There was a horde of indescribable monsters, a pack of howling ghosts, vampires and ghouls, which appeared as if spawned by an insane brain, carrying on coffin lids a white symbolic Host which was then crushed before Baphomet's feet with terrifying screams and filthy abuse.
There was the bestiary of medieval cathedrals; the masks of all the fear and temptation hidden in the souls of saints were drawn out into the light, silent and gruesome, bearing holy books, symbols, insignia, effigies and ritual vestments which were piled onto an enormous stake; seven red flashes of lightning shot out of Baphomet's eyes, and seven thunderbolts hit the pyre, which burst into flames, whereupon all the ghosts and monsters around it threw themselves into a wild whirling dance.
A black swaying pillar of smoke engulfed Daisy's figure and filled the cave with an impenetrable darkness.
Zenon felt as if he were standing on the verge of an unknown, mysterious world and his mind's eye reached for the first time beyond the world of trivial, lazy thought and mundane facts, discovering infinite spaces, fantastic landscapes, flying over immense plateaux and bottomless ravines. He stepped back dazzled, full of the holy tranquillity of those visions and premonitions, his soul chilled by a breeze of immortal power.
"Don't be afraid! I am with you!" said Daisy's voice somewhere near him.
He felt so humble he prostrated himself at the feet of the invisible Daisy and whispered in a voice full of humility and devotion:
"I know nothing, I understand nothing, but I feel you are with me."
"Think - and you will always find me."
His soul closed to everything around him and slipped into a trance.
When he arose from the floor the cave was empty and flooded by a pale-blue light. Baphomet stood in purple flames like a burning bush, while Daisy's white body, lying at his feet, was slowly devoured by the crawling shadow of the panther which took her into its embrace. An inhuman fear for her doubled Zenon's failing strength, he screamed with all the might of his horror and hurled himself upon the glass wall in a vain attempt to run to her rescue.
Suddenly everything vanished, the bronze door slammed with a great crash and he found himself again outside the ruin, confused and helpless as before, as if he had never entered the place.
"Where could she have disappeared to?" he thought scanning the ruins in surprise, remembering nothing of what had just happened to him. He circled the house again and having found, as before, all the entrances boarded up he stopped discouraged, uncertain of what to do.
The glow of London's lights was fading out in an overcast and pale sky awash with light as yet lifeless and grey. The stars were growing dim like dying eyes and the massive, rugged clouds were rolling low with mute petulance. The trees, rocked by the wind, were waking up from a heavy sleep, stretching their black, aching branches. The day was rising wet and numb with cold, reflected in the bluish puddles glistening everywhere around. The hard contours of the ruined house were growing larger in the daylight and the blind, empty fields were rising sluggishly from the slumber of the night. The dawn was rising amidst the receding chaos of darkness.
Zenon too began to awake from his nocturnal oblivion, chastened by the cold wind. So, without further deliberation he left the ruins and made his way back toward the station.
He walked down the alley between the rows of huge trees where night was still fluttering its dark wings, listening to the wind howling its wild wintry morning hymn and to the shrill song of a strayed peacock. A flock of crows rose in sudden flight from the trees, sending a shower of broken twigs and branches. He sat down to wait out the gathering windstorm.
And there he stayed, imprisoned by the wind and enthralled by the power of the elements, fused with them, joining in the mournful wail of the hurricane, singing the wild, desultory but powerful song without words, the hymn of blind and mighty Nature.
He forgot about returning and began wandering among the trees in the grey twilight, his mind adrift.
In the rotting grass he found a faded flower and pressed it to his burning lips. A sudden, irrepressible longing swelled his heart with such love, such insatiable desire to fuse with Nature, to be one with the night and the sky, to feel like the trees and wind. He rose and, imbued with the power of unfettered tenderness, ran around embracing trees, kneeling before bushes, stroking branches and kissing grass, pouring his heartfelt tears of happiness over those dear and holy beings, long lost and suddenly found anew.
