Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  My loveless wife.

  In the arms of others . . .

  He Who Has No Name.

  My son, with the golden hair.

  Yudl runs.

  ANNO

  1245

  THE ROOD SCREEN

  (RETTICH SCHÄFFER VII. ANNO 1245)

  Take your wax tablets in your hands. Draw one vertical line in the centre of the tablet. And one horizontal line near the top of the tablet. What do you have?

  A Cross.

  The Cross.

  The drawing in your hands is just made of two straight lines, but yet it is full of meaning. It means the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ, his Death for our sins, the promise of the Resurrection in the Life to Come.

  Look at your drawing. Is there anything like your drawing in the Real World that surrounds you? Is there anything in the seas, in the forests, in the fields, that looks like those two lines?

  No.

  What you have in your hands is man-made, two scratches of the stylus on wax.

  Just two scratches, but full of meaning.

  Take something real. A Squirrel. Let’s make a statue of a Squirrel. Let’s spend weeks carving and cutting, sanding and etching . . . and then—why not?—painting. The perfect shade of red. With those little whitish tufts on his belly and tail. Let’s put jewels in for his eyes, our little squirrel. Dark garnets. Let’s put a pine-nut in his hand!

  Look at him! He’s perfect! Our Squirrel looks just like a Real Squirrel! How clever we are. Aren’t we?

  This is what my Master taught me, and what I am now teaching You. Leave that kind of work to God. Let God make the Squirrel.

  But let us draw those two lines into a Cross. A symbol, a sign that make us think of God. Think of God and Wonder. Wonder at how he created all things. Including the Squirrel.

  † † †

  It is two years since the new Bishop, Heinrich von Stahlem, was enthroned. Two years of a New Regime.

  The New Regime has spread out roots and fingers, it reaches into every cubbyhole and cranny, every hidden, dusty corner of Hagenburg life. At the Feast of Fools this year, no donkeys, no masonry carts full of drunks. The Lord Bishop himself is there, and Uto calls for silence. “In previous years, this ceremony has become a disgrace to our City. Our Lord Bishop bids us celebrate with Joy, but with Restraint. Those drinking to excess or behaving indecorously will be removed.”

  The Bishop’s militia carry staves and mingle amongst the crowds, enforcing the new Order. Many of the congregants leave to the taverns in disgust.

  The same men with staves patrol the church in the days of the week, calling for silence when the services begin in the Choir. Bitter unease gathers in the arcades where the townspeople meet, breaking out into defiance and shouts. “I’ll talk here if I want to! Whose Cathedral is this? It’s the City’s!” Staves are raised, beatings given, protestors are taken to the stocks, to the Gatehouse Prison for a day’s bread and water.

  And the new Lord Bishop has given the Cathedral a new Dombaumeister; Werlinus von Nordhausen. A tall Cistercian mason originally from Quedlinburg in the Harz, thin as three sticks tied together, hands long like a scarecrow’s. A kind, drooping face. Like Achim von Esinbach, he had travelled to Chartres, Reims and the lodges of the Champagne. Unlike Master Achim, he has a worldly intelligence, an understanding of his political role.

  And his role is to do the Bishop’s bidding. The Cathedral had become a place of Disorder and Misrule. It must be calmed and made serene. And so a Rood Screen will be built to separate the Canons from the People. A screen of stone across the eastern end of the Crossing, blocking the Apse and High Altar from view. In the screen, facing the Nave, seven altars are to be built, including the Morning Altar of the city’s merchants. “It will be of mutual advantage to both Church and City. Our Lord Canons will be able to conduct their services in peace, behind the screen. And the daily life of the Cathedral will continue on the other side.”

  Master Rettich looks at Werlinus’ design, spread out on the drawing table of the Lodge. A seven-arched wall, each arch topped by the crown of an equilateral triangle, supporting six statues and an intricate gallery of corniced stone. Pretty, in the style of the Cathedrals of France and the Champagne.

  But it cuts a line through the church. It blocks the Apse, the Choir, the High Altar. It breaks the sweep of space that the Cathedral will have once the Nave is complete. Squatting at the end of the Crossing, it seems to pull the arches lower, making them dwarfish and stout.

