Читать книгу The Velvet Doublet - James Howell Street - Страница 7

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My next Marino lecture came on Wednesday and I remember the event most vividly because on that occasion I first heard mention of the Marino map, which was another thread the Fates wove into the tapestry of my life. I am positive of the day inasmuch as Fray Juan was not present, and it was his custom to give Wednesdays to his duties at the Court of the Inquisition.

Death’s warrant on Wednesday; Death’s fire on Friday.

I sat next to our capacious prior, whose belly frequently rumbled his morning chick-peas and onions, and these finding vent in gaseous detonations which disturbed the other friars and amused the students. Benjamin Marino seemingly was impervious to such physiological phenomena, and gave his attention to his involved discourse on Cardinal d’Ailly, chancellor of the Sorbonne and author of Imago Mundi, a Gallic Prince of the Church and ludicrously ignorant of Spain’s geography.

Regretfully I record that the learned Marino gave more attention than he received, as most of us already were versed in D’Ailly’s flummery, and this including his thesis on the Phoenix bird and Asbestos stones that burned forever, and on griffins, on blackbirds of dazzling whiteness, trees of golden fruit, and gems in the skulls of dragons. This nonsense, I suppose, was acceptable to France’s Sorbonne, but Spanish colleges scorned such drivel and, as is well known, our institutions were infinitely superior to all others in the world.

(The foregoing is noted only to explain my surprise years later when I discovered that D’Ailly’s Imago Mundi was one of Columbus’ guidebooks and that he had underscored all references to gold and pearls, and Jews and jewelry, the conjugation of which, even in my youth, had given rise to many witty maxims and arrant puns.)

As Teacher Marino droned on and on, my mind wandered first to my immediate surroundings and then to food and then, inevitably and without struggle on my part, to Maraela. I was drowsing in my sensual contemplations when Benjamin Marino said:

“I have been requested by Don Luis de la Cerda, the fifth Count and first Duke of Medinaceli, to prepare a map of the Ocean Sea. This commission I have accepted.”

(Yes, a hundred times yes! And hear me, Mita, and believe me, my beloved, my bewitching flame of a thousand nights. By the bones of Abraham, by the True Cross, by the Black Stone of the holy Kaaba—I heard him say it. The sun was touching the leaded windows of our sanctum sanctorum and he was hunched over the podium, his eyes blazing his visions and his voice strong and unafraid.)

The mention of Cerda brought my mind quickly from its reverie, and my head snapped up, as did our prior’s, his pudgy face suddenly hard and his stare cold. For Don Luis de la Cerda was of Spain’s most noble lineage and whereas not as rich as the Duke of Medina-Sidonia, who had shown interest in Christopher Columbus, he was, nevertheless, more influential at court; and like the Duke, and like Columbus also, Cerda was an advocate of Franciscan pre-eminence in affairs of state, learning, and ecclesiastical jurisprudence.

Was this, then, a devious machination of Franciscan conception to entice Benjamin Marino from the Dominicans? That is why our college instantly was alert and why I gave my unstinted attention to the words of our geographer. We did not connect the events with Christopher Columbus at all. Not then. We were concerned only with our lecturer’s association with Cerda and the possibility of Franciscan chicanery.

The guileless Marino warmed to the subject of his map and made no pretenses of secrecy. “For this work,” he said, “I will use the theorem of El Fargani, who, more than seven hundred years ago, used 56⅔ miles to the degree as the proper measurement of the earth. Now——” He held up his hands and touched his fingers to emphasize his point. “El Fargani’s miles were Arabic miles, each of 1,973.50 meters. Our modern cosmographers have based their calculations on El Fargani’s dictum, but have broken his degrees into Italian miles, which are much shorter than Arabic miles. Hence a great error.”

A twinkle of mirth came to his eyes and he said:

“It is possible that Christopher Columbus, a subject of discussion here the day before yesterday, is a victim of this delusion. I shall strive to avoid it.

“I will presume to fix the meridian on Gomera, that western point of the Canary Islands. Seven hundred leagues west I shall place Antilia and behind that island will be a mass of terra incognita, land of which we know naught. But it is not India! The world is larger than you think. Over and over I say to you: the world is larger than you think.”

His lecture was given over then to facts and tables and again my mind wandered and remained on its wool-gathering journey until Benjamin Marino concluded his discourse and turned the session over to our prior for discussion.

