Sylvia

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Then how shall she learn?’

  ‘Alas, she must garner what she may from her father or her husband or even her brother. But not all men, like Israel, are forthcoming. We Jewish women have a saying: “Honey obtained without a sting is not as sweet. Knowledge has a price and is capital hard-gained, so we must spend it wisely.” ’

  And so I understood that chess was to be the sting I must feel if I was to be granted the sweet gift of learning. Did God play chess? I asked myself. Who better than He knew the game of life? I knew I must pray to Him to grant me yet another opportunity. My requests were piling up and I had yet done nought to earn His grace and knew that I must soon prove a worthy penitent or He might forsake me, thinking me only an asker and not a giver.

  We began to gather herbs and Frau Sarah was surprised that I knew them all by name and also their cooking uses and those that brought a balance of humours in the body and those for melancholia or bilious upset and other maladies.

  ‘You must teach me what you know, Sylvia,’ she said.

  ‘Nay, I know only a little and of most of it, I caution, thou should be most wary. It is peasant lore where herbs and maladies are as often mixed with superstition.’

  ‘Tell me of such as you know – the herbalist within me grows most curious.’

  ‘Well, if a woman is pregnant and four or five months gone, and she eats nuts or acorns or any fresh fruits, then it frequently happens that the child is silly.’

  Frau Sarah laughed. ‘And another?’

  ‘Again there is a matter concerning the pregnant woman. If she eats bull’s meat, or ram’s or buck’s, or boar’s or cock’s or gander’s flesh or that of any begetting animal, then it sometimes happens that the child is humpbacked and ruptured.’

  ‘Sometimes? That is most convenient. Not all the time as might be true if the meat of the male beast or bird were the cause of this deformity.’

  ‘Aye, it is this “sometimes” and this “frequently” that causes me to doubt. While acorns eaten green are known to contain some little poison and will cause stomach cramps, fruit and nuts, if fresh and brown, methinks cannot create a silliness in children born.’

  ‘And of beauty? Is there peasant herbal lore of this? Or how to keep the body fresh?’

  She laughed when I confessed I knew nought about their uses to make a woman comely and a man cease to stink. ‘We peasants have little time for vanity and think that stench is a natural part of men, nay, women also, for we work upon the land and with domestic beasts, the cow, pig, goat and sheep – all have their own peculiar smell and each night they share our dwelling.’ I laughed. ‘If all smell the same then none shall stink.’

  We came suddenly upon a cluster of mushrooms and as she rushed to pick them I quickly stayed her hand. ‘They are poison!’ I cried alarmed. ‘You cannot eat them!’

  Frau Sarah ignored me and took a small linen bag from her basket and, plucking each one, carefully placed them within the bag. ‘Ah, glory be, today has been most propitious. Look, we have come upon a cluster of Ruth’s Truth!’ she exclaimed excitedly.

  ‘Nay! Beware!’ I cried again. ‘They are poisonous and you name them wrongly, they are Satan’s Shadow!’

  Frau Sarah laughed. ‘We call them Ruth’s Truth. I will show you how to use them and by their use how you can confound the mind.’ Then she turned and placed her hand upon my shoulder and looked into my eyes and spoke sincerely. ‘Sylvia, you have shown me your Miracle of the Birds when I did challenge you. You did so in the nicest way, so that I did not feel ashamed for doubting you. Instead, you told a story to the street children and so most gently overcame my doubting. Now I shall share with you the secrets of this magic mushroom discovered by the wise and faithful Ruth, the great Hebrew prophetess. Its secrets have been passed on by countless generations of Jewish women herbalists. But you must tell no male of it, or use this mushroom’s magic power without first careful thought. It has strength to possess another’s mind, especially to capture a man’s and turn it to your own design. If men know you possess such power they will call you a sorceress. If in Christian company, beware! For the priest will name thee “witch”. I warn you, if taken yourself, you will behold visions beyond this earth, sometimes of heaven and sometimes of a darker place. Try it only once when you are alone and in a safe place, then save it for when you will most need it.’

  ‘But it is Satan’s Shadow! I know it well and may not touch it lest I will be harmed in body and soul!’ I cried, alarmed.

