Sylvia

by Bryce Courtenay

  CHAPTER TWO

  The Ratcatcher

  REINHARDT THE RATCATCHER SUGGESTED that we wend our way together at least for a while and I readily agreed, for there seemed little about his manner that was fearful and his demeanour was most sweet and polite. He told me that Cologne was yet five days travel but that there were several villages on the way where we might find food.

  ‘I have food only sufficient for two more days, or if I share it with you, only today,’ I confessed, thus allowing him to think that I might be a burden and so decide to be on his way alone.

  He laughed. ‘Ah, Sylvia, the ratcatcher never goes hungry. Where there are folk there are rats and rats eat corn. So, you see, I am always welcome wherever I sojourn. We will eat well and sleep beside a warm hearth tonight.’

  I looked at him fearfully. ‘I will not bed with you!’ I exclaimed. ‘I am a good girl,’ I lied.

  He grinned. ‘Aye! You are an angel who sings to the glory of God. I have seen your halo shining in the sunlight.’ Then looking serious, he added gently, ‘I solemnly promise you shall be safe with me, little sister. I shall play the pipe and you shall sing and folk will summon us not only for the rats but also for ourselves.’

  ‘You played three discordant notes,’ I accused.

  ‘Only three?’ he said teasingly. ‘Out of the five Glorias we have done?’

  I laughed. ‘You are right, three is not many. In the congregation of St Thomas it is rare to hear a note well struck.’

  ‘Then we may play together?’

  ‘Only if you promise you will never touch me.’

  He looked hurt and said quietly, ‘I have already given you my word, Sylvia.’

  I had seen that hurt look before and it is not uncommon in men and women who may the least be trusted. ‘I have yet to learn if the word of a ratcatcher can be trusted, as I know the word of a wandering minstrel may not!’ I said firmly.

  ‘Ha! What know you of musicians then?’

  ‘They are rapscallions and layabouts,’ I replied, quoting my mother’s caution to beware of the beguiling ways of itinerant men with little girls.

  ‘I see no motley of red and yellow or tinkling bell cap on this fellow!’ he rhymed cleverly. ‘No pied piper am I, as you can see I wear the dull weed of a working man. So, for the purposes of trust, you may take me for a ratcatcher.’ Laughing, he removed his broad felt hat and gave me a sweeping bow. ‘Most reliable types, we ratcatchers. You may be sure you will be safe with me, Sylvia Honeyeater.’

  He had a sweetness about him that I found compelling, yet I cautioned myself to be on my guard – he was a stranger and besides, I was not accustomed to folk approaching me in a friendly manner. ‘I will walk with you a small way, then I shall decide,’ I promised, my voice sounding brave while my heart was aflutter. Then pointing to a bend in the stream I said in as matter-of-fact voice as I could manage, ‘Now, pray go beyond that bend and turn your back so that I may get myself attired.’

  ‘Aye, and I shall keep my eye out for any wandering musicians, especially pipers wearing pied,’ he grinned, turning to go.

  I had tried to wash the mud from the hem of my dress but it remained somewhat stained. Once I had put it on I was wet from the knees down and most uncomfortable with the constant flapping of damp wool against my legs. I decided I would finally make up my mind whether to continue with Reinhardt the Ratcatcher by such time as my dress was fully dry.

  However, by late afternoon and with night fast approaching, the bottom of my skirt was still damp. We’d reached the outskirts of a village that sat near the top of a small hill. On the downward slope beyond the village was a wood where I told myself I could rest for the night. By morning my skirt would be dry and then I could make up my mind whether to continue on my way with the ratcatcher. This was the first of many times to come when I was to let my heart rule my head in judging a man.

  It had been such a merry day on the road with my new friend who told jokes and enchanting stories of times past, with no hint of lewdness contained in the telling. At times I sang and he played the pipes and there was nary a folksong or hymn that he could not further enchant with his music. I told myself that I had found a soul mate who, like myself, loved music and stories. In just a few hours on the road we’d forged a partnership of complementary gifts and I confess I hungered for more. I found myself resisting the return to loneliness, thinking I might tarry a mite longer while knowing full well that with the coming of nightfall the devil’s imps come out to romp in the minds of men.

