by Ben Hopkins
Europa Editions
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New York, N.Y. 10019
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www.europaeditions.com
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2021 by Ben Hopkins
First publication 2021 by Europa Editions
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
Cover Art by Emanuele Ragnisco
www.mekkanografici.com
ISBN 9781609456245
Ben Hopkins
CATHEDRAL
CATHEDRAL
For Ceylan
Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?
declare, if thou hast understanding.
Who hath laid the measures thereof, if thou knowest?
or who hath stretched the line upon it?
Whereupon are the foundations thereof fastened?
or who laid the corner stone thereof;
When the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy?
—JOB 38: 4-7
PROLOGUE
IN THE BEGINNING
(ODILE I)
in the beginning was the Light
and the Light was perfect
but there was nothing but the Light
and nothing for the Light to know itself by
and so it created Darkness
and the Light circled the Darkness
and the Darkness circled the Light
and they kissed
and so the Devil was born
and the Devil was lonely
and had no one to play with
so He created His playthings
Matter
Stuff
and the World
know this:
this World is the Devil’s World
this world
with all its things
its trees its rivers its stones its lizards its flies its flowers its snakes
its moon and sun and stars
its flesh its bone its blood
is the Devil’s world
this world will have no beginning and will have no end
this world
is a decoy
from the real world of the Light
this world
is Nothing
BOOK ONE
THE CROSS
(1229–1235)
BOOK ONE
THE CROSS
(1229–1235)
I: LAMB OF GOD
(ANNO 1229. RETTICH SCHÄFFER I)
*
II: THE CURSE OF NUMBERS
(ANNO 1229. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN I)
*
III: A DEVIL’S SHILLING
(ANNO 1230. RETTICH SCHÄFFER II)
*
IV: A KNOT OF VIPERS
(ANNO 1231. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN II)
*
V: THE COUNTING HOUSE
(ANNO 1231. MANFRED GERBER I)
*
VI: SUNLIGHT
(ANNO 1231. RETTICH SCHÄFFER III)
*
VII: THE WHORES OF ROME
(ANNO 1231. MANFRED GERBER II)
*
VIII: A bASKET OF HONEY
(ANNO 1231. ODILE II)
*
IX: THE BLACK CAT
(ANNO 1232. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN III)
*
X: A pROFITABLE BUSINESS
(ANNO 1232. MANFRED GERBER III)
*
XI: THE LINEN CHEST
(ANNO 1232. GRETE GERBER I)
*
XII: INTO THY HANDS
(ANNO 1232. ODILE III)
*
XIII: BREAD AND WATER
(ANNO 1232. MANFRED GERBER IV)
*
XIV: THE MORNING ALTAR
(ANNO 1233. RETTICH SCHÄFFER IV)
*
XV: NINE CIRCLES
(ANNO 1234. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN IV)
*
XVI: THIS IS AN “A”
(ANNO 1235. MANFRED GERBER V)
*
XVII: THE MINOTAUR
(ANNO 1235. RETTICH SCHÄFFER V)
ANNO
1229
LAMB OF GOD
(ANNO 1229. RETTICH SCHÄFFER I)
It’s a story he likes to tell, how he first came to Hagenburg, how he bought his freedom, how he started as a stone-cutter’s apprentice, working at the Cathedral. Now he’s telling it again, in the Zum Drecke in the Fischgass, to Fat Uto and his Boys.
His name is Rettich, like “radish,” a name he’s had so long that no-one remembers the why and wherefore of it. Maybe it’s because his hair is blonde-reddish, and his face is pale and freckled—red top, white beneath . . . so a bit like a radish. But maybe it’s something else entirely. Whatever it is, Rettich is his name and he was a shepherd serf in the hills by Lenzenbach, like his father and his fathers’ fathers before him.
Anyhow, the story starts when his own father dies suddenly, leaving Rettich master of the family with only nineteen summers on his straw-coloured head. That was the spring when his father was meant to take him to Hagenburg for the first time, to pay their taxes to the Bishop, to buy a new scythe-blade, and to take communion. But the father was dead, and so Rettich, and his young brother Emmle (for Emmerich), walk down from the hills, jump on the back of a cart carrying wood, help unload the wood, then make friends with some boatmen travelling along the Ehle, give them one of their sheepcheeses as a gesture of friendship, and then find themselves like chatelaines, letting the boatmen do all the work as they sit back and let their hands drift in the water whilst the boating boys row and punt them down to the quay at Hagenburg.
Here Uto yawns, and he doesn’t even cover his mouth. He drinks and says, “My glass is half empty and you’re only just arriving in Hagenburg.”
Rettich shrugs, “Well then drink more slowly. Temperance is a virtue.”
“A Full Purse is a greater virtue. If you had a big, full purse, you could slap me with it now and again to keep me awake whilst you tell your story.”
Rettich joins the laughter. He’s not one to take offence at a jest. “Herr Hirschner, let me continue?”
