Suddenly he saw a light in the darkness, not far away and on this bank.
It came nearer.
Half still on the bank and half already in the water lay a mighty ferry, broad and flat. In it stood a huge man with a lamp buckled to his belt and thrusting a long oar into the sand, as if he were about to push off. His face was illuminated from below. On his head the man had an enormous straw hat, but it only covered half his hair, which was long and fell down onto his neck and over his ears. He had a snow-white walrus moustache and the ends were twisted and twirled and hung down well out from his face. Eyebrows, nose, cheekbones, they all resembled the portrait of the Hussite general, Zizka von Trocnow. Only the ferryman was no longer grey but yellowy white and seemed to be as old as the hills.
As Lucas approached the ferry he looked up. ‘What do you want?’ he asked in an unfriendly tone and with the voice of a soldier from the days when you could still buy your way out of the army.
‘I want to cross over.’
‘Why do you? Now? In the dark?’
‘I must search.’
The old boatsman began to laugh. ‘And where will you spend the night, my good sir?’
‘Nowhere … or in the wood … what do I know?’
‘In you get, quickly.’
That was a lot friendlier already. With a mighty heave the old man pushed the boat off. A chain screeched in the water. Now the ferryman tucked his chin into his chest and the top of the oar against his shoulder. And thus he went, panting, snorting, pressing his whole life against the water, from the higher bows along the whole length of the boat, that was working its way forward at an angle to the current. Every time the old man had completed one length, one attack, he returned to the bows, dragging his oar behind him through the water.
The lamp at his breast twinkled and swayed. Lucas started. The old boatsman’s eyes gave off a brighter light than the lamp! They stood above the blurred shapes of the water and the night like two unpredictable blue flames. After each thrust of the oar they seemed to grow wilder, to shine out farther. When they had reached the middle of the stream the old man paused from his work and spoke to his passenger.
‘You might find what you are looking for at my house.’
‘What am I looking for, then?’ said Lucas absently, trailing his fingers through the black water.
‘You don’t need to think I am stupid, young man! You are searching for a dream.’
‘Yes. I am searching for a dream I cannot remember. But how it is that you know that?’
‘Don’t let that worry you. It’s nothing to do with the matter,’ said the ferryman in a deep, loud voice, turning his staring blue flames towards him.
Lucas closed his eyes.
‘You could find your dream in my sloop, should the night be graciously inclined towards you. That’s why I say you should spend the night with me.’
Lucas was silent.
‘Now then, there’s no need to give yourself airs and make a fuss. Or do you find the idea of spending the night in my sloop so unpleasant, does it go against the grain? What? You silly boy! Other gentlemen have spent the night here and found their dream. Quite different gentlemen, fine gentlemen, the very finest! What do you say to my invitation?’ The old man had thrown his straw hat away. His thick, long white locks bobbed up and down round his head. He held his oar high in the air. The reflection of the pale light behind the clouds lay on him and on the water.
Not at all apprehensive, with a feeling of reverence Lucas said, ‘Yes, I will spend the night in your house.’
‘House? House? It’s a sloop! You can see it now. Right by the water, my dear young man.’
The ferry landed. The old man immediately tied it up then waited for Lucas to jump down from the side.
‘The toll,’ he said earnestly.
Lucas paid the ten pennies.
Then they both headed for the boat that served as a shack, the old man leading the way, this time carrying the lamp in his hand.
The ferryman led Lucas into a low room and hung the lamp on a nail. It was high enough for the room to be quite well lit and Lucas could see everything in it.