  ‘Satan’s Shadow, is it? Is this also peasant lore? Who called it that? Men, you may be sure. Your priests perhaps? Then you should know that Satan strives to make us ignorant while God seeks to make us wise. I can but show you how to use this magic mushroom and then you must yourself decide if it is Satan’s hand that guides you or that of the wise and gentle Ruth, worthiest of all Hebrew women.’

  ‘Oh no, Frau Sarah!’ I cried. ‘The worthiest of all Hebrew women is the Virgin Mary, the Mother of God!’

  ‘Ah, Sylvia, we Jews have strange superstitions of our own, but none as unlikely as a virgin birth. Our prophets and rabbis and, let me assure you, all Jewish men are far too arrogant to think that we women might conceive without their noble intervention.’

  And so, with these disquieting words, we returned to the Jewish Quarter where Frau Sarah was to do the final fitting for the white gown I would wear in St Martin’s square that afternoon.

  There, outside the great church, we would test the ratcatcher’s doubtful notion that busy folk would gather to hear him play and me to sing. Despite my fear of this encounter with the people of Cologne, I could barely contain my excitement that Master Israel might agree to teach me Latin if at first I could master chess, the game of life. I would then know if God had granted me, a peasant sinner and not yet a confessed and worthy penitent, the true gift I desired most of all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Blood on the Rose

  I MUST SAY THAT Reinhardt in his new guise as the Pied Piper of Hamelin was a real pain. Even in the fitting of the knave’s outfit, a used but well-kept garment, he strutted and fussed like a peacock, asking for it to be taken in here and made looser there and tucked and puckered. He was determined to turn a sow’s ear into a silk purse. A cotehardie such as worn by a knave, a mere servant, does not have the affectation of buttons. But, ah, buttons he must have, six in all of carved amber, carefully matched each for its reddish-brown glow. He clapped his hands in glee at the new hose, not red as he’d supposed, but yellow, Frau Sarah explaining that the red dye was wont to run in the rain and that yellow was fast and true and much more dependable. As for the black velvet cap with peacock feather, he fussed a good hour, pushing and pulling it to every angle with a right eyebrow slightly cocked and head to one side, a vanity that sent me almost to puke. With all this fuss over a mere knave’s garment, I vowed to make certain I would not be present when his suit of pied was fitted. As for my gown, it fitted well and Frau Sarah declared it most satisfactory and even admitted, for all his foppish behaviour, Reinhardt had been right about it being made of white linen.

  All the while Frau Sarah fitted me and attended to Reinhardt I hadgrown quite contrary as the hour of departurefor St Martin’ssquare drew closer.

  ‘What happened yesterday at the bathhouse will be forgotten by now and we are fools to think otherwise,’ I said to Reinhardt.

  ‘But you spoke this morning of the street brats following you to the woods and naming you Petticoat Angel – they have not forgotten.’

  ‘Ha! Urchins have nothing better to do,’ I replied. ‘A few dozen ragamuffins present will not do anything to serve our cause.’

  ‘Three women running naked through the markets and the making of an angel, this does not happen every day, Sylvia. To ordinary folk, even city folk, it was a most momentous experience.’

  ‘Nay, folk came from a curiosity of the moment. Why should they come again?’ I persisted.

  ‘Aye, curiosity is what brought them there, I well adm
it. But thy singing, that is what kept them. They will come, you will see,’ Reinhardt said, his voice ringing certain.

  I turned to Frau Sarah. ‘What think thee, Frau Sarah?’

  She shrugged. ‘It is hard to say, city folk be most fickle, yet yesterday when you sang they were most attentive and cried for more.’

  ‘Will you come, Frau Sarah?’ I asked, not knowing in my mind whether I wished her to be present or not.

  ‘Nay, Sylvia, I have work to do and I am a Jewess and so wear a veil when I am outside the house. Some may think I blaspheme by being present in the church square when you sing.’

  ‘Then I will not sing hymns,’ I promised. ‘Besides, I do not think there will be many people present.’

  ‘If you sing only folksongs then it will be thee that is named blasphemer. St Martin’s is one of the great churches of Cologne and the square outside is not well-chosen for folk dancing. Moreover, the fewer people present the greater chance that I am recognised, and some will take exception to my presence, of that you may be sure.’

