A Stolen Tongue by Sheri Holman Page A

mountain. She is too far away to tell for certain, but indeed she has the coloring of the merchant’s wife.
    â€œHow can we tell what is Truth and what is Illusion?” I continue excitedly, keeping the tiny figure in sight.
    â€œItem: two beautiful women translated to mountains after their deaths. One’s chastity inspires Heaven; one’s depravity inspires Hell.
    â€œItem: two men associated with these women and their mountains. Where Katherine sleeps at Sinai, God spoke to the Patriarch Moses. Where Venus sleeps on her mount, be it here or in Tuscany, the deluded Swabian nobleman Tannhäuser keeps her company. Law or lust? Which is inspired by God?
    â€œItem: miracles. On Sinai, a bush burned that was not consumed. Our Lord wrote the Ten Commandments. A virgin was translated from distant Alexandria, whose bones now work wonders throughout the world. On Mount Venus, the artist Pygmalion, disgusted with the harlotry of the Cyprian female population, sculpted awoman from an ivory block. So perfect was his skill that he fell in love with his own creation. Venus, sensing victory, granted the statue Galatea life; whereupon Pygmalion fell upon her and begat a child.
    â€œThis is how we know Illusion from Truth: Ask yourselves, my friends, ‘Is the object of my affection wrought by man or God?’ Ask yourselves, ‘Will I be content with Venus, or will I never sleep until I reach Mount Sinai?’”
    â€œ
Sinai!
” Ursus cries. “On to Sinai!”
    â€œYes, my boy, my brave boy.” I hug him. “You are worthy to come with us. You will live among the blessed.”
    â€œIs that her?” Constantine swivels to see the approaching woman. “Arsinoë?”
    He is up and running across the garden to where she slipped inside the church. Don’t stop her, Constantine, I almost shout. I want her surprised in the act.
    We catch up to him on the church porch, and I put my finger to my lips to signal silence. I want to give her enough time to unlatch the glass mouth, to force her hand down my bride’s throat and rip, from its bed, her perfect pink tongue.
    Slowly, I inch open the door. A woman kneels before the altar, only inches from the reliquary. As I watch, she reaches up for something, but it is not my bride’s tongue. Slowly the stud priest of Saint Paul lifts his cassock to this strange sloe-eyed farmgirl’s hands.
    It is not her at all! I slam the door. Constantine collapses to the ground in tears.
    â€œShe is gone forever, Friar Felix. I have lost Saint Katherine’s Tongue.”
    Ursus studies the merchant, his eyes as round as saucers.
    â€œCome on, Constantine.” John pulls him to his feet. “Let’s go back to the ship. Perhaps she’s made her way there.”
    â€œI still believe—” I start to protest, but John silences me with a stern look.
    â€œWe’ve been here most of the day, Felix,” he says. “She’s not coming.”
    We walk back in silence, heartsick, defeated men. Only Ursus steps lively, practicing his skill against scorpions and poisonous snakes. He crushes the imaginary desert vermin with the heel of his oversized boot and dreams of Arab sands.
    John questions the sailors when we reach the busy dock, but no one has seen a woman or a Turkish ship put in to port.
    â€œUrsus, son!” Lord Tucher opens his arms to us when we climb up the ladder to our galley. “You look feverish. Did you breathe into your sleeve like I showed you?”
    â€œNo, Father, the air was fine.”
    Constantine makes his way through the thick crowd of pilgrims and wearily climbs the steps to the ladies’ cabin. He curls in front of Arsinoë’s door like an forgotten watchdog.
    â€œDid you have an opportunity to meet the Lady Emelia Priuli before you went ashore?” Lord Tucher draws forth the heavy-lidded lady-in-waiting who boarded our ship this morning. We look each other up and