At first sight it did not look much different from the crib of an untidy and alcoholic worker. The inside window was open. On the shelf were empty and broken bottles, half a flowerpot, a bag of nails scattered everywhere and all sorts of other things. The things on the rough deal table in the middle of the room were in a mess as well: two beer glasses, greasy paper with left-over scraps of food, a small paraffin lamp and a few torn-up newspapers. But one wall was taken up with a wide bed with fresh, snow-white sheets. It was turned down, and seemed to be waiting for a guest, for a gentlemanly occupant. On a table of its own by the wall opposite was an ancient model of a galley such as came into use at the time of Columbus. But what most captured his eye were the countless pictures, large and small, which papered the wall, and of which some, like the last dwarf pines in the mountains, even crept up as far as the ceiling. Above the bed hung a very large oleo-graph. It represented God the Father, a huge figure seated in the clouds; at His feet, His hand outstretched in a gesture of authority, Christ the Son, and flying down to earth in a halo of light, the dove of the Holy Ghost. That would not have been anything special, for it is a print that can be found in many peasant houses. But right next to it was a picture of a different trinity: Uranus at the top with his arms round Cronus, on whose knees a youthful Zeus was sitting. A third picture showed a mighty idol in the form of a phallus with two arms outstretched and each hand holding a further idol. A fourth picture seemed to represent an Egyptian trinity, a fifth the Trimurti, a sixth the Nordic group of three gods, a seventh the Indian. And when Lucas looked closely he could see on all the pictures the same motif of the the genealogy of the gods and the trinity.
His sight grew dim. Truly, a strange chapel, this boatsman’s hut. While Lucas’ soul was held in thrall by the countless gruesomely mysterious pictures, the ancient ferryman had sat down in an armchair, pulled off first one heavy boot then the other with a groan, and thrown them clattering to the floor. Now he stood up; barefoot and with swaying steps he came to Lucas’ side. He seemed to be taller than before. His head touched the ceiling!
‘Well may you stare, my lad,’ he said. ‘Comes to look for his dream and finds the most unusual collection!’
He pointed to the picture of God the Father, Christ and the Holy Ghost. ‘Father, son and holy ghost, and the same, again and again.’ His finger described a circle.
‘Always the same. Father and son, father and son. Excellent. The third weak and watery, a hypocrite beside them, begets not and is the vindication of all kinds of wind-bags. Father and son. Father and son everywhere. Excellent!’
Suddenly his expression darkened.
‘Always father and son. But who has heard of the grand-father? Just as he is a father, so he must have a father. And as he begets, so he must have been begotten. Who has heard of the grandfather?’
The eyes of the old giant were clear, fiery and fearful. His whole body trembled. In the curve of his back there was something of the proud humility of one who has been dethroned. At that moment Lucas could understand the pain he felt. He gave him a profound look. The old man noticed it and suddenly changed the subject.
‘My son, this bed is waiting for you. Lay yourself to rest. May you find here the dream you have lost.’
Lucas obeyed. All his wakefulness and strength seemed suddenly to have left him.
The ferryman waited until he was finished. Then he took the lamp and turned to the door. Lucas sat up.
‘What do they call you?’
The old man’s voice suddenly took on a squeaky, toothless tone as he replied, ‘Well … grandfather, that’s what people call me.’
This was the dream vision that appeared to Lucas in that night.
He was lying, dead and rigid, on a massive catafalque swathed in black; however, he was not in a coffin, but in a hollow in the catafalque which fitted the dimens
ions of a human body. His head alone was raised, resting on a pillow. To his right and left were two similarly sized depressions in the black trestle. He could not move, he was not breathing, and the unbeating inertia of his heart, the immense feeling of repose in his body, which was stretched out loosely, as if after terrible exertions, all said to him, ‘It is over. You are dead’.
His eyes were open. He could see everything. And he saw that he was lying in the middle of a huge cathedral. The height of the vaulted roof was enormous, impossible to gauge. Immediately above his head, however, it had been pierced by a circular opening through which burnt a sky of deep gold, pouring its molten ore over his face without injuring or blinding him. His heart was not beating. His mind was not thinking. And yet: he existed. But this existence was a bliss which could be compared with nothing else. Whether hours, years or seconds passed, he knew not. The golden fire in the opening of the pantheon remained the same. Now and then gigantic storks flew over the cupola. Lucas could clearly see their legs hanging down gracefully like red threads below their wingspan.
