Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [145]
Dietrich turned to the two Krenken. “All that over whether linen be white or green! By the holy saints, Joachim, such minutiae obsess you more than they do me.”
“About such things, we know nothing,” Hans said. “But he has right over the inward-curling directions. To find our Heavenly home, we must travel in directions not of height or length or breadth, and through a time not of duration.”
“We could always walk,” said Gottfried, flapping his soft lips, but Hans clicked his horny lips and his companion cut his laughter short. “We have been cut off from home,” he said, “and from our companions. Let us not be cut off from each other.”
THE NEXT day, Dietrich came upon a man in close study of the church walls. Seizing him by the surcoat, he discovered it was the Jew servant. “What make you here?” he demanded. “Why were you sent?”
But the Jew cried out, “No tell master I come. No tell, please!”
The distress was so palpable that Dietrich judged it genuine. “Why?”
“Because … Is unlawful for us to walk near house of … of tilfah.”
“Truly? So, does it not defile you?”
The servant cringed. “Honored one, I base-born rascal, not so pure and holy as master. What can defile me?”
And was that irony that Dietrich heard in that voice? He nearly smiled. “Explain yourself.”
“I hear of them, carvings, from hof servants and think I come see. We forbid to make images, but I am loving beauty.”
“By His wounds, I believe you speak the truth.” Dietrich straightened and released his grip on the man’s sleeve. “How are you called?”
The man doffed his cap. “Tarkhan Hazer ben Bek.”
“A large name for such a small man.” Tarkhan wore a long, tasseled scapular beneath his rough coat, and his thick braids were unlike the delicate curls his master affected. “You are not Spanish.”
“My people from east, from borderlands of Letts. Perhaps you know Kiev?”
Dietrich shook his head. “Is it far, this Kiev of yours?”
Tarkhan grinned sadly. “So far as edge of world. Once was mighty city of my people, when we hold Golden Empire. Now, who am I whose fathers once were kings?”
Dietrich found himself amused. “I would invite you to my table, and learn of this Golden Empire; but I fear you would pollute yourself.”
Tarkhan crossed his hands over his breast. “Mighty ones, like master, so pure even small things are polluting them. Now he think golden-eye demon watching him and he draw seal of Solomon around rooms. But me, what matter? Beside, good manners never pollute.”
The mention of golden-eyed demons held Dietrich momentarily speechless. Had the Krenken gone to the Lower Woods to peek at this exotic stranger? “I … I think I may have some porridge, and a little ale. I cannot place your accent.”
“Is because my accent has no place. In Kiev, are Jews and Rus, Poles and Letts, Turks and Tatars. Is wonder I understand myself!” He followed Dietrich into the parsonage.
Joachim had just placed two bowls of porridge on the table. He stared, and Tarkhan favored him with a cautious smile. “You preacher I hear of.”
“I am no friend to Jews,” Joachim replied.
Tarkhan spread his hands in mock astonishment. Joachim said no more, but fetched a third bowl and some bread from the kitchen. These he placed on the table, just out of Tarkhan’s reach. “No wonder,” the Jew murmured to Dietrich as he gathered his food, “you sometimes burn them.”
“Beware of too much cleverness,” Dietrich whispered in return.
Each prayed grace after his own fashion. Tarkhan said over the clack of wooden spoons on wooden bowls, “Hof servants say you man of learning, much travel, and study nature.”
“I was a scholar at Paris. Buridan was my master. But of this Kiev, I know nothing.”
“Kiev, merchant city. Many come and go, and this wonders me when I boy. I taking service with ben Schlomo because he travel, so I seeing many place.