The prior, dripping sweat, expediently was concerned with things closer than India and exhorted us to patriotic endeavor. The infidels were still in Granada and it was the duty of every Andalusian to support the Crown and drive the Moors in the sea. Oh, that he were young enough to lift lance and sword himself. And this from the Dominican who once had supported Rome against his Queen. Yes, he had heard that indulgences were being sold and the money given for the Granada campaign.

This was justified; so he said.

Yes, he was aware that some convicted heretics were being fined instead of burned, the money going to the war against the Moors.

This, too, was proper, we were told, inasmuch as the end justified the means.

Then our prior, using a scroll that bore the royal ribbons, read the new mule law and praised it as an example of the Crown’s astute statecraft, and urged rigid adherence to its provisions. Of course, the prior himself was exempt from the regulation by royal sanction.

The mule law? Your smile is forgiven and I take no umbrage, being aware that few men have connected King Ferdinand’s mule ban to discovery of the New Lands, although it is a strand in the rope that Christopher Columbus swung from Palos to San Salvador, as important, surely, as the broken tiller that bedeviled us, as the bits of tarred rope that almost caused a mutiny.

Now this mule law was a war measure. The Andalusian mule, as is well known, is the best in the world and is prized highly for purposes of saddle as well as husbandry. The Arabian horses of Andalusia, superior though they be, are too expensive for common use. Therefore, in those days mules were plentiful and horses were rather scarce, and King Ferdinand needed horses for his cavalry.

Hence, he simply banned mules as saddle beasts, except by royal permit, and thereby gave impetus to horse breeding. To deny an Andalusian his saddle mule was to shorten his legs and the law brought howls from the people, and many violations with subsequent punishment. It was this punishment that helped launch our expedition across the Ocean Sea. It was a mule and not a miracle. It was the hybrid foal of a jack and a mare and not the heavenly anointment of Christopher Columbus’ broad forehead.

After the morning session and a lesson on mulery to season Benjamin Marino’s lecture, I returned to my quarters and gave all that day to Isidore, and then Fray Juan examined me. I am sure he was pleased with my progress, although he gave no hint thereof, for he tarried with me and talked of ships and geography. This brought our conversation to Teacher Marino and I presumed to ask about Cerda’s commission for the map.

“It is true,” my fray said. “Benjamin Marino will enter the employ of Don Luis de la Cerda.”

“Then the Friars Minor are taking him away from us.” I was indignant and assumed the Dominicans would protest this Franciscan outrage.

“Benjamin Marino belongs to the world, Rodrigo.” Fray Juan stroked his chin and if he felt any bitterness he concealed it. “I have sought a commission for a Marino map, but our prior and King Ferdinand think the Moorish War is more important than the Ocean Sea. So Don Luis de la Cerda opened his own purse, and if the Franciscans profit then so will the world.” He sighed his resignation to events he could not master. “Aye, little brother, Benjamin Marino belongs to all.”

“But he is our teacher.” I was dismayed and angry, for defeat is a thing I have never taken lightly and the Franciscans had bested us.

Fray Juan paced the floor a time or so and then smiled, apparently seeking to allay my anger. “There are other teachers. We should be grateful for the knowledge Marino has given us. He will be leaving soon.”

“To eat the rich viands of Don Luis de la Cerda and slake his thirst on the distilled metaphysics of the Minorites?”

A short, quick laugh, a lean expression of mirth, escaped my fray. “No Christian lance will ever pierce the Jewish armor of Benjamin Marino. He is not going to Don Luis at all. He is going home to do his work.”

“Catalonia?”

“Yes. To his wife and children; a son, I am sure, and a daughter, I think.” He yawned the drowsiness of autumn’s somnolence. “I will send you the writings of El Fargani. You read Arabic?”

“Why, no, Father.” I was so surprised that I forgot to call him brother.

“But you speak it.” His eyes fastened on me. “Old Mudarra has taught you.”

“Not much, Fray Juan.” I corrected my error. “Only some conversational Arabic and a few proverbs.”

“Including praise of Mohammed.” The Inquisitor lifted the latch on my door. “I, for one, think we should teach Arabic in our college, but I am alone in this idea. Therefore, learn all that Mudarra offers. He is wiser than most men think.” Fray Juan stepped back to my bench and picked up the book of Isidore to take it away, thank the Mercy of God, and laid his hand on my shoulder. “But do not repeat the praises of Mohammed, Rodrigo. These are times when men are indicted by innuendo and judged by rumors and hysteria.”