  All my life I had heard Father Pietrus and sometimes the abbot chastise the Jews and name them Christ-killers. But until now I had never met a Jew or thought about a Jewess and I was slowly beginning to understand that the Jew must be cautious in everything they do for fear of the Christian’s wrath. I thought it strange that I, who possessed no power, was yet someone a Jew might be afraid of simply because I was a Christian.

  We made ready to leave for St Martin’s square. Reinhardt in his tricked-up knave’s outfit of bright amber buttons, yellow hose and velvet cap with the ridiculous peacock feather bobbing as he walked. Me, without a wimple, hair well-brushed and shining in the rare early-winter sun that had persisted all day, dressed in a simple white gown that could well pass for a petticoat but made of a finer weave of linen. It was not unshapely as an undergarment might be, for Master Israel had cut it to suit my body well and Frau Sarah had stitched it with great care.

  Reinhardt’s vanity forbade his wearing his ratcatcher’s cloak, which he pronounced too worn and soiled for the occasion. ‘You will not die of some rat disease but of pleurisy,’ I warned him. But methought he would rather perish with this infection than be seen less the fop for our debut.

  A woman feels the cold more than does a man and I was not content to freeze to death and so wore my sheepskin coat and the boots Master Israel had given me and took up my stave as we prepared for our departure.

  Reinhardt, who had previously pronounced himself most pleased with my appearance, now grew most unhappy. He insisted that I remove the sheepskin coat and my boots and wear the dainty slippers I carried under my arm, and also to leave my stave as it was not prepossessing and did not serve me well. ‘How can an angel be seen wearing heavy boots, a dirty sheepskin coat and carrying a stout stave!’ he exclaimed, his voice near hysterical.

  ‘This particular angel is exceedingly cold,’ I replied, ‘and the streets are full of shit! My stave goes with me everywhere!’

  ‘A prophet or a hermit or perhaps a wandering monk, but a stave is ridiculous for an angel!’ he insisted.

  ‘My stave is no more ridiculous than thy bouncing peacock’s feather,’ I responded in a snappish way.

  ‘Thou art a dainty maid and with the light upon your hair and wearing thy white dress you look as if you are made of gossamer and sunlight, the Petticoat Angel most perfect. Now all that is gone and here appears the peasant in heavy boots, dirty coat and stave, galumph, thump, galumph, thump, galumph, thump! It upsets the whole effect! You are not upon a pilgrimage, Sylvia!’

  ‘Nay, thou art wrong – that I truly am. Mine shall be a Christian life and that is a pilgrimage, thus said Father John who bade me take his stout stave wherever I go and never be without it. It is blessed with holy water and will protect me as it did yesterday in the bathhouse.’

  ‘It is simply not seemly,’ he grumbled, but said no more and we departed, him in a great huff, so that he walked ahead of me to show his pique. As we drew closer to St Martin’s the crowd increased and his bouncing peacock feather with its gaudy pinnate eye above the heads of the crowd became a useful beacon for me to follow. Moreover, I blended well within the crowd, though not so Reinhardt. I could hear folk calling out, ‘Who’s the pretty boy then!’ and suchlike remarks. While he would take delight in their japing, I was grateful for the anonymity my coat and stave afforded. A maid in a plain white dress without a wimple on a cold winter’s afternoon might have attracted some attention and so, apart from the increasing crush, I was carried along with the general throng.

  I thought the folk that pressed around us the usual street crowd, the same as we had endured walking through the markets the previous morning. A city, I was learning, was always busy and its narrow streets congested. But as we drew closer to the church square the street seemed all the deeper thronged with folk. ‘You see, I told you!’ Reinhardt called back, grinning. It was then that I realised all these city folk were walking towards St Martin’s square.

  The square was already half full with folk and as we entered I glanced behind me to see the alley leading to the church thronged as far as I could see. Then suddenly Nicholas, the lad who wished to be a monk, the leader of the street children in the woods, came up to me and proffered a white rose. ‘For you, Sylvia,’ he said smiling.

  ‘A rose! Thank you, Nicholas,’ I exclaimed. ‘From whence comes this lovely blossom?’

