The Watchtower

eventually it was rumored around town that he was finally dying. Priests were sent to his rooms to hear his last confession, but Ruggieri roused himself and threw them out, screaming that they were mad and that there were no other demons than the enemies who torment us in this world. The priests were so offended at this treatment that they denied Ruggieri a Christian burial. When he died, the people dragged him through the streets of Paris and left his remains in the gutter. Some, though, claimed that he didn’t die at all, that he crawled into the catacombs beneath the streets of Paris and there, maimed and dying, found a way to restore his life, and that the figure in black that appears on top of the tower during thunderstorms is Ruggieri, seeking the energy from the lightning to rejuvenate himself. There is one legend that claims that Ruggieri finally found immortality, but with one catch. He must grow old repeatedly and experience the same wrenching pains of death that he experienced being dragged through the streets of Paris, and only then can he be reborn each time as a young man. But with each lifetime, he ages faster. Imagine knowing that you had that pain to look forward to at the end of each lifetime, and that you would experience it again and again.”
    “That would be a curse,” I said, looking down at my watch. How strange that he had made a watch that showed the progress of time across the years. Maybe he’d had a presentiment of the way he would die—and the rumors that would be spread about him after his death. “Better to die once and for all.”
    “I suppose.… Are you cold?” Roger asked, moving closer to me. “Here…” He took off his jacket and draped it over my shoulders. It felt warm from the heat of his body. He left his arm around my shoulders and I didn’t move it away. With his other hand Roger pointed at the sky. Perhaps to take my mind off the gory story he had told me.
    “Look, there’s an unusual alignment tonight. The moon’s with Jupiter and just past full. You can’t see the rest of the alignment, between Jupiter, Neptune, and the wise centaur, Chiron, with the naked eye, but they’re all there tonight, present and accounted for, at twenty-six degrees of the Water Pourer, shining with the moon.”
    Roger pointed out stars and we talked about inconsequential matters until the sun came up. As we watched the sun come up over Paris, turning gray, shadowy buildings rose and gold, I reflected that unless Will was successful in his quest, this was something I’d never get to do with him.

18
    A Voice like Leaves
    Will arose just after dawn, thick with sleep, and walked to Marguerite’s lodgings. He knocked on the door for a while, until a bonneted woman in the house adjacent raised her second-floor window and shouted down, “ Still that clamor, boy, or I’m comin’ at ye with a hammer.” Will desisted, though with a final knock that might have split the door in two had the side of his hand been sharper. His exasperation was understandable. If anyone was inside, they had stayed stock-still since his pounding started; he had not detected a sliver of movement. His intuition and darkening hopes told him no one was there. Marguerite had fled, and to where and for how long he could not guess. Maybe forever, a time span she could encompass!
    But he had to know for certain she was gone.
    Will circled the house three times, like a wolf scouting out hunting territory. But he still saw no flicker of movement and, at first, no means of access. On the fourth and most forlorn survey, he saw something he hadn’t seen before. A second-floor window overlooking the fenced backyard was now half open, and a propped wooden ladder invited ascent. Will trembled with emotion and irrational hope at the sight. He didn’t ponder much who had opened the window or set up the ladder. Perhaps a workman, resting in the yard with his ladder during Will’s earlier circuits, was beginning his workday now.
    Will, pumped with adrenaline, then performed a maneuver he couldn’t have dreamed himself capable of. After a running start he leaped, grasped the top of the fence with two hands, and twirled himself over into the yard with a pinwheel motion. As if he already belonged to the fey, he reflected. He mounted the ladder and entered the house, announcing himself to no reply.
    A half hour later Will sat exhausted on the first floor, back against the front door, legs stretched out wearily. He stared