Death and the Devil

After a while he had to rest. The cathedral estates lay far behind him, the sun was about to rise above the horizon. Hungrily he bit off a piece of bread, decided to stretch out for a while, and fell asleep in the middle of the meadow.

It was the humming of the bees that woke him.

He leaped up, rubbing his eyes to clear them. At first he had no idea where he was, nor how he came to be there. The sun was right overhead; nowhere was there any sign of human habitation, just gently rolling meadows with bushes and tall shrubs. Only a few steps away was the edge of a wood.

Then he remembered. He had run away.

Suddenly he felt small and shabby. He hardly dared look up; he felt God’s eye resting on him with the weight of a death sentence. You have deserted your father and brother, the farm, everything, said God. You are a coward and a traitor, Jacob. You don’t deserve to live. Repent.

Turn back.

For a moment he hesitated. Isabella. The city. Pulsating with life like the heart in his chest. Then he picked up what was left of the bread, turned around dejectedly, and tried to work out which direction he had come from. After casting around for a while, he found the path that led back to the farms. He had run quite a way, he realized, and set off as fast as his legs would carry him.

It was late afternoon when, with a heavy heart, but ready to take his deserved punishment like a man, he came around the hedge bordering the land his father leased. Their hovel could be seen from here and, despite his fear, he was almost glad to be back. He would think up some explanation, perhaps he’d even tell the truth. His father wouldn’t kill him; after all, he needed him in the fields. Perhaps he’d have to go hungry for a day, but he’d survive. Or perhaps he’d have to herd the pigs when it was his brother’s turn. He could live with that, too. Or he’d have to—

His musing came to a sudden halt.

There, some way in front of him, where his home was, a column of dirty brown smoke rose up into the blue sky.

At first he thought his father must be burning some rubbish. It must be a big fire he’d lit. Too big. There was no reason for such a big fire, nothing he could think of, anyway. He looked again.

Their hovel had disappeared.

Jacob felt his limbs go numb and a lock seemed to snap shut in his mind. He felt he couldn’t breathe. His reason pointed out that there ought to be a shack there and demanded that reality go back to the former, accustomed version immediately.

The column of smoke stayed.

Jacob dropped the bread. With a cry he set off running, stumbling over the furrows, waving his hands around wildly, until he was close enough to the dark smoke to see clearly the charred beams that were the remains of his home.

His eyes burned. His mind refused to comprehend, but gradually the terrible truth crept into his mind like a spider.

He went closer.

And closer still.

One more step.

And saw—

—saw—

What?” Richmodis asked softly.

Jacob stared into space. He felt he had fallen backward through time. With difficulty he forced himself to return to the present.

“Yes, what?” Jaspar Rodenkirchen leaned forward. “What was it you saw?”

Jacob was silent.

“Nothing,” he said eventually.

“Nothing? What do you mean, nothing?” exclaimed Goddert, clearly dissatisfied with the answer.

Jacob shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing. There was nothing there. Just charred wood and smoking lumps of peat.”

“What then? What did you do next?”

“What I had intended to do anyway. I went to Cologne.”

“And your father? Your brother? What about—”

Jaspar interrupted him. “One moment. Our young friend has presumably not come here to tell us the whole story of his life, although I have to admit I find it very moving.”

Jacob didn’t know what to say. He had not intended to tell them everything. He hardly knew these people, but they had been hanging on his every word, as if it had been a sermon about the Last Judgment. And it was just the story of any little boy.

A little boy I used to know. That thought suddenly appeared in Jacob’s mind. Was that really me? He felt as if he had been telling the story of someone else, without really knowing why.

“I went to Cologne,” he repeated pensively.

Richmodis placed her hand on his arm. “You don’t have to tell us any more.”

“Why not?” bellowed Goddert. “It’s a truly beautiful and interesting story. You don’t often hear stories like that nowadays. And paying a doctor with a story seems to me a highly original idea.”

Jaspar nodded. “There’s no disputing that. Though once again you can see no farther than the ruby-red tip of your nose. Or do you imagine I could buy wine with stories?”

“Of course you could,” said Jacob.

“I could?” Jaspar’s nose and chin went on the attack together. “Then you know more than I do. How can you do that?”