Cathedral

by Ben Hopkins

  EPILOGUE

  I: THE CALAMITY

  (ANNO 1350. QUIRIN VON LENZENBACH II)

  II: KINDLING

  (ANNO 1351. THE UNKNOWN MOTHER)

  III: SNOW

  (ANNO 1351. ZENZI)

  ANNO

  1350

  THE CALAMITY

  (ANNO 1350. QUIRIN VON LENZENBACH II)

  I have heard these voices throughout my life, drunken voices raised in taverns, bedraggled wild-eyed men shouting from the trestle tables of market squares, calling down Calamity on the world, prophesying with fervour that One Day the People will rise, the peasant, the footman, the carter and porter, and will knock the Crowns from the heads of Kings.

  And look, it has happened, or something very like. And what is the all-hallowed Result?

  A thousand dead Jews burned in a pyre. Bands of ruffians who toss down their tools hours before sundown and sit drinking outside the taverns, cursing and throwing stones at priests. Petty merchants folding their hands inside their furs and refusing to trade until the City rescinds all tolls and tithes. Marauders and highwaymen on all the roads. Bandits roaming the vineyards and farms.

  And truly, Calamity has fallen upon this world.

  † † †

  In Hagenburg alone, some ten thousand have died from the Plague. And throughout the Diocese, whole villages have been lost, monasteries and abbeys stand empty, sheep wander through abandoned cloisters, pigeons nest in looted churches, in our once splendid vineyards, the grape twists dying on the stunted vine.

  The Bishop still rules, at least in name. But Butchers and Tanners sit in our City Council, cloaked in sable and silver, taking on the airs of the patricians they once affected to despise. The common people, enriched by Death, who were quick to learn that work is plenty and workers scarce, haggle their way to bloated wages and, when a better offer comes, with an insolent shrug of their shoulders, leave off their work, half complete, half done.

  A sister dies and bequeaths to her brother, the brother dies and bequeaths to his wife, the wife dies and bequeaths to their son, the son dies and bequeaths to a cousin, the cousin dies and bequeaths to his sister . . . and the sister Lives. She buries her dead, bows deep in mourning . . . and in her shuttered, empty home, when no envious eyes are looking, in guilty lamplight, opens her money chest and tallies her Coin.

  And All Who Live today, now that the Plague has seeming passed away, shoulder up their Grief like a sack of chaff, cast it to the wind, and Rejoice. For they have seen Death creeping by, have heard the rustle of his sable cloak, have seen the rictus contort their Loved Ones’ faces, smelt the foul pus that oozes from the blackened boils, clenched their hands to their ears to blot out the screams . . . and yet They Live.

  The Taverns are full, Musicians play. Jigs and dances, reels and roundelays. But while you dance, who will sow the seed, who will reap the field? Who will pluck the vine and tramp the grape? Who will provide your next year’s wine?

  So, Hagenburg, wait. Wait till the barrels are all drunk dry.

  † † †

  And so I am leaving. This house, Haus Lenzenbach on Cathedral Square, I have put up for sale. I cannot think there will be a buyer soon.

  In recognition of my family’s wealth, and in hope of my resurrection and the Lord’s forgiveness of this City’s sins, I bequeathed all my remaining worldly goods to the Cathedral’s Fabric Fund. And in doing so, I know I am not alone. Whilst the Plague sickened through the city’s streets, whilst Death crept from house to house, then the city’s sinners repented of their many sins. Many were those who, as the black pustules cracked and burst, pleaded to Heaven and pledged their ill-gotten gold to God. And many of those who had sucked their silver from the burning furnace of the slaughtered Jews, in mortal fear of Hell, laid their purses on the Frauenwerk Altar to buy some remission for their crimes.

  The Fabric Committee, which once I chaired, is now swilling, awash with Gold. And from my window here on Cathedral Square, as I wait for the cart that will take me from Hagenburg, I can see the majestic Cathedral rise to the skies. They have finished the beauteous Rose. They have built the scaffolding for the first soaring Spire.

  I am told that one can see it from leagues away. From the Black Forest. From the Vogesen Hills.

