I remember only a shout from the garden and the sensation of sudden wakefulness. Through the window of my cell, I glimpsed first the stars, glimmering in the east, and then the Cathedral spire like God’s shadow on the sky. A light snow had fallen, and the cold wind howled through my room, slashing through the fabric of my robes.
The cry came again from the garden below. I recognized the voice of Brother Friedrich, our cantor, with whom I had been a novice and whom I counted as my dearest friend. He knelt weeping before Saint Martin’s Oak with his face in his hands. The source of his distress was obvious. For that venerable tree—planted long before by the departed Abbott Martin, first of our Order to settle in Muelenberg—had been burned to a standing cinder. The stench of char was layered thickly on the air, and smoke stood in plumes at the end of each branch.
I donned my heavy cloak and dashed to the stair, passing cells from which the occasional head protruded—brothers roused, like myself, by Friedrich’s cry. Downstairs, I emerged into the courtyard, where the oak swayed and crumbled, shedding ash in clouds. I dropped to the ground beside Friedrich and gathered him into my arms. The bell sounded from the Cathedral, tolling the hour, and I was surprised to learn that it was not yet Vespers.
Afterward, when he had recovered his faculties, Friedrich could say nothing of what had transpired. He thought that he had fallen asleep in his cell and that perhaps he had sleepwalked to the garden. The first thing he remembered of that evening was the rush of wind over his ears and the feeling of stiffness in his joints, as though he had knelt for hours with the smoking shell of the tree before him.
But Friedrich was not the only brother among us to have experienced this queer somnambulance. The Abbot himself was helpless to explain how he had come to be in the Scriptorium with a lit candle suspended mere inches above a pile of our oldest manuscripts.
Likewise the earth beneath the oak was found to be soaked in pitch and tar, even as the Prior discovered the complete absence of such flammables from the Abbey stores—a fact for which no one could account.
Confusion fell, mingled with suspicion. When word of his discovery reached the refectory, where the brothers had gathered, Friedrich loosed a strangled cry, so hoarse and ragged I feared he would never sing again. The Almoner bowed his head and prayed, feverishly, for understanding. The Abbott, upon whose strength and wisdom we relied, offered us no reassurance, but merely gazed down at his hands on the table.
Beyond the Abbey walls, Muelenberg had become a dream city. Townsfolk wandered the streets by day and night, proceeding slowly, cautiously—uncertain of the stones beneath their feet and yet unwilling to admit, even to each other, the terror they shared. Rumors spread of Saint Martin’s Oak, causing no small wail to go up from the faithful, who saw in its destruction a sign of God’s displeasure.
The city is cursed, said many. Their faith deserted them, and they sought instead distractions of the basest sort: drunkenness, avarice, and sins of the flesh. Even the Count, long reclusive in his leprous affliction, withdrew his patronage from the Church, so that the Cathedral was nearly empty on the Sabbath, excepting the Bishop and his priests.
With this gloom upon us, and winter drawing in, the Abbott fell into an impenetrable melancholy. Things appeared less real to him, he admitted, and he felt keenly the absence of the Paraclete. All was flesh, he said. He could give no reason for these doubts but believed they had their origin in that autumn evening when the oak had burned.
Soon discontent spread throughout the Abbey, manifesting itself in lazy illumination work and gossip at the refectory table. The Prior took to carrying a rusty ladle at mealtimes with which he might strike any offending rumormongers. Matins was sparsely attended of a morning, as many slept through the tolling bell, dreaming so deeply that even the threat of the Prior’s wrath could not rouse them from slumber.
But most terrible of all was the change that came over Brother Friedrich. In the days after the fire, my friend retreated into silence and would not raise his voice to pray or sing. Removed from his position as cantor, he demonstrated little enthusiasm for his other duties, shirking them to wander the garden by twilight, returning to the oak tree again and again.
His discontent was plain to me, but he would not confide his troubles, save to admit that the tree often appeared to him at night in the moment before sleep. Indeed, he said, it seemed to him the embodiment of all that we could never know.