Uto Hirschner, the town crier, waves his hand, granting permission. Buy him a drink, tell your story, then Hirschner has your name and your face. And in the end, so Rettich’s been told, everyone who needs something comes to Hirschner.
Rettich spreads his hands, setting a scene. “The quay, the marketplace, the fish . . . ”
“The FISH?” says Hirschner, “are you going to tell me about the fish? Listen, boy, we’re not like you, some shit-drenched hill-peasant a chicken laid out of her muddy village arse, we were born here in Hagenburg. We know what the fish-market looks like.”
† † †
In his first nights in the City, lying in the dank storeroom in the Jew’s house, he dreams again and again of his coming there, the moments of arrival. Jumping from the boat to the quay. The ground still totters beneath him. The crowd like the Whitsun fair in Schlettstadt, but greater, like both worlds of the Living and the Dead joining to throng the riverside. From the quay, words of thanks to the good boatmen, and then, Emmle’s hand grasped firmly, into the shouting market, and seeing, above the frowning gables, a distant dome rising. The Cathedral.
† † †
“Begging your pardon, sir, where can I find the Bishop?”
Laugh
ter from Uto. “You asked, just like that?”
Rettich laughs too, “How was I to know? I had my taxes in my purse, all I know is we pay taxes to the Bishop, so, you see, it follows . . . ”
He likes to see Uto laugh, it means maybe he’ll sit out the whole story.
In the story, Rettich is outside the Cathedral, asking the milling masons, mortar men and carpenters where he can find the Bishop. These days, now that he’s been in the City a few months, he knows how stupid that was. He may as well have had a banner made with the Fool as emblem, and as motto, “Country Dunce.”
“Where can I find the Bishop?”
“What do you need, boy, spiritual instruction?” asks one of the Masons. He’s trying not to laugh, but his eyes are friendly.
“We all need spiritual instruction,” says Rettich.
“And that’s true too. The Bishop’s not here.”
Rettich is sad to hear it. “Where is he?”
The Mason shrugs, “Who knows? Fighting, hunting, riding his lands, checking his incomes. Word to the wise, boy. His Grace the Bishop is never here for the likes of us. Now what do you want from him?”
“I want to bargain. About my taxes.”
The Mason is surprised. “Hark at that, he wants to bargain with the Bishop.” This gets interest from others. They rest their tools, gather round.
“I’ve heard I can buy my Freedom,” says Rettich.
“You can,” agrees the Mason, “but I’ve heard that Freedom is not cheap.”
“How much?” asks Rettich. The Mason shows his open palms; he doesn’t know. “Why do you want your freedom? Aren’t you happy where you are?”
“It’s nice, my village. But I don’t like the girls.”
“Why not?”
“Their beards?”
This raises a big laugh. “So you want your freedom so that you can chase our city girls?”
Rettich laughs too, squinting in the sun, enjoying the attention. “And own my own property. And keep my own fortune.”
† † †
Not part of the story, because it would make Uto yawn. Uto knows how the Cathedral is, he’s been looking on it since he was born. So he wouldn’t know what it was like. To come from Lenzenbach, where the tallest house has two storeys, and see that towering dome. For Uto the doorways are doorways, the arch an arch. But Rettich and Emmerich stood as pilgrims, silent and awed.
Tears came to Rettich’s eyes when he saw the portal, and above it, so real it was almost as if it was happening before him, saw the Virgin dying. Her sinking body, received by the mourning, reverent crowd. Her Son, our Saviour, kneeling, holding in his hands a small doll-like copy of her, receiving into his gentle palms her Immortal Soul.
Rettich stood before the Bishop’s Church, and cried. He had never seen anything quite so beautiful.
† † †
“Come in, don’t hover outside like some damned bat,” says the voice from inside, and Rettich (he has left Emmle in the sun with the Mason) walks in, all a-tremble. This is the room of the Bishop’s Treasurer, Eugenius von Zabern, in a building a stone’s throw from the Cathedral.
Von Zabern looks him up and down. He is tall, dark-haired, dressed in black. “What do you want, boy?”
Rettich is nervous it’s true, but he is never shy. “My Lord, I have come to pay our taxes, but also I have two questions. One is whether we can pay our tax this year in coin, not in sheep, and the second is if we can buy our freedom from His Grace, the Bishop.”
Silence as the Treasurer takes this in, and looks once again at the straw-haired boy. Maybe something here more than meets the eye.
“Village and name?”
“Lenzenbach, Schäffer.”
“In Lenzenbach, everyone is a Schäffer.”
“I know, my Lord. We are known as the Straw-Schäffers, because of our hair.”
Von Zabern claps his hands and one of the two young Clerks jumps up and goes to the wall of shelving where there are countless scrolls and ledgers. The other Clerk stays seated and counts piles and piles of pennies, flicking the beads of an abacus as he counts. This is the room: wooden panels, endless shelves of ledgers, three oiled muslin windows, two counters, three desks, the Treasurer and his two Clerks, a sleeping dog and Lord Knows How Much Money.