Sadness reigned in the royal chambers of Cracow Castle. The long, snow-swept corridors whistled with wind, window panes rattled in their lead frames, piles of dry logs crackled in the fires.
In the lower chambers were gathered soldiers, guards and pages. They sat in groups, dressed after Spanish, Hungarian or German fashion. Some played dice, throwing around handfuls of coppers, others crowded around the fire and huge pitchers of hot beer, engaged in the more serious pastime of conversation.
The upper floors were wrapped in complete silence. Since the death of Queen Barbara never loud laughter, never an outward display of joy had disturbed their eerie stillness.
In a high-ceilinged room covered with black damask stood a lonely bed with curtains drawn around it. As much as the grey light of the winter day and the flickering glow of dying flames in the marble fire allowed, one could see through a chink in the curtains the face of a sick man: it was pale, with sunken cheeks and half-closed eyes; the black beard that once was carefully parted into two strands now flowed dishevelled onto his chest.
By the bed, on a low chair with a high leather back painted in gold Chinese flowers, sat a tall thin man. He sat still and thoughtful, occasionally stroking his long beard or the long curly hair which fell onto his face. Every move of his hand sent flashes from an expensive signet which bore an engraving of the river Sabbathion on a round cornelian. Apart from this precious stone the man wore no other jewellery. At his side hung a plain curved sabre, its end protruding from under a long fur-lined coat thrown over a short blue zupan'.
He was a Jewish doctor, Simon of Ginzburg. Now and again he would bend over the bed to check the pulse of the sick King Sigismund Augustus. He would watch the king's face for a long while and then, shaking his head, return to reading a big parchment scroll - a tractatus written in Arabic letters, probably by Maymonides. His face showed dissatisfaction and anxiety.
The sick king tossed and turned in his bed, from time to time stretching his hands only to let them fall limply by his sides. One could see it was a sick soul that was the source of his suffering, for apart from mournful sighs the king gave no other signs of pain. His eyes were closed all the time, but the bulging veins on his brow, his trembling lips visited occasionally by a fleeting bitter smile, led one to believe that his mind's eye beheld the vivid image of a long lost loved one.
His hands, folded as if in prayer and resting on his chest, unclasped and slipped to his sides. Suddenly, one of them felt something and Augustus opened his big black eyes, still smouldering with the old fire of a passion that neither the long illness nor tears could extinguish. A feverish blush coloured his face yellowed with prolonged sickness. He sat up in bed all by himself and drew back the curtains; the light from the window fell on a miniature portrait he was holding in his hand. It was a portrait of Queen Barbara.
The memory of his companion, who had brightened the best days of his life with a brief happiness, rent his already bleeding heart and hot tears flowed down his face. The violent emotion drained his strength. His head fell back on the pillow and a deathly paleness returned to his visage.
The doctor, watching closely all the symptoms of the king's illness, almost lost his head seeing such a display of passion. Medical science of the day did not extend very far; the physicians knew little about weaknesses of the heart, those migraines, spleens and spasms, fashionable or otherwise. The nature of our forefathers was hard and well tempered, like their armour.
Nevertheless, the doctor could not leave the king in such a state. He took out a little flas
k and pulled the cork; the aromatic scent of its contents brought Augustus back to his senses.