  And so this Cathedral that I have looked upon, from this window, every day of my mortal life, will continue to grow. And it is built on such diverse Foundation Stones. On the Fear of God. On stolen Jewish Gold. On the hope of Salvation, a Resurrection and a Life to Come.

  † † †

  My servants call, the cart is ready. Loaded with my last, personal things.

  I will journey to Lenzenbach, in the Vogesen Hills. My wife, my three sons and grandchildren await me on our family’s estates, now managed by my eldest boy. On the green foothills, herds of cattle, sheep and goats. On the lower plains, wheat and rye.

  My ancestors came from a village there. They were shepherds, the Bishop’s serfs. They watched their sheep and slept the summers beneath the stars. And thus they lived, full centuries long, until dreams of this city led them astray.

  It is time to return.

  ANNO

  1351

  KINDLING

  (ANNO 1351. THE UNKNOWN MOTHER)

  T hey came from the Lorraine. From a village blighted by the Plague. They wandered South, along empty, haunted roads. And came one night, as evening fell, to Avenheim Monastery, louring in the dark.

  They were Mother and Son. He but five summers old. They had no food but dried, black bread. And so they stumbled to the Monastery, in hope of soup, in hope of a bed.

  But the Monastery was empty, abandoned, a shell. And as they stood in the twilight of the courtyard above the wide, darkening, Rhineland plain, a last ray of sunlight broke the cloud, and lit, like a Sign from God, the City of Hagenburg, leagues away, in the valley below.

  It shone upon the city’s sandstone walls, and burnished the Cathedral’s towering dome, and lit the spidery scaffold of the surging Spire. And the Mother turned to the Son and said, “My Son, this is where we must go. Tomorrow, God willing, we will journey there, you and I.”

  For she knew she was sick. A Fever had clutched her since the day before. And the evening was growing colder, the Witch of Winter rode the wind, and the clouds were seething down from the Vogesen Hills.

  And her son was shivering, trembling with the cold. So she knew that they must have shelter, a fire, and—God willing—hot food and a bed. She had little strength left, but she dropped to her knees and prayed to the Lord—oh my God, grant me fortitude.

  And with her last might, she broke the shutters of the Monastery’s servants’ cellar, and climbed inside. Her son was weeping, his feet rubbed raw, his tiny body exhausted, his eyes red with tears.

  She pulled him inside, wrapped him in sheepskin from her bundled pack and took out their two candles, and her tinderbox. “Stay here, my Love, and I will come for you. Here is a candle, so you need not fear the dark. Stay here, I will find what we need, and I will come for you.”

  † † †

  With fading strength, she searched and searched. Her candle’s flame hardly seemed to penetrate the dark. But in a storeroom she searched and found . . . a tub of dried peas, sprouting, dried garlic and a flagon of wine.

  Her body was shaking, the fever sapped her spirit, tempting her to yield, to lie down and sleep. In the kitchen, she found an old iron pot. In an alcove, firewood, and in a side room, a pallet, and blankets of wool.

  She returned to her son, who had fainted with cold. His candle still burned in his tiny, shivering hand. She begged God for Strength, just one more time, and carried her son in her trembling arms. And laid him on the pallet, wrapped him in blankets, and piled the wood high in the hearth. Set the pot on the trestle, and singing a hymn, filled it with dried peas, garlic and wine.

  Her eyelids were drooping, her s
trength almost gone. And yet she had one last thing to do for her Son. She must light the fire, set the pottage to cook, or else they would both die there in the monastery’s dark.

  And yet kindling . . . she had none. And here she nearly succumbed to despair. But then she remembered one thing in a chest she had seen. Parchments, curled, yellowed and dry.

  She returned with the candle, and opened the chest. It was full of writings, drawings and words.

  She offered prayers to the Lord, and brought the chest to the hearth. By the light of the candle, she spread out the parchments, and said, “I know it’s a sin to burn Holy Words. But Jesus, forgive me, for through this, my Son will live.”

  She had but few letters, but her fading eyes could read the name on the parchment: A C H I M v E S I N B A C H it said.

