Sky's Dark Labyrinth

by Stuart Clark

  Their new house was modest, admittedly. Situated on busy Karlova Street, it consisted of just two small storeys and a pair of garret rooms, but it was made of stone. No more creaking like the house in Graz every time the wind howled. Sometimes, it could be utterly silent. So silent that in the darkest reaches of the night, only the touch of the blanket convinced Kepler that he was still alive.

  In the daytime, the street was livelier, with traders and passers-by. Just outside the front door, the rushing of the Vltava was within earshot. Kepler regularly marvelled at the volume of water that passed the city, especially during the spring when it carried the inland snowmelt on its way. Then, he would lift his gaze to the Imperial Palace, high on the hill beyond the river. From this distance, the people up there looked like ants, or another river flowing around a magnificent island. What greatness went on at court?

  Opposite their house was another building that Kepler admired. Despite it being home to the Jesuits in Prague, he appreciated the curved walls of the Church of St Clement. They were swept into a perfect ellipse, truly harmonious to the eye. Wherever you went in the city, however, it was never long before you saw one of the wide-brimmed Jesuit hats bobbing through the crowd, or heard the swish of their black robes.

  Once established, the Keplers sent to Graz for their possessions, and, a fortnight later, two muddy wagons arrived, drawing a crowd of onlookers.

  Now that the unpacking was almost complete, the house felt as if it had been invaded. Kepler drifted within this curious world of familiar, yet unnecessary, possessions, unable to shake the feeling that his former life had caught up with him. What he had planned to be a grand new beginning had returned to the smallness of before.

  Kepler looked up from his desk to see the hunched figure of Frau Bezold entering his study.

  ‘Herr Ulmer and his son are here,’ said the housekeeper.

  Kepler’s shoulders sagged. He shuffled to the front room carrying parchment, a quill and an inkwell.

  Ulmer stood as he entered. The visitor wore an ostentatious collar that reached halfway down his chest, covering some of the food stains on his jerkin. His son raised his head only far enough to look at those around him through his eyelashes, and he fidgeted with embarrassment.

  Barbara was fussing over them. ‘What a handsome young man he is,’ she said to the father, igniting the boy’s face and setting his cheeks into involuntary movement.

  Ulmer ignored her when Kepler appeared. ‘What I need to know, Herr Stargazer, is the direction of my son’s life; his destiny, so to speak. What manner of fortune and nobility lies in his path?’

  Kepler’s heart sank. He needed no star charts to tell this future. He wondered how on Earth the father could think such a timid boy was destined for any greatness at all.

  ‘Horoscopic prognostications are not guarantees.’ Kepler pretended not to see the warning look on Barbara’s face. ‘All I can tell is when there will be favourable celestial aspects; what the individual does during those times is up to him.’

  ‘There are others in the city who claim to be able to predict exact events, down to the very day. Cheaper, too.’

  ‘Fraudsters! They can do none of those things. No one can.’

  ‘Then why am I here?’ Ulmer lifted his whiskered chin.

  Kepler pulled his own goatee into a point, letting the wiry hairs spring away from his fingers. ‘Sit down, please, Herr Ulmer.’

  From across the table, Kepler explained, ‘Inside us all is an imprint of the heavens at the moment of our birth. When this is matched by a similar aspect in the heavens, so our souls resonate and our true natures are brought to the fore.’

  ‘But is that good or bad?’

  Barbara was watching her husband almost as intently as Ulmer as he set down his paper and writing tools.

  ‘It depends upon the aspects at the moment of your birth. If the natal arrangement was less than propitious, you are better to wait until the alignment tempers your natural inclinations.’

  ‘How are we to know?’

  ‘That is what I can help you with.’

  Ulmer nodded emphatically. ‘Then let us begin.’

  ‘I’ll fetch wine,’ said Barbara, calling for Frau Bezold.

  Kepler reached for his quill, flipped open the ink well and looked at the boy. ‘Date of birth, please?’

  ‘The eighth of August, 1582,’ the father answered.