At the time, I pretended to confusion, but in hindsight, I believe I understood his meaning, though I lacked the courage to utter such thoughts aloud. But Friedrich was always braver than I: the first to swear the Vows and the first of our Order to renounce them. He did so in silence, slipping from the cloister through the east gate, never to return to those hallowed corridors.
His departure wore hard upon me and was followed by the loss of many others. By November of that year, we were reduced to half our original number. My own life in Christ seemed more hesitant than before, less certain. Prayer times came to resemble a duty, a mere chore, bereft as they were of Friedrich’s voice. My faith had been emptied of all beauty, all substance, like a wine-jug that has been overturned but from which one longs to drink.
And yet, for a time, this thirst was enough. Though empty, it sustained me through the chill of the subsequent winter, giving warmth by the desire it enkindled, the aching to be filled with something more: the substance of things half-glimpsed, or dreamt of.
In the spring, the Count initiated the construction of a wooden amphitheater outside the city walls. The builder, a Florentine of some renown, modeled its architecture on that of the Roman Colosseum, albeit wrought in timbers rather than in stone, so that we feared the Count intended a return to the barbarisms of the past.
The Bishop, too, was dearly aggrieved by the lavishness of the planned structure, as the Cathedral was in need of repairs and the church coffers nearly empty; but the Count would not hear his petition. Since autumn, the Count had abandoned all public appearances, to which he had once worn a silver mask, and it was rumored that his disfigurements had worsened in recent months, though these tales remained unconfirmed.
Work on the amphitheater continued without abatement through Lent and the Easter season. During that time, the townsfolk spoke of little else. It was said that the entire city’s populace would fit within its walls, though to what purpose we knew not. The builders were from the south, and spoke a foreign tongue, while the two young boys who stole inside were returned in chains to the castle and never heard from again.
In April, the amphitheater was finished, and on the first of May, the doors were opened. Criers throughout the city announced the performance of a morality play to be held that very evening. The Prior forbade us from going—the Abbot being indisposed, and the Order dependent on the good will of the Bishop—but we later learned from the madwoman Anna, an almswoman who lived off the fruit of our gardens, of that first night’s performance.
The amphitheater, she said, was a thing of rare and marvelous beauty, with a flagstone stage ringed by half-a-dozen terraces supported by wooden joints and tresses. On that evening, the whole of the city crammed inside eagerly, laughing and whispering to each other in the hush of that new season.
The best view was reserved, naturally, for the Count, who possessed a box overlooking the stage, with a heavy curtain drawn round it on three sides. A tunnel was said to lead directly to the box from the building’s exterior so that none might see him as he arrived.
Much time passed. The Cathedral bell tolled not once but twice before the actors emerged onto the stage from the undercroft below. At first, Anna assumed the subject of the play was to be the torments of hell, for it dwelt heavily on the sins of its three principal characters, depicting their transgressions in vivid, near-loving detail.
There were scenes of murder, theft, and rape; couplings with man and beast; and violence of the meanest sort directed toward a pair of maidens in white, much of it inflicted with a barbed whip. The actors—if actor
s they were—comported themselves with such zeal that many members of the audience crossed themselves and averted their faces, while others watched, enraptured, unable to look away.
Anna belonged to the latter group. She detailed the characters’ exploits with obvious relish, giggling to herself as she described the violation of the maidens, which was followed in turn by the hearty consumption of communion wine and the spirited desecration of the Host.
The play ended shortly afterward, to the surprise of many, for there were no punishments dispensed to the sinners, nor blessings awarded the virgins. Nonetheless, the applause that greeted this non-ending was tumultuous, and the Count’s satisfaction with the performance became widely known.
For a time, such entertainments were held daily, even on Sundays, when the whole of the city crowded itself into the amphitheater. All went to the theater, and all spoke of little else—all save for myself and my brothers in Christ, who were forbidden to attend. But from Anna we learned of its many excesses and depravities, the old crone dispensing gossip each morning as she waited for bread, and it was from Anna that we learned of the competition.
