed.

“The big man,” I tell the snake.

“Soames?”

“Yes,” I say.

The cobra elder orders two of the larger snakes to attend to Soames, and I see them speed off the stage and up to Soames, where they take up stations around his legs.

I thank the snake elder again.

Still rubbing my hands and wrists, I look out into the stunned crowd. “I’m afraid there will be no beheading this morning, at least not at my expense,” I announce, mainly for Soames’ benefit.

:

Pearly Soames, clearly a man of action under normal circumstances, plainly did not feel at home with two cobras looping his legs. He fumed in place while I and my retinue of serpents made our way off the stage.

I walked up to him.

“You were going to kill me,” I said. “Are you out of your mind?”

He did not answer. I’m not even sure he heard me. Instead he wanted to know, “Who are you?”

“A visitor,” I answered.

“How, how can you, could you…?” he said, which I pretended not to hear. Instead I walked over to Harriet, her attention now shifting between me and the snakes at my feet. “…talk to these things,” Soames finally completed his sentence.

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“No,” she said.

“We must get out of here,” I said.

“We must complete the play,” said Soames, overhearing. “We must finish the play. You must allow the play to complete.” It grew to a plea. A loud one.

“Not with me in it, you’re not.” I said.

Soames studied me briefly, added things up, made his decision, turned toward the stage.

“Frederick,” he yelled to the original John the Baptist, still in his cell. “You’re going to have be a sport about this and be Saint John all the way through, I’m afraid.”

“You must be insane,” said I.

“Are you kidding?” yelled the celled man.

“No.” Then, to the guards: “Tom, Edgar, you two get him ready.” Then to a large man standing by the fallen swordsman, apparently wondering whether or not to move him. “Peter, take his hood. Put it on. You be the swordsman.”

Orders were followed, and quickly at that — in part, I suppose, not to give Soames a chance to change his mind and pick another candidate for John the Baptist.

Poor Frederick was still protesting and crying as his head came off — Peter did a good job, one clean swing — and the better part of the front stage become a dark, slippery mess of blood.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” screamed Soames. “You forgot the basket.”

“Sorry,” said either Tom or Edgar.

Enter Salome again, with a silver salver. A spotlight, a little late in coming on, caught up with her as she collected Frederick’s head — by his natural hair and with some skill (the wig had come off as the head hit the floor) — and arranged it neatly on the plate, careful not to get blood on her white tunic.

The boy, amazingly also back in character, read from the scroll in his clear, and (all things considered) very calm voice:

“Tradition has it that the mouth of the severed head of our Savior opened just once more to utter these words: Herod, thou shouldst not have the wife of Philip thy brother.”

Salome brought the salver with the head on it to Herodias, her mother. The scroll boy then repeated the line, as if the head were talking: “Herod, thou shouldst not have the wife of Philip thy brother.”

Herodias then delicately opened poor Frederick’s mouth, reached in for and pulled out his tongue, found a needle and with it repeatedly stabbed the tongue of the Savior.

Once finished, her lips moved an order to her servants, as the scroll boy read: “Bury this head in an unclean place.”

The Parenthetical Notes placard boy reappeared, and as the scroll boy drew breath to continue, it was Parenthetical Notes who spoke instead:

“But the pious Johanna, wife of Herod’s steward Huza, placed the head in a clay vessel and interred it on the Mount of Olives where Herod owned a piece of land. The body of Saint John was claimed the same night by his disciples and buried in Sebaste, the place where his villainous execution had taken place.”

The scroll boy looked surprised at first, and then angry, and down at Soames: “That was my part. I’m supposed to read that.”

“We changed that for this year,” Soames said. “Seemed more appropriate as a note.”

“No one told me,” the scroll boy complained.

“Sorry,” said Soames.

An angel entered from stage right, broad wings actually flexing in the bright light: they looked strong and real. He strode along the front of the stage toward center, carefully picking dry island-spots among the dark lakes of poor Frederick’s slippery blood.

He arrived and turned and held up his hands, as if commanding the already silent congregation to silence, surveyed it for a heartbeat or two with stern, blue eyes, then began mouthing. The scroll boy, however, was still looking down at Soames, was still pouting, and said nothing.

“Read, damn it,” yelled Soames, “or I’ll find someone who will.”

The boy looked hurt but scrambled to comply, looked for his place, found it:

“God’s judgment befell Herod, Herodias and Salome even in their lifetimes. As Salome was crossing the frozen river Sikoris, she fell through the ice and was crushed by it in such a manner that her body floated in the water while her head stayed, stayed…,” the boy, still smarting from Pearly’s rebuke, I believe, lost his place, then found it again and picked up his line, “…while her head stayed above ice. As once her feet had danced on the ground, now her limbs writhed helplessly in the icy water. Thus she remained until the sharp ice severed her neck. Her headless body was never found but her severed head was brought to Herod and Herodias just as the head of Saint John the Baptist had been brought to them at an earlier time.”

He paused to catch his breath, or for effect. Then continued:

“The Arabian king, Aretas, moved his armies against Herod to avenge the shame of his discarded daughter. Having suffered defeat, Herod incurred the wrath of Caesar Gaius Caligula…”

Parenthetical note: “Who reigned from 37 to 41 A.D.”

The scroll: “…and was exiled, together with Herodias, to Gaul and thence to Spain. Tradition has it that they both perished there in an earthquake.”

Then, in unison, and in one strange, overwhelming voice — this was the cue and they had all been waiting for it — the congregation yelled, “Earthquake,” and the lights went out. Then, in the same strange unison, a thousand candles were relit and the church resumed its warm, golden hue.