He was gone and a cold terror gnawed in my breast, for I knew by his warning that Mudarra had been discussed in the Court of the Inquisition, and if Mudarra the Morisco, then what of Luis Harana the converso? Or Maraela, his daughter.

All that day I was troubled by misgivings and that night I dreamed of djinn and other evil spirits, and of old Quemadero; his molten lust embracing Maraela and her shining face wreathed by flames, like the saintly countenance of Jeanne, The Maid, dead at Rouen for fifty-three years while her ashes kindled fires of protest in all Europe.

Then the next morning I heard Benjamin Marino’s last lecture to the College of Seville. It was only my third and yet it seems now that I knew him well, but that, I know, is my old age exaggerating the distinction of my youth, a failing common to most men after forty. Actually I saw the great Marino three times and never spoke one word to him, but he is engraved on my memory like the wind etchings on the Pillars of Hercules.

Fray Juan, in reward for work well done, gave me permission to visit my father’s shop again on Friday afternoon, and I drew a jar of water from the well in the patio and washed myself all over and beat my dusty clothes with the flat of my hand, brushing them as best I could.

I walked jauntily out of the monastery and among a muddle of soldiers on leave, and rapidly to the store in the hope that Harana was there and perhaps Maraela, and I was determined to see her even by ruse if necessary.

My father was at his desk, examining accounts with a clerk from the Seville agency of the House of the Medici, the powerful Italian bankers and merchants; this clerk being one Amerigo Vespucci who was well known to us as a Florentine braggart, a liar of indefatigable practice, and a counting-room sailor.

Harana was not present, neither Maraela; Amerigo Vespucci and my father greeted me, Vespucci with a familiarity I did not reciprocate. Their conference was business and so I turned from them, after the proper amenities, and walked into Mudarra’s shop.

The old man was napping at his wheel and, awakened by my entrance, cocked one eye at me and muttered, “Assalamu alaik”—the greeting and peace of his people. I answered in the same tongue and glanced around, conscious that something was different.

All the putrid odors, so offensive on my last visit, were gone and the room was spotlessly clean, although sand and water had failed to remove the blood spots under the cask.

“Maraela,” the old potter explained, anticipating my question. “She had my stable scoured and sees that it is kept that way.” He mouthed the words, chewing them into mangled Spanish as though contemptuous of the realm’s language.

I sat on his bench and, after a lapse that should have concealed my curiosity, I said, “I thought perhaps she might be here.”

Mudarra yawned and scratched and actually was civil in his reply. “She comes twice a week. And her father is here only in the mornings. Business is flourishing again, Rodrigo, which explains the presence of that Florentine toadeater in the showroom.”

I was turning in my mind an excuse to visit the Harana home when Mudarra, squinting at me, demanded with an officious show of authority: “Is mooning also a lesson from your Dominican masters? What other drivel have they seeped through your armored skull?”

“Isidore,” I answered and none too politely.

“That madman! That eater of meat with his fouled hand!” He spat his disgust. “That dabbler in mysteries too deep for his puny mind——”

“And El Fargani.” I interrupted his tirade.

His eyes popped wide and his clapping tongue suddenly was stilled, and then he nodded approval. “Well, now, that is better. Peace to the bones of El Fargani.”

“And I learned of a most extraordinary man.” I was saving the choice morsel until last. “One Christopher Columbus, mariner.”

“The Redhead of La Rabida?” He began pedaling his wheel and cleaning its surface with a rag that he dipped in water.

“Redhead?” My surprise abused my composure. “Do you know him?”

He laughed his derision and pumped his wheel furiously, slinging water and bits of clay around the room. “Did not your Dominican hinnies tell you he is of rusty countenance and red hair? A most singular appearance for one of Genoese extraction.”

“I did not know that.” All the wind was out of my sails. “I know only his Portuguese story and that he is at La Rabida and seeking patronage of the Duke of Medina-Sidonia.”