  It destroys Master Achim’s design.

  Rettich glances over at Landolt, who meets his gaze a brief moment and then looks away. The same thought crosses through their minds: ten summers ago, they would have cried out, protested. But times have changed.

  The New Regime. Know your Master. Submit. Obey.

  Landolt clears his throat. “That’s a lot of work, Herr Dombaumeister. Who will do it?”

  “You all will. Work starts tomorrow, measuring and ordering the stone.”

  “And once we start building the Screen, what will happen with the Nave?”

  “The priority now is the Rood Screen. The Bishop wants it completed as soon as possible. The work on the Nave will stop.”

  Rettich nods mournfully, looks at the floor.

  The New Regime.

  † † †

  There is a space behind the little arches of the triforium, a cubby hole, decked out with straw, linen sacking and a blanket of Anglian wool. And now Bishop von Stahlem’s regime has reached its probing, spidery fingers here.

  For three quiet years, Rettich has worked on the triforium and the upper galleries, diligently carving Master Achim’s designs; rhyming patterns of acanthi, mythical monsters, gargoyles. And when work was quiet and he had no novices to teach, he would sit there a moment, lay down his chisel, let his legs dangle high above the Nave. He would look to the Cathedral floor, make sure that there were no prying eyes, and then would nod to his apprentice Friedl, send him a wink.

  They pulled up the ladder silently, rung by rung. A final look around, and then they crawled inside into the warmth of sacking and straw. Quietly they made love and laid back to rest in each other’s arms.

  Across the Nave, the opposite clerestory stood empty, an open frame, awaiting its glass. As they lay together, the swallows wheeled in the evening sky, pigeons perched in the paneless windows, grumbling, cooing witnesses of Rettich and Friedl’s Love.

  But now the work on the Nave has been stopped. For the last time, Rettich and Friedl sit and pack their tools, legs swinging over the unfinished void. They check no one is looking. Kiss a final, memorial kiss. Then they take the bedding from the cubby hole and tie it into a bundle, make it fast with rope, toss it to the Cathedral floor. Then they lower the ladder, the now-broken thread between their secret Heaven and the lower, purgatorial world below.

  † † †

  Look now, boys, at this Gargoyle that I have made. Wings of a dragon, face of a devil, legs of a goat, a human trunk. Do you like it?

  Some say that it is wrong to make Gargoyles. That it is not for us to make creatures from our fantasy, to make inventions. That in doing so, we blaspheme, and indulge ourselves sinfully. They say we should leave Invention to God, and reflect the World as He has made it.

  But some, like my Master before me, say that to copy God’s creation is nonsense, for how can we do any better than God? Why be God’s copyist? My Master said we should let our minds seek out new forms, put our dreams into our hands and let them guide the chisel. Let God flow through us as we create.

  God made this world for us, for Adam and for Eve. And as he made this world for us, let us make our works for Him.

  These last two, three years I have been up that scaffold, forty ells above the ground, making dragons and monsters. My sister asks me why I bother, as no one can see the work I do, as it’s so hig
h above the Cathedral floor.

  But God sees it, boys. It is my Work, for Him. And that’s all I can ask for in this World. To work and work well. To work as best as I can, for God.

  For all there is in this world, is Work. Every blade of grass, every cloud, every drop of water is a sign of God’s Work. And all I will leave behind me when I am gone is what I have made.

  All there is, is Work.

  † † †

  “Master Rettich. A word.”

  Dombaumeister Werlinus’ quiet Saxon voice halts him at the Lodge doorway. Rettich turns. His Master is seated, as usual, at the Draughting Table. Seven candles in the candelabra above him, a crown of quavering light. It is late in the day, the Apprentices are clearing away the tools, the dust.

  “Yes, Master?”

  “Take a seat.”

  Rettich sits, awaits the Topic. Werlinus intertwines his long fingers, like wicker-work. “The theoretical line you take in your lessons, Master Rettich, I am not sure it is appropriate.”

  Rettich smiles; his best defence. Your smile would charm the devil, Friedl tells him. “I am just teaching what my Master taught before me.”

  Werlinus smiles back. “Master Achim was a brilliant man.”

  “He was.”

  “But he was . . . confused about many things.”