"Thank you, Simon, thank you," said the king, gratefully holding out his hand. "I see how hard you work to bring me strength and comfort in my sickness. But it's all in vain. Neither you, nor the Paduan sages who taught you can help me. Here, here," he pointed to his heart, "lies the source of all my trouble, and for this human knowledge knows no remedy. Since she . . ." here he stopped and sighed, "since she so suddenly and unexpectedly orphaned my bed ... How did it happen? Why? The possibility of ever parting with her hadn't even crossed my mind. I did not believe that damned astrologer who had foreseen her death a year in advance and I banished him from the country as a crook. Alas, it all came true, so horribly true! The longing is destroying me, it's eating me away. Look at my hands, my legs: only skin and bones left. Look at my sunken eyes ... Oh, my good Simon ... I'm well beyond human help. At night when I dream, during the day when I close my eyes, always I see her, standing before me, just as she did that night when I saw her for the last time. I stretch my hands towards her, want to hold her in my arms, yet always she escapes me . . ." Here Augustus stopped, sunken in thought, and then, as if struck by a sudden notion, he spoke again: "Doctor, have you heard of the power of magic art? It seems the only hope left to me. The old man you see there sleeping by the fire, he used to entertain me in my younger days with stories of strange events to which he was a witness himself. I like listening to him even now. The other day he told me a story about some German prince who called out his beloved from the grave. Those were the days ... But that there are people learned in the art of magic, who can call out the dead from their graves, this I am sure of, lain strongly convinced of that."
"Sire," spoke Simon of Ginzburg seriously, with a touch of personal pride, "my science does not teach me this. We use simple natural methods when it comes to repairing health. 'Tis true there are followers of black magic, but people say the evil spirit is mixed up in it. They are children of Moloch. I used to know one Nostradamus who studied medicine with me. It's an arduous study, the profit small; he threw his Hippocrates out of the window, broke the old skeleton and took up service with an astrologer. Now he is first among the crooks."
"Nostradamus!" cried out the king with enthusiasm, having missed the doctor's last words. "He works miracles at the French court now! I've read his Centuria where he unveiled the whole future with his prophetic powers. Lucky Henry II! He has a great man for a friend, while I, the poor Polish king, the lord of wide lands - not a single magus or an astrologer at my court!"
"But love of your subjects will give you greater happiness, your lordship," spoke the old man by the fire. Until then it seemed he had been dozing quietly after a night spent by the king's side, but in truth he had missed not a word from the conversation. He was over sixty but his movements still had a youthful spryness. He had small bright shifty eyes, lips twisted in a permanent sneer, his big bold head was covered with a pointed hat of golden lame. He wore a checked blue and yellow costume and a belt with little bells; in his hand he held a wooden clapper with tufts of foxes' tails attached to it. All this made up the dress of a court jester, which was indeed the noble office held by the man who so boldly interrupted the conversation. He was Mr Goose, or Goosey, as he was called after the gaggling rancorous bird. He was a contemporary of Stanczyk, with whom he had vied for the crown of first wit and with whom he had got up to all kinds of mischief, giving the whole town plenty to talk about for days afterwards. They had laughed at his jests then, but now his wit had lost its sharpness and the only reward for his jokes was his own chuckle.
"I know, my lord, where all this talking is leading to," continued the jester. "But such people are not easy to find these days. There was one, but he too disappeared without a trace. But say a word and I'm sure your courtiers will oblige, for that is how they earn their offices and add to their honours. Who knows, maybe the Queen Mother will send a clever Italian too ..."
The last words the jester spoke under his breath with a customary sneer, shaking the bells on his jester's hat.
"You are right," said the king, "I need a man who would ... you understand ... who would undertake to call out from the grave the shadow of my dear wife Barbara. Five hundred pieces of gold, vouched with my royal word, and even more, for he would earn the personal gratitude of a monarch. Let them announce it to the world. Such is my will."
"Let's leave the dead in peace, I say. Your late wife sleeps the sleep of angels; do not wake her, sire. She was not happy in this world, why bring her back? It won't happen without the devil's help, anyway, and once you let him catch a hair from your head he will hold you as his own for eternity."
Despite the jester's warning, the king persisted in his wish. For his character was composed of strange elements: with all the weakness typical of the House of Yagellons, he could be stubborn as a mule. Brought up amidst the Italian luxuries and corruption of his mother's court, with the blood of the Sforzas in his veins, he liked to indulge his wildest fancies. Sigismund Augustus held out no great promise for Poland: for how could a man raised among ladies-in-waiting learn to give sound counsel or stand firm in battle? It was a miracle that the words of Captain Raczyfiski had not come true when the over-solicitous queen Bona recalled the eight year old prince from the Vallachian crusade: "A boy who never heard a gun-shot will never grow to have a fighting spirit."