Old Mudarra broke into a cackling laugh and he slapped his knee in visible approval of himself. “Tell Juan Ruiz de Medina that his Inquisition has lost its eyes and ears. Tell him it is a tiding from Mudarra the Morisco.” His mirth wrinkled his face into dry parchment. “Christopher Columbus is not at La Rabida. The Duke of Medina-Sidonia has washed his hands of the matter. Columbus demanded the moon in his lap and a silver spoon with which to eat it.”

Here was good news, an indication that the Franciscans had failed to ally their protégé with the richest house in Spain. This would please my fellows at the college and give me stature as a man capable of sifting for facts in matters of pertinence. I was jaunty again and the wind was back in my sails, and then Mudarra snapped the mast.

“Christopher Columbus is in the home of Don Luis de la Cerda at El Puerto and under the patronage of that bilious lackey of Isabel’s court.”

Cerda! Columbus with Cerda, and this the Queen’s favorite and Franciscan partisan who had commissioned our Marino to map the Ocean Sea. The news agitated me and left me most distraught, so much so that for a minute I forgot even Maraela and the real purpose of my visit. “Where did you learn this, Mudarra——”

“More questions.” He jeered my inquiry and raised his finger to point in my face and I pushed it aside, gently, to be sure, but firmly.

“Where did you learn this, Mudarra?” Slowly I repeated my request.

He blinked at me and looked into my face, then at my shoulders, most broad for my age, and at my hands. “The kid,” he said almost sadly, “has grown into a ram. The head high and proud and the horns curving strong, and seed in his groin.” He stopped his wheel by pressing his knee against its edge, and nodded toward the front room. “The Medici have more fingers than the Inquisition, Rodrigo. That is why they are the most powerful house in Europe. And Amerigo Vespucci is a chattering jay.”

So Vespucci was the source. Then I must know more and walked resolutely into the salesroom to question him on this matter of concern to my college and to my Dominican brothers. The Florentine was gone and my father was frowning over his ledgers.

“I was going to call you in a minute.” My father pushed the books aside. “Sit on the bench there and tell me of yourself.”

The bench was under a shelf of aloes and I sat down and crossed my legs. “I was hoping Amerigo Vespucci was still here,” I said. “There are some questions I would ask concerning one Christopher Columbus, manner. Know you of him?”

My father nodded. “Every merchant in Andalusia knows that he has arrived in Spain to finagle a westward voyage of exploration. A most secretive stranger, however. And cagey.”

“He is under the stewardship of Don Luis de la Cerda.” I felt most important discussing current affairs with my father.

“Yes, I know.”

“And Cerda has enticed Benjamin Marino from our college.”

My father flipped his hand upward in a gesture of impatience. “Monastical politics. I care not a tittle for the feuds of friars over their accursed inquisitorial powers.” His face was reddening and his tone was stern. “If the Franciscans use Cerda to wheedle the Queen’s sanction for a westward expedition, we all are their debtors.”

He was right and, sitting in his presence, the schisms and schemes of the orders seemed abstract and mean, for above us was the sky and there was the river flowing to the Ocean Sea, and the world was larger than we believed. I changed the subject, approaching a matter closer to my heart. “Mudarra tells me business is better since you accepted the association of Harana.”

The flush left his cheeks and his eyes twinkled his geniality and this was his nature inasmuch as he was blessed with adequate bile and hence favorable humors. He arose from his desk and reached to the shelf above my head and took down a most hideous object of wrinkled tentacles and mushy substance. I drew away instinctively and asked, “What is it?”

“The Medusa,” he said proudly. “Also called the devil’s fig tree. Properly it is a euphorbia, named for Euphorbus, King Juba’s physician.”

“An aloe!” I exclaimed and touched the thing gingerly. It was the size of my two fists and with tendrils, or fingers, squirming out in vulgar abundance.

My father put it on his desk as carefully as though it were the Cup itself. “It is more valuable than any pearl,” he said. “It is the Medusa of Mauretania, found in the Atlas Mountains, and the world’s best source of emetic drugs.” He leaned over and smelled it and wrinkled his nose. “It also is a specific for the stomach maladies that will follow the army into Granada.”

“Can you get more?” I dared smell the thing, too, and its odor was wet and succulent. Inasmuch as it came from North Africa, where the Moorish ban was drum-tight, I knew its rarity.

My father smiled, somewhat wryly I thought, and shrugged. “Luis Harana furnished this one and I did not pry into his source. If he can supply aloes, I can sell them.”

