He is curious. "What is this wonderful thing youaregoing to do?"
I hold his shoulders and stare into his eyes, trying tobringcalm and understanding into his excited mind.
"You saw howL andulf was anxious to get my blood? There was a reason for that. Long ago a mysterious man gave me some of his blood, and that blood changed me in a way that made me both strong and resistant to disease. It is impossible for me to get sick. And just a few drops of my blood is able to heal others." I pause. "Do you understand what I am saying,Dante?"
He shakes his head. "I am not sure, my lady."
"I want to cut myself and sprinkle a few drops of my blood over your sores. I know they hurt you terribly, but when a little of my blood touches them they will close and heal. It will be almost be like you never had leprosy. No one will be able to tell by looking at you."
He frowns. "But it is God's will that I am sick. My disease is a punishment for my sins. We cannot change the will of God."
"Your disease is not a punishment. It is not from God. It is something you caught from another person who had the same disease."
He blinks. "From the other lepers in Persida?"
"Exactly. They gave you thel eprosy."
He protests. "But I never did anything to them. I only tried to help them."
"But you were around them. You touched them. That is how you got sick."
His confusion deepens. "But Landulf wanted to use your blood, my lady. I should not use it. I should not do anything he wanted to do."
"There is a difference, Dante. Landulf wanted to use my blood to hurt people. I want to use it to heal you."
His superstitions are deep. His disquiet remains.
"But blood should not be shared," he says. "That is what heathens do. When the Holy Father accused my duke, he said that he had been sharing blood with children. I thought at the time that it was lies but it came to pass that it was true. And it was a great evil that Landulf did that. With blood he invoked the demons from hell. The pope saw clearly."
"The pope did not see clearly. Good God, Dante, the pope had you castrated."
His face twitches and his lower lip trembles. I have wounded him with my words and feel ashamed. He drops his head in humiliation.
"I wanted only to do God's will," he moans. "That is all I want to do right now. But I do not know how your blood can make my disease disappear."
I feel I have no recourse. We can argue all night, and get nowhere, and I believe it is possible that he could die this very night. From the burning and the other abuse, his sores are even more inflamed. Half his body is infected tissue, and I feel without even touching him the fever that cooks his blood. The effort it took him to reach me has drained what reserves he had left. His breathing is a perpetual wheeze. If I do not give him my blood soon, I will not be able to return to the future with a clear conscience.
"Dante," I say, meeting his gaze again. "Look at me."
He blinks rapidly. "My lady?"
"Look only at me, my friend. Listen only to me. You do not need to be afraid of my blood. It is a gift from God. Just a few drops of it will make you feel better, and God wants you to feel better after all that you have struggled do in his name."
He is suddenly dreamy. "Yes, my lady."
"Now close your eyes and imagine how nice it will to have your sores healed. How good it will be not to have people run away when they see you because they see you only as a leper. Dante, my dear, I promise you the leprosy will be gone in a few minutes."
"It will be gone," he whispers to himself with his eyes closed.
"Good." I stretch out my hand. "Now keep your eyes closed but give me your hand. I will lead you to the pond and we will first wash your sores and then I will sprinkle something on them and they will be all better."
"All better," he mumbles. But he stiffens when I try to lead him toward the pond even though his eyes remain closed. He is still under my spell, at least I think he is. "No," he says.
I have to speak carefully. "What is the matter?"
"I cannot go in the pond."
"You will not go in the pond, only beside it. I need to wash you off."
"I can drown in the pond," he says.
Now that I think of it, I have never seen Dante wash beside a pond. It is probably one of the reasons he smells.
"I will not let you drown. There is no way you can fall in."
"No," he says.
He appears to be under my spell, but he is resisting me as well. I am reminded of an earlier time when I pressed him for information he knew and yet he managed to evade meeven while in the midst of a powerful hypnotic trance. There is still something in his mind, a psychic aberration of some type, that makes it impossible for me to read him clearly. Even with all my powers now at my disposal, I cannot read what he is thinking exactly.