by Patty Jansen
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NELLIE LEFT the shepherd’s house as quickly as she dared. Down the steps, into the courtyard and across the alley. She collected the hessian bag with the empty bowl in it from under the table in the church vestibule and set off for the palace. A steady drizzle fell from the sky, making the cobblestones slippery.
As she passed the church, the sound of voices drifted out, but she kept walking. She felt guilty that she couldn’t do more for Jantien and Mina and those poor children. The shepherd was right: with the coming winter, things would get worse. Many more people would find themselves without a home.
At one point some people sheltered in the main church, too. One of them had reportedly stolen something. But why did that make all the poor people thieves?
But she could still hear the men’s voices. They had definitely not sounded like they were friends.
The rumours that there was no love lost between Shepherd Adrianus and Shepherd Wilfridus had always been strong. Once she had heard someone in the kitchen—was it Wim?—talk about an argument the two men had after a service when they thought no one could overhear them.
Apparently there had been a lot of angry sniping between the two, although Wim didn’t know why.
And so her thoughts went around while she walked through the streets.
Few people ventured into the miserable weather. Most of the citizens stayed inside and covered their windows with thick blinds to keep in whatever warmth still lingered from autumn.
Nellie pulled up the collar of her coat and was reminded of the content of the box that was still in her carry satchel. Her talk with Shepherd Adrianus hadn’t really revealed anything useful.
He’d seemed disturbed when she spoke of her father’s book, but had asked no questions. She hadn’t liked the small moments of silence.
Then he’d taken the conversation in a different direction. Yes, she understood that it was necessary to guard the church against those who wanted to do it ill, but stories of church officials doing disgusting things and then trying to cover it up were not uncommon.
As the Book of Verses said, the flesh was often weak.
But she hadn’t asked about those things. She’d asked about her father’s involvement in particular, about the church buying items of dark magic, about dragon boxes.
Because one thing bothered her in particular: if the church believed magic didn’t exist, they might have an interest in the old relics for curiosity’s sake. But why would they pay a lot of money for an empty wooden box that might not even have belonged to Prince Bruno, anyway? Without the dragon, it was just a box, worth the price of the wood.
So, if the church was prepared to pay a lot of money for the dragon box, then they had to believe there was some kind of magic in the box.
Hmmm, what did this mean for the other relics? She had heard the church owned the ruby-studded infant skull, which was meant to be a symbol for rebirth and cleansing. That book of evil magic, The Arts Of The Arcane, would have no value if you believed the contents were all nonsense.
At least that was her practical thinking.
She might be completely wrong about this, but when it came to money spent, she wasn’t often wrong. People spent money because there was value or because they could brag about having expensive items. Since the church was not putting the items on display in gold-rimmed cabinets, there had to be value. Did they keep those things in the church crypts?
Nellie arrived in the marketplace. The big main church loomed dark and forbidding on one side of the square. Once, when mistress Johanna was young, the church had been a simple building made of wood. Mistress Johanna insisted on wearing clogs into the church, and sometimes Nellie could still hear the clomping sounds on the wooden floorboards. People would act scandalised about it, and Nellie remembered pleading with mistress Johanna to wear proper shoes. Looking back on it, Nellie hated how meek and dumb she would have looked. The Church of the Triune was about common people, and people should feel welcome inside its walls no matter what they wore.
The old church had burned to the ground when the Fire Wizard occupied the town. He started rebuilding it, initially for the Belaman Church.
If you looked at the walls closely enough, you could see where Johanna and Roald had been victorious over the Fire Wizard and the complicated design of the church had been scaled down in favour of a plain stone building.
The main church was very plain. Its walls were straight; the doors were simple. There were no arches and carvings, no elaborate ironwork on the door. The roof was simple, the tower simple—though very tall and containing an impressive set of bells that made the air vibrate when you stood at the bottom of the tower.
Like the church she visited, it was always open. Nellie climbed the steps to the church door. She turned the handle. The metal coldness of it, wet with almost-frozen rain, bit into her skin.
The handle creaked.
The door was very heavy, needing all her weight to open it a crack.
A waft of stale air only slightly warmer than outside drifted out, laced with the scent of incense and burning tallow. That mixture of scents would forever remind her of the long days when she sat in the pews as a child, looking at the backs of the people in front of her because she was too little to see the altar. She had counted the knots in the wood in the backrests of the bench in front of her, because she was so bored and because her father would be angry if she wriggled too much.
Most of the giant church hall—with a row of pillars supporting the roof on either side of the aisle—was shrouded in darkness, but a golden glow of light surrounded the altar.
Nellie’s footsteps echoed through the empty space as she walked along the aisle. The pews, rows and rows of them, disappeared into the darkness on both sides.
At one point, people also sheltered in this church. Now they were gone and this big dry space just went to waste, because one of them had allegedly stolen from the church and Shepherd Wilfridus had kicked them out.
