Death and the Devil

They followed her. A man was lying on the massive kitchen table. His face was terribly pale, his clothes soaked in blood in several places. As they entered he laboriously raised his head.

Jaspar was beside him immediately. “What happened?”

“Sword wounds. One in the leg, the other in the side. I was just going to bandage them.”

“We must wash them first. Get me some wine, vinegar, and water. Cloths as well. Quickly.”

“I’ll fetch the wine,” said Goddert.

“I want it to wash him with, Goddert, to wash him! Understood?”

Goddert gave him a withering look and hurried off. Richmodis brought some cloths. With an expressionless look on his face, Jasper examined the man, felt his body, checked his pulse, and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“How do you feel?” he asked.

The man groaned and tried to sit up. Jaspar gently pushed him back down. “Don’t move. We have to bandage your ribs first. Tell me your name.”

“Kuno Kone,” the man whispered.

Jaspar paused for a second. “Kone? The merchant house?”

Kuno nodded.

“Well, well, well. Curiouser and curiouser.”

Jacob looked down at the man, feeling superfluous. He was about to say something, but Goddert shoved him to one side and put a brimming pail of water and two jugs on the floor beside the table. Jaspar sniffed them.

“That smells of vinegar,” he declared and picked up the other. “This’s probably wine. But it’s best to be sure.” He put the jug to his lips and took a long draught.

“Hey,” Goddert protested. “To wash him, you said.”

“Firstly,” said Jaspar, licking his lips, “anything I use to wash our friend here must have my specific approval, and secondly you can let me have a knife instead of stupid comments. I’ll have to cut his clothes away.”

Grumbling to himself, Goddert went to find a knife as Richmodis returned with another pile of rags. They all ignored Jacob.

“Can I do anything?” he asked hesitantly.

Jaspar looked up for a moment. “Play your whistle,” he said.

Jacob stared in astonishment. “Do what?”

“Don’t you understand German? Play your whistle. Until we’ve got him bandaged up.”

Breathing heavily, Kuno seemed about to protest.

“And you can keep your trap shut,” Jaspar commanded. “We’ll talk later. Goddert, the knife. Richmodis, soak that cloth in vinegar. Well, Jacob? Haven’t you any whistles left? I thought they grew on you, like monkeys on a tree. Come on. I want music if I’ve got to work at this hour of the night.”

Jacob felt inside the habit. The last thing he would have thought of was his whistle. It was still there. It had survived the fishmarket and the horrific journey under the cart. He took it out from his belt, twisting and turning it in his fingers, at a loss for what to play.

At that moment Richmodis looked up at him. And smiled.

It was that brief, warm smile.

Jacob started with the merriest tune he knew. And as Jaspar silently cut away Kuno’s clothes and then, with Richmodis’s help, washed him, carefully cleaning the wounds, and Goddert obediently brought fresh water and wrung out the cloths, the music gradually seemed to bring warmth to the room. With each silvery note peace and strength came flooding in, each arpeggio, each refrain drove the specter of fear a little further away. The faces of the others lost their careworn look and Jacob was fired with the joy of making music as he had not been for a long time. His whistle was a weapon combating despair; it rang out in their hopeless situation as if they had reason to celebrate, scorned danger with mocking trills, dismissed their terrors with a wave of its magic wand, rejoicing and pouring out the song of creation in cascade after cascade, calling up images of glittering stars and showers of pearls, exotic cities with minarets and slim towers of jasper, stories of fantasy and adventure, just as old Bram had taught him, Bram who, though perhaps not a crusader, had been a sorcerer who could conjure joy out of thin air. Jacob helped them recover something of the vitality they felt they had lost in the storm, smoothed the turbulent waves of confusion and revived their spirits until the blood surged through their veins and Goddert broke out into cheerful laughter.

With a guilty start, he let the whistle sink from his lips. The mood immediately cooled a little, but the icy despair had gone.

A satisfied look on his face, Jaspar washed his hands. “Good. He’s sleeping. I could do with a drink. What do you say, Goddert”—he looked at Richmodis and then Jacob—“What does everyone say, shall we have a mug of wine?”

“A mug of wine!”

They filled the mugs and went into the front room, telling one another what had happened. Jaspar pretended he was too exhausted to talk and left it to Jacob to put the others in the picture. But Jacob was well aware of the real purpose behind it. Jaspar had sensed his feeling of isolation and, like a good friend, was drawing him into the group.

When they had finished, they sat in silence for a while, each occupied with their own thoughts.