Laurentius came to a standstill, looking annoyed.
No, he thought to himself. It is in people’s nature to become themselves. Death is a state of not being and is therefore an aberration. Death happens, but that does not mean that all is finished. A person leaves memories, impressions behind him. Now those impressions had sunk into Laurentius’ soul, pressing deep furrows into it, and everything else could do little more than scratch the surface.
“Clodia,” Laurentius said.
Where was his parakeet now? Where was his companion, who could help him drive away his phantasms, or at least hold them at bay for a while?
He set off again, trudging determinedly, almost angrily out through the city gates, and then he stopped to glare moodily at the brown river water flowing past the low banks. He tried to concentrate on something other than the thoughts which were spinning round in his head, to find something to fix his gaze on. He had to try to think rationally. He had an examination to do; he could not let himself be distracted. But what should he do?
There were small boats bobbing about on the river, carrying wood to the opposite bank. He watched the little skiffs, knocked together from planks of wood, daubed black with spruce tar, and they seemed tiny from where he was. He tried to work out what the purpose of so much bustling activity could be. No one knew how cold the winter would be this year, but it seemed that people were trying to stock up on firewood just in case. Those who were able could earn their daily bread that way, and in current circumstances there was no shortage of people ready to do the work.
“Wood, of course.” Laurentius awoke from his thoughts. “I need wood for the fireplace—that will help. And straw. I must get a move on.”
WEDNESDAY NOON
THE POND WAS FULL OF BULRUSHES, debris and weeds, and a disgusting smell was wafting out of it. The smell which had been swirling in Laurentius’ nostrils since his arrival in Dorpat now combined with the choking, sweet stench oozing from the muddy riverside marsh, creating a mixture which was familiar and yet new. He stood still and tried to take in the view, which with the rain and wind looked almost like a scene from a painting. The path was just outside Dorpat, by the Russian Gate, but it seemed to be in the middle of a wasteland, somewhere far beyond any city or other human settlement, far away from anywhere. Behind him, across the river, were the town’s outskirts, but he couldn’t see a single house there now, and the city wall had all but disappeared into the twilight. From where he was standing the riverside bastion looked more like a hillock overgrown with grass. The path which led directly from the edge of the pond to the hillock had been laid with rounded birch poles and branches and then filled in with sand and stones, and now it was strewn with fallen leaves. The marshland reached right up to the city walls, and in the summer it probably dried up almost completely, but now, after several months of rain, it bore a closer resemblance to a small lake. The path passing through the middle now looked like a plank of wood laid down to cross a puddle, unstable and treacherous.
Laurentius stepped onto the boards of the bridge, which were slippery and sagging from rot, and looked around. Sinewy silver willows were growing along the edges of the riverside path, probably planted some time ago as reinforcement, to prevent the path, which had been built on such soft foundations, from disappearing completely into the ground. There was a twisted, tangled mass of broad roots trying with all their might to hold the clumps of earth together, but in places the water had washed the surface soil away, and some of the trees now looked almost as if they were growing in mid-air. This seemed to be the right place.
Laurentius had been directed there from the Haymarket, where after a little haggling over wood and straw he had managed to summon up the courage to ask for advice from one of the more friendly-looking tradesmen. Maybe Laurentius’ money had helped to make the tradesman a little more favourably inclined, since judging by past experience he had paid an exorbitant price. But he hadn’t thought it wise to argue too much and had given in pretty quickly—if only not to get himself too worked up ahead of the afternoon examination. Any kind of stress and exertion always made his fever flare up, just like strips of bark smouldering in the hearth when they are blown onto. Movement and anxiety were the very essence of the fever, so he had to try to balance them with stillness and calm. That was why it was so easy to develop a fever while travelling, and why people who had anxious dispositions were most likely to fall ill.
It was his fever which had brought him to where he was now.
He had started worrying about his tincture as he stood by the church feeling his fever rise. When he set out on his journey he hadn’t thought it necessary to take much with him, but since the death of his parakeet and the moment when the stench had first assailed him he had used up an unexpectedly large amount of it. He had already delayed making a new batch too long.
Laurentius fished out a small knife and a piece of paper from his knapsack.
The tradesman had seemed oddly put out by his question, but after hesitating for a moment he advised Laurentius that the best place to find willow trees was next to the Russian Gate. But the friendly tone had quickly left his voice; his eyes had narrowed, and his command of German had seemed less sure. Laurentius had tried to explain that he needed the willow bark for medicinal and scientific purposes, but the look of apprehension and suspicion had not left the tradesman’s face. It seemed he had a particular antipathy towards that part of town. He just shook his head at Laurentius’ clumsy attempts to explain himself, adding in a scathing tone that no good ever came from what went on in those parts. Laurentius had tried to point out that he didn’t plan to get up to anything untoward, at which the tradesman grew angry and started hurriedly trying to explain something to him. Swearing profusely, he told Laurentius that some sort of refuge for the starving had been set up beyond the outskirts of town, and that all sorts of odd people had started to loiter about. Then he had pointed at Laurentius’ sword and asked scornfully whether he knew how to use it, should the need arise. He added that just the other day there had been an incident with an old man who turned out to be a cannibal, and had to be knocked down dead. He had been biting passers-by in broad daylight just like a dog, and he had even devoured a little baby whole.