  I was old enough to know that a warm bed shared with a young male on a cold night is a poor place for a maiden to guard her virtue. My mind harked back to a cautionary rhyme my mother taught me as a child. When, at the time, I asked its meaning, she’d laughed and said, ‘It is not for now, my precious, it is for you to remember when you are a pretty young maid.’

  When leaves turn gold

  And acorns brown

  Then skirts go up

  And trousers down!

  Despite my father having taken my chastity and by doing so condemning me to the eternal fires of hell, I tried always to remain pure in spirit. It was most wearisome to live with so large a burden of guilt when in my mind I had few sinful thoughts. It was as if there was contained in me both sin and innocence, the one a great weight placed upon my soul and the other a lightness of being that allowed me to sing to the glory of God and to call the birds from the trees.

  So on the first morning of my journey to somewhere else, I decided to become two people at once. I would be ‘Sylvia Then’ – the sinner, and ‘Sylvia Now’ – the chaste. I had already experienced such a separation when I had been changed from Sylvia Honeyeater to Sylvia of the Gloria. I knew that until I could confess the sins my father had cast upon me and complete the terrible penance required for forgiveness, I would have to live with Sylvia Then. But with a fresh start in life, I could at the very least regard myself as Sylvia Now, the fine young maid my mother had hoped I might some day become.

  This was to prove a most convenient though not always easy idea. It was not that I gave myself permission to sin and could blame it on my old self and so add to the load of the sins waiting for remission. But in making judgements I could clearly see which of me, sinner or chaste, was involved. Or so I thought, but I was to learn that conscience can be convenient to the moment and that we all have an infinite capacity to justify our actions.

  Now, at the very beginning of my life as Sylvia Now, I knew that if I was to tarry with the ratcatcher and sojourn this night in his company I was placing myself in harm’s way. Alas, as with all matters of conscience, I found myself in a dilemma. I much desired his pleasant company but knew it to be dangerous. I tried to convince myself that he had agreed solemnly not to touch me on three separate occasions, and that I could trust him. I argued inwardly that he appeared sweet in his ways and did not seem the type to harm a young maid. I trembled at the thought of continuing on my own along the lonely road to Cologne. I had laughed more in this single day than I had done since the death of my mother. I had sung in a voice pure and true to the glory of God when the lilt of his flute had carried my hymns up to heaven. Most of all, I had been utterly enchanted with his tales of olden times and he had promised more, many more, and all he claimed were true.

  I recall that I had laughed, showing my doubt, when he had made this claim. ‘Why do you laugh, Sylvia? Do you not believe me?’

  ‘Your stories are well told and enchanting, what matters it if they lack truth,’ I answered.

  He frowned. ‘A great deal. It matters a great deal!’ he insisted.

  ‘Oh, I fear I have hurt your feelings,’ I said, attempting to console him. ‘That was not my intention, your tales of yore are wonderful and exceedingly well told and I should like to hear them all,’ I repeated vehemently.

  ‘But to you they are only fairytales?’

  I sighed, my mind casting back to the Miracle of the Gloria. ‘Nay! It is only that I have seen people swear t
o a miraculous happening before the blessed Virgin when it was their imagination that blinded their eyes and closed their ears to the truth. Stories are no less worth hearing should they be imagined, but it is not wise to believe everything we see or hear.’ I then told him about the so-called miracle that had taken place in the market. In an attempt to lighten his mood I laughingly said, ‘All it would have taken was the priest’s blessing and I would have been well on my way to sainthood! Saint Sylvia of Uedem.’

  ‘Ah! I see why you doubt!’ he cried, somewhat mollified. ‘I hope later to prove the truth of each tale I relate to you. But if you will not accept my word, then if we should find a church I will swear it on the altar Bible.’ He paused and looked at me, a small smile curled about his sweet lips. ‘Will that suffice your doubting?’

  ‘Hmm, we shall see,’ I replied, still playing the doubting Thomas. ‘The entire village was willing to swear in the name of the blessed Saviour Himself that they had seen a miracle, but that did not make it so.’

