“What is your name?” he said in the direction of the shadow, which was still visible through the dim light.
“Clodia,” he heard from downstairs. “Goodnight.”
Laurentius drew breath sharply and grabbed hold of the door frame to steady himself. He knew this feeling very well. He had felt it before. Just a moment earlier everything had been disintegrating around him; all had been disparate and purposeless; the days had been passing by like clouds in the sky, wreathing in and out of one another, devoid of any meaning. But then suddenly, unexpectedly, a purpose had appeared, a story with a beginning and an end. All those disparate elements were now inextricably linked, no longer just separate episodes which one had to struggle to piece together. The clouds looked like birds and animals; they all had sense and meaning, a destination which they would eventually reach. He smiled, pushed the door open and sat down on his soft, straw-filled mattress. He slowly lowered himself onto his back. The room felt warm.
“Clodia.”
He was so tired that he fell asleep in an instant, before he had even managed to read an evening prayer.
NIGHT
I INSPECT THE FOLDED PIECE OF PAPER in my hand. Maybe it will be of some use, although I don’t know for sure. But what else can I do? I have to try something. I go outside to fetch some water, and the night air is cold and damp. It’s suddenly become very quiet. I lean against the wall to listen. Drip, drip, followed by a splash, as the water trickles off the eaves. The pail underneath is already full to the brim, and now and again some water spills out onto the ground; a large puddle has already formed around it. I bend down, scoop some water from the pail into my mug, and I drink. I should brew up some of the medicine right away, but I will have to go to the cave to do that—there is nowhere to make a fire here. Outside is too damp.
I shove the piece of paper under my clothes and run quickly across the wet grass in the direction of the cave mouth, down between the trees. There were once sand quarries down there. No one knows for sure when they first started to dig, but a great many caves and passages were burrowed out, some of them narrow, some wider, branching off in all directions. Some of the other women once went a bit deeper to look around, but I didn’t dare. It’s dark down there; there’s something eerie and menacing about it; mothers frighten their children with stories about the cannibals who live down there. Just a couple of days ago someone scratched out some odd-shaped bones from the ground; they looked just like the bones of some evil spirit. They’re just stories, of course, to stop the little ones from hanging around down there and getting lost in the caves. It’s creepy down there—but there’s nowhere else to make a fire.
My hair is wet from the rain; the water is seeping through to my scalp, making it tickle and itch. There’s a damp tobacco smell wafting off my clothes, and the rain is spattering constantly outside the cave mouth. The fire has almost gone out now; there are just a couple of gnarled logs smouldering. I’m not sure if there is enough charcoal to get it going again. I pour some water from the ladle into the pot and throw some of the thinner, dryer-looking branches underneath. Earlier that day someone dragged a big pile of kindling there, hoping that the fire would dry it out. But then kindling is just kindling: it burns up fast without giving off much heat.
I shove some twigs and dry blades of grass between the branches and blow. The straws start to glow; they blacken and buckle; the fire catches for a moment, but it goes out again. The flame gropes its way along the thin blades of grass, trying to find its way. A thick plume of grey smoke starts to rise from the fire and move slowly out through the mouth of the cave, and it seems to be glowing greyish-yellow like fever. A gust of wind blows the smoke back into the cave and the acrid fumes make me choke. I stoop down close to the ground and blow onto the straw, and it starts charring again, but the twigs still won’t catch. My head starts spinning from puffing so hard, and the smoke starts suffocating me. I lower myself down onto my stomach and continue to blow. Then the pile of kindling blazes up with a crackle, and the flames singe my hair and face.
I turn aside and lie there on the damp ground, and the smoke starts to thin out as it billows out of the cave mouth. Now I can sit up again. I wait for the water to boil, but I can’t tell if the hissing is coming from the burning wood or the water in the pan.
“Oh Lord,” I say under my breath.