  Ulmer and his hapless son departed some time later carrying Kepler’s assessment. As the astronomer had thought, there was little opportunity for greatness but in three years’ time there would be a small window of opportunity, when Jupiter would fall into conjunction with Mars.

  Kepler hoped that the red planet would muster some energy in the boy and Jupiter’s influence would steer him to a modicum of leadership, probably through marriage and taking control of an estate. Kepler had talked up the possibility, and the father had bounced out of the house upon the news.

  As soon as the door was shut, Barbara threw her arms around Kepler. ‘Two whole gulden for a few hours’ work!’

  Kepler silently wished he could share her enthusiasm.

  ‘I have more good news for us,’ she said, dragging her words as if unsure about how to phrase her revelation. ‘We are to be parents again.’

  ‘Truly?’

  She nodded, her cheeks rosy.

  ‘We must praise God.’ He clasped her tightly as though he would never let her go.

  The rancid smell of burning tallow filled the little study. Kepler had grown accustomed to the odour, insisting that the expensive beeswax candles were kept solely in the front room, and then only lit when they had supper guests. Now, the unpleasant tang of tallow was integral to setting his mood for work.

  He looked once more at Copernicus’s calculations and pushed them around the page. He added them, subtracted them, multiplied and divided them in his attempt to wring out some more meaning from the chimeric figures. But it was no use, the measurements had been forced together from such disparate sources that Copernicus himself had doubted their veracity and even dropped the figures that did not serve his purposes.

  Kepler reinstated those outliers, unwilling to doubt them on someone else’s say-so. Yet, even putting them back in, he made no headway. Each number was the eye of a needle; the correct orbit would thread every single one. Copernicus had threaded some, missed most. Even Ptolemy and his ugly Earth-centred universe could do better. But how could that be right – how could the entire vault of Heaven turn once a day while the puny Earth remained stock still? It was absurd; it put everything backwards. So why could he not prove it? What was wrong with him? Kepler found himself watching the flecks of soot as they danced in eddies above the candle and thinking of Tycho.

  The door shot open, rocking on its hinges. ‘We must talk. The housekeeper is being insolent again.’

  ‘I’m busy, Barbara.’

  ‘She claims not to have enough money to buy food.’

  ‘Is she right?’

  ‘We have the Dietrichs coming on Friday – we cannot give them bread and sausage.’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘I want a sheep’s head for the centrepiece, decorated with the entrails.’

  ‘Is it so important?’

  ‘It’s what people of our standing eat these days. Husband, your head has somehow passed clean through our station and lodged itself firmly in the stars.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to borrow against next month. The merchants know we’re good for credit.’

  ‘We’ve already used up all our credit.’

  Kepler ran a hand over his face. ‘Then we’ll have to sell some possessions – quietly, so no one knows. What about that small table you keep your prayer book on. Do we really need it? You could keep the book on the mantelpiece.’

  Barbara’s nostrils flared. ‘Don’t you dare touch that table.’

  ‘Then something from upstairs, something that won’t be missed when we have visitors.’

  ‘Understand th
is, Johannes Kepler. We’re not selling one single item of mine from this house. It’s all I have left after you forced me to leave behind my family and friends. Why not sell something that you brought into this marriage?’

  ‘But I had nothing,’ he stammered.

  ‘Precisely. This is a problem of your own making. It’s up to you to solve it.’

  ‘But how?’

  Barbara bunched her fists and planted them on her hips. ‘You must take more clients.’

  ‘Oh, Barbara, you know I hate it. Astrology is not some conjuror’s trick. It should be put to a noble purpose, not telling fatheads what they may or may not do with their little lives.’

  ‘Noble purpose? What do you know of noble purpose? No one can understand your stupid book with all its shapes and signs. And it’s not put any food on our table.’

  ‘Five planets. Five perfect solids. They have to be linked. It’s obvio—Oh, what’s the point? You can never understand my work. It’s beyond your grasp.’

