Rachel Cantor - A Highly Unlikely Scenario, or a Neetsa Pizza Employee's Guide to Saving the World

There was a knock. Leonard opened the door a crack.

Where we come from, Leonard said, only peasants sleep on beds. We are only slightly insulted but we will need you to take this noxious bedding away.

Behind him, Leonard could hear the sound of snugbeds deflating.

Ascetics, Bobolo said approvingly. My best customers!

Oh, Leonard said, not knowing what Bobolo meant.

Here’s yer pilgrims’ gear, Bobolo said, trying to see around Leonard. The wearers did not die of any contamination, just yer normal afflictions, no fear.

Ah, Leonard said, taking the gear through the sliver of doorway.

The scallop means ye’ve been to Compostela, in case ye didn’t know.

We knew that, Leonard said. Why would you think we wouldn’t know that? and he closed the door.

The scallop Bobolo referred to was a tin seashell pinned to the wide, upfolded brims of their new hats. The clothes, rough woven, consisted of sleeved tunics, mantles, hose, and simple leather shoes in well-worn brown and black — Sally was to wear the same as Leonard, apparently. Accoutrements included a leather pouch for each affixed to a leather strap that was to cross their chest — scrips and baldrics, presumably. Also, plain wooden walking staffs with knobs at one end.

The two turned their backs so they could dress.

Notice anything funny about the way that man talks? Sally asked. No! Don’t turn around!

Well, Leonard said, blushing (because she’d seen that he’d been about to turn), his language was a bit odd.

No, silly. I mean that we understand him. Shouldn’t he be speaking Italian or Latin or something?

It’s Isaac, he said. He translates, in his own way.

Don’t you think it’s time you told me what’s going on?

Sally was right. Asking no questions, she’d traveled to this strange place and time, with no assurance that she’d ever return, and why? To rescue a boy she barely knew. Well, maybe she also wanted to meet Abulafia and get her powers back.

Leonard opened his mouth to explain, or rather, he half opened his mouth, or rather he was about to open his mouth, when the room began to shake and he was flung most urgently to the ground.

Okay, Sally said, her face white. I guess it can wait.

Just like Augustine

What time do you think it is? Leonard asked, after he’d dusted himself off.

Sally looked out the window. Judging from the position of the sun, I’d say midday. Twelve or one. Give or take. Depending on the time of year. And the weather. And our longitude and latitude.

Leonard resolved never to be amazed by Sally again. To be amazed by her amazingness was a betrayal, an indication that he didn’t think her always amazing.

Sally opened their door and listened.

There are people downstairs, Sally said. Let’s see what they know.

Can I kiss you first? Leonard asked.

Intelligence first, kiss later.

Downstairs, milling about, were pilgrims from every corner of the world. Lombards and Cumbrians, Russians too. An old English lady was describing, with much awe, the grill that roasted Saint Lawrence, while a spindly Hungarian described the stone that had hurtled the martyr Abundus to his sewery death. A sprightly Sicilian explained to a phlegmatic Croat that he’d visited the vernicle of Veronica twice, and received eighteen thousand years of indulgence for his sins. Several discussed the horrors of their journey. A redheaded Swabian described a narrow escape from a monster two cubits long — with a carmine cat’s head, the legs of a fish, the bifid tongue of a snake, and a hairy trailing tail! Another described having survived two avalanches, a flooded river, and an outsize case of vertigo.

There was little to distinguish the pilgrims’ dress, but they did wear a variety of badges — the Compostela scallop shell, also tiny keys, a medallion of a woman holding a cloth on which was imprinted the image of a man’s suffering face. Some badges were pinned, some sewn onto hats, others hung about the neck.

Greetings! Leonard said to a Frankish pair. How’s the pilgrimming?

We have been to three of the four patriarchal basilicas! the husband exclaimed. Tonight we go to St. Peter’s!

The wife nodded a gentle Frankish nod.

Do you know Abulafia? Sally said.

The pair shook their heads, puzzled — and why not? Leonard realized. Foreigners, here to see the holy sites of Christendom — what would they know of a Jewish mystic from Spain?

You are from? the Frankish wife asked.

Cathay, Leonard said.

Their eyes opened wide.

Beyond the Levant, Leonard said proudly. We’re Manicheans — and immediately the room hushed. He had no idea what Manicheans were, only that they hailed from Cathay.

You are heretics? the husband whispered.

Ex-Manicheans! Sally said loudly. Like Augustine.

Ah, the man said, relieved. Like Augustine!

Like Augustine! Leonard said, having no notion who Augustine was.

Not heretics! the Frankish woman said.

Not heretics at all, the Frankish man agreed.

So where are the Jews? Sally said.

Again, that strange look.

We wish to convert them, Sally explained, and again their Frankish faces cleared.

No idea, the Frankish man said, and no one seemed to know what to say.

Nice baldrick! Leonard said to the man. Nice scrip! he said to the wife.

The Frankish pair looked to each other for guidance.

Boy, am I ready for victuals! Leonard said.

The Franks smiled — they too!

Hey, look, there’s pottage!

Midday victuals, arranged on a long wooden table surrounded by low benches, consisted of a slimy water-thing (eel, according to Sally) and a sloppy stewy thing, which someone, with apparent approval, referred to as pottage (as in Hey, look, there’s pottage! ). Ale was served in glasses that, apparently, were to be shared, and the food was served not on plates but on large pieces of heavy brown bread.

To communicate with the serving wench, the Frankish couple referred to a small book, from which they retrieved useful phrases such as Is this eel quite fresh? And I believe this eel to be not quite fresh. And Perhaps I can parley with the manager?

You got food in your clutchbag? Leonard whispered.

For emergencies, she whispered back. We’re already too conspicuous, thanks to you!

Me! Leonard whispered back. You could have been a bit more discreet!

Me! Sally said, almost in full voice. You told everyone we were heretics!

The two might have continued had there not come from the front of the building a bone-shattering, heart-quaking shriek — a shriek so loud and momentous that had Felix screamed thus, the earth and heavens, and time and space besides, would have frozen for all eternity.

The men jumped to their feet, Leonard among them; the Frankish woman began to cry. Before anyone could investigate, a scraggly servant in a knee-length tunic arrived panting at the door. Be not afeard! he said. Everything is absolutely, perfectly fine, it is dandy, A-one, and absolutely right as rain — though he hardly seemed to believe it, ashen as he was.

He smiled and ambled over to Leonard, more quickly than casually.

Would ye be Messer Leonard? he then asked softly in his ear. I was told to look for the man with the ebullient hair.

Leonard nodded.

Would ye be so kind, Messer Leonard, as to come with me? he asked. Superfast, sir, as in right now?

The rest of the pilgrims, satisfied that all was well, asked that the pottage be passed.

The devil within

Though not invited, Sally followed Leonard into a small room a few paces from the hostellery’s entryway. There the innkeeper lay limply on a couch, his face yellow, his pageboy hair clammy and stuck to his forehead. A woman wearing a pillbox hat secured to her head by a white chin strap was massaging Bobolo’s large, naked feet. She seemed unbothered by their stench, which quite overpowered the smell of pottage. Squeezed in the hosteller’s hand was Leonard’s navigator watch.