And so I wait. I wait for her to convey me back to that place. I wait and think of Hagia, and Imtithal, and the strangeness of women. I wait and think of how the world was made. I make sure Marcel and Abelard are well stocked with eggs and meat and oranges, and send them off into the ashy day. I eat Abbas’ chickens, and pray. Oh, how I pray. I pray you will not condemn us, at home, in those familiar halls, with those sweet chestnuts in the garden. Nothing was as we expected. We are but mortal men. We cannot be blamed for the shape and history of the world.
One further thing I must relate, and then Abelard is eager to depart, for he hates this place, and has the patience of a gadfly. But I have no explanation for what I wish to tell, and no knowledge of its meaning or purpose. I can only say, as John might: It happened, no denying would stop it from having happened.
Yesterday, as I sat beside Hiob’s slab, dizzy with the scent of the flowery garlands, my master opened his mouth. I started, relief flooding me. He would wake, it would be all right. All would be well and all would be well—but he did not wake. His jaw cracked open, and out of his mouth a small, forked branch emerged, its foliage wet and wrinkled like newborn butterflies, its fruit nearly invisible, finer than dust. It grew out of him, slowly, a delicate stripling, studded with leaves like emeralds, glowing gently against his grey, senseless skin.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When addressing the delicate issue of a book’s genealogy, one has to begin at the beginning. I owe a great debt of thanks to Deborah Schwartz, my medieval studies professor at Cal Poly, who awakened in this lapsed Classicist a grand love of the medieval world that went far beyond the ersatz RenFaires of my youth and into something altogether stranger and deeper. Though I bear the shame of having failed to complete my graduate program, Dr. Schwartz rekindled my passion for Arthuriana, Chaucer, romances, and through all of that, finally, led me to the Kingdom of Prester John and all the wonders hidden there. Without her I would never have found my way.
Thank you also to my usual cohort: my husband Dmitri, who not only read every draft and loved them until I loved them too, but checked me into a hotel in the wilds of Maine until I finished this beast. To Elizabeth McClellan, who offered a kind beta read and reassured my frazzled soul, to SJ Tucker, my sister in crimes of art, to Tiffin Staib, Amal El-Mohtar, Deborah Castellano, and Evelyn Kriete, without whom I would be lost. To everyone who has helped me stand up, keep moving, keep smiling, never give up, never fail. You are my tribe; you are my blessed kingdom of monsters and angels.
To my agent, Howard Morhaim, I am forever grateful—he is the Dumbledore to all my bedraggled children, finding them magical homes when I despair. To my team of editors and copyeditors, Jeremy Lassen, Juliet Ulman, and Marty Halpern, all of whom taught me a great deal in the course of processing this book into the form you hold in your hands.
Finally, thank you to the anonymous student who once turned in a very bad poem about the priest-king in the East, and caused me to say to an empty office: Prester John deserves better.
The Habitation of the Blessed
© 2010 by Catherynne M. Valente
This edition of The Habitation of the Blessed
© 2010 by Night Shade Books
Cover art by Rebecca Guay
Cover design by Cody Tilson
Map by Marc Scheff
Interior layout and design by Ross E. Lockhart
All rights reserved
First Edition
ISBN: 978-1-59780-199-7
Printed in Canada
Night Shade Books
http://www.nightshadebooks.com
Contents
Dedication
Maps
Epigraphs
The Confessions
Saturn, Cold and Dry
The Book of the Ruby
The Confessions