Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  A noble disposition, a strong body, strong fingers and agile hands, with a capacity for mathematical and mechanical arts, he wrote down. As he further contemplated the celestial alignments, he could see the portent of a vivid imagination, compassion, piety, perhaps a hint of stinginess and mistrust – but with Europe in such turmoil they were probably good traits to have.

  He bounded up the stairs waving his notebook in triumph.

  Barbara was sitting up in bed, rocking the child. Tears had streaked her face. Little wonder, thought Kepler. At times the house had echoed with screams more akin to taking a life than bringing one into the world.

  He was halfway through his proclamation when she said his name sharply, capturing his attention. She continued more quietly: ‘Johannes, there is something you must see.’

  With heart pounding, he watched her unwrap the baby. Lodged between the boy’s legs was a peculiar carapace of skin, dark and craggy, where his testicles should have been. It looked like the gelatinous mass of a boiled turtle.

  Kepler stared at the deformed genitals. He could think of only one thing: the liquor dripping from Barbara’s smiling chin as she wolfed down another turtle. His eyes began to play tricks, doubling the image of his son and then quadrupling it. Dizziness and nausea assaulted him.

  ‘Husband?’

  He began talking – then shouting – and then screaming at her about how her gluttony had engineered this calamity. It all made perfect sense in his pain-drenched mind. The women began to wail, some running from the room with their arms thrown upwards. Barbara too began to weep, but silently.

  The sight stopped Kepler mid sentence and, with a panic-stricken glance around him, he fled the room.

  Later, his thoughts black with anguish, he returned to see Barbara. He sank to his knees and begged for her forgiveness at her bedside. ‘I am worse than a mad dog, barking at those I love the most,’ he pleaded.

  She told him the matter was closed, but his shame would not budge so easily, especially when two months later Heinrich’s final tragedy had overwhelmed them all. His tiny body had been consumed by an unquenchable fever that took him in a matter of hours. Worse, the same had happened a year and a half later to their next child, Susanna.

  If the smell reminded Barbara of that awful confrontation then she gave no indication of it when Kepler joined her at the table. She occasionally looked up and smiled as her jaws mashed the softened cartilage.

  Kepler could bring himself to eat no more than a few spoonfuls and excused himself. As he left the room he glimpsed Barbara reaching for his plate.

  Later that evening Barbara fetched him from the study. Von Wackenfels had arrived and was pacing excitedly across the front room. ‘I have the news you crave,’ he said. ‘His Majesty wishes to appoint you imperial mathematician.’

  Kepler remained expressionless, not daring to hope. ‘He has remembered that I am Lutheran?’

  Von Wackenfels nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, yes. You’ll be safe under his protection. He wishes to meet you tomorrow. Be at the Palace at nine.’

  The front door had barely closed when Barbara flung her arms around Kepler, her weight throwing him against the oak. ‘Husband, you are my prince.’

  Kepler followed von Wackenfels through the grand hall milling with courtiers, and then into an anteroom decorated with calendrical murals. Above the harvests and frosts, storms and flowers, the depictions turned to the base elements of nature: a green field and mountains to represent earth; a ship on the stormy ocean for water; a twisting pillar of flame for fire; and an extra-vagant cloudscape with eagles for air. The god Jupiter represented the celestial realm. His conquering eyes regarded Kepler from above the inner doorway as if determining whether to let him pass.

  Von Wackenfels drew open the far door and Kepler walked into a large chamber. He could scarcely believe such grandeur existed. Pictures were on the floor, resting against the walls, or up on benches in an approximation of where they might hang.

  Most featured elongated characters in stylised postures. Many of the paintings seemed to be at least partly mythological in subject matter. Kepler recognised Urania, the muse of astronomy. The cherub was holding a sextant and dancing.

  There were a number of bare-breasted women suckling babies. The mothers all possessed exaggerated necks so as to look down on their infants.

  ‘This gallery will be one of the wonders of the world when it is finished,’ said Kepler, wishing he could linger.

  Von Wackenfels looked puzzled.