This was the church where Roald had been officially crowned king, where everyone had gathered on that glorious day in midsummer to baptise little princess Celine. The pews had been full to overflowing, with people standing at the back and along the sides and outside in the marketplace, waiting for the royal family to come out.
Today, in the dark and alone in this giant building, Nellie could still hear the echoes of the voices of those people, the cheering, the tolling of the bells.
Those people were dead and everything was gone. It was hard to believe.
The altar was a plain wooden lectern set on a platform two steps up from the church floor.
Behind it stood the big statue of the Triune that had once graced the pond in the palace gardens in the time of King Nicholaos. It had been dragged out of the palace garden—causing damage to the paving—and thrown into the harbour during the reign of the Fire Wizard. After the wizard had been ousted, it had been retrieved and cleaned. King Roald didn’t want it in the palace, because he didn’t like the statue—his dislike of the church was an ill-kept secret—so Queen Johanna had donated it to the church as a symbol of the resilience of Saardam and its people.
Despite the cleaning, the stone of the statue had acquired stains that no amount of scrubbing could remove. The face of the Father bore several dark streaks that made it look like He was crying. The Holy God had lost part of His nose. A dark stain marked the neck and upper body of the Ghost.
Children forced to sit still for long services in these pews said it looked like someone had stabbed the Ghost and blood ran over his chest. They would make up macabre stories about it. The adults said it was a divine marking.
Whatever you thought, the statue had possessed a macabre air since it had first been commissioned by King Nicholaos. The faces of the three-headed being were contorted with emotion, looking up at the sky for salvation while straining to break free from ropes wound around the lower half of the body.
Many people said the statue gave them shivers, and that had not improved with t
he time it spent at the bottom of the harbour.
The darkness and utter silence, and the long shadows cast by the sparse lamps, rendered the statue dark and threatening. It loomed over the altar and the front pews with open mouths in stifled screams, as if some evil creature had tossed these three people into a snake pit and cast a spell to turn them into stone as they screamed in fear and pain.
Nellie knelt on the padded benches placed in front of the statue for that purpose. Even when she folded her hands and bent her head, she felt that the statue was watching her.
Please, Triune, give me the strength to continue helping the less fortunate of the city. Please help Jantien find a better place to stay. Please let her find a job, no matter how small. Please help Bert to be moderate so that he doesn’t anger people and get kicked into the street.
She spoke very softly because the Triune could hear thoughts and one didn’t need to speak in order to pray—it just felt better if you did.
But even her soft whispers echoed in the vast space of the church. Several times she halted. Were those soft footsteps, or mice skittering in the darkness? Was someone spying on her, waiting behind a pillar to rob her?
No, she was surely seeing things. The church was a safe place, even in the darkness.
She rose, clutched her satchel with the box and the book, but left the bag with the bowl to fetch later and grabbed a lantern that stood near the side of the altar. She knew it was there and had seen the shepherd use it to walk around the church.
She took off the glass covering and lit the wick with the flame from one of the candles.
Then she carried it down the two steps to the side of the church, where a staircase disappeared into the ground.
A section of the church crypts were open to the public.
Apart from holding the church’s library and, if her father was to be believed, a stash of evil items, the crypt held the graves of the members of the royal family, and this section was always open, so that the citizens could come to pay their respects.
Nellie walked down the stairs, going slowly because the flapping light in the lamp cast weird shadows that made it hard to see where the steps ended. As she descended, the air grew warmer.
She came out in a broad passage where both the walls bore large plaques behind which past kings and queens had found their last resting place.
King Nicholaos lay buried here with Queen Cygna, and their son King Roald with Queen Johanna. These plaques looked new.
After the tragedy that had destroyed the royal family, Nellie had filed through this room with many other people, touching the inscription on the stone. Tears had flowed freely. The young royal family was loved by many. No one knew how they had died because no one in the audience room—where they attended a musical performance—had lived to tell the tale.
There were no plaques for either child—Celine, aged six and Bruno, aged four, because only reigning monarchs were buried in the crypt. They did, however, have grave stones in the cemetery at the back of the church. Rumours said that both graves were empty, because Princess Celine’s body had been burnt to cinders, and Prince Bruno’s had never been found.
Empty wall space at the end of the passage was reserved for future kings and queens.
Regent Bernard could declare himself king, but without the blessing of the church he would never be one, and would not be buried here. What would happen if he died?
Would Casper be his heir or would the church find someone else?
A metalwork grate closed off further access into the crypt. The metal bars of the grate were delicately shaped into leaves and roses with thorns, but the metal had turned black with age.
Nellie stood in front of the metalwork, looking into the darkness, peering through the bars.
The passage continued on the other side, but was lined with statues and ornate wooden cabinets. When the church was rebuilt after the fires only this room had survived.