It was to be held on the Feast of Midsummer and could be expected to last through the day. Until then, all performances of morality plays were suspended on pain of death. Though modeled on the agon of old, we learned that the Count was desirous not of tragic drama but of ballads old and new. All singers and musicians, man and woman alike, were invited to participate, and some, we learned, made the journey from places like Florence and Vienna.
Excitement was general. As Midsummer approached, a strange fever came over the city, and an atmosphere of riotous jubilation prevailed. One evening, late in May, a crowd gathered in the cathedral square, several hundred strong, to demand access to the Bishop’s store of wine. His Grace petitioned the Count, requesting the intervention of the City Watch, but to no avail. When the gates were breached, and the marauding crowd poured into the palace, the Bishop took flight before them, finding shelter in the sanctuary of his church into which they dared not enter.
Fires erupted from within the palace and gutted the building’s interior. Later, when the smoke had cleared, hundreds were found dead inside, charred and melted together in attitudes of orgiastic frenzy. The Bishop, with typical gravity, declared it an act of Judgment from the Lord.
The riots continued throughout the early days of summer, incited by drunkenness and sustained by the Count’s general insouciance. The Jewish quarter was demolished, the gypsies driven from the Square of Saint Mark. At no point did the Watch interfere.
Throughout this time the rhythms of life within our four walls continued to change and adapt, despite the Prior’s attempts to maintain a comforting consistency with all that had come before. He tried first tolerance; but when our numbers continued to dwindle, he was moved to enforce a strict discipline, ruling over us with a rod of iron—or a rusted ladle, as the case was, with beatings administered to any found lacking in their devotions. This had no better effect, and it shortly became clear to us that something had changed, irretrievably so, and that neither faith nor kindness nor rigor could restore to us our lost brotherhood in Christ.
The first tragedy befell us in June, a fortnight before the Feast of Midsummer. The unrest was then at its peak, and sleep came not for fear of the chaos that lived—and bred—beyond the Abbey walls. Sometime after midnight, Brother Thomas ran screaming down the hall, so mad with fright that it took four of us to restrain him, and calm him, and coax from him the story.
The Abbott was dead. Thomas had found him in the Scriptorium amidst a mess of tattered vellum. His wrists had been opened by his own hand, his eyes reduced to black ash inside his skull. Nearby lay the bloodied knife and candle with which he had performed the deed.
We buried him in the garden, consigning him to the earth at the southeast corner in view of the skeletal oak. It was a lovely morning, as I remember, but I found no consolation in the clear skies overhead, nor in the temperate winds that sighed through the alder bushes.
With the Abbot dead, my dear friend departed, and my own faith in ruins, I saw no reason to keep my Vows; and yet I was much too frightened to forsake the Abbey walls, to exchange one kind of emptiness for another as our Abbott had done—for he would know nothing but suffering in the darkness that had been prepared for him.
The Feast of Midsummer fell upon the Sabbath. On the evening before, while helping the Almoner, I received news of Friedrich. The story came from Anna, who had gone to the castle to beg scraps from the Count’s kitchens. Anna, who confessed herself greatly excited for the next day’s entertainment, sneaked from the kitchens to the great hall, where dozens of tables were set, with close to one hundred singers and musicians seated around, dining on meat and wine.
These were the agon competitors, all of whom were boarded in the castle at the Count’s insistence. Among them, she recognized Brother Friedrich, though he had traded his monk’s robes for a yellow traveler’s cloak, such as might be worn by a minstrel, and his face, too, had changed. He looked older, she said, but could add nothing more.
That night, in the hour before Matins, I slipped through the east gate, as Friedrich had done half-a-year before, and wended my way across town as the sun began to rise. Long shadows crept over the blasted ruins left by the summer’s riots, darkening the flagstones over which I stepped, silent as a ghost in that dim and purple twilight.