All at once the three doors of the cathedral flew open: the massive middle door and the two somewhat smaller side-doors. At first there was nothing to be seen apart from the exuberance of a day such as the earth, such as no planet has ever known. A divine conflagration of all the colours streamed into the church, but all the dead man felt was, ‘This is the true day’. And behold, in the middle door stood the old ferryman. With his height he reached to the point of the arch over the doorway. In his hand he held his oar, but now it was made of gold. From his shoulders to his feet a blue cloak hung round him.
Through the side-doors two processions entered, keeping pace with one another. In each, six masked figures bore a bier and placed it by the catafalque. Every step, every movement on the right and left was in time. From each bier they lifted a corpse and laid it in one of the hollows beside Lucas. It was all done very quickly. Hardly was the task finished than the cathedral doors closed; the ferryman and the masked figures had vanished and Lucas was alone with the two dead bodies.
Was it that his dream was interrupted, or was it that he became confused? Whichever it was, it seemed to Lucas that a long night had fallen and he kept his eyes shut.
And he woke once more in the cathedral, dead and stretched out on his catafalque. But the light in the dome had changed. It was hard, milky, dawning, and it did not stream but dripped. Before him, however, stood the old man. This time his oar was of ivory, his cloak black and embroidered with tiny silver magic stars. Each of the points at the end of his moustache had a bell hanging from it which jingled at every movement. And Lucas heard the old man’s voice,
‘Up you get, sleepy-head. Perhaps you will find what you are looking for here.’
He touched him with his oar. Lucas felt life return to him and stood up on the top of the catafalque. He wanted to address the old man. But he had disappeared.
Lucas looked behind. The two other corpses, who had been laid out next to him, were also standing. The harsh light flowed softly round the apparitions.
They were both men, the one in the prime of life, the other young, still almost a boy. Both were the same height and had the same figure as Lucas.
Although he had woken from the dead, his vision was still veiled. He still could not recognise the faces of his companions. A breeze passed through the church.
The lights swayed.
And now Lucas recognised the older man. It was his father. How happy, beaming and red-cheeked was his face! The hair of his head and beard was thick and black, his posture defiant and swelled with the breath of health. That was not how his son remembered him. His memory was of a tired, sick man who dragged himself from one chair to another, a grey head at the table who groaned and fell asleep early. And yet perhaps, in the drawer of some forgotten desk, there was a photograph in which his father looked as he did now, so handsome, so manly, so brotherly.
Lucas felt himself crying. His bashfulness was gone, his bashfulness towards the man, the severe judge who sat in the bay window and demanded to see the maths test with red ink scrawled all over it. Without apprehension now, without fear or hatred, he went up to the man who had come through the trial of death at his side in this cathedral. He grasped his father’s hand: the warm, soft, heartfelt clasp of a man who knew how to live. And his father drew his hand to him and pressed it fervently to his heart. For the first time in his life the son felt his father’s heart, his living heart, beating, and his own heart beat with awe at this mystical experience.
The catafalque had disappeared and the men were standing under the open dome on the stone flags of the church, father and son close to each other, the youth a little way off.
Then his father said to Lucas, ‘Come,’ and led him by the hand to the youth.
Lucas looked at him and thought, ‘My father has black hair, mine is brown and his is blond.’
Everything became brighter and brighter.
The young man gave the two a joyful laugh. His long hair waved, as if blowing in the wind. He was as sharp and strong as a blast from a trumpet, and the laugh of acceptance of the world never left his countenance.
His father leant over to Lucas and whispered, ‘We know each other, but he is our perfection.’ And Lucas saw that his father was crying, and tears of some unknown joy were running down his face too. He could not stop them. He fell to his knees and kissed the feet of the handsome, laughing boy. But the kiss was a magic spell.