I take the disc out of my pocket, the one which Maarja the witch gave me. The reverse face feels smooth; there is an outline of a pendant cross on it, etched with great skill—it’s a fine piece of work. But that’s only one side, on the other there are inscriptions. Those are used to capture disembodied souls. The witch said that all of the seals of the sylphs are there, and that with their help I can do whatever I want. I don’t know how well they have worked before now, but I have no other hope. So I shake the long strips of bark out into the palm of my hand and twist the disc into them. Let it grind the strips into dust, medicine made from powder, flour to bake the bread which will make my little girl well again.
I throw the dust into the water and make the sign of the cross over it with a stone. The pieces of bark float there without sinking to the bottom, suspended in the dark water. It has to be stirred.
“Damn,” I whisper, and I spit over my left shoulder.
The witch’s brew must be stirred with fingernails, but mine are broken from all the hard work. Proper witches don’t work, so they can keep their fingernails long. But maybe half a fingernail will do.
“Pain to the crow, sickness to the magpie. Amen, amen, amen.”
That’s how she taught me. Not that I have much faith in this witchery—I didn’t really want to go to see her in the first place. They say she is in cahoots with the Devil himself, that he will be sure to take her dear soul with him eventually. But what’s that to me? It’s not my soul he’s going to drag off. Although I would be happy for him to take mine, if he left my poor little girl’s alone.
The water starts to bubble, and I try to remember how long it was supposed to boil. For as long it takes to say the Lord’s Prayer ten times slowly. I start to recite it in a low voice.
“Our Father who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come...”
I hear a rustling sound from somewhere nearby. I jump up with a start.
“Who’s there?”
No answer—just the roaring wind and the crackling fire. But it looks like there is some kind of bird out there, flapping its wings against the backdrop of rain and sky, a dark shadow hovering on the border between darkness and light. Is it a magpie? A crow? I can’t see properly. I lift the pan off the fire and walk a couple of steps away from the ring of light, trying to get my eyes accustomed to the darkness. It’s pitch black outside; I can’t make out a single thing. I stand there for a while, feeling the warmth of the fire on my back and the cool night air against my face. Contours slowly start to form, a large tree with drooping branches and long, arrow-shaped leaves. There is a shadowy figure standing beneath it, a wide cape on his back, eyes glowing like stars. Or is that just the reflection of the fire? I notice an odd-looking bird perched on his shoulder; then suddenly it flaps its wings and comes flying straight at me. It grips hold of my face and my hair with its talons; it starts clawing at me. I cry out.
I try to tear the bird off, but I can’t get hold of it—my hands just grasp at thin air. I hear some frightened voices yelling, crying out. It sounds like they’re up near the barn.
“Over here,” I scream. “Over here, help!”
The black bird claws at my hair.
FRIDAY
LAURENTIUS WAS OVERCOME by a fit of coughing, and his stomach was knotted by cramp. He could feel a grating sensation at the back of his throat, and a pain in his chest. He swallowed to try to get rid of the sore feeling, to soothe the pain, but to no avail. His head was spinning, and he was short of breath. It was a big strain just to try to breathe evenly.
“One, two; one, two,” he repeated to himself.
Eventually the painf
ul irritation in his throat passed, and he pushed himself onto his knees to look at his pillow. Was that blood? Fortunately, he couldn’t see any dark stains there, although the pillowcase was a little dirty in places and would need to be washed. He shook his head and tried to concentrate, but his thoughts were still blurry.
Just a moment earlier he had been dreaming. But there was nothing resembling a narrative left behind in his memory, just a vague sense of guilt. But guilt over what? Over what he had done that evening? Irresponsibly going off with that woman to the refuge, giving her his medicine, and with it hope? He knew very well that giving someone hope also meant taking on an obligation. A person who is hungry, alone and in distress—tormented—eventually comes to a resigned standstill. He gets tired of running; he just waits for it all to be over. But if you give him hope, he will hang on to you for support with all his weight. What is the right thing to do in those circumstances? The world is full of people like that, man cannot bear their weight on his own. But God is distant and alien to those people; they prefer to see the Devil and evil spirits wherever they look. Maybe it would be better for them to seek help from medical science; it might be closer to them than God.