I assumed this was the end of things and I expected the shuffling and rustling of many leavings, but nobody moved. The church was dead quiet. You could almost hear the candles burn.

Then something stirred. It was an organ, somewhere above or beyond the main doors. I turned and strained to see it — that part of the church remained in shadow — and then I did: a pale aurora borealis of many pipes, almost shifting. It took two deep breaths and began to sing.

It was one of the most haunting, sadly beautiful melodies I have ever heard, before or since. Perhaps my senses were keyed up, sharp and focused from so recently staring death in the face, but the music was so palpable to me that it brought not only sounds and images but smells and the other senses along as well.

And what it brought was a moonlit Northern countryside — likely Harriet’s Sweden: small log cabins asleep amid nothing but forest and livestock and a small lake not far off. Cows — there are quite a few of them, black and white some, brown and white others — are asleep too, unconcerned and dreaming. Two dogs, one awake, one asleep. Fog on the lake. But it’s summer, not winter, not Christmas, and it’s not really dark, not at all, yet the moon is high, surprised perhaps at its own strength. And the grass and the pines and even the moonlight is fragrant.

Someone tugs at my arm. It’s Harriet. “I know that song,” she whispers. “I have heard that song before,” she says, louder this time.

But I’m not so sure I hear her, not with any sense of comprehension, for all I can really attest to hearing is the melody, rendered magically by whoever is playing that organ, a master.

No one — except for Harriet who whispers again that she has heard this song before, that she knows this song — makes a sound until the last note has reverberated all the way into silence among the high beams and against the distant windows. Then there is no sound at all, not even breathing. Even the candles are quiet.

And then it’s over: shuffling, rustling, talking, leaving.

“I have heard that song before,” said Harriet, still tugging for attention. Now seizing my arm with a strong grip. “I know it.”

I looked at her and nodded, still not really following, though. Then I looked over at Soames who, snakes still curled around his legs like thick boots, looked back at me with a frown. “Now what?” he said.

“Ask your horse to bring us back,” I said. A request he was not in a position to deny. He turned and spoke the necessary words to have the horse brought.

Phantom arrived from I don’t know where, and quietly. It was not until he shifted a little by our side that I again heard his hoofs on sturdy boards.

If, indeed, horses can smile, Phantom smiled. I smiled back, and I imagine that he nodded an acknowledgment before he kneeled for us to mount. Harriet got on, with my help this time, and I followed, with I’m not sure whose help — strong hands.

The heavy wooden doors already stood open on a still dark and snowy morning and I felt the cold air bite as Phantom approached them and then stepped out onto the stone landing.

“The snakes,” yelled Soames from behind us. Part peeved part terrified. He had not moved. He had not dared to move.

Oh yes. I must say my good-byes. But as I turned to do so I found that the cobra elder had followed us, presumably for the same reason. Now he rose, hood flared wide, majestically, beside the horse — who, if he noticed, and I think he did, in no way seemed to mind the snake — and looked up at me. Curious still. Who was I, and what was I doing talking their tongue?

“Thank you, old one,” I said, with a bow. “I owe you my life.”

“You do the same for one of us,” he replied. Then bowed too.

“Surely as rain,” I replied.

“What about the snakes?” Soames again. It was almost a scream.

I looked back at him. “They know what to do,” I said. “And I wouldn’t even think of harming any of them.”

“Let him go once we’re on our way,” I said to the elder.

“Of course,” he answered.

“Good-bye. And thank you again,” I said.

He bowed his reply.

At that, Phantom — as if he had understood our exchange — stepped down the stairs and into the dark, snowy morning. I leaned forward against Harriet as we took off.

:

The horse knew where he was going; we simply held on. Snow was still falling over lower Manhattan, or wherever it was we had been, but lightened as we moved farther up the island. By the time we reached the corner of 1st Avenue and 52nd Street, which is where we touched down (the best — if not the only — way to describe it), the sky had cleared again and the stars were out in force, a trillion spotlights.

Here Phantom knelt for us one last time, and we slid off his back. I patted his strong neck in thanks and he looked down at me with a curious glint that seemed to say, this was certainly a first. Then he turned and was soon gone in the dark.

For a while I thought I could hear his hoofs clatter softly down 1st Avenue. Then there was nothing. Neither of us spoke as we made our way to the entrance of her apartment building.

If the doorman saw us approach, he didn’t let on. But he did look up as we let ourselves in. “I told you,” he said, proven right. “No cabs.”

Harriet did not answer.

I thought I could smell the glogg even before we opened her apartment door, fumes making it through the wood and seals and onto the landing. Inside, the glogg was like a mist, everywhere. And I remembered: we had meant to drink some before we left and had put it on the flame to heat it up. Then we forgot about it, and the flame had now heated most of it to vapor.

“I don’t know about you,” said Harriet, looking down at what little did remain. “But I could do with some of this.”

“So could I,” said I, and brought two clean cups from the cupboard.

The brew was now so strong that we both grimaced as we drank it. I could literally feel the thickish mixture burn its way down my throat and into my stomach, spreading heat in all directions.

“You talked to the snakes,” she said. “Or did I dream that?”

“I talked to them,” I said.

“How is that even possible?”

“It’s a language, like any other.”

She sat down at the kitchen table and took another small sip; fanned her hand in front of her mouth to cool things down. Then she asked:

“Where on earth did you learn that?”

“Madhuri taught me,” I answered

Then I told her about Jiddu’s mother.

© Wolfstuff