I asked of Harana’s health and of Maraela’s, hoping to swing the conversation to her, and my father assured me they were well and, in mentioning them, his tone assumed a bland flavor that was not like my father at all. Then he shoved one of his ledgers closer to me and I glanced at the figures.

Pepper was selling for 7000 maravedis a hundredweight in India and 210,000 a hundredweight in Seville, for so taut was Islam’s curtain over the East. The profit on ginger was even more and England was begging for ginger at any price. Aloes, between Africa and the apothecary’s jar, fetched a margin of 15,000 maravedis a pound, even at smugglers’ costs.

I whistled my surprise at the figures and my father closed the book and handed it to me. “It is Luis Harana’s custom to check the accounts each afternoon about sundown.”

“Does he come here?” I asked hopefully.

“No.” My father turned his face and looked out upon the alley, at the soldiers jostling by. “I take the books to him.”

I felt the flush mounting my cheeks and clamped my lips to hold back the protest that burned my tongue. My father an errand boy for a rich converso? Luis Harana’s presumption needed a quick sting of Andalusian dignity. However, my judgment mastered my pride, and I realized on proper contemplation that my father had his reasons.

He drummed his fingers on the ledger and the twinkle was back in his eyes. “I was thinking perhaps you could deliver the record this afternoon, Rodrigo. It would save me a trip and, as you can see, I am busy.”

Now that was different. At my age it was quite fitting for me to wait upon an elderly gentleman, especially my father’s own associate. Besides, I was willing to crawl from the shop to the residence of Maraela. “If I can be of service to you, sir——” I bowed to my father and reached for the book.

He laughed and then I laughed, and he told me which was the Harana house on the Street of Felicity. I put the ledger under my arm and walked to the door, and old Mudarra called from the back room. “In sha Allah, Amir el bahr.” He was calling me admiral again. “And remember that from the seed of a young ram came the flocks of The Messenger.”

My face tingled my mortification and embarrassment and I bolted through the doorway before he said more.

The Harana residence was near the river, at the end of the street and through a sheltered passageway, lonely in its location and almost concealed from the casual eye. The door was bolted and I swung the clapper against the bronze cymbal, on which was engraved: “Luis Harana, Merchant.”

Harana himself cracked the door and peered at me, then nodded for me to enter. I stepped inside a hallway heavily draped and leading directly to the dining room, where candles burned on a table set with many bowls and plates. I was motioned into a large room off the hall and Harana held out his hand and I gave him the ledger.

Maraela was nowhere in sight.

“Thank you, Rodrigo,” her father said and bowed quite gracefully for a Catalan, but did not offer the hospitality of his home, or even a bench for a minute’s visit.

I had come to see her. Of this I had dreamed all week and, even in those days, I was never one to accept defeat without a thrust in my own behalf. So I glanced around the room in a manner most gauche, caring not one whit if Luis Harana thought me untrained in the graces. I was resolved upon any artifice to delay my departure and thus compel him, if he had manners at all, to offer me a seat and the vintage of his table.

A poniard in a leather case was hanging by the window and I pretended immediate interest in the dagger and extracted it from its shield, exclaiming my delight although, truthfully, I knew nothing of such weapons except that they were the favorites of sailors.

“Ah! Damascus,” I said and ran my thumb along the triangular blade.

“Toledo,” he replied flatly.

I was flustered and, hoping my chagrin was not evident, I balanced the knife on my palm and examined it closely, thus bowing my head to conceal the tinge on my cheeks. The hilt was wrapped in fine wire and the bar was the same metal as the blade and across it was engraved the ancient cry of Andalusia: “Trust God and hammer on!”

Harana was fidgety and I returned the poniard to its sheath and gave my attention to a tapestry by the door. “Ah, beautiful,” I said, dawdling my admiration in the manner of a critic. “Obviously Florentine.”

He smiled in spite of himself and his face was gentle. “No, Rodrigo. My daughter wove it.”

It was the opening I wanted, and I bore in. “I had hoped, sir, for the honor of seeing your daughter.”

He looked at me without disapproval, I must say; the smile softening his long countenance. “Your wish is my command, sir.”

Luis Harana was the first man ever to call me “sir.”

I bowed my gratitude and he stepped into the hallway and promptly was back with Maraela, and this indicating she had been near all the while. A lace cap covered the crown of her head and a meshed chain of silver encircled her waist like a girdle. Her reception was courtly and exquisitely refined although perhaps a bit too cordial for an Andalusian maiden, but, then, she was Catalan, and manners differ in Spain.