Laurentius nodded. Science was probably the best thing for them; they would always sully faith with their superstition, turn prayer into witchery. He could share his medicine for example; it was not much trouble to prepare some more.
He read out a morning Psalm: “The Lord sent them a lamp so that they would not get lost in the darkness or stumble on the rough ground...” But now he had to go and study, to let the light of learning illuminate his path. He made sure to mention the academy in his intercessory prayer, as well as the starving peasants and his parakeet.
“Clodia... Clodia...”
He repeated the name that was so familiar. His parakeet had always been by his side, soothing his melancholy. But what about that girl? He had been so tired yesterday evening that he had dared not think too much about what happened. But today? No, he still couldn’t allow himself to think about it; it was impossible to know what to make of it. He had to focus on curing himself. His supply of tincture had run out, so he would need to prepare some more. But yesterday he had given away all his willow bark, so he may have to try some other medicine. Perhaps he should try the gold tincture which Boyle had mentioned?
Laurentius pushed himself up into a sitting position and, groggy from sleep, started to try to make himself more presentable. His fever seemed a little lighter now. Sleeping on a soft mattress with fresh straw filling must have helped a bit. And now that the room was warmer his pillow had even lost some of the mustiness from the journey. Maybe that was why the rotten smell in his nostrils was a little weaker too. His head still hurt slightly, but that may have been from the beer at the banquet. The thought even brought a faint smile to his face. A hangover was a sure sign that he had been initiated as a full and equal member of the student community. Which also meant that he would have to attend his lectures. Of course he would! Professor Dimberg had strongly advised him to go to Sjöbergh’s private lecture on the soul, and given the circumstances it seemed like the right thing to do. What’s more, he had read in the student guide the day before that all students were obliged to attend university according to the timetable, and to study with diligence and application. He planned to follow those rules to the letter.
“Diligence and application!” Laurentius repeated to himself.
Maybe yesterday’s bloodletting had been some use after all? He tried to recall the theories he had read on the subject. He knew that bloodletting was supposed to weaken his sickness, but it could weaken his organism too. It was therefore essential to begin restorative treatment immediately afterwards. He had to be surrounded by other people, to gain succour from their joy and happiness. Loneliness could only make the sadness worse: the soul starts aching and memories dig themselves free. New experiences help to fight melancholia.
“So,” Laurentius said, jumping purposefully to his feet. He had to banish everything other than the upcoming day from his thoughts, act according to a rational plan. He took a few steps in the direction of the wash bowl, planning to clean himself, but nearly fell flat on his face. His head was spinning.
“Of course,” he said, feeling annoyed with himself as he groped for the bed behind him and sat down again. He could see a shimmering haze in front of him; all the objects in the room looked somehow transparent, intermeshed with each other. He gradually managed to focus his gaze again, and found himself staring at a small bread roll on the table in front of him.
Ever since the episode on the way to Dorpat, when the carriage had collapsed, he had felt nauseous if he tried to eat anything. There was a constant rotten smell in his nose and mouth, which made all food taste disgusting. That was why he had hardly managed to consume anything over the last few days. A lack of appetite might be a good thing during a famine, but it was true that hunger would not help his health at all. He had to eat something.
Clodia had given him that roll yesterday. He had been a little bewildered, dazed by all the bizarre events of the day, and had been unable to decide what to do with it, so he had put it on the table by his bed. It looked quite appetizing, but he was convinced it would taste the same as everything else. And he had nothing to drink, to wash the taste away. But what had Clodia said yesterday evening? “Maybe my bread and wine won’t make you nauseous?” It was just a shame that she hadn’t had any wine...
“Very well,” Laurentius said to the roll.
