by Ben Hopkins
The donkey stalls, kicks the ground, reaching for the grass by the wayside. Dusk is gathering early on this damp and sombre day. Not for the first time, Rettich wants to run. He wants to run back to the hills of Lenzenbach, and back into the past. He wants, one more time, to be a Shepherd Boy, lazy in sunlight, little Lord of his gentle flock, knowing nothing but sheep and the childish woodcarving of his dreams . . .
But the road he is on leads to Hagenburg, and the Vogesen Gate. It leads through the narrow streets behind the Judengasse, across the stinking Fish Market, then through the warren of lanes in the Cathedral’s shadow, to the Treasury.
Rettich stands before the Treasury in the last glimmer of dusk. No light comes from its three windows. No guards stand by. All coin has been taken to the Pfennigplatz counting house for the holidays.
Distant, the sound of music, dancing. The fair continues in the Cathedral Square. Screams of laughter, last year’s wine, newly breached. The coming of Spring.
From his belt, Rettich takes his chisel. “Hello?” he calls out.
In the courtyard, nothing moves. The Kronthaler sandstone of the Treasury stares blankly at the lone Apprentice. The oiled muslin windows like dull eyes, seeing nothing.
Rettich slides the blade of the chisel in the gap. Near the lock.
“God forgive me,” he says, hoping that God will hear him.
A wrench of the chisel, a splintering. Rettich looks. It will take some work. But this door will open.
† † †
His Master’s eyes are moist with joy. “Rettich! You are a miracle.” The sketches slide through his delicate fingers; prophets, angels, gargoyles, Christ.
“My hand is nothing like yours, Master.” Rettich kneels beside him in the cell in Avenheim. April raindrops gather on the windowpanes. “And I have only just begun to replace the drawings that are lost.”
“Sssh, Rettichlein. The miracle is that you have remembered well what I have preferred to forget. And that is what touches me.”
“I’m glad, Master. And you seem so well.”
“I do feel better.”
“Soon you can start work again.”
“I do not think so. I am accused. They are pressuring me to confess to heresy.”
“But they have no case.”
Achim looks up from Rettich’s drawings of the Western Façade, sketched from memory; the statues for the portals, the sweep and symmetry of its rising forms. “Thank you, my friend.” He looks at the young Companion, and hands back to him the drawings. “And you had better keep these too, lest I burn them again!”
“Master? Would you . . . would you burn them again?”
Achim’s face darkens. “I do not know what I will do.”
Rettich takes his Master’s hands, “You will escape, My Lord. You will rise from the darkness.
Achim looks to the floor. “I am not so sure.
“But Rettichlein,” Achim says, shyly, and looks up, smiling. “There is something you could do for me.”
“Yes, Master?”
Achim is embarrassed. “Would you delouse me?” His eyebrow arches, recognising the oddness of the request. “It’s been weeks, and no-one here will touch me.”
But Rettich is delighted. He stands, gestures. “To the window, Master. I’ll see better there.”
Achim pulls a stool to the window, where a grey light filters through the droplets of rain. Rettich, at the edge of the bed, takes his Master’s head in his hands, a trophy. “I am a champion delouser,” he says, and runs his fingers through Achim’s fine long chestnut hair. “At home in Lenzenbach, I would do the whole village. And after them, I’d start on delousing the dogs. Do you know what the Lenzenbachers used to say?”
Achim shakes his head.
“That Rettich, he could delouse a louse . . . Funny thing to say of course. Do you think lice have lice? Really tiny ones? I hope they do. ’Twould be a kind of justice wouldn’t it?”
“It would.”
Rettich shakes his head, decides to be quiet. He is gabbling again. And he realises, with a pinch of sadness somewhere within, that he doesn’t really talk like that anymore. At the Site, at home with Ällin, he is serious, a man of few, well-chosen words. A Companion of the Guild of Stone-cutters. The Man of the House.
Only with Achim can he be how he used to be, a boy with a chattering tongue in his head.