  And then she took a kitchen knife, and cut the first parchment in strips. And unfolded the second, and was blinded by tears.

  For what lay before her was the fairest thing she had seen. A circle of colours, a Rose painted in white, blue, crimson and green.

  She crossed herself again, and bade forgiveness once more. Sliced the parchment in strips, and set them on fire.

  † † †

  She laid down by her Son, held him tight to her breast. She succumbed to Delirium, and called out to her Lord. O God, o God, save us, I pray. Save me, save my Son, let us live through this night, let us live till the new day.

  Her son stirred beside her, and his lips formed some words. He said, “Mama, who is God?”

  And she said, “He who hath made this great world.”

  SNOW

  (ANNO 1351. ZENZI)

  and when we got up the world was white white white with snow everywhere all over the mountains and all over the plain and mama said i am sick my boy we have to go take that pot of soup and wrap yourself in the sheepskin and i’ll take the blankets and off we go so we went outside and it was cold cold cold and she looked and said do you see that bell we must go up there and so we went and mama fell down and said get me that stick to help me walk so i got the stick and i took hold of her hand and we went up the steps one by one and it took forever but we got to the top and mama said do you know how to ring the bell and i said no and she said pull the rope pull it with all your weight jump on the rope and grab it with your hands so i pulled and pulled and nothing came out and jump she said jump on the rope and i jumped and the rope came down and dong the bell went dong and rang out and i jumped again and dong the bell rang again and mama said good my boy now you ring the bell and when you are tired you eat your soup now i must lie down and she wrapped up in the blankets and lay down in the snow and i rang the bell and rang it again and the whole world was white and when i was tired i ate my soup and mama was asleep and the whole world was white and i rang the bell and then people were coming over the snow and they crossed the graveyard and walked through the graves and waved up to me and mama slept and the world was white everywhere you looked and the world was white white white and mama had told me god had made it so and the whole world was white, it was like magic

  † The Unknown Mother

  1323–1351

  † Quirin von Lenzenbach

  1290, Hagenburg–1355, Lenzenbach

  † Zenzi

  1346–1412, Hagenburg

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Cathedral was written between 2010 and 2017. I began the book in Saverne in the Alsace and continued it in Istanbul where I was living at the time. Then I moved to Berlin and wrote there and in my “writing cabin” in the Harz Mountains in Sachsen Anhalt. Whilst writing the book I got married and became a father, wrote seven screenplays and made two films, in Tbilisi and Istanbul.

  The book is dedicated to my inspiring and brilliant wife Ceylan, who was a constant source of love, laughter and support throughout the long writing process.

  Many other people helped with the book’s development. I am especially grateful to my friend and film editor Alan Levy, who read early drafts of all the chapters, and whose sharp and sensitive insights helped guide the writing process. Rob Cheek, John Hardwick and my wife Ceylan also read and made very helpful comments—my thanks to them.

  Dr. Stephen Mossman and Dr. Renate Smithuis, medieval historians at Manchester University, read the near-final draft and made important corrections and suggestions. I am deeply indebted to them, and to Dr. Hendrik Mäkeler of Uppsala University for his knowledge of medieval coins. My thanks also to my old friend Dr. Max Jones for introducing me to his colleagues at Manchester.

  My thanks also to Dimitris Lyacos, Eran Kolirin and Nick Marston, to Michael Reynolds and Daniela Petracco of Europa Editions, to the team at Conville & Walsh (Jake, Alexander, Kate and Matilda) . . . and to my son Armin, for helping me to play and laugh after a long day’s writing.

  And finally my thanks to my literary agent Lucy Luck, whose enthusiasm for the book was very inspiring, and whose incisive editing suggestions helped create the book in its final form.

  My very heartfelt thanks to all of the above.

  Ben Hopkins

  Berlin, 2020

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Ben Hopkins is a screenwriter, film-maker, and novelist. He has lived in London and Istanbul and now lives in Berlin. His films include features and shorts, fiction and documentary, and have won awards at festivals such as Berlin, Locarno, Antalya, and Toronto Hot Docs.