In those days faith in magic was widespread. Royal courts had their astrologers and magicians and Augustus tried to follow the fashion of the times. He spent enormous sums on witches who slowly killed the gullible king with their herbs and potions, and who knows, perhaps that was the reason why he left Poland without an heir from the blessed house of Yagellons.
Later that day the king was visited by dignitaries of the Crown who came to enquire after his health, among them the witty Chancellor Ocieski and Father Podlodowski, the favourite of the late queen Barbara. How surprised were these lords to see the king talking with such animation and excitement. At first they put it down to the learning and experience of Simon Ginzburg, but the latter admitted with all the modesty of a wise man such as he was, that the king refused to take any medicine from him. Only later, when Augustus led the conversation towards magic, when others joined in with stories extolling the art and its practitioners, and when finally the king announced his wish to have his late wife called out of the grave and the prize set for such an endeavour if successful, only then they realised that the sudden improvement in the royal health was nothing but a desperate attempt to cling to hope, even if it were a mere fancy.
The thought of a possible miracle had wrought great changes in the king. He thought of nothing else, night and day, dreaming strange visions fed by his feverish mind. Such was the cure for the longing that had been eating him away and it seemed to work. For as the new overriding desire took hold in his mind, so the violent eruptions of passion of earlier days lost their intensity.
It is hard to judge what the courtiers thought of the king's announcement, but to his face each supported him in his resolve; some out of profit, others out of consideration for his health, but all out of conviction that the art of magic was capable of even greater things.
The following days saw a great stir in the castle, servants running to and fro from morn to dusk. People from all over the world streamed in, as if to a bazaar in Venice or Constantinople: here a band of ragged Gypsies with their jingles and tambourines, there a travelling German juggler, an alchemist spreading out his flasks and retorts on the ground, or a cabalist muttering mysterious formulae from a big book. The world and his wife. They all came in the hope that even if they did not achieve much, at least they would fill their stomachs with good food and drink. And they were not disappointed: the visitors were greeted with generosity and no money was spared to give them what they needed for their tricks and exhibitions; many a charlatan or a crook, having made first a lot of noise and confusion, disappeared like a ball-under a thimblerig.
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nbsp; Soon, however, it became clear that all the effort and money were in vain. None of those vagabonds even attempted to call out the shadow of the late queen. Some admitted simply that the task was beyond their powers, others blamed the lack of appropriate herbs, or of tools which could be found only in the temple of Ammon or in the Egyptian pyramids. But let us leave the castle and the king already doubting the possibility of a miracle; let's leave the obliging courtiers and penniless crooks, and direct our gaze elsewhere.
The churches of Cracow rang their vesper-bells, beginning the long Advent evening, with many celebrations carrying on late into the night. Through the narrow unlit streets rolled the carriages of rich lords, preceded by running footmen with torches. Crowds on foot and on horseback flowed like waves from one place to another; storey-high wagons packed with merchandise from Venice and Holland rumbled along the stone-paved streets, wading through the air filled with the cries of street-vendors and the calls of the city guards. All that noise and commotion, like blood in the veins, pumped life into the great capital, a Hanseatic city blossoming under the happy reign of the Yagellons.
The worldly hubbub was dying away in the back streets of the poorer part of the town where only a few passers-by scurried along the walls. Here and there a lit window gave some light onto the street, but apart from that only the whiteness of the snow fought against the darkness of night.
In one of those streets appeared a tall man. He was wrapped in a cloak worn by the doctors of Academia. He moved slowly, hands clasped at his back, his head low. He seemed to avoid the gaze of other passers-by, preferring the shadow of the walls.
"So I am to be the rescuer of some unknown virgin maid," he muttered to himself, stopping every few steps. "The new horoscope shows clearly a new star shining with the brightness of great riches and happiness. How am I to explain this premonition that brings me here? Would a maid with such prospects be of use to me?"
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