But for now, meditative quiet. The rain falls, Rettich’s hands do their work, Achim stays still, watching the muddy horizon vanish under veils of grey. Lice crushed by Rettich’s nail drop on the windowsill, on the dappled stone. Gently, methodically, Rettich moves on, from tress to tress.
“I am happy, Master.”
“Then so am I.”
And that’s how he’ll remember him, his Master Achim. His face turned to the window streaked with rain. A faint smile on his lips, and his hair in Rettich’s supple, chisel-calloused hands.
† † †
“Daedalus was his name. He was the greatest builder of his time. He lived in Crete, an island in the hot seas beyond the mountains. The Queen of Crete was known as Pasiphae, and she mated with a white bull, and gave birth to a monster which was half man, half animal.”
God preserve us.
“That monster was known as the Minotaur.”
The night of Rettich’s initiation. The seven Masters have led him here, to the Cathedral Crypt, in darkness.
Each of them carried a lantern before them, and now the seven lanterns burn on the slab of white marble. Rettich is kneeling on the cold flagstones. Around him the tombs of Bishops and Lords, their names carved in stone. One of the graves is open, awaiting the day of Bishop Berthold’s death, when God will gather him.
The Seven Masters stand above him, behind the altar-like slab. Alenard is speaking, quietly, so as not to disturb the dead.
“The Minotaur was a terrible creature, but of royal birth. Queen Pasiphae did not allow him to be killed. But he needed to be contained.
“So Daedalus, great master builder, constructed a Labyrinth to hide the monster in. A building of corridors, stairs, chambers, a maze of such intricacy that the monster, the Minotaur, could never escape.”
Alenard falls silent. For long moments, no-one speaks. The Cathedral hulks above them, unseen but felt. Its grandeur, its centuries.
“We are the children of the Master Builder Daedalus, Apprentice Rettich. God be praised, we live in Christian times. We seek salvation. Through virtue, through good works.
“We have no monsters, no Half Men. No Minotaur.
“But we are constructors of Labyrinths. We work together, Masons, Stone-cutters, Carpenters, Ropemakers, Mortarers, Blacksmiths, Painters, to create something where all pieces interconnect, hold each other, raise each other. All our work unites to form a whole, a Unity, for the Glory of God.
“And in our Labyrinths, we have a monster to contain. To defeat.
“So we have brought you here, Apprentice Rettich, to ask you this question. Here, in the foundations, beneath our building, beneath our work, the labour of our hands. The question. What is the monster that we must contain, imprison, defeat?
“What is the Minotaur?”
Seven pairs of eyes look down upon the kneeling Apprentice. He knows the answer. Nevertheless he trembles as he speaks.
“It is Weight.”
The Masters nod.
Alenard speaks again. “We are a brotherhood, and we work for each other.” He smiles, wry, cunning. “If for instance, an Apprentice were to break into the Treasury and steal some documents, some technical drawings and plans, he would have to be reported and reprimanded.”
Rettich swallows. But his Master Giselbert is smiling.
Alenard continues. “Yet if a Companion were to do such a thing, then we would keep our silence. We would assume that the Honourable Companion would h
ave had his reasons, and that would be sufficient for us. But be warned, Schäffer. Never bring our Lodge into disrepute.”
Rettich looks up, contrite, accepting. Alenard nods gently. One by one, the Masters take their lanterns in their hands. Only Master Giselbert’s remains upon the cold white stone.
“We will leave you now, Apprentice Rettich. You have one lantern. Long before morning comes, the oil will run out, the flame will extinguish, and you will be alone in darkness.
“Face all your Devils now, Rettich. In the morning, when you hear Lauds, you will rise from the Crypt, like once our Lord Jesus Christ.
“And we will welcome you in our brotherhood.
“Until then, we wish you peace.”
They file out, almost soundlessly. Their boots scuff and hiss on the stairs.
The sound of the Crypt door, creaking on its hinges, closing. The Key in the lock, turning.
Rettich, kneeling, offers a prayer to God, Preserve me, my Lord, preserve me.
