Death and the Devil

Jacob peered out. He started when he saw the Shadow. He came down the lane to the church. Then stood still, turning his head this way and that.

Jacob didn’t even dare breathe.

The Shadow took a few more steps, then stopped again and looked toward the church. His pale eyes seemed to be fixed on Jacob. He jerked his head to one side, then the other, to and fro. He looked up at the sky. In the light of the moon his profile stood out against the dark background of trees and walls, his long hair a cascade of silver.

He’s confused, thought Jacob in jubilation. He can’t understand where I’ve disappeared to. His mind’s telling him I must be somewhere nearby, but his senses are telling him the opposite.

He’ll trust his senses. Like every beast of prey.

He waited, tense, until the figure moved hesitantly on his way again. After a while it had merged with the darkness.

The Shadow had lost him.

“Your confession, my son,” whispered the monk. There were tiny beads of sweat on his brow. He was trembling.

“Have patience, please. Just a little longer.”

Time passed agonizingly slowly in the gloomy church. The monk was obviously so terrified of the Devil he didn’t dare move.

When at last Jacob was sure he’d shaken off his pursuer, he sank down against the cold stone wall to the floor, closed his eyes, and sent a short prayer of thanks to St. Ursula. Of all the saints, she was the one he liked best. He made an on-the-spot decision to owe his rescue to her, conveniently forgetting that only a few minutes ago he had been vowing to become a monk in St. Maximin’s.

“What was that you were saying about the Devil?” quavered the monk.

Jacob came to with a start. “The Devil? Oh, forget it.”

“And confession?”

“Oh, yes, my confession. You know, when I come to think about it, it’s not that urgent.”

“But—”

“I’ve just remembered. I went to confession only this morning. Or was it yesterday evening? Tell me, Father, can a simple, honest man commit so many sins in one day that it’s worth going to confession?”

The monk stared at him as if he had misheard. Then he pulled himself together. He gave a chilly smile. A moon of a face without any of the moon’s charm. “My dear son—”

Jacob was on his feet in a second. That “dear son” did not sound particularly dear.

“—when I was your age I could thump three lads of your size so hard on the head, they ended up looking out through their ribs, like cocks in a cage. Now I’m much too old, and much too pious, of course.” He darted over to Jacob and dragged him to the door. “But I imagine I can still manage a godly kick up the backside to get you out of my church.”

Jacob thought about it. “Yes,” he said, “I imagine you can.” Without waiting for a reply, he opened the heavy oak door, glanced outside, and hurried off, his head well down between his shoulders. He just hoped the Shadow wouldn’t still be waiting for him.

This time no one followed him.

Shaking his head, the monk came out of the church and put his hands on his hips. Just let that ungodly scoundrel come for confession once again!

Then his anger dissipated. Reverently, he drew in the clear air and muttered a hurried Ave Maria.

What a beautiful, peaceful night.

12 September

JACOB

Jacob woke with a mouth as dry as an oven. He’d slept at most three hours and two had been torture, lashed by bad dreams.

But he was alive.

As he sat up, his body protested and he wondered for a moment why he was sore all over, as if he’d been whipped or broken on the wheel. Then he saw the ropes he’d been lying on. They twisted and turned like heavy snakes over the deck of the little boat. The pattern was probably imprinted on his body.

He pulled himself to his feet, wincing with pain. When he pushed up the short sleeve of his jerkin, he saw that his right shoulder was grazed and bruised. He’d scraped it along the stones of the archway as he tried to give his pursuer the slip by St. Peter’s. He fingered the spot and groaned. It felt even worse than it looked.

Cautiously he peeped over the rail at the bustle on the quay. Several broad-beamed cargo boats were anchored there. They must have arrived during the night. Porters were transferring their cargoes of slates onto oxcarts. Among them was the harbormaster with his scroll and quill, supervising the work. It was a hive of activity even though, to judge by the sun, it was not yet six. Work at the quayside began before daybreak.

With stiff muscles, he climbed over the rail and dropped to the ground, hoping no one would see him. It was only a small boat in dry dock, clearly it had no goods on board, but the overseers still didn’t like beggars and such riffraff sleeping in them. Being caught automatically meant being suspected of having stolen something, which was true more often than not. That for Jacob it had been a matter of life and death was neither here nor there.