  I could see that my reply did not fully satisfy him but yet he smiled. He was a gifted teller of tales and no doubt well accustomed to an audience who listened without question, enchanted all the while by his silvered voice and the playing of his wondrous flute.

  ‘Not a saint but still an angel, a chosen one?’

  ‘Alas, neither! A poor peasant girl at very best.’

  ‘And the fish?’ he asked. ‘What say you of that?’

  I shrugged. ‘A birthmark.’

  ‘You doubt too much, my fair maid. You are yet a child and you possess the cynicism of an old frau.’

  I could see I had asserted myself too much. I had yet to learn that the male ego is best puffed up by using my ears to pretend to listen, my mouth to smile approval and my eyes to express sincerity, even if I should think him speaking twaddle. ‘I am sorry, I protest too much,’ I exclaimed. ‘It is just that I do not wish you to take me for a dullard or some skittish, wide-eyed maid. I have truly loved your tales and eagerly await more.’ I smiled and then, adopting an expression of pleading, said, ‘You promised to tell me of the first pilgrimage to the Holy Land? The trials and tribulations and the terrible things that happened?’

  ‘And you will believe me?’ he asked, teasing.

  ‘Of course!’ I said unstintingly.

  He stopped in his tracks and frowned, seeming to be deciding. ‘Although perhaps I should not.’

  ‘Should not what?’ I asked.

  ‘I think you too young for those true and most horrific happenings.’

  ‘No, please!’ I begged, realising that now the game of doubt was his to play.

  ‘Perforce, I must abstain from telling you this grand story. There are in it many parts to God’s great glory but yet other bits too gruesome and too gory for sweet young ears.’

  ‘Why?’ I protested. ‘I am old enough! Did you not just say I was cynical as an old frau?’

  He shook his head vehemently. ‘No, no . . . I dare not!’

  ‘Oh, please, you must!’

  ‘Look!’ he commanded, pointing to his ears.

  His ears began to move as if of their own accord. ‘I once almost lost them!’ he said, looking serious.

  ‘Lost them? Your ears?’ I asked, knowing it for a joke to come.

  ‘The gruesome parts! The gory parts! When I first heard them my ears became so agitated that they jumped from my head to scurry into a dark corner where together they lay whimpering and cowering, trembling like butterfly wings!’ He wiggled his ears once more. ‘See, they are yet ever on the alert and ready to flee.’

  ‘Aye, and how did you return them to your head?’ I giggled, playing along.

  ‘Well, alas I did not,’ he said, giving me a look of mock concern.

  ‘I kept them, both in my satchel, until this very morning.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘A miracle!’ he exclaimed. ‘I came across an angel sitting in the autumn sunlight beside a silver stream, a golden halo about her head and a pretty pink fish engraved between her shoulderblades. Alas, as I drew closer I could see her lovely mouth moving but could hear no sound coming from her sweet lips. Then, all at once I felt a great agitation within my satchel and I opened it to witness both ears leap from it and once again attach themselves to each side of my head.’ He clapped his hands. ‘Oh blessed miracle, from her lips I heard a hymn to the glory of God in a voice that only an angel could possess.’

  Not accustomed to such flattery I blushed deeply and then, in an attempt to be dismissive of such a pleasing and romantic notion, replied, ‘You play with me, Reinhardt the Ratcatcher! You cannot turn a crow into a peacock. Besides, I am a peasant and my ears are well seasoned with salty words.’ In my mind I recalled the foul language my father used in the pigsty and told myself that if my ears had not then withered and dropped from my head, they would be safe with any tale told of Christian folk. ‘You must tell me everything, leaving no detail out, or I shall be most unhappy,’ I scolded, knowing that a story, like gossip, becomes a lesser tale with the juicy bits removed.

  I knew myself defeated. The ratcatcher’s way with words was well beyond my own. He was making me beg for his attentions and it was plain to me that he was now back in command. I was pleased that he no longer saw me as a challenge, although I did not suspect at the time that with his tomfoolery he was drawing me deeper and deeper into his company. Apart from the village children, it had never occurred to me that anyone would willingly seek my company for the pleasure it might bring, or that he hoped his stories would so enchant me that I would sojourn with him that night.

