Elizabeth Hand: Waking the Moon

“Come on.” Francis tugged at Balthazar’s elbow and steered him past a noisy flock of nuns. “You’ve got to see this.”

It was like stepping from a subway platform into the arcane circle of some immeasurable cavern. “I saw it in the Tahor Chapel,” said Francis. His voice, always too loud, boomed so thunderously that a number of tourists turned to stare. Balthazar followed him down one of the wide side aisles, stepping in and out of spectral pools where light poured from stained glass windows onto the floor. Everywhere banks of candles shimmered behind kneeling figures. As they passed, Balthazar could hear the soft sounds of weeping and whispered invocations.

Saint John, pray for us. Saint Blaise, pray for us. Saint Lucia, pray for us…

Balthazar paused as Francis raced by a tiny chapel, with a solitary penitent and single guttering candle. A painted statue stood in an alcove, its plaster robes flecked with dust: the image of a young woman holding out a gilt tray from which a pair of eyeballs peered mournfully. For a moment Balthazar stared at the disembodied eyeballs, then hurried on.

Wilting flowers, donated by wealthy alumnae and the grateful beneficiaries of successful cardiac bypasses, filled other alcoves in front of more exotic images of marble and glass and wood, steel and plaster and humble plastic. The main altar was a glowing curtain of gold and silver rippling in the distance. Balthazar followed Francis down a narrow staircase, around and around and around until finally they came out into a dimly lit indoor plaza. Everywhere you looked you saw high stone archways opening onto other corridors or chapels. Some were closed off by iron grilles, others guarded by still more statues or the occasional noisy air-conditioning unit.

“Almost there,” Francis sang out. “Here we go —”

Balthazar hoped there would be no one in the Tahor Chapel; and blessedly it was empty. They stepped inside. Francis pulled shut the high iron grille that served as door, and for good measure dragged out the CHAPEL CLOSED sign and set it behind the threatening spikes and bars. Then he fished a key from his pocket and locked the gate behind them.

“Okay,” said Francis. “Okay okay okay.”

His voice broke and he looked anxiously over his shoulder at Balthazar. “It’s—well, I was here this morning, and I saw it then, but—well, I hope—”

Balthazar made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Not to worry, Francis.” Smiling expectantly, he tilted his head. “Please—show me—”

The Tahor Chapel was a tiny L-shaped room, its walls of smooth black marble veined with gold and pale blue. Ambient light spilled from small recesses in the ceiling, but the prevailing illumination came from thick white candles set into crimson glass holders, dozens of them, flickering in front of a narrow stone altar. There was a faintly spicy smell, like scorched nutmeg. In spite of himself Balthazar felt his spine prickle.

“It was here this morning,” Francis repeated as they approached the altar. “Jeez, I hope…”

Atop the stone altar rested the chapel’s famous icon, the so-called “Black Madonna” of Tahor found in an Anatolian cave five centuries before. It was over a thousand years old, the image of its central figure dark and shiny as an eggplant. A halo of gold chips radiated from her head. Piled in front of the wooden likeness were heaps of rosary beads. Very carefully Francis removed them, the beads spilling from his fingers in jingling strands. Then, with exquisite caution, he took the icon itself and moved it to one side.

“Ahem,” said Balthazar. He wondered what had driven Francis to move the icon in the first place. This was forbidden, of course, and anyone besides a Benandanti who tried such a thing would have been quickly and quietly dispensed with. “Francis, is that really—”

But before he could say anything else Francis grabbed him and pulled him closer.

“Balthazar. Look —”

Inside the altar was a figure, thumb-sized and roughly thumb-shaped. Dull black and slightly gleaming, it appeared to be of stone, but it was not: it was carbonized wood smooth as a chunk of polished quartz. It had been discovered at the same time and in the same place as the Black Madonna, and from the first its significance was recognized by the Benandanti. For hundreds of years it had been closeted in Ravenna, and later in Avebury, in one of their countless holdings of rare and arcane objects. New initiates to the Benandanti often expressed amazement at the seemingly careless handling of such artifacts. But the Benandanti had many such secrets. And, as Balthazar had once told Francis, “These things have a way of looking after themselves.”

It was the figure of a woman. The very crudeness of its execution told how ancient it was. An eyeless, mouthless face; twin inverted triangles for breasts; a slit to indicate the vulva. A Goddess image, precious as the Venus of Willendorf or the Paphian Aphrodite. The Benandanti called it the Tahor Venus.

“Look,” Francis exclaimed. In the flickering light, the Venus cast an eerie shadow across the altar. From his breast pocket Balthazar withdrew his glasses. For a long moment he held them, as though unwilling to see what they might reveal; finally he slid them onto his nose. Beside him Francis pointed at the figure. “Balthazar!”

Balthazar nodded, his throat tight. He had seen the Venus before, had even handled it, for the sheer wonder of touching something that was twenty thousand years old. He would not touch it now.

From the breasts of the Tahor Venus, and from the nick between her stolid legs, sprigs of greenery protruded: brilliant as the first spears of hyacinths thrusting through the cold earth. At the end of each frond was a starburst of deep purple, tiny petals slender and frail as cilia. As Balthazar and Francis stared, the minute flower heads moved, so slightly they might have been stirred by their breathing. A moment later and a musky smell perfumed the air, the faintest breath of sandalwood and oranges.

“Francis,” Balthazar whispered. “Did you—what did you—”

The young man shook his head and stepped backward. “It didn’t do that this morning,” he said, his voice shaking. “I mean, that smell—”

From behind them echoed a dull clang, so loud they both jumped.

“When will it be open? Father—Father—?”

Turning, Balthazar saw a young woman in a nurse’s uniform peering at them through the locked gate.

“Damn,” Francis breathed, but Balthazar quickly ducked behind him, moving the image of the Black Madonna back into place and sweeping the heap of rosary beads in front of it.

“Yes—right now, we’ll be right out,” he called, pushing Francis in front of him. Just before they reached the gate Balthazar glanced back at the altar. Then, smiling apologetically, he fumbled for his keys and opened the door.

“Cleaning,” he explained, letting the young woman pass. She nodded, wiping her eyes with a tissue, and went inside. A moment later they heard a soft thump as she settled onto the kneeler in front of the altar.

“Well?”

They walked quickly, slowing only when they reached the main corridor. Balthazar stopped at a doorway and leaned against the wall, rubbing his forehead and trying to calm his thudding heart.

“It’s a Sign, isn’t it?” Francis was saying, his tone low and urgent. “I mean really, nobody will deny it—it’s a Sign, a real Sign! When you show the others, they’ll see—”

Balthazar took a deep breath, then nodded. “Yes. Of course: it’s a Sign, you were right, Francis, it’s a Sign. No doubt, no doubt at all.”

“Right o !” Francis exclaimed, his voice exploding with relief. He clapped his hand to his shirt pocket, and nodded to where a placard announced that the cafeteria was now open. “So now, now something’s happened, I mean all this time and now something, a Sign, they can’t deny that —”