  “He was?”

  Werlinus leans forward, speaks more quietly. “He was a theologian, a scholar, a Master of the Paris University! His experience of . . . practicalities . . . was limited. And, as you know, he was . . . ” Werlinus closes his eyes, hoping to find the right words in darkness. “Afflicted. See his creations! Prophets with wide, upcast eyes! Majestic, aloof, staring Kings. Sometimes I look at his ideas, and . . . I am lost.”

  “They are beautiful.”

  “No doubt, no doubt. But this phrase. God’s Copyist! ‘We should not be God’s Copyists.’ It is absurd. Those who pray wish to see familiar figures. The delight of the eye in recognising a true human form, one of God’s animals, or fowl, perfectly rendered in stone!”

  “Master Achim said the delight should be felt looking on God’s original works, not on our copies.”

  “Why? We honour Him in replication of the wonder of His creation.”

  “No. We honour only ourselves, by showing off how clever we are at copying.”

  “God gave us hands and minds so that we can worship Him, by displaying His grandeur.”

  “God gave us minds so that we could search for Him, where He is Hidden.”

  “What do you mean, Master Rettich?”

  Rettich’s mouth purses, closes. His eyes wander to the seven candles, their silvery reflectors, the flickering light. Be careful now. He tries another smile, but it comes out twisted, defiant. “The glory of God’s creation is clear to anyone. Just look around you and you will see it.” Rettich turns to his Master’s narrowing eyes, looks deeply into them. “Copying what is already there is not a Search, it is not a Pilgrimage. Close your eyes, Herr Dombaumeister, don’t look for God in the world. Anyone can find him there. Seek Him in the hidden places of your soul, seek His Light in the shadows of your imagination, and then express your search with your hands. That is Art, Herr Dombaumeister.”

  Silence.

  “That is, at least, what my Master Achim taught me.”

  Werlinus nods silently, sadly. His kindly face is in shadow as he looks down at his hands. “Master Schäffer, maybe it will be best to relieve you of your teaching duties.”

  Cold fingers trace the length of Rettich’s spine. The Dombaumeister continues. “In my Lodge, a statue of a dog must resemble a real dog. In the real world.” He looks up, and there is fear and maybe anger in his eyes. “If we copy God’s creations, we cannot err. If we follow . . . an Inner Voice . . . Then, Master Schäffer, how do we know it is not the voice of the Devil?”

  Rettich says nothing. The Dombaumeister finally untwines his fingers, lays his palms flat on the Draughting Table. A sign that the interview is coming to a close. “And maybe it will be good to keep you away from the younger boys.”

  OAK APPLES

  (ANNO 5005. YUDL BEN YITZHAK III)

  Women. None but the honourable honoureth them, none but the despicable despiseth them. Have I fallen so far from the ways of the Righteous that I should despise my own wife? Have I lent my ears to the whispers of the Wicked?

  Who can divine the truth? I look into her eyes and see nothing. All love for me is gone. But am I not author of this contempt? For I have called her contemptuous?

  Unto thee O Lord do I lift up my soul. Show me thy ways O Lord, guide me in thy truth and teach me, for thou art the God of my salvation.

  Redeem Israel, O God, out of all his troubles.

  

  There is a Conspiracy. A Conspiracy against Yudl, to tell him Nothing. To keep him in the dark.

  The Conspiracy has another name, it is called Sex. And everyone is involved in it, and no one will tell him anything about what it is.

  Sex is driving his Father mad. He wants his wife to Love him, but he doesn’t know how to make it happen. So he thinks his wife hates him. He thinks everyone hates him. He even thinks the Rabbi hates him. And his Secret Red Book is full of terrible things. The Whispers that Yudl had never heard, about his fair hair and the Strawhead Goy. That the Goy may be his real Father.

  The Conspiracy. The plot of silence. And if Yudl had not sinned by eating of the forbidden fruit, by reading the Secret Red Book in the locked and mysterious library, he would have known Nothing. Which is what everyone wants him to know.

  Nothing.