  Barbara blinked at his words. He thought for one awful moment that she was going to cry. ‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but I can understand poverty and hunger.’

  She rushed from the room, the slam of the door reverberating through the house.

  Next morning, Barbara picked at her food. Her feeble sips of wine made Kepler feel uncomfortable, and Regina looked from him to her mother, divining some tension but unable to comprehend it.

  When Barbara did take a mouthful, she gagged on it and went running for the back door. She heralded her return with a complaint to Frau Bezold about the quality of the meat.

  Kepler moved round the table and held out her chair. ‘Come and sit down.’

  From outside, a commotion drew their attention. The clop of hooves and the trundling of a multitude of carts grew in volume. Wagon after wagon passed the window, all packed high with cloth-covered burdens. Outriders on horseback trotted by.

  ‘It’s a festival,’ said Regina, racing to the front door.

  Her parents followed her into the street to watch the procession.

  But there were no acrobats, no exotic animals, no men on stilts, no women dressed as goddesses; just donkeys and carts laden with people and possessions.

  ‘Someone important is moving into town,’ said Barbara, craning to see into the carriages.

  Kepler did not hear her words. His full attention was focused across the street to where a dwarf in a jester’s outfit was pulling faces at the onlookers, occasionally jumping at them, as if he intended to attack.

  ‘Take Regina inside. I must find Jessenius at once.’

  Barbara hesitated.

  ‘Do it!’ Kepler began running, passing the curve of the Jesuit College and outpacing the lumbering wagons. He headed along the banks of the Vltava, where people were stopping to look at the procession. Pausing for breath, he looked back with them. The caravan was making its way across the Stone Bridge, heading for the Imperial Palace. Kepler pushed through the crowd and set off again.

  He slowed only as he neared the university. Panting, he made his way inside and, after a brief search, found Jessenius in a room of preserving jars. The anatomist was lifting one to the light so that he could study its ghoulish contents.

  ‘Tycho is in Prague. It looks as though he is here to stay.’

  Jessenius turned from his inspection. ‘Have you not heard? You do bury yourself away sometimes.’

  ‘Heard what?’ asked Kepler.

  ‘Ursus is dead. Tycho is the new imperial mathematician. He is moving into the Golden Griffin, beneath the Palace, on Hradčany Hill.’

  ‘Jan, I beg you. Arrange a meeting with him for me. Let me persuade him to give me a second chance. I have spent this year selling fortunes. My brain withers without the challenge of his observations.’

  Jessenius set down the jar, the unidentified clump inside jostling from side to side. ‘But you know how disastrous it was last time.’

  ‘I was ill, my mind was not my own.’

  ‘On the day I brought you home, Tycho whispered to me that all could be forgotten with a letter of apology yet you sent him one of abuse.’

  ‘I was raving with sickness, you know that. I behaved like a dog. But I am cured now, no traces of fever for months.’ Kepler took a step forwards. ‘Please, Jan. No preconditions this time, I will do anything. Barbara is with child. I need a sponsor.’

  Jessenius ran a finger across the tabletop. ‘Very well. I will see what I can do.’

  11

  Kepler thought it fitting that Tycho’s household should take up residence in a former inn. Indeed, the Golden Griffin’s serving room was the first location he saw when Jessenius held open the front door for him that morning. The wide space was lined with faded wooden panels and its trestle tables were still strewn with the remains of breakfast. An overturned goblet had spilled its contents onto the table, and the stain offered a hint of the wood’s original colour.

  Two servants were clearing away, piling up the leftovers and stacking the plates. One girl was tiny, easily mistaken for a child; the other was buxom, with wide hips. The men shook the rain from their hooded cloaks, drawing their attention. The big one ambled over and took their wet garments.

  ‘We’re here to see Tycho,’ said Jessenius.

  ‘Who isn’t?’ she muttered and listlessly went to announce their arrival.