“Why in coin and not in sheep?” asks the Treasurer, sharply.
Rettich takes off his woollen hat, hoping this would make him look more humble. “Last year we gave His Grace ten sheep. In market now, a sheep is selling for eleven pennies. So I am saying I will pay His Grace nine shillings, two pennies, being the price of ten sheep. Is it not fair?”
A smile plays at the edges of the Treasurer’s mouth. “Bloody peasant, you want to haggle with His Grace?”
Rettich shrugs, “But it is fair, is it not? The same tax as last year.” The Treasurer is silent. So Rettich smiles and nods; “As a sign of good will, we can make it nine shillings, three pennies?”
“One extra penny! His Grace will faint with astonishment. So, lambing was good this year?”
“Why should I lie, it was good.”
“So you want to cut His Grace out of the benefits of a good year?”
“Why should we struggle to increase our herd, when the more sheep we have, the more sheep we must give the Bishop? And, when we die, we have nothing, as all of it belongs to His Grace?”
“Insolent egg! Why are you telling me this? You’re just a boy. Where is your father?”
“My father passed on this year, My Lord. And my father, God rest his soul, would never have dared to ask this. He talked about it, but he never had the bravery to do anything. But I am not my father, and although, My Lord, my heart is beating with fear, I am not afraid, at least to ask to you this question. Is it possible to buy our freedom?”
The young Clerk puts the Lenzenbach ledger in front of the Treasurer, and withdraws. Eugenius von Zabern’s long finger expertly runs down the lists of names and numbers, then his dark eyes flick back up to Rettich. “It will cost you twenty-seven marks to buy your family’s freedom.”
It seems that the Treasurer enjoys the moment of saying this, and the dark, horrible taste of shock that it brings up in Rettich’s mouth.
“In answer to your other question,” says von Zabern, continuing urbanely, “yes, you can pay in coin this year, but make it ten round shillings. And know that next year, should I wish it, you will pay your tithes in sheep. And don’t try hiding any when we come round. Straw-Schäffer, I have been long in this game, boy, and I know all the tricks.”
† † †
Before any of this worldly talk, tightly holding Emmle’s hand, standing below the altar in the Cathedral’s apse. The gilt roof, the patterns, the paintings. And the blocks, so perfectly carved that it almost seems a continuous wall of stone. Waves of different sandstones, their shifting hues made harmonious. And in the window above, Red such as he had never seen, Blue that is bluer than the sky at twilight, a Golden Yellow that captures the rays of the sun and makes Light visible.
In the hall on the way out, statues of the Apostles. Rettich feels a growing shame at his presumption. In his bag, slung over his shoulder, his wooden carvings that he had brought here to sell.
Having seen these works of the true masters, he feels he should empty the sack in the river and forget he ever held a chisel.
Stuttering with shame, he tells this to his brother Emmerich.
“But wood floats, Rettich,” is his reply.
† † †
Rettich looks at the heavy silver cross that hangs over the Treasurer’s black robes. He can’t face looking him in the eye again, not quite yet.
“Twenty-seven marks? How in heaven is any country man ever supposed to be able to find that?”
“Here’s a novel idea, Straw Boy, you borrow it,” says the Treasurer.
�
�And how do you pay back the borrowing?”
“By robbing folk on the highways, selling slaves to the Saracen, or by good honest work, it’s your choice.” He smiles. “The Church prefers good honest work.”
“So do I. Where do I borrow such money?”
“If anyone lends it to you, come back and tell me immediately. The shock will kill me, and I am weary of this world.” The two junior Clerks snigger. Even Rettich is smiling. “Where, my Lord, can I try and borrow?” he asks.
“There’s a lawyer on Schriwerstublgass, Altmüller’s the name. He has little concern for his immortal soul, and lends money sometimes. Or there are the Jews. The Jews offer better rates.”
† † †
Some more of the story that won’t be told: Rettich comes out of the Treasury House and weeps. Where he’s walking he doesn’t know. Tears in his eyes break up the sun, blurring rainbows. His sleeve wipes at the saltwater and the snot, his voice keens stupidly, höööö, höööö, like one of his own lost lambs.
People are looking at him, so he turns away. There’s a gap in a reed fence and he pulls through that. Solitude. He must be calm before he faces Emmle. He must find something bright and golden to say. Twenty-seven marks is a shadow that blots out the sun. An impossible debt, nearly six hundred sheep.
He is leaning on something; it is a huge block of stone.
Beneath him, surrounded by the reed fence, foundations. Dug deep and wide.
Rettich looks around him and realises these are not foundations of some new building, but of the Cathedral. His keening stops, his tears run dry, he wipes his eyes. Around him, the roofless walls of a Nave. Below him, the newly strengthened foundations. Dotted across the dusty ground, blocks of stone that have yet to find their homes on new, towering walls.