Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [105]
John came back to the fire to rekindle his makeshift torch. “Please,” he said, in tones of the utmost sincerity, “Please don’t start talking about the Old Religion. The ambiance is grisly enough without that.”
“The Old…oh, you mean the witchcraft cult—the theory that it was a survival of pre-Christian religions. There are plenty of survivals around here.”
His teeth gleamed uncannily with reflected firelight. “Yes, I saw you gibbering at the Buttenmandeln. Or was that just an excuse to fling yourself into Perlmutter’s arms?”
He went off again before I could answer. I huddled closer to the fire.
The torch burned fitfully, now flaring up, now sinking to a sullen glow. Gliding through the darkness, it resembled a giant, diabolical firefly. A dry, inhuman squawl made me jump before I identified it as the sound of rusty hinges. The dancing light disappeared. An interminable time seemed to pass before it appeared again.
“Found the sacristy,” John announced. “Or the off-beat local version of same. Not much there.” He tossed a bundle onto the floor. Dust billowed up in an evil-smelling cloud.
“God,” I said involuntarily. “It smells like a grave.”
“Mold. Let’s eschew suggestive similes, shall we, and say mold.” John nudged the bundle with his foot. “Curtains. They’re rotting and filthy—and moldy—but we’re in no position to be fastidious. It’s going to be a long, cold night.”
“No wine?”
“No wine.” He sat down next to me. I edged away.
“Now don’t tell me you are going to come all over prim propriety,” he jeered. “Bundling, I have been informed, is a thrifty old New England custom which ought equally to have applied in the frigid tundras of Minnesota.”
“It’s not unheard of,” I admitted, moving into the circle of his arm. “I’ll endeavor to overcome my qualms about doing it in a church. What’s a commandment or two compared to death by freezing?”
“Fornication,” said John precisely, “is not mentioned in the Ten Commandments.”
“That’s a relief.”
“In fact,” John went on, “if one analyzes the sexual regulations of the Old Testament, one finds that they are based on property rights rather than moral attitudes.”
“Is that right?” I pressed closer against the warmth of his body.
“Adultery is prohibited because a man’s wife belongs to him in the same sense as his horse and his ass and so on. The daughter belongs to the father, so sibling incest infringes on the old man’s territory.”
“But surely father-daughter relationships—”
“There’s no prohibition against that.” John added thoughtfully, “I checked.”
I started to laugh. “This is an incredible conversation. Would you consider me vulgar if I asked why you investigated that particular issue?”
“That is not only vulgar, it is repellent,” John said coldly. “Idle curiosity alone prompted my investigation. It’s my greatest weakness—but one never knows when a seemingly irrelevant bit of information may come in handy.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
He turned slightly and put his other arm around my shoulders, holding me close against him. His warm breath stirred my hair. After a moment he let out a long, tremulous sigh.
“God, I’m hungry,” he said.
John claimed he had not eaten since breakfast because he had been too busy playing bodyguard for me. I took that with a grain of salt, but I was moved by his plight. I was hungry, too.
“I don’t suppose you brought my backpack? Oh, you did—bless your heart.”
“I had no choice. It was attached to you like a misplaced pregnancy.” A tender and touching hope dawned on his face as he watched me rummage in the knapsack. “I could even eat that bulb.”
“No, you couldn’t. Daffodil bulbs are poisonous.”
“So they are. I’d forgot. Another example of seemingly useless information proving relevant.”
“Yes; one never knows when one might want to poison an acquaintance. Here.”
John studied the object dubiously. “What is it?”
“Gingerbread. Schmidt kept forcing it on me last night.”
“I loathe gingerbread. What’s that white on it?”
“I guess some of the tissue I wrapped—”
“Hand it over.”
I went on rummaging