This was the secret room that her father had mentioned.
In the few times she’d been here, she had never considered what might hide behind these bars.
There was a small door in the metal grate. The hinges showed signs of frequent use. An ornate lock with a hole for a key held the door shut.
Nellie pulled it, but it only rattled a bit.
She wondered . . .
Shepherd Adrianus said that he needed permission to come here. He was much concerned with the indecent behaviour of churchmen, with good cause. He genuinely didn’t seem to know much about the things stored here. But did the fact that her father knew exactly what was inside mean he had a key?
Nellie put down her lamp, slid the satchel from her shoulder and took out the box.
She picked up the old ornate key in the bottom of the box. With trembling hands, she inserted it into the lock.
It turned.
The door opened.
Chapter 9
* * *
NELLIE HESITATED at the door, a sense of trepidation coming over her as she stared into the darkness. She shouldn’t be here, and if she were sensible she would turn around now and leave this place immediately.
But if she did, she would forever worry about what she could have learned and done if she had gone ahead.
If the Shepherd Adrianus was right, nothing here was of value—just old books full of nonsense and lots of dust. If this was merely a place where junior members of the church came to read about or perform indecent acts then she could understand her father’s worry. But in the palace hallways during banquets, she had seen enough debauchery and fornication to last her a lifetime, and since they involved two people who both agreed to take part, she thought there were more important things to worry about. Indecency did not frighten her.
She stepped inside and pulled the door of the little gate shut so it didn’t fall into the lock but looked like it was closed. Then she turned around and walked into the secret crypt.
The corridor was short, with blind walls, moisture-stained bricks and the end. Dark wood cabinets on the right-hand side contained old and dusty clothing on hangers: ornate moth-eaten robes and faded habits of types she had seen none of the shepherds wear for a long time.
In between the wardrobes were two doors but, on investigation, both ended up in the same room: a low ceilinged cellar with rows of pillars supporting the roof. Rows of dusty barrels took up most of the floor space, some with markings or names. Wine, she presumed.
It was too dark for her to see the far end.
In the left-hand corner stood a set of sturdy shelves that held bottles with dusty labels. A few newer-looking wine barrels remained on the ground next to the shelf.
To the right, a wooden partition closed off a section of the cellar, and access to that area was through an arched passageway. She found the library on the other side: a room with rows of bookshelves, a few glass-fronted cabinets with rare works, and a set of couches in the middle.
My, she had never seen so many books. Shelves and shelves, most neatly catalogued by subject. The category labelled the Verses contained many different versions of the holy Book.
She pulled out a heavy tome adorned with gold paint. The pages were thick and lush, covered with illustrations. Why wasn’t this gorgeous book upstairs for all to see?
But on closer inspection she noticed that those beautiful painted letters, the intricate borders and pages of paintings of luscious scenes, all included at least one couple naked, engaged in the act of reproduction. Some of them were almost tastefully hidden behind the first letter of the page, others much less so.
One achingly beautiful illustration showed a couple on a windowsill overlooking a forest with mountains in the background. The woman leaned back with her legs wide, showing in intricate detail the lush covering of curly hairs between her legs, the fleshy lips that protruded from the fuzz and the soft pink opening glistening with moisture. The man’s part was not a finger’s width from answering that invitation, strong, engorged with a raised vein along the side.
It was so beautifully done that Nellie wanted to take the page, but so confronting it chilled her. She closed the book and put it back on the shelf, her heart thudding, aware of her own miserable life in which she had never married, never given herself to a man beyond an odd kiss and never experienced the pleasure of being loved.
One book lay separate from the others on a shelf as if it saw regular use.
The book’s spine proclaimed the title: On the Art of the Human Anatomy.
When she turned a few pages, it was clear what sort of anatomy the book referred to in an almost instructional way with black and white illustrations.
Nellie leafed through the pages with an increasing sense of horror.
Did men really do that to each other, standing behind each other with their trousers around their knees?
Did they really tie up women on a table by the arms and legs and insert various objects into their private parts? The woman in the illustration held her mouth open—in agony, Nellie assumed, because this couldn’t be pleasant.
Did they do that to animals, too?
Did they get a woman, presumably a beggar off the street, and sit her on a chair in front of a group of men who watched as she performed indecent acts on herself?
Did they do this to young boys and girls? The poor boy was crying, the tears dripping down his face. Was this meant to suggest to men that it was normal that the child cried, and not to worry about it?
Did they ask a young girl to sit on her knees in front of a man and take his private parts in her mouth?
Did these men take advantage of poor and homeless people by treating them like this?
This was disgusting. She put the book back.
The next section of the library contained books about nature and herbs, and then a section about human diseases, with intricate drawings of internal organs. A heart, lungs, the inside of the stomach, a womb cut half-open showing the child inside.