‘Hear hear,’ said Barnabas, raising his cup of wine.
‘Will I go to hell, Father? What do you think?’
‘Of course not, Villiam. You give so freely to me and others. Your food is delicious. So is your wine.’ The priest poured himself another cup.
‘But what if I wanted to visit for a while?’
‘We all feel that desire from time to time,’ the priest answered. ‘But I doubt you’d like it there. It’s very hot. Hotter than Lapvona. Even hotter than down in the village.’
‘A dry heat is not so bad.’
‘I suppose that’s true.’ The priest now turned serious. ‘What did you make of that nun? Did she look sick to you? Did you see her face? Looks like pox or something.’
‘I thought she was all right. I like redheads,’ Villiam answered.
‘She seemed strange,’ Barnabas said.
‘Then why did you invite her?’
‘I didn’t.’
Villiam sat back and pondered that for a moment.
‘An intruder?’
‘A woman? I don’t think so.’
‘Do you think she means well?’ Villiam asked.
‘She saved you from choking to death, didn’t she?’
‘True, true. She’s smart to seek refuge up here. The villagers have been going mad, I hear. Word from the guards is they’re eating each other alive. What if they try to eat me, too?’
‘They wouldn’t. You’ve got no meat on you,’ Barnabas assured him.
‘Will you pray for them, Father?’
‘Of course. I’ll speak to God directly.’
Clod stood with his back sweaty against the wall, ready to come forth the moment Villiam snapped his fingers. He listened with little interest to what Villiam and the priest had to say. Clod had never even been down to the village. He could only imagine what it was like, the drab colors of people’s clothing, the smell of human waste, the ground trampled by oxen, young maids with yellow skin and rotted teeth. He had no desire to go see it, not because he was afraid of being eaten, but because he presumed the village was ugly. Clod was an artist, a servant to beauty and his own imagination. He had no allegiance to humanity at all. Villiam and he made a good pair in that sense. The other servants thought Clod was foolish because he was fanciful and a bit obsessive in his creative hobbies. They didn’t respect him or his talent, even though he was Villiam’s favorite. The two men were so familiar, Villiam barely had to think of Clod, and Clod came. Their minds were connected by a rod of energy, like a stroke of fine lightning that ceaselessly vibrated.
Clod hadn’t liked the look of the nun, so he hadn’t looked at her much at dinner. There was something strange in her face, a blankness that made her hard to see. He didn’t believe that a nun was something holy—the servants’ faith did not recognize holiness in human beings. They didn’t care for Jesus. Flesh was mortal. God was not. God was not alive. God was life itself. And life was invisible. This was why Clod felt he had to make art, to give proof of life. Clod knew as well as the other servants that Villiam was a sinner, the priest a heretic. But a person should never judge someone else’s faith. Nobody knows the truth.
Perhaps hell is a tiny place, a single flame, Clod thought now. The thought moved him, and he imagined the pureness of the flame as he gazed through the darkness at the candelabra. Just one flame could contain all the evil that has come and gone. What if it were that easy to snuff it out? Would he do it? No. He would never interfere. Just the image of the white light, the way it swayed in the slow breeze floating through the manor, that was what mattered to him. If he could draw that, he thought, and make the picture move somehow, that would be interesting. He could suspend the drawing from a string and let the wind push it to and fro. Strange, he thought next, that fire hurts to the touch. Fire gives light. Shouldn’t the darkness hurt instead? Hell ought to be pure darkness. Nothingness. The thought chilled him. There was nothing to see there. He shrugged and pulled his back away from the wall, feeling his shirt stick to his skin with sweat.
Villiam lifted his eyebrow.
‘My lord,’ Clod said, instantly beside him.
‘Come draw,’ Villiam said. ‘I want a picture of what happened tonight. Draw me choking. Like this,’ he said and bent over in his chair and put his hands to his throat. ‘Just the way it happened.’
Clod smiled. He liked to draw at night, and when he drew portraits of Villiam, he used fine parchment made of the skins of lambs and young calves. It came from the coast, was expensive, and absorbed ink fluidly, almost as though Clod were drawing on glass. He would get lost in the lines and shadows.