In time, I arrived at the castle, where I cried out for entry, only to learn from the guard that the balladeers had left an hour before so as to reach the amphitheater at dawn. With much thanks, I took my leave of him and ran to the city gates, surprised to find them open at this early hour. The watchman waved me along with a shrug and I passed through, joining the winding procession that stretched from the gates to the amphitheater half-a-mile away.
Although well-acquainted with Anna’s stories, I had not myself lain eyes upon the structure before. Even at this distance, I could see it was an object of gargantuan proportion, as tall as the Bishop’s cathedral and yet far grander in scale, with six terraced arcades fashioned from white timber. And though I feared what I might find inside, I understood that I could no longer turn back, having come so far.
The line moved with painful slowness. I attempted to cut ahead, apologizing to those I passed, assuring them my intentions in doing so were Godly and honorable. I thought my robes might afford me some protection, but I had gone no more than ten yards before a man seized me round the neck and cast me to the ground. There he proceeded to rain blows upon me until the line lurched forward once more and he tired of his sport.
It was half-an-hour before I managed to stand, by which time the line had moved well past me, so that I had no choice but to seek out the end once more, and to shuffle forward, blood-blind in one eye, while the sun poured down its heat and the ever-present stink of sweat and piss thickened with the resulting humidity, so pungent it brought me near to tears, until at last, with much relief, I passed into the long shadow of the amphitheater.
Inside, the agon was well underway. Even in the atrium, the noise was deafening, compounded of the cries and jeers of ten thousand persons in proximity, so that I could not even hear the singer upon whom they heaped their scorn. Once I was certain that I was not observed, I ducked to the right and made my way along the outer arcade until I came to a flight of wooden steps leading down to the undercroft.
At the base of the stair, I came to a heavy door secured with iron bands. The wooden slide shot back, and a voice inquired of me what I wanted. I told him I was a musician; that I had been accosted and robbed and such was the reason for my lateness.
He asked me to sing from the piece I had prepared. When I demurred, he slammed shut the slide and would not consent to open it again, no matter how much vigor I applied to my knocking. Eventually, I turned round in defeat and joined the crowd in the amphitheater.
All seats were occupied, but I found room to stand on the second terrace, some fifteen yards from the
theater floor and located just above the Count’s curtained box. No one remarked on my battered condition. No one paid me any mind at all, held rapt as they were by the performers on stage.
First came a dwarf who played the hurdy-gurdy and sang with breathtaking earnestness of the woman who had abandoned him. This drew from the crowd a chorus of taunts, culminating in a thrown stone that cut the dwarf’s performance short and sent him running below with the broken instrument tucked beneath his arm. The stones lay in plentiful supply around us, provided by the Count, I assumed, so as to better measure the popularity of each singer.
Next came a lad of ten or eleven in urchin’s rags. He sang of the Teutonic defeat at Grumwald with the melancholy of a man much older. Vividly could I imagine the doomed knights with crosses on their breasts, and the Poles on horseback, who advanced with swords and lances gleaming. He was not yet halfway finished when the first shouts resounded, and the lad fled in terror of his life as the stones fell around him.
Throughout these performances, we had no glimpse of the Count, though word soon reached us that he was much displeased with the competitors thus far.
Only the harlot Iliana was awarded with applause. She was a woman of uncommon beauty, who appeared in red silks and sang of her many talents, choosing a melody like none I had heard before—so strange and haunting that I cannot now forget it.
Friedrich appeared on stage shortly before dusk. He wore a yellow cloak frayed from long travel, and his face appeared similarly careworn, scarred and creased, so that I would not have recognized him, save that his eyes were the same shade of gray. I shouted to him, but he did not hear. The noise of the crowd was overwhelming, many of whom desired the return of Iliana—at least until Friedrich opened his mouth, and a restless quiet descended.
The piece he chose was a song of praise, familiar to me from the hours we had spent in shared prayer. He sang in Latin, a language I doubted any one of the audience members understood, but they did not throw stones, nor jeer him offstage, nor even dare to speak: shocked into silence by the beauty of his song and the heartrending pathos with which it was performed.
The Grimscribe's Puppets Page 3