  ‘The paintings, when they are hung,’ said Kepler.

  ‘But His Majesty prefers them this way.’

  Kepler decided to keep his thoughts to himself from then on. He could ill afford a blunder like that in front of Rudolph.

  From the gallery they passed into another similarly sized hall. This one housed exquisite mechanisms. Some of them Kepler recognised as astronomical instruments; others he could not even guess at. Suits of armour, some dented or split from battle, shared the floor space with display cases crammed full of glittering cups and amulets. From the ceilings the skeletons of animals hung down like macabre puppets. Some of them were so outlandish that Kepler could not even begin to imagine what they had looked like in life.

  ‘We call this the Kunstkammer, His Majesty’s Chamber of the Arts.’

  ‘I have never seen such a place.’

  ‘Nothing like it has ever existed before. It is the finest collection of human knowledge and artefacts ever amassed. Beyond are cupboards of manuscripts and other relics. His Majesty has everything in here from the latest philosophical books to unicorn horns.’

  ‘I can see why he is loath to leave these rooms. Sorting through all this could keep a man fascinated for a lifetime.’

  Von Wackenfels led Kepler up a steep staircase and out into the daylight. It was a glorious day, the sky powder blue; the kind of day that suggested the trees had been tricked into shedding their leaves too early.

  They were on the top of a tower. The Emperor stood by the ramparts, looking out over Prague. From this distance, the city’s buildings looked like toys, and Rudolph as though he could reach out and rearrange them. Above the tiny red roofs, starlings were massing in preparation for their annual migration south.

  ‘Johannes Kepler, Your Majesty,’ announced von Wackenfels.

  The darkly clad figure did not turn round. Von Wackenfels jerked his head, indicating that Kepler should approach.

  ‘Your Majesty,’ Kepler said with a bow, ‘I am here as your humble servant.’

  Rudolph muttered something that was lost to the wind. Kepler edged closer.

  ‘See the bridge?’

  From this distance, its exquisite detail was lost. It was nothing but a strip of road that crossed numerous stone pontoons. Underneath slid the water of the Vltava, snaking crests of white foam marking its progress.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’

  ‘My ancestor Charles IV founded that bridge. He did it at the very moment when the Sun eclipsed Saturn to shield it from the planet’s evil influence.’

  ‘His Majesty’s forefathers were wise indeed.’

  ‘Astrology is of the highest importance here. We rely on it to guide us. Tycho understood that.’

  ‘And I will endeavour to succeed him in every way that I can, Your Majesty.’

  Rudolph made a small sound. ‘There is someone I want you to meet.’

  Kepler followed in silence back inside and downstairs, feeling increasingly uncomfortable. At one point, he snatched a glance at von Wackenfels, a few paces behind. The councillor smiled reassuringly, and Kepler relaxed.

  When Rudolph did speak, Kepler strained to hear above their footsteps.

  ‘We will buy Tycho’s equipment and observations from his heirs. We’ve made them an offer of twenty thousand thaler. You will do everything you must to publish The Rudolphine Tables, as Tycho promised.’

  ‘I will, Your Majesty.’

  ‘You will be paid for this work by the Palace.’
>
  ‘Most generous, Your Majesty. May I respectfully discuss the salary? My wife is expecting a ch—’

  Rudolph stopped him with a squeak. ‘The Privy Councillor will deal with that.’

  Instead of heading into the Kunstkammer, they passed through a doorway and out into a sloping garden. Full sunshine greeted them, and Kepler had to raise a hand to shield his eyes.

  ‘Welcome to the Garden of Paradise,’ mumbled Rudolph.

  It was a large triangular space lain mostly to lawn, interrupted by the occasional pruned shrub. Exotic squawks such as Kepler had never heard before came from a stone building with a chimney that twisted ribbons of smoke into the air.

  ‘My aviary,’ said Rudolph. ‘We have to heat it, otherwise they die. Such a waste after all the trouble it takes to bring them here.’