  We had almost reached the edge of the village when the dogs came out to bark, closely followed by the children who stood shyly, kicking at the dust as we drew closer. ‘Leave the talking to me,’ Reinhardt instructed above the barking of the dogs, at the same time removing the flute from his leather belt. Placing it to his lips he blew a note so shrill that it was barely to be heard by human ears. Then he followed it with three less sharp, but still sufficiently high notes to rise above the barking. The dogs became at once silent and collapsed to the dirt with their noses placed upon their forepaws, eyes raised dotingly to the ratcatcher. Reinhardt approached each dog and touched it lightly on the forehead and as he did so it jumped to its feet, tail wagging, eager, friendly, as harmless as a dormouse.

  The children, no longer shy, laughed and clapped at such a clever trick. ‘Follow me!’ Reinhardt called out gleefully. ‘We shall march to the pipes and enter your fine village like soldiers returning to their loved ones from a great pilgrimage!’ Placing the flute to his lips he commenced to play a merry tune and all the children fell into line behind him. They stood, their necks stiff, chins up, arms locked at the elbows. At his command, ‘March on!’, they started to march, their arms swinging straight as a walking stick, each little face as serious as a soldier’s on the king’s parade. I glanced back to see that the dogs had joined the throng and followed the children in single file, tongues lolling, tails wagging – they too were caught in the spell cast by the ratcatcher’s magic flute.

  It was just coming on dusk, the time of gloaming when the birds call out their evensong before finally nesting for the night. The peasants, returning from the surrounding fields with their scythes over stooped shoulders, trudged wearily up the hill and the shepherd boys brought in the ewes and goats for milking. Smoke rose from the chimneys of the cottages as women primed the hearth in preparation for the evening meal.

  We came to a halt in a cobbled square at the top of which grew a large oak stripped of its summer garb and almost bare of leaf. We stood beside its massive trunk and Reinhardt continued to play. Some of the marching children ran off to fetch their mothers. Many of the village folk coming in from the fields entered the square to see what the commotion was all about. The ratcatcher now started to play another tune that set the young men and girls to dancing, and the older folk, despite their weariness, were soon tapping their toes and clapping to the rhythm.
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br />   Coming to the end of the jig and before commencing another, Reinhardt turned to me and said quietly, ‘After the next I shall make a speech and then together we will perform.’ It was growing exceedingly cold and I was not sure that I would be in good voice, but I nodded agreement. I confess to being cast under his spell, enchanted at what I had witnessed since reaching the village.

  There had been much applause and Reinhardt was forced to hold up his hand for silence. When all was quiet he smiled. ‘What a fine village!’ he announced. ‘We have wandered far and wide but have seen few finer. And such dancing! I think you a merry folk who enjoy music?’ Smiles appeared all round with many a nod and ‘Aye!’ following. ‘Then you must have more!’ he promised.

  He turned to me and placed his hand upon my shoulder. ‘With me is Sylvia Honeyeater, so named for her sweet and tender voice, sweet as the nectar from the honey bee and tender as the summer night.’ The village folk commenced to clap but Reinhardt held up his hand again. ‘But first there is a small price.’

  A groan escaped from the assembled crowd. ‘We are poor folk!’ a male voice shouted.

  ‘Who spoke of money?’ Reinhardt shouted back. Then, in a gentler voice, he said, ‘We ask only for shelter for the night and enough to fill our bellies, for we have not eaten since the sunrise of the day before this one.’ It was a lie, for we had stopped at noon when I had prepared the last of my corn to make a meal.

  ‘You may stay with us!’ several voices called out. ‘We have food enough for two more souls!’

  ‘Thank you, thank you!’ Reinhardt called, then placing his flute to his lips he blew a few bars. ‘You are most generous and kind.’ He paused. ‘But there is one thing more.’ He turned towards me. ‘We are not brother and sister, nor are we betrothed. I must have a widow’s bed for my partner to share, one who does not snore!’ He looked back at the crowd and asked, ‘Is there a widow who would share her bed with an angel?’

  At this the crowd laughed and a woman stepped forward who seemed in good health and appeared no older than my mother when she’d passed away. ‘She is welcome to share the bed with me and my three children – there are none among us old enough to snore!’