He decided to take it with him; maybe he would even risk eating it later in the day. He rose to his feet again, this time very slowly, and carefully started to get dressed. Yesterday his veins had felt as brittle as glass, and now that same fragile feeling had spread to all of his limbs. He glanced round to give the room one final check, and then went downstairs. Outside, the cold rain was still drizzling, making ripples in the puddles. He noticed the maid bustling about with some logs near the awning.
“Good morning!” Laurentius called out to her. Then he remembered the logs in his room. “I see they eventually brought those logs yesterday; looks like I didn’t waste half of my allowance on them after all. And thank you for lighting the fire. The room was pleasantly warm when I got back.”
“Oh, but I didn’t light the fire!” the girl replied, sounding a little taken aback. “The landlady called me to help with something, and I’m ashamed to admit that I forgot all about it. Please forgive me, I’ll go and do it right away.”
She grabbed a couple more pieces of kindling and, gripping them close to her chest, clattered upstairs. Laurentius stood and watched her as she went.
“Strange,” he thought. “Did I get things muddled up, or was it her?” Maybe he had been tipsy from the beer yesterday? Laurentius shrugged his shoulders and set off into the light morning rain, in the direction of the academy.
As usual the lecture started with a prayer, which was followed, as Dimberg had promised, by the autumn semester private philosophy lecture. Professor Sjöbergh had announced that it would be a continuation of the general philosophical discussions from the previous year, and that it was intended as a supplementary lecture for those students who had to prepare for their disputation. It was not compulsory, so only a few of the more senior students had turned up; the younger ones were either still in bed, or had already headed into town to drink beer. Despite the small audience Professor Sjöbergh was in an enthusiastic mood, and it quickly became clear that he took the subject of the soul very seriously—it seemed to be of personal interest to him. He noted that one only had to go out into the street to be confronted with the question of how people’s souls stayed fixed within their bodies. Dorpat was full of people whose souls were already teetering on the brink, and no small number who had completely failed to keep body and soul together. During the lecture it also became apparent that he was very interested in the new ideas regarding the nature of the soul which were doing the rounds in the academic correspondence. Sjöbergh had
a wide circle of correspondents, and kept himself abreast of the new directions of thought. There were philosophers from Germany and England among his contacts, and he even received letters from Italy now and again. And Dimberg had just brought him some of the latest books back from his travels as well.
The students listened to Professor Sjöbergh’s introductory words with a modicum of interest, but did not seem to be overly enthused by the lecture. Notwithstanding the innovative new thinking he made reference to, he hadn’t changed the structure of the lecture very radically, and the students were forced to continue the discussion of Aristotle’s treatise On the Soul for the fourth semester in a row. Lectures on the subject of the soul had started with this text since the Middle Ages, and the majority of students now reacted to it with a degree of sceptical disdain. They knew very well that contemporary philosophy had overturned all of Aristotle’s positions, and that he was now only of historical interest.
It was only at the end of the lecture, when Sjöbergh referred to the anatomical theatre which Professor Below was planning, that the auditorium livened up again.
“This year we plan to do things differently. Our aim is to gain a better understanding of human anatomy, which should be instructive in our wider studies. Many questions pertaining to the soul should become clearer to us. We shall proceed with the dissection as soon as the city provides a suitable corpse, possibly even within the next few days.”
The students were clearly excited by the prospect. Elsewhere, dissections were already a standard teaching method, but in Dorpat there was yet to be a single examination of a human corpse. Professor Below planned to conduct an initial trial, with the aim of subsequently securing official support from the city. He hoped to satisfy public curiosity by making the dissection open to all, as had already been the practice for several years in Leiden and Uppsala. Up until that time mostly only cats and dogs had been dissected for the edification of the students and amusement of the citizens, although a dead horse was once dragged onto the dissecting table too. But this hadn’t generated as much interest as might have been expected. There weren’t many students of medicine in Dorpat, and the other students weren’t particularly drawn to looking at animals’ internal organs—they could anyway see them at the market every day. But a systematic dissection of a human corpse was something altogether different. The university would be able to charge the citizens to watch it, so the whole enterprise might even end up turning a profit.
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