His Last Fire by Alix Nathan Page B

else, courted the women with gifts, created a stir taking them about in his vis-à-vis, conducted them one on each arm to church, eaten their dried fish and meat. Was seen on his knees outside their tent chanting from a book in Lappish tongue. A sharp-eyed maid found the translation in his script. One verse, ripped from the rest, was passed from hand to hand of those who could read:

    What stronger is than bolts of steel?
    What can more surely bind?
    Love is stronger far than it,
    Upon the Head in triumph she doth sit:
    Fetters the mind,
    And doth controul,
    The thought and soul.

    An honourable man, not one to court scandal, what could he do? Hardly marry both of them. Nor, as Christians, would they have agreed to it.
    In others’ telling, the tale was of lust not love. The naked, black-haired doxies bewitched him with their magic, reading the runes of their drum with its palimpsest of little figures drawn as if by fingers in blood; its jingling rings. They invoked spectres, demons in the wood and drew him in with their repetitive songs until he was no longer master of himself. The sounds that came from that construction of skin and twigs! Such laughter!
    Whichever version he heard, the story-tellers agreed on one thing: mushrooms brought all to an end.
    Edward’s estate contained ancient woods into which as summer died the women moved their tent. Warmth lingered into autumn and gorgeous amanita muscaria burst up through the mould. Later, shrivelled stalks and caps were found on a sill in the hottest kitchen, but at first there was no explanation for the climactic event.
    One night the women staggered up the stone steps as if drunk and collapsed on the terrace. From attic windows, from behind shutters, eyes stared, mouths gaped as the women’s bodies twitched in convulsions then fell into deep sleep. The impatient went to bed. Edward was in his library, didn’t know. Suddenly, stupefied but awake the women rose, made frenzied movements. Someone called Edward who now saw the women cavort, stretch their arms in wildness, step with enormous strides over tiny growths of lichen between the flags, crying out.
    Soon after, the fly agaric was found, drying, ready to be swallowed. Edward made arrangements once again for travel to Lapland.
    His public explanation was the Lapp women’s homesickness. He must return them to the land for which they longed. Few believed him. For years stories entertained his neighbours and friends, sustained the servants. Yet most made an effort to hide their mirth when he returned after six months, aged, melancholic, increasingly irritable like his father.
    He turned away from the north, travelled south and east. Robert, fair-minded, wise, made no judgment of the tales. He was pleased to travel, arrange, carry, organise Edward’s comfort and his own. He picked up languages remarkably well so that even procuring was easy in foreign lands. Edward preferred two women, laughter.
    The collection grew, its fame spread. Scholars visited though Edward was often alone with his curiosities. No one saw his nightly inspection of cribs, his gentle stroking of the Lappish carrying cradle like a small boat out of water.

A T ULIP S KY
    A disorderly parcel was handed in at the Turkish Embassy. It was brought by a boy who, panting, had carried it some distance through dung-thick streets to ever grander gateways. Painstakingly written on the outer covering was: to xlensee turckush ambassad with decorative flourishes beneath. Brown paper, too much thin hemp rope, newspaper and household cloths had been used to wrap five handsome copper coffee pots.
    There was no indication who’d sent the parcel and the boy fled, intimidated by armed, turbaned guards at the door. The pots gleamed with years of polishing, but the embassy kitchen was fully equipped with similar vessels, so dust soon dulled them in a far pantry.
    Alice White had watched the wrapping, waiting to demonstrate her writing skill and