“That old man didn’t kill anyone,” Laurentius had told the tradesman. “I happened to be walking past nearby at the time; as far as I could tell he didn’t even manage to bite anyone.”
“Well he was definitely on a bit of a rampage,” the tradesman had muttered, shaking his head. But then he just made a resigned gesture and concluded, “What business is it of mine anyway? My job is selling straw.”
Laurentius had thanked him and started looking for the gate to which he had been directed. He walked through the city outskirts, which were full of dilapidated buildings with children standing in doorways watching him unsmilingly as he passed. All of them were extremely thin, and they looked at him with wide-eyed, reproachful gazes. Laurentius had offered one boy a coin, and the boy grabbed it out of the palm of his hand and disappeared into the darkness of his house without smiling or uttering a word. When the other children saw that, they livened up and came running out into the rain, and started thronging round Laurentius and pulling at his clothes. He had felt like he was their quarry, and he flailed his arms around helplessly and quickened his pace before breaking into a run to get away from them. He had felt those looks on him before, and he had experienced what the children were feeling himself. That was how poverty and hunger felt. He breathed a sigh of relief as he got past the houses and arrived at an area of brushwood by the river.
“Now then,” Laurentius said, looking around and taking in his surroundings.
He approached a suitable-looking tree, clambered up the roots and adjusted his grip on his knife. A couple of large pieces of bark should suffice at first, but they would have to be cut from a branch which was roughly two years old, where the bark would be most potent. Ideally he would have gathered it in spring, but there was nothing he
could do about that now.
His godfather Theodus had been the first to teach him the art of preparing medicines and tinctures, and it was on his godfather’s advice that he had eventually gone to Leiden to study. Leiden Academy was the leading centre of medicine at the time; it had the newest instruments and was up to date with the latest thinking in the field. It had been clear from the way his godfather had spoken that he regretted that his work had taken him away from his own studies. Theodus would smile wistfully and shake his head as he recalled his own university days. But he would always conclude his reminiscing by giving Laurentius an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
“Don’t you leave your schooling unfinished like me. Make sure to complete it at all costs,” Theodus had advised.
Overcoming his own regret, Theodus would begin enthusiastically explaining how to fight different ailments, and how to make one’s soul stronger. He was clearly glad of the chance to share his knowledge. He had made great efforts to educate Laurentius and advise him which books to read. He would always say that the more education a person had, and the more he cultivated his soul, the stronger and more productive he would become. At first, Laurentius had not understood what his godfather meant. Melancholia and emptiness had already taken a grip of his weak soul, and he didn’t know what to do—sometimes he dared not leave the house. The world seemed a terrifying place; demons lurked everywhere. Only by gradually learning more about himself and the nature of melancholia did he become aware of the relationship between his experiences and the bouts of sickness. The experiences and ailments would enter through his eyes, ears, nose, mouth and skin; if he wasn’t careful they would build a nest inside him and flourish like samphire or mould. Various medicaments and procedures could be used to rein in the bad experiences, to hold them at bay, but once they had bored their way into his soul they were just like a bad habit, like drinking spirit was for some. Just one taste, and they could no longer control themselves: their addiction had them completely in its grips. Laurentius’ melancholia was the same. Therefore the aim of his studies had been to reinforce good habits and experiences, and to avoid bad ones. And if he did not succeed in avoiding them, then at least they could be alleviated, soothed and subdued. The tincture had that effect on him, just as Clodia used to.
He hoisted himself up the gnarled roots of the willow tree, trying not to get his clothes dirty on the damp bark, and started looking for a suitable branch. Level with his face, he could see a number of notches which someone had made in the trunk. They had now healed over like scars, and taken on a grotesque rippled appearance. To Laurentius they resembled ineptly scrawled seals of Olympian spirits, or something similar. But right next to them he could see some branches of a suitable thickness jutting out, so he got down to work, whistling to himself. He gouged out a couple of large pieces of bark from the tree and wrapped them up in the piece of paper. That should be enough to start with.
“Now then,” he said, turning round.
He nearly dropped the knife and willow bark out of his hand as he felt the fever, which he had managed to forget, come surging back like a rush of blood to the head. Struggling to support himself, Laurentius grabbed hold of one of the branches. Down by the base of the tree three stern-looking men were standing and observing his activities in silence. It looked like they must have already been there some time, watching what he was doing up the tree. Laurentius had not seen a single soul as he walked along the riverbank, and he hadn’t heard any footsteps or the murmur of voices either. Maybe the men had been hiding in the shade of the high riverbank? But what did they want?
“I was just collecting some bark,” Laurentius announced with no real purpose and making an awkward gesture.