He is alone.
He prostrates himself before the Light. Let me serve you well, my Lord. Save my Master Achim from the demons that torture him, save him from doubt, show yourself to him, so that he can know you again. Let him return to this holy work, let us build a church in your praise, in image of your greatness. The work of my hands is offered to you, My Lord. Amen.
Dreams and nightmares crowd the backs of his eyes, waiting to be born. He thinks of what Achim told him. That God was a corpse. That there was no God, that this world was a dream, this world was a labyrinth from which the only escape was death.
He kneels again, holds his hands together, bows his head. Devotion. Silence. The trackless time passes, counted only in the dwindling flickers of the flame. He prays, repeating all the good, godly words he knows, again and again, crowding away the thoughts that come from the Devil and from Darkness.
And then the light gutters. Hisses. Extinguishes.
Black.
Rettich raises his head, he twists it from side to side, but all Looking is futile. This is a darkness complete, without flaw or blemish. A void.
And Rettich thinks to himself. This is the Absence. This is the Absence, this is the Nothing from which God created the World. This is the starting point. The blank page.
But, he thinks to himself, it is not empty.
I am Here.
There will be light. The door will open, and Companion Rettich will climb the stairs to the dawn.
It won’t be long.
I, Rettich, am here. And so is God.
Even though it is meaningless to do so, Rettich looks up. His gaze, eyeless, bleak and born of Nothing, reaches upwards through the void. It rises through the arches of the crypt, through the stone, into the Crossing, into the dome above, into the starless sky.
All around him he senses the Cathedral. He sees nothing, but he can sense it is there. Its hundredweights, its thousandweights, its millionweights. Stone, interwoven, layer upon layer by the labour of hands. Reaching upwards to an unseen but yearned-for God.
And trapping the terrible force that pulls it ever downwards.
END OF BOOK ONE
BOOK TWO
THE SWORD
(1241–1255)
BOOK TWO
THE SWORD
(1241–1255)
I: THE WAXEN HEART
(ANNO 1241. EINOLF I)
*
II: INNOCENCE
(ANNO 1241. RETTICH SCHÄFFER VI)
*
III: THE PAVILION
(ANNO 1241. GRETE GERBER II)
*
IV: SCHWANENSTEIN
(ANNO 1242. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL I)
*
V: LAMPBLACK
(ANNO 5002. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER I)
*
VI: THE RISE OF MAMMON
(ANNO 1242. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN V)
*
VII: FEAST OF FOOLS
(ANNO 1243. MANFRED GERBER VI)
*
VIII: THE CROWNED SHADOW
(ANNO 1243. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VI)
*
IX: FOUR SACKS OF TURNIPS, TWO POUNDS OF RICE
(ANNO 1243. MANFRED GERBER VII)
*
X: ABOMINATION
(ANNO 5003. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER II)
*
XI: THE ROOD SCREEN
(ANNO 1245. RETTICH SCHÄFFER VII)
*
XII: OAK APPLES
(ANNO 5005. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER III)
*
XIII: THE NEW REGIME
(ANNO 1245. RETTICH SCHÄFFER VIII)
*
XIV: THE STERNKAMMER
(ANNO 1246. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL II)
*
XV: THE MASTER
(ANNO 1247. MANFRED GERBER VIII)
*
XVI: SHIPWRECK
(ANNO 5007. YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER IV)
*
XVII: UNVANQUISHED
(ANNO 1247. BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL III)
*
XVIII: EX TENEBRIS
(ANNO 1247. EUGENIUS VON ZABERN VII)
*
XIX: VANQUISHED
(ANNO 1248. RETTICH SCHÄFFER IX • YUDL BEN YITZHAK ROSHEIMER V • GRETE GERBER III • BARON VOLMAR VON KRONTHAL IV• EINOLF II• EMMERICH SCHÄFFER I
• COUNTESS ADELHEID VON SCHWANENSTEIN I)
*
XX: A PILGRIMAGE
(ANNO 1254. RETTICH SCHÄFFER X)
ANNO
1241
THE WAXEN HEART
(ANNO 1241. EINOLF I)
And then what happened?”