  A curious creature, resembling a black duck in shape, but around four times the size, waddled up to Kepler. Its large beak clicked open and closed, and its tail feathers curled like the plumage on some of the hats Kepler had seen at court that morning. He tried to sidestep the bird. It flapped its vestigial wings as if trying to work out what they were for. Then it turned to intercept him again.

  ‘There is nothing to fear. It is quite harmless,’ said Rudolph. ‘They call it a dodo because it is utterly stupid.’

  Von Wackenfels shooed it away when Rudolph was not looking. Kepler mouthed his thanks and hurried to catch up. The Emperor led them to another stone outhouse, much larger than the first. At the doorway, Kepler heard unmistakable growls from within and hesitated. Rudolph giggled and walked on. As Kepler followed, the tang of animals caught in his nostrils.

  The floor was covered in straw, and animals were chained along the walls. A prostrate wolf pricked its ears and looked up at the new arrivals. In the next stall, a black bear rocked its head to and fro, paying them no mind. Kepler stared in amazement at the next animal. It was a tiger. The vividness of its coat, the burnt orange and black stripes, entranced Kepler as did the lazy way it lifted its head and flicked its tail.

  Arriving at the last stall, noticeably finer than all the others, Rudolph stopped. ‘And this is my lion.’

  The beast was lapping at the eviscerated ribcage of a deer. The stench of blood hung in the air. The lion was so caught up in its meal that it completely ignored the humans. Its fur was the colour of expensive honey but its muzzle was stained red. It shook its head, rippling its luxuriant mane, and then returned to its meal.

  ‘Tycho told me we shared similar horoscopes.’

  It took Kepler a moment to convince himself that he had heard correctly. He was about to object to the idea of an animal being in any way similar to a human.

  ‘I believe it to be true. We are brothers.’ Rudolph gazed lovingly at the animal.

  Kepler looked away lest his face betray shock. Animals have no souls; how can the Emperor be so naive? As Kepler’s eyes sought something else to rest on, he could not help but notice there was enough meat left on the deer’s carcass to feed his own family for a week.

  14

  The next summer, as God walked among his people in Prague, so the Devil was but a half step behind. The burning wind withered crops and parched the city of moisture, clotting the air into a breathless mass that clung to the streets as molasses to a barrel. The sun glared, cracking the stucco façades of the buildings and blistering the faces of the inhabitants.

  As tempers frayed, so rumours of plague in Hungary caught hold. Each stricken body was reputed to display bloody marks corresponding to where Christ had been nailed to the cross. This was taken as proof of the divine retribution being meted out. Undertakers in Prague searched the recently deceased for such marks; officials waited anxiously for news of the plague reaching the city.

  In this cauldron, the Keplers prepared for their third baby. The shutters at Barbara’s window prevented light from entering and heat from leaving. Regina spent much of her time in the simmering bedroom, dousing her mother with a wet cloth.

  During Barbara’s confinement, Kepler slept alone. Often he would rise in the night to scribble down some thought or to crank through some celestial calculation that had seemed intractable the day before when the closeness of the air had transformed his study into a furnace.

  Today, however, he had entirely new things to worry about.

  In the far corner of the coaching inn’s courtyard, a black coach was being unloaded. He made his way through the crowd to where a young man was dropping the travelling cases down to a colleague.

  That’s when he saw her, smaller than he remembered and her shoulders now rounded, but unmistakably Katharina: she was chiding a boy whose only crime was to help with her luggage.

  ‘Careful with that,’ she said.

  The boy swung the bag up on his shoulder. ‘Just tell me where you want to go.’

  Kepler rushed over. ‘I’ll take it from here.’ He handed the boy a coin.

  ‘You’re welcome to her.’ The boy dumped the bag on the ground, gave her a sour look and sauntered off.

  ‘You’re not getting a tip from me,’ she called to his receding back.

  The boy raised a hand without looking round and moved his fingers and thumb to imitate a flapping duck bill.

  Kepler turned to the woman. ‘Hello, mother.’

  ‘You let him talk to me like that.’

  ‘Mother, it’s of no concern. Here, let me take your bag and escort you home.’

