“Are you known as the Black Woman of Martyrs’ Walk?”
“Why yes, some call me that!” she replied eagerly.
“I hear that you’re a fortuneteller.”
“Whoever told you that, young gentleman, missed it a mile! I never told a fortune in my whole life.”
“Aren’t you a seeress of some kind?”
“That I’m not! If you’d ask me whom you’ll wed, I’d have no more notion than a bedpost. But sometimes I can help folk with their troubles. Maybe it’s to find something they’ve lost, or to make up a quarrel with a friend or a sweetheart, or to get over a hate, or a sorrow, or a shame.”
“Then who’s your master? It couldn’t be the Devil——”
The woman laughed like a peal of gongs.
“I should say he’s not! I don’t have ought to do with him. But they say I can cast out a devil, sometimes, if he’s not bored in too deep. A maid who mewed all the while like a cat, and another who shamed herself before folk, and a youth who dressed himself in women’s clothes—all these stopped their strange ways, and became like other folk, when I’d ministered unto them.”
“Is it a laying on of hands?”
“In a way of speaking.”
“In whose name?”
“In no one’s name, your Honor. I’d be afeared to claim to speak or act in some holy name. What I say is just what a mother would tell her child when she finds out his trouble.”
“Where did you learn your art, if that’s what you call it?” Since she was so cheery and forthright I did not miss the chance to question her.
“My master bought me for a concubine when I was fourteen. He was a doctor in a great school in Alexandria. He said that madness was not caused either by devils or the moon, but by the evil of a body’s soul fighting the good. This he’d learned from a pale-brown bearded man dressed in white, with a red mark on his forehead. I’ve forgotten his name—could it be Swami?—but he came from beyond the deserts under the rising sun. And it was he who taught my master to turn grown-up folk into children.”
“God forbid!” And the sweat came out on me in cold beads.
“It was only for a few minutes and did no harm. The brown man said that many in his own country had that power, and while some were wise doctors, some were tricksters and mountebanks.[8] Because my master had me hold the mirror or the ink bowl that he used—he told me I made the sick people feel at ease—I watched him do it a hundred times. When he grew old and feeble, I did it in his place—not nearly so well, but well enough to help folk with troubles that a black woman could understand. I earned enough silver to buy his bread and wine. When he died, he left a paper setting me free. I became the woman of a Maltese sponge fisher and followed him to Venice. Now he too is dead.”
“How did your master use the mirror or the ink bowl—or are you forbidden to tell?”
“The sick one looked into it at my master’s bidding. That was all. A candle flame does just as well. If I knew the whys and wherefores, I would tell you, but I don’t. Now tell me your trouble. If I think I can help you, I’ll say so—otherwise I’ll not try. If I do try, you’ll tell me if I’ve succeeded. If I have, give me your blessing and a silver coin. If I haven’t, give me your blessing only. You can be sure I’ll not harm you.”
There were few things in this world that I was as sure of.
“My trouble is to remember something from long ago.”
“Why do you squint your eyes when you say that?”
“Because even to speak of it causes a pain across my eyebrows.” Then I went on with blunt words, a way of talking that might be compared to a way of walking when a resolute man goes to a hard, unwelcome task. “I was about four years old. My mother was sick unto death. She had me bring two candles to her bedside. She brought forth from some hiding place what I thought was a parchment, and I think it was pale brown from age. She had me do something more with the candles, but I can’t think——”
I had to stop and catch my breath, lest my brow split apart from pain.
“There, there,” the woman said, stroking my forehead with her big, pink-palmed hand. “No haste, young master. Tell Cleo what the trouble is, and she’ll try to help you.”
“Cleo?” And the pain mysteriously dimmed.
“ ’Twas my master’s name for me, short for a great Egyptian queen whose name I forget. ’Twas in the way of a joke.”
“She brought the parchment to the flame,” I said. “I thought she meant to burn it up. I guess it was moldy from age—it didn’t catch fire or even smoke. Then she put it where she’d got it. Then . . . then . . . she touched her finger to her lips——”
This last I got out in a desperate burst, and I would not have wondered if blood had spurted from my ears.
“She wanted you to have the parchment, didn’t she?” the woman said, a wonderful tenderness in her face.
“Of course.”
“You think it was her will, or a deed to riches?”
“No.”
“You never found it, and you want to know where it is?”
“Yes.”
“Answer one question, to let me see if maybe I can help you. I’ll keep my hand on your forehead to save you part of the pain.”
“Ask it,” I said with dread.
“Did you see where your mother hid it, and forget, or did you never know?”
I tried to remember. The dull ache over my eyebrows tried to grow to bone-cracking agony, but the strong hand held it back. Then it ran to the back of my head, like an imp of Hell. My brain was cracking like a dropped melon. . . .
“Yes!” I shouted. “I saw her!”
“That’s all, young master,” I heard Cleo’s soft voice, now speaking in a minor key, and with a kind of lovely sadness that most tender women sometimes employ to children sick or in pain. “It won’t hurt any more. And maybe Cleo can tell you where the parchment is.”
She had me lie down on a worn and shabby couch. Then she got a candle and started to light it with flint and tinder.
“Must you use a candle, Cleo?” I asked.
“Why, no——”
“I wish you’d not, if there’s any other way. I keep seeing those two candles.”
“I should have known it!” She paused and glanced around the room. “Do you see the little hole in the curtain that gleams like a star?”
The hole in the black cloth was no bigger than a pinhead, but the noonday light beyond made it diamond-bright.
“Like the North Star,” I answered without thinking. The North Star is not nearly as bright as dazzling Sirius.
“Just look at it steadily, my son. Does it tire your eyes a little? But I’ll stroke your temples and you won’t get a headache. . . . There. . . . I think you may want to go to sleep. . . . Do you feel a little sleepy, young master? I believe you do. I believe your eyelids are drooping and you can hardly keep them open. . . . All is all right. . . . You may sleep if you like. . . . Yes, go to sleep. . . . Sleep, my son. . . . Sleep . . . sleep. . . .”
My thoughts began to straggle and I felt myself falling into warm, pleasant, peaceful sleep. A strong, warm hand continued to stroke my head and neck, and I felt safe under it, and free of all trouble and pain. . . . A voice on which I set great store, one that would never guide me wrongly, sounded in my drowsy ears. . . . Time ran on.
“Young master!”
It was a cheerful voice now, and quite strong. My brain caught at pleasant wakings long and long ago, but the memory failed before I could seize it. I wakened to find Cleo looking into my face, a smile on hers. Instantly I knew where I was and on what business I had come. . . . Yet I wished I could have slept on. . . .
“Did you have a pleasant nap, your Honor?” the woman asked.