Between his feet, crushed lilacs and river rushes.
“Look up, Boy. Tell us.”
Tears haze his eyes and blur the flames of torches held in pages’ hands.
“Be gentle with him, My Lord,” the Countess’ voice whispers, hardly heard above the hiss and creak of the hearth. Outside, hounds howl at a dirty moon, servants’ clogs clatter across the broad courtyard flagstones. Inside, smoke stings the young Boy’s eyes. He looks up. Teardrops snail-silver his cheeks, snot clots his nostrils. The Count of Schwanenstein, tall, bald, face of a hunting Black Kite, looks at him. Attempts a milder tone. “Boy. What’s your name?”
“Einolf.” His trembling voice, babyish and broken. The young Countess, all in white and gold like an Angel, smiles. Her hair coils like little rams’ horns. “Come, my little squirrel, tell us. You had set sail on the Rhine for Cologne . . . ”
A sob breaks forth like a turn of a lock, and then an unchained cascade of words . . . “Father Bodo wanted to stop the night at the Pilgrims’ Inn, but the Boat Owner said it’s a full moon and they can make good sailing at night on a full moon and Father Bodo said to him you just want to get out of paying the tolls . . . ”
“ . . . yes we know that trick . . . ” a shadow of a smile on the Count’s bleak face.
“ . . . and the Boat Owner said what’s that to you, you and your pilgrims’ll get to Cologne and the Three Magi one day earlier so don’t complain. And so we sailed at night.”
“Where are you and the other pilgrims from, boy?” The Count von Schwanenstein stands from his throne-like chair. His boots clatter on the wooden dais, his dogs swarm around his feet, a brown tumult.
“From the Breisgau.”
“A Country Egg. Is it your first journey?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“So you are sailing at night down the Rhine, to avoid the river tolls.” A valet pours wine into the Count’s glass, straight from the skin, and curlicued flames outline the silhouettes of Lord and Servant. The hearth is huge, the size of a mountain barn.
“Yes.”
“And then what happen
s?” The Count turns to face the Boy. His voice is soft, encouraging. Einolf can’t see his eyes, only the bright, leaping flames behind.
“We’re sailing, and it’s cold, and the moon is shining. Some of us tries to sleep, but it’s cold, so Father Bodo starts us singing a hymn but the Boat Owner says shush you never know who’s listening. And then we sail on and then there’s this terrible rattling under the boat, like it’s run on ground, like it’s running over stones and then we’re stuck and not moving.”
“And you’re not run aground on the shore?”
“No My Lord, we are in plain river.”
“How strange.”
“It’s because they put chains.”
“Who? Chains? What?”
“You see we’re stuck there and then we see some lights and it’s a lantern held by a man and his woman and they’ve just come out of bed from a house on the banks and they’re saying, ‘Do you need help?’ and we say yes we do. And they say they’ll get help, and soon there’s coracles coming from the village and twenty people and they rope up our boat and tug it ashore. And they help us all get out and say, ‘You can stay here with us in the village.’”
“What village was it?”
“When we get ashore, there’s no village, just one little hut. And the Boat Owner starts shouting I knew it I knew it, and grabs in the water and pulls out this chain that’s run across the river, and that’s what made our boat stop. And then then then . . . ”
“Oh little squirrel . . . ” The Countess holds out her arms. “Metta, comfort him!”
A serving matron’s arms wrap around the Boy’s dirty shoulders. Metta’s voice whispers in his ear, her cockerel jowls wobble against his cheek. “Come, boy, don’t cry. The Count and Countess have saved you. Show them some Grace. Tell. Tell.”
“They cut off his head. With a sword.”
“Who, Boy? Whom?”
“The Boat Owner. They cut off his head. And Father Bodo starts crying to God and they drag him to the ground and kick him.”
“A Priest? They kick a Priest?”