  ‘Remember, Johannes, I’m taking a risk here for you today. One hint of your temper …’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Tycho is now the most powerful mathematician in the world. You cannot upset him.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s just that …’

  ‘Jan, I know.’ Kepler turned. ‘I’ve learned my lesson.’

  As Tycho approached them Kepler noticed that his face was fleshier than before and his overall bulk had increased. At his neck he wore a set of heavy gold chains that seemed to pull him into a stoop. A stiff-legged stalk had replaced his waddling gait. In his rounded breeches, his legs resembled giant upturned hams as they tapered to unexpectedly delicate ankles.

  Tengnagel was just behind him; there was no spare room abreast in the corridor, but as they entered the bar, he took hold of Tycho’s elbow. ‘Allow me, sir.’

  ‘I don’t need your help.’

  Tengnagel dropped back, contenting himself with a glare at Kepler.

  Tycho stopped a few feet in front of them and greeted Jessenius. Then he faced Kepler and stepped forwards.

  It was still impossible for Kepler to read those hazel eyes but it was no effort to hold their gaze. After a moment’s appraisal, Tycho reached out his arms and drew a surprised Kepler into a bear hug. The Master smelled like food on the turn.

  ‘Welcome, Herr Kepler. I have missed you.’

  ‘And I you.’ A wave of emotion enveloped Kepler. He masked it with some deep breaths.

  They released each other and stepped back.

  ‘I see that your appetite has not improved this past twelve months.’

  ‘Astronomy and the love of God are the only food I crave, sir.’

  Tycho laughed. ‘Do you know, I believe you.’

  Jessenius departed, looking relieved. When Tycho asked Tengnagel to leave them alone too, the young man drilled his gaze once more into Kepler before strutting away.

  ‘I have something to show you, Johannes.’ Tycho led the way to an antechamber inside which were a number of statues, their details masked by white sheets that covered them and reached to the floor.

  ‘These used to line the walls of my study at Hveen,’ said Tycho. He snatched at the first sheet and jerked it upwards. It was a marble statue of an ancient Greek scholar. The inscription read TIMOCHARIS.

  ‘The Alexandrian who compiled mankind’s first star catalogue,’ said Kepler.

  Tycho revealed another.

  ‘Hipparchus,’ said Kepler. ‘His star catalogue showed that there was a precession of the equinoxes.’

  Tycho nodded. He moved to the end of the line and unveiled th
e penultimate statue, watching Kepler carefully.

  Kepler found it difficult to disguise his surprise. ‘It’s you.’

  ‘Indeed it is. Am I not the greatest star charter in history? Do I not deserve to stand alongside these others immortals?’

  ‘Then who is the final one?’ asked Kepler, with a fluttering sensation in his stomach.

  Tycho seemed to hesitate before revealing the last figure. It took Kepler a moment to understand what he was seeing and to realise with shame what he had vainly hoped it would be. It was not a statue of him, but a caricature of Tycho: broader-shouldered with strong features, a proud jaw and a piercing stare.

  ‘Tychonides, my once imagined son. The person I dreamed would mould my observations into a new system of the planets. Ever since the duel, I knew that the person to make the best use of my observations would not be me. I hoped for a son and have been blessed with three, but not one is a mathematician; the curse on the Brahe line continues.’

  Kepler walked around the statue as he listened to Tycho, admiring the quality of the work. Something in its sculpted gaze resonated in his soul.

  ‘So, I have to look to my assistants. There is Tengnagel, of course, but he lacks the application – he’s to become my son-in-law, you know, God help us all. There is Longomontanus, though I fear I will soon lose him to Copenhagen. So, really, I am still searching for my Tychonides.’

  ‘Sir, I cannot match you in birth or breeding, but I can be your humble servant,’ said Kepler.

  A sound at the door drew both men’s attention. Tengnagel stood there, undisguised curiosity on his face.

  ‘Sir, we need you to direct us about which room is to be your study …’

  ‘Not now, Tengnagel. Didn’t I tell you I was not to be disturbed?’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘Just wait!’ Tengnagel dropped his gaze but remained at the door.