The men spat over their left shoulders in unison and took a couple of steps to one side, but it didn’t look as though they planned to leave. Shrugging and trying to feign nonchalance, Laurentius bent forward, put the knife back into his knapsack and placed the piece of paper containing the bark to one side of it. He had now become very aware of his sickness; the fever had started throbbing away in his temples again, and his head was spinning. The men were still standing there, heads cocked to one side, watching his clumsy movements. Laurentius remembered what the tradesman had said about this part of town. In alarm, he hurriedly placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. He was sure this wouldn’t end well.
The oldest-looking man said something in Estonian and pointed in the direction of the tree.
Laurentius watched as the others clambered up the tree and started to inspect the spot where he had been cutting the bark. One of them explained something agitatedly and motioned to the others. It seemed as if he had angered them in some way.
Laurentius lifted his knapsack onto his shoulder and slowly started to leave, hoping that the situation might resolve itself. But the peasant man standing in his path wouldn’t let him past. The man bowed politely several times and then started to explain something in a very persistent tone of voice, prodding his finger in Laurentius’ direction as he did so. Laurentius cast his gaze downwards and shook his head.
“I don’t understand what you’re saying,” he said.
The man’s mouth twisted in a sneer; he snorted resolutely, and then he started talking again, pointing at the tree. He was standing in an awkward pose, sideways on to Laurentius.
Laurentius started to edge backwards, glancing at the men and the tree as he did so, and trying to make it clear that he couldn’t speak Estonian, but it looked like the man standing in his way was not going to back down.
“Back off!” Laurentius shouted, trying to sound angry, and putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. The situation had already become uncomfortable and unpleasant—but he wasn’t particularly surprised that it had come about. Everywhere he had lived the same thing had happened sooner or later. People started to suspect him of having the evil eye; gossip started spreading and before long the whole town knew about it. And even those people who wouldn’t admit outright that they believed in the evil eye started to look at him differently and speak with him warily.
“What’s going on here?” someone suddenly asked in Swedish.
Laurentius breathed a sigh of relief and turned in the direction the voice had come from. It belonged to a youngish-looking student, who, judging by his walking stick and muddy boots, had already covered a long distance that day.
“Laurentius Hylas,” Laurentius said, introducing himself. “These peasants clearly want to tell me something, but I can’t understand a thing that they’re saying.”
“Peter Börk, from Dalarna,” the young man said.
He started talking to the men, who pointed in the direction of the tree and at Laurentius and then spat over their left shoulders again. The young man grinned, shrugged and addressed Laurentius in Swedish: “It seems that there has been some sort of unfortunate misunderstanding. The men claim that you were engaged in witchery of some kind. They say that they saw you cut the fetters of some spirits which were skulking inside the tree. They are convinced that you have the evil eye.”
“Well, that is pretty ignorant of them,” Laurentius said, trying to laugh with Peter. “All I was doing was gathering willow bark for scientific purposes.”
At that Peter raised his eyebrows, but then he turned and spoke with the men again, pronouncing every word slowly and carefully. They stood there and shook their heads with stony expressions on their faces, and they appeared to be insisting on some point.
Peter shrugged his shoulders and beckoned for Laurentius to come with him. “Let’s get going; there’s no hope of sorting out this muddle.”
He shook his walking stick angrily a couple of times and took Laurentius by the arm. The peasants sullenly watched them leave.
“Easy does it,” said Peter. “Don’t look back now.”
“Why?” Laurentius asked.
“These are troubled times; some folk have been completely driven to distraction. It’s not worth getting them too worked up. They think that you w
ant to put the evil eye on them,” Peter explained.
As they walked off Laurentius could feel the men’s glares fixed on the back of his head.
Eventually Peter turned to Laurentius and enquired, “But why were you gathering that bark there anyway? The way things are at the moment you can’t do anything at all before people start thinking God knows what.”
“It really was to prepare some tincture,” Laurentius explained. “I fell ill recently and it’s the only thing that will help with the fever.”
Peter sighed. “You know, they’re not easy to deal with, these peasants. Once they get something into their heads it’s impossible to talk them out of it. They’re very suspicious folk; they see witches wherever they look. It’s a good thing our court system works so well, otherwise they would have slaughtered half the population of the villages by now. A while ago they burnt Võhandu mill down to the ground because they reckoned it was causing the cold weather. They’re probably thinking the same thoughts about the bad weather we’re having now, looking for someone to blame. These are very unsettled times,” Peter said, shaking his head thoughtfully.
“I suppose that’s just how things are sometimes,” he continued, although he now sounded a little unsure of himself. “There are sometimes periods of history like that. John Napier made a mathematical prediction that the world will end in 1697. One is tempted to believe him, although the forecasters all mention different years and dates. Just this morning I was walking along the riverbank here, composing hexameters. I had been walking along for around an hour without seeing anyone at all. But then at some point someone comes up behind me; someone else appears from out of the forest, and then finally someone turns up on horseback.” Peter looked at Laurentius’ expression, clearly seeking confirmation that he hadn’t veered too far off the subject.
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