Death and the Devil

“If Theoderich had got his hands on us, his plan would have worked. But he made a mess of it. His chances of finding us are minimal. If it’s made public that you’re wanted for Rolof ’s murder, then someone else is quite likely to arrest you, you’ll be taken before different magistrates and he’ll not be in control anymore, he’ll just have to sit and listen to you spilling the beans on him. Unlike me, you’re a respected citizen. They’d be all ears! What would you be doing now, in Theoderich’s place?”

Jaspar gave a quiet laugh. “I’d make sure the accusation laid against Jaspar Rodenkirchen was withdrawn as quickly as possible.”

“He’s probably already done so.”

“I’d say there’d been a mistake. Perhaps even that the real murderer had already been caught. Something like that. Damn it all, that’s his only chance of getting out of the mess he’s got himself into. You’re right. What the alliance wants is for no one to bother with us, at least not until Urquhart’s done his worst.”

“Exactly. For the same reason, I don’t think they’ll have spread rumors about me. So I can go to the palace and see if they’ll listen. If they don’t, then it’s their funeral—as you might say.”

He drew up his knees and tried to sound firm and resolute, but the urge to run away was almost unbearable. He felt the gray chill of fear creeping up his spine, and all at once he knew it wasn’t Urquhart or the Overstolzes he wanted to run away from but something quite different, something immensely greater, something that would catch up with him again, as it always had, and he would run away again, keep on running until he ran himself into the grave—

Urquhart was his personal demon. God had created a being for him alone, for his fear, and he had to face up to it if he ever wanted to be free.

“I have no choice,” he said. It sounded good. It sounded brave, almost dauntless.

Jaspar said nothing.

“I have no choice,” he repeated.

“Fox-cub.” Jaspar cleared his throat copiously. “Didn’t you tell me I had the choice of helping you or not? Fine words. You think they don’t apply to you, too? Of course you have a choice. Everyone has a choice, always. What is there to keep you in Cologne? What’s to stop you from simply walking away?”

Could that blasted dean read his thoughts? “And what’ll happen to you and Richmodis?”

“That’s not important,” said Jaspar calmly.

“Of course it’s important!”

“Why? Just tell yourself it was all a dream. You might find it a bit difficult at first, but if you try hard enough, Goddert, Richmodis, and I will disappear without a word of complaint into the realm of fiction. As if we were part of a story you’d heard. Delude yourself. Perhaps we are just clowns in a story. You as well! Be a figment of the imagination, Fox-cub. Figments don’t have to take responsibility.”

“I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“I’m getting you to save your life. Run away.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve had enough of running away,” Jacob heard himself say.

There was a rustle of cloth from where Jaspar was. He’d obviously stretched out. Jacob waited for him to say something, but there was no reaction to what he’d said. He gave up.

“All right, Jaspar,” he said wearily, “what is it you want to know?”

“Me?” said the dean innocently. “Nothing at all. I don’t want to know anything.”

They lay there in silence for a while. Jacob listened to his heartbeat. It seemed to get louder and louder until his chest resounded with hammer blows. He suddenly realized he was crying.

He was amazed and happy at the same time. Had he ever shed a tear? He couldn’t remember. Overwhelmed with sorrow, flooded with sadness, he yet felt boundless relief. Puzzled and at the same time curious, he abandoned himself to this unknown emotion. And as he sobbed and sniffled, he felt as if his grief were feeding a bright, blazing fire that gradually consumed him, while a new, unknown strength began to throb in his veins. Scenes from an old story, too long repressed, rolled past his mind’s eye, and with every image, every sound, every sensation his fear shrank a little more, giving way to the desire for a home.

Jaspar left him to himself.

After what seemed like an eternity, the tears dried up. He stared into the darkness. His heartbeat had slowed down, his breathing was calm and steady. In fact, he didn’t feel bad at all.

“Jaspar?”

There was a quiver in his voice. Not a trace of firm resolution left. He didn’t care.

“Jaspar, that time I came back—I mean when I was a boy, to my father’s house—I told you there was nothing but a smoking ruin left.” He paused. “There was something else.”

“I know,” said Jaspar, unmoved.

“You know about it?” exclaimed Jacob in surprise.