  Her bad mood did not last long. It seldom ever did. The people and their clothes soon enthralled her; the neat cut of the summer jackets and the colour of the dresses. They pushed through the narrow passageways, dwarfed by huge churches and municipal buildings, occasionally coming to a crossroads or a square where they could glimpse the sprawl of the city around them.

  ‘My heavens, it’s a wonder,’ she said, bending backwards to look from the top of one building to another and another. ‘I never dreamed it could be so big.’

  ‘From the Palace up on the hill, the city is a beautiful sight. You look down on the rooftops.’

  She took his arm. ‘I still think of you when you were five, running behind the bar, totting up the rounds in your head. People used to come to the inn just to watch you.’

  Kepler felt himself blush though he could not say why. Those had been happy years at his grandparents’ tavern, despite his father’s unpredictable comings and goings.

  ‘Now look at you, Mathematician to the most powerful man in Europe. I can scarcely believe it.’

  ‘Nor I, mother, nor I.’

  Kepler carried the case up the stairs to the attic and showed his mother to her room. The floorboards had not been polished up here; a small dormer window allowed in some light.

  ‘Opposite the servant’s room …’ she said.

  Kepler took her back down the stairs and into his temporary bedroom.

  ‘I’ll have Frau Bezold change the sheets.’

  ‘You don’t need to do that; we’re family.’ Katharina was suddenly magnanimous again.

  ‘Nevertheless, you’re my guest, mother. I’d like you to be comfortable.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do it then, no need to make a fuss.’

  That evening, Barbara started sobbing. Her muffled sounds carried through the house to where Kepler and his mother were sitting. The heat was insufferable, and his shirt was soaked at the armpits. ‘She grows more fearful with each passing day. Nothing I say comforts her, but she will quieten near morning when Venus rises.’

  ‘What’s she scared of?’

  ‘That we’ll lose another child. Barbara is a pious woman. She is a beautiful woman, but she is no longer a strong woman. She did not deserve to lose two babies. I fear a third bereavement might unbalance her completely.’

  ‘You have to put your trust in God.’

  Kepler nodded. ‘Why must life be so harsh?’

  ‘We all waver in our belief at times, even me.’

  ‘They were so young; neither of them made it past their second month. I see them s
till in my mind. I notice children in the street that are of the age they would be now. What can God want with children that small?’

  ‘What if He saw something terrible in their future and decided to spare them?’

  Kepler opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, then plunged on anyway. ‘Then why didn’t he weed out my father? His fighting did none of us any good. Especially not when he turned his fists on you.’

  Her eyes narrowed into beads. ‘Because then you would not have been born.’

  From upstairs, Barbara’s sobs reached a crescendo. Kepler tried to shut his ears to them.

  ‘She cannot carry on like this,’ said Katharina.

  ‘The doctor says there’s nothing he can do,’ Kepler snapped. ‘We must accept it.’

  ‘You might,’ she said, her face thoughtful.

  Next morning, Katharina was nowhere to be found. Kepler checked her room, releasing a pent-up breath when he saw that her luggage was still there. He bounded downstairs to the scullery.

  ‘Do you know where my mother went?’ he asked Frau Bezold.

  ‘Out, that’s all I know.’

  Kepler was still pacing when the latch went on the front door. Katharina walked in carrying bunches of wild flowers and leaves. ‘Found some,’ she said, pointing to a number of stems, each a foot or more long, with pale green leaves and clusters of tiny pink flowers close to the stem. ‘They’re not too strong but better than nothing.’

  ‘Mother, this is not Leonberg, you must be careful in the streets.’

  ‘I’ve been out to the woods.’

  ‘There are thieves everywhere.’

  ‘Look at me, son. Do I look as though I have anything worth stealing?’ Her tiny frame was covered in a grey country dress, and she wore clogs on her feet. ‘Most people look at me as if I’ve wandered into the city by mistake.’

  ‘Then think about how it looks to people who don’t know you: an old woman collecting herbs for potions. You would do well to remember what happened to your aunt …’