Naturally, the warmth of her greeting pleased me exceedingly and she sat on a couch near her own tapestry. I remained standing until Harana left us, explaining that he would be in the next room, checking the ledger I had brought. I took no offense that he did not close the door between us and him.

For a minute or so, as becomes good breeding, I walked around the room and commented on the pictures and congratulated Maraela on her family’s excellent taste. Her gaze followed me and that was the reason for my demonstration; to give her an opportunity to see and judge me without our eyes meeting.

I stood before her own tapestry and said, “It is magnificent.”

“It is nothing, Rodrigo.”

The liberty of my first name was a boldness that brought a tingle to my manliness and I sat on the couch and was near enough to detect the anise of her perfume. She folded her hands in her lap and her eyes were downcast in maidenly propriety. “Your father says you are doing well at the college.”

It was an invitation for me to pursue that subject and this I did, launching into a discourse on Benjamin Marino, whose name evicted no interest from her, and then on Fray Juan, the mention of whom brought her eyes up to mine.

“Juan Ruiz de Medina?” she asked. “The Inquisitor?”

“Only in Seville,” I explained.

“Yes, I know. Torquemada—Fray Tomas de Torquemada—is being made Inquisitor-General for all of Spain.”

Here was intelligence of which I had no knowledge and I was displeased that she, a girl, should have information about which I was ignorant. Apparently she sensed my embarrassment, for she said quickly, “We hear things outside the monastery that do not penetrate the Dominican walls. Torquemada is of a converso family, even as I.”

This was ground I did not like, miry and mussy. “I am aware of the lineage of Tomas de Torquemada, prior of Santa Cruz,” I said. “He is a Dominican in the Queen’s graces and favored of the Pope himself. A scourge of heresy.” Then skillfully I shifted the subject to my father’s business, elaborating at length on the aloe her father had furnished, the Medusa of Mauretania. “It was discovered by King Juba,” I said in airy assurance.

“King Juba II,” she replied demurely. “He wed Cleopatra Selene, the daughter of Anthony and Cleopatra. Do you know his lineage too?” Her blue eyes bespoke sweet innocence, but the delicate smile indicated a wit and talent that is rare in her sex.

I laughed at my own confutation and congratulated her on her nimbleness and was bold enough to praise her raiment. She held up her hand to halt my flattery and for an ecstatic moment I thought she was going to touch me, but slowly she dropped her hand to the sanctuary of her lap and lowered her eyes again.

I might have spoken the urge of my heart even then, being a victim of my own rash impulses, but Harana came into our presence and laid the ledger beside me. “I thank you, Rodrigo,” he said. “And tell your father all is well and in order.”

Maraela arose and excused herself and I spoke hastily. “Next week, to help my father, I will bring the records again.”

I wanted her to hear me, and she did; her eyes telling me so.

There were no clouds that afternoon and yet I walked on clouds back to the shop and returned the accounts to my father. “That was a pleasant chore,” I said.

“The ledger will be here next Friday.” He indicated the corner of the desk where it would be. “The errand is a service for which I am grateful.” Then he embraced me and counseled me to diligence and piety, and I shouted good-by to Mudarra and took my departure. This time I was determined to be back at the college for vespers.

The streets were swarming with soldiers and I gave them no thought. The river was swarming with ships and I saw them not. Only the blue of the sky, like her eyes, and the sun golden on the horizon, like her hair, and red in its farewell, like her lips.

The joy of my youth took hold of me and budded into ambition and noble resolve. I would study hard and soon would enter my father’s business to honor the name of Bermejo. A merchant of Seville. Ah-h-h, worthy endeavor. And Maraela shared my dreams, the abode I would purchase by the river, my doublets and silk stockings in the alcove of my chamber, and an open passage between my couch and her boudoir.

Where is the bridle for youth’s fancy? The stone of reason to balance the hazy illusions? The quickening from the slumber of things unreal? The awakening from the dream of Alnaschar.

How the Fates must have jeered as they measured the days of my years; Clotho spinning my destiny, Lachesis disposing the lots, Atropos cutting the threads.

Stygian sluts of the inner darkness, their river seven times around the world. They let me dream on.