  ‘From the cloisters at St Mary’s on the Kapitol,’ he replied, then added, ‘From the blessed Father Hermann Joseph’s rose garden.’

  ‘Will he not be angry to lose such a beautiful bloom?’ I asked, naturally assuming he had stolen it. The white rose was as large as my hand and was cut with sufficient stem and leaf and the thorns removed so that I might easily hold it.

  ‘Nay, he bade me give it to you. It is a holy white rose and comes from one that was once given to him by the Virgin Mary,’ he said solemnly. ‘I told him of the birds in the woods and he plucked the rose and said I must give it to you and if he could find the time he might come to St Martin’s to hear you sing.’

  ‘Oh dear, I hope not,’ I replied. ‘I shall be nervous if so famous a monk should be present.’

  Nicholas laughed. ‘He is not a priest like any other and refuses a horse or wagon and goes on foot everywhere. He cares for the common people such as us. Come, Sylvia, we have kept a place on the church steps for you. Follow me, there is a back way so we can avoid the pressing crowd.’

  He led Reinhardt and myself into a side street beside the church that seemed a dead end, and when we reached the end he opened a small door in the wall of the church and we found ourselves within the refectory. ‘Are we permitted here, Nicholas?’ I asked in a low voice.

  Not answering my question, he said briskly, ‘Follow me.’

  We soon found ourselves within the baptistry and then shortly after walking down the centre aisle, our footsteps seeming to echo through the empty church so that I felt sure they would summon someone in authority. Then Nicholas opened a small door beside the main doors leading out into the square and there, standing on the topmost step well above the crowd, stood twenty or more street children in a row with their arms locked so that none might attain the top step. ‘Take off thy coat and give me the stave and I will look after both,’ Nicholas, ever the leader, instructed.

  I did as he bade me and then put on my lovely slippers. The urchins parted to make a place for us to stand. It was then that some in the crowd must have seen me, for a roar went up that was soon followed by another as more people looked up to see us. Reinhardt, ever the showman, removed his hat and held it aloft until the crowd consisting of perhaps five hundred souls grew silent.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ he cried. ‘Draw closer, brothers and sisters, and be seated on this fine sunny winter’s day so that you may keep warm, the one against the other!’ The crowd surged closer, then seated themselves and remained all well behaved. By now they filled a goodly portion of the square.
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  Reinhardt raised his feathered hat once more and they drew to silence. ‘May I present to you, the good citizens of Cologne, the remarkable voice of the Petticoat Angel!’ he shouted down to them. There was much cheering from the crowd and I grew afraid that I would disappoint them so that they might grow angry at coming to the square for no good reason. ‘We will sing first in praise of God and thank him for His glorious presence in our lives!’ the ratcatcher called out. ‘Then we shall sing in praise of life itself!’ he shouted to a murmur of laughter from the crowd.

  ‘Call the birds!’ someone from the crowd shouted out. There followed another murmur from the folk below the steps, not knowing what he meant by this. The man stood to his feet and turned to the crowd. ‘I hear say the Petticoat Angel can charm the birds from the trees!’ he explained.

  ‘There are no trees here and the birds in this square are only pigeons, rooks and sparrows,’ Reinhardt called down to him.

  ‘Call the birds!’ several more people now shouted.

  ‘Pigeons and sparrows need no calling, they are always at our feet,’ Reinhardt replied, a tincture of anger added to his voice.

  ‘What about the rooks?’ the man, still standing, cried, pointing to the belltower.

  Reinhardt, ignoring him, lifted his flute to his mouth to sound an opening note.

  ‘The rooks! Call the rooks!’ the section of the crowd below the steps began to chant.

  Reinhardt removed the flute from his mouth and, somewhat exasperated, shrugged and turned to me. I nodded and the crowd grew still. I began to call and soon enough a pair of rooks came to sit upon my shoulder, and then shortly after, a dozen, then more until there seemed to be rooks hopping everywhere making their not so pretty chirping. The crowd sat silent, marvelling at the sight of the dark birds clustered about me until with a single sound I sent them away, black wings filling the air with their noisy fluttering. The crowd began to cheer and then to chant, ‘Petticoat Angel! A miracle! Petticoat Angel! Show us another!’