Free A Stolen Tongue by Sheri Holman

swains lined up for their haircuts, and Bald Tucher was first in line.
    We left my patron sitting at her side, holding her comb, while she smiled through a veil of damp auburn hair at pilgrims whose minds should have been fixed on God. I announced to the entire ship that I was organizing a pilgrimage to the holy sites of Cyprus, but, so besotted were they with the new woman, only these intrepid pilgrims came along:
    Lord Ursus Tucher, a merry youth and much intrigued with the legends of Venus, whose isle this is;
    Master John Lazinus, Archdeacon of Hungary, a man of principle and passion;
    Conrad Buchler, our barber and cook, who pleases many with his spicy stews;
    Constantine Kallistos, a depressed merchant of Crete; and
    Friar Felix Fabri of the Dominican Preaching Brothers at Ulm, the moving spirit of all these.
    The ancients write much about Cyprus, most of it concerning the harlot Venus and her amours. It is said she swam naked in the waves of the sea for many years until her eyes at last turned to this place. The moment she stepped ashore, the Cyprians ran after her beauty and gladly instituted the practice of harlotry in her name. They gave her the highest mount on the island for her pleasure garden and held her watering can while she sowed every herb and plant that might be used in the business of love.
    You might wonder at my climbing this mountain first when across the way, on another rise, is built a church containing the cross upon which hung Dysmas, the Good Thief, crucified beside Christ. Do not fear, brothers; I have not been affected by that Cyprian air which some say keeps a man aroused the whole time he remains on the island, nor do I need to sniff the native agnus castus shrubsthat dry up the seminal humors and calm the winds that engorge the sexual organs. I have a method to my madness which, God willing, will benefit not a depraved prostitute but a handmaid of Christ.
    â€œWill we see Tannhäuser here, Friar?” my charge asks, stopping to peer in every cave and crack on the mountain. “Shall I sing his song?”
    â€œUrsus, we are headed to Saint Paul’s church. Do you think the Apostle would appreciate your tuneless howlings after the dead?”
    â€œNo, Friar.” He kicks the dust. “But this
is
his mountain, isn’t it? This is where he went to live with Venus?”
    In modern times, the uncouth mob raves over a certain mountain in Tuscany where Venus supposedly lives and takes her pleasure with men and women. They believe a Swabian nobleman called Tannhäuser, from Tannhäusen near Dünkelspüchel, disappeared into her mountain and now lives in joyance with Venus until Judgment Day. Lo, brothers! How easily men are led into error. For Venus, hardly a goddess and no doubt damned, who never saw Europe while she was alive, they believe to dwell now and forever in Tuscany! The Germans are so demented about this Tannhäuser story that many simple people make pilgrimages to that Mount of Venus and, in fact, have so overrun it that the Italians now place rabid dogs at its entrance to scare them away.
    The path up our Mount Venus, while free of beasts, is dry and hot, and we are all relieved to finally take our rest in the shade of Saint Paul’s church. The locals have planted terraced vineyards here, the grapes from which I’ve heard are so strong, their first press will corrode a wooden cup. We overlook the whitewashed village of Paphos, no more than a web of footpaths between daub houses. On the slopes of Venus’s mountain, sloe-eyed village girls forage sticks for tonight’s Saint John’s bonfires.
    â€œIf your wife is on Cyprus, Constantine,” I say, “I’m certain she will come here.”
    John doubted me this morning. He wanted to wait at the docks, to ask each arriving fisherman if he had seen a woman calling for help from the hull of a Turkish galleon. He convinced Constantine that if she escaped her common sense would lead