  But if the Jews won’t tell him, maybe the Gentiles will. And so Yudl begins to follow Emmerich Schäffer when he leaves the Jews’ Quarter in the evenings. Yudl slips on a dark cloak, pulls down the hood, and follows the Strawhead Goy into the narrow streets. Sees how goes into an Inn to eat a bowl of pottage, all alone. How he sits a while longer, leaning back against the wall, thinking private and melancholy thoughts, drinking a pitcher of wine. And then how he wanders down a few more alleyways to his lonely lodgings on the Langer Weg, a stone’s throw from the market gates.

  On some evenings, Emmerich has company, meetings. He strolls over the Square and enters the Abomination. Or walks further on to the Merchant’s Quarter, to the fine, narrow, four-storey houses of Müllergass or Spitzengass, and sits with the merchants in their shops, drinking wine as a servant lights the lamps in the corners and closes the shutters against the passing traffic of the street.

  Twice Yudl sees him go to the notorious tavern zum Sterne, where an armed guard, liveried in black and argent, stands at the door. Schäffer is not allowed entrance to this Old Family meeting place, merely announces himself, and waits outside. Presently, the tall, commanding Baron von Kronthal steps out. Emmerich presents the Baron with a sheaf of papers and then they walk up and down the street, their hands behind their backs like Rabbis, as Schäffer explains, and von Kronthal listens . . .

  One late spring evening, after his pitcher of wine, Emmerich’s eyes seem clouded, melancholy. Instead of heading home, he walks back past the Judengasse. Yudl has never seen him take this route before. Curious, he follows, holding to the shadows.

  A balmy, tentative breeze steals through the streets, and for the first time since winter, the houses’ shutters are open. The sounds of family suppers, arguments, laughter echo from the open windows to the lonely road below.

  Emmerich goes deeper into the alleyways of the Mayenz Gate district. Left here, right there, right again. Yudl fears that he will never find his way home. The evening’s purple gloaming is hardly to be seen between the gable rooves. Crows search amongst the scraps and broken pots behind the houses. Mice scuttle.

  A long, crooked, narrow street. Suddenly a rainbow of colour, an echo of the celestial spheres. Lanterns burn above the doorways; a purple moon, a golden star, a red glo
be, swaying.

  Standing in the coloured pools of light, women. Women without caps or scarves, with open, flowing hair. Women with blouses open to their breasts. Women with skirts hitched to show their knees and calves, and (God forbid!) their secret, soft thighs.

  Yudl slinks into a shadowed doorway, hiding, burning. His stomach twitches, cavorts, his loins dance. He covers his eyes, but through his wicked fingers, shamelessly stares at That Which Should Not Be Seen. At calves, necks, breasts.

  Emmerich dances the length of the lane, spinning round, turning, taking in the women like wares on market stalls. They call out to him “Come on, Master,” “Try me,” “I’m yours.” He waves his hand, passing. An old, cracked jade jeers, “You’ve got no chance! He likes them dark!”

  At her doorway, his girl waits for him. A girl from the South, dusky, plump, the Queen of Sheba. Emmerich dances up to her. There are silver pennies in his hand.

  Suddenly behind Yudl, the door opens. A man hurries out, hastily pulling his hood around his face. A momentary impression, his cold eyes, startled by the boy. Yudl jumps out of his way, and then the man’s gone, half-running into the rainbow-coloured lane.

  Behind him, a woman, ripe, red-haired, full-lipped, fastening her blouse. She takes hold of Yudl’s flailing, running arm, holds him tight. “Slow down, love,” she says, “Waiting for me were you?”—“No, madam.”—“Oh, ‘madam’ is it?” She giggles, reaches out to pull down his hood.

  “Oh my!” she coos. “Just a boy.”

  Hot blood rushes to Yudl’s face. “Sorry, madam, I must go.”—“No, wait a while, my boy, you must’ve come here for a reason.”—“No reason, I should go.”—“Now be polite, my lad, and tell me your name.”—“H- H- Heinrich’s my name.”—“Can I call you Heinl?”

  Her hand slips inside his cloak, reaches downwards. Yudl gasps like a carp. “Yes, I thought you liked me.” Her hand moves up and down, touching him through the fabric of his hose. She pulls him close, into her breast. Yudl feels something inside him, rising up like sap, bursting. He groans, gasps, in torture.