A great thunder arose, the cathedral broke like a delicate castle of glass and was gone.
But the three held each other by the hand; Lucas in the middle, his father on the left, the youth on the right. All around them raged vast festivities. The golden light and the unearthly conflagration of colours had returned. A thousand columns of people with fiery banners and huge, gleaming musical instruments were mingling in a dance of profound but incomprehensible design. The three, however, were taller than all the rest. Lucas could feel the waves of the throng breaking against his hips. He was aware that what he was feeling was the highest joy of creation. A thousand hymns sounded around him, but all had these words,
See them marching, see them marching,
Generations without end.
Now he was floating up a hill of a tender green colour, his father holding his left hand, the youth his right. Women, whose dresses had slipped down from their breasts, threw themselves to their knees before them and begged them to touch them in blessing. But Lucas and his companions strode through the adoration of the thousand women. His gaze was fixed on the summit of the mountain. There stood the old ferryman. Now his cloak was of gold, his oar of some radiant, transparent metal. The little bells on his moustache were jingling wildly. In his free hand he held his lamp. The flame in it was invisible. Nearer and nearer Lucas came to the old man. Nearer and nearer! Then the flame in the lamp seemed to come to life, became brighter and brighter. But everything else grew pale.
And now the lamp was very bright and passing over his eyes.
He had woken up. The old man was leaning over his bed, shining the light on him.
‘Up we get, young man, time you were out of the sheets. I have to go to my work.’
Lucas sat up in bed. It was early dawn.
‘Well, did you find your dream in my room?’
‘There was a dream. It was a magnificent dream, but a different one from the one I lost.’
‘So you will have to continue your journey,’ said grand-father with a furious expression. ‘There, have your breakfast.’ He handed Lucas a large bowl of coffee and a slice of bread.
Lucas ate and drank.
Then they both went out into the open. Lucas had not cast one more glance at the pictures of the deities. He was afraid of them. In his soul rang out the words, ‘Search, search.’
They came to the ferry. The old man untied it. On the other bank Lucas could see figures in the half-light. They looked like shades in Hades, waiting to be carried across the Styx.
‘Where should I go now?’ asked Lucas.
The old man pointed his hand straight in the general direction of the forest. ‘Keep walking until it is evening. In different lodgings you will have more luck. Farewell.’
The unrest in Lucas was reawakened. He did not look round again and walked into the forest.
Again he spent the whole day wandering through the vast forest. His eyes were turned inwards, but the dream of the night was unable to tie them down. They looked deeper and did not see what they were looking for. The youth was the first of the dream figures to fade. Lucas did not know who he was or what his significance was. His heart no longer recognised him. His father, too, soon changed back, in his consciousness, into the person he had been when he had sat at table, or in the bay window with the rug over his feet, making remarks about the passers-by.
A mysterious shyness stopped Lucas from thinking about the ferryman who called himself grandfather. He never again wanted to think back to the horrible sorcery of the pictures of the gods in the boatsman’s parlour.
The forest and the mountain meadows, the torrent and the mossy rocks, which had accompanied him on his way yesterday, had been the right answer to the flutterings of his imprisoned soul. For on that day it had been filled with longing, homesick for a far-distant childhood. The rustle of the leaves, the bustle of the water, how soothing had been their serenade. Whenever he had passed a pit in the woods, he had shivered and an awesome, long-forgotten word from boyhood rose within him: cavernous.
But today it was a different longing that would not let him rest. He was no longer homesick for the past. He was home-sick for the future, he felt a yearning, incomprehensible and strange.
He left the forest and for hours walked through the countryside, across freshly sprouting fields and heaths, past many orchards.
Everything was in bloom. And he knew, as he went, eyes screwed up, through the scent and sweet, clear mist, that all this today was a descant of blessings above the dull vibrations of the puzzle within him.
The Dedalus Book of Austrian Fantasy;1890-2000 Page 23