The Witch of Cologne

by Tobsha Learner

  He had found her room directly, just as he had known she would be sleeping, her hand in exactly this position, before he even pushed the door open. And now he stands paralysed, his head bent under the low ceiling, the candle burning in his hand, not daring to breathe, to move a muscle.

  Will he ever have this pleasure again? Of seeing the shadows of this woman’s life run across her face like quicksilver: one moment a small girl, the next a woman with pain twitching beneath the eyelids, the flesh of which he would swallow like honey. She does not know that he is there. She does not realise that the pulp of his heart pulses only while hers does, that the ambition of her spirit has reawakened his. He would burn for her. He would sacrifice church, power and state, but now, before her, he is too frightened even to utter her name. Such a simpleton, such a stunned idiot is he.

  The torrent of jagged emotion and fragmented imagery fills him until he finds his knees shaking. Longing to lie down next to her, to take those fingers into his mouth, he leaves as silently as he entered.

  The silver and ruby bead of a rosary looms like a glittering boulder on a vast plain of snow. For an instant Ferdinand speculates that he might actually have made it to heaven. Then, as his eyesight pulls into focus and a dull pain starts to throb in his midriff, he realises with a curious mixture of faint regret and exhilaration that he is still alive. As sensation rushes back into his numbed limbs he swallows and discovers that his mouth is too dry to speak. Rolling over he finds himself wedged against the side of Alphonso’s sleeping figure. The prince lifts an arm that feels as heavy as iron and throws it across the actor.

  ‘Water,’ he manages to croak. ‘Water.’

  – TIPHERET –

  Equilibrium

  Deutz, June 1665

  Dear Benedict, It is now the month of June and I am back at Deutz, thank the good Lord. I am released after successfully treating Prince Ferdinand of Hapsburg for a cancer. In the dead of night and in utmost secrecy I was then transported back here. For all this I have to thank Canon Detlef von Tennen, the man I have written of before: a cleric who is a maze of paradoxes and whom I have not seen since the events at Das Grüntal, the country estate of his brother, a good four weeks ago. I may never see him again, which would be a great pity for it is not often one meets a man who can share in the pleasures of the mind as well as the spirit. But I digress. Tell me, are you well? Here there is much talk about the Black Death in Leiden. I fear for you; Rijnsburg is so close to that great city, would it not be prudent to embark for a safer harbour? A great philosopher is not impervious to the perils of a mortal man, Benedict, and in this I beg you to act responsibly.

  Your loving friend and colleague,

  ‘Felix van Jos’

  The journeyman from Mülheim, a Dutch boy of about sixteen, rides up to the cottage, a leather sack of mail slung over his shoulder. Flicking the flies away with her tail, his old mare rolls her steaming flanks as she throws one hoof in front of the other. It is hot. The forest beyond is vibrant with birdsong, its canopy in full bloom. As the boy approaches, apple blossoms shower down on him, carried by a breeze from the orchard the midwife has cultivated next to her barn.

  Ruth, her face and body swathed in the fine net of the beekeeper, bends over a woven cane hive positioned at the end of her herb garden. Upon hearing the journeyman’s cry she carefully replaces the tray of honeycomb swarming with indefatigable furry bees in the dome. Pulling the net hood from her brow she runs down to greet him, passing Miriam who stands between the rows of cabbages, hoe in hand. The young girl smiles shyly at the journeyman who waves brazenly back.

  ‘Is she talking yet?’ the youth asks Ruth, still staring at Miriam.

  ‘Not yet. But the terror is leaving her eyes.’

  ‘She’s a good woman, someone ought to marry her—someone of her own people, that is,’ he adds hastily.

  ‘They should but they won’t now. This is for Holland.’

  Ruth hands him her letter then presses two Reichstaler into his hand.

  ‘Piet, travel safely.’ She reaches into her skirt and pulls out a small pomander stuffed with rosemary, frankincense and cloves. ‘And wear this for the plague.’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. Father says I have horse’s blood. The scourge won’t get me.’ The youth shrugs with awkward adolescent bravado but tucks the pomander into his breast anyway.

  ‘Looks like you have a visitor, Fräulein.’

  Further down the lane a tall thin man has come into view. Tuvia. Carrying a basket, sweating under his heavy wide-brimmed hat and black gown that sweeps the dusty path, he strides with a blind but determined purpose. Sensing that he has been seen, the young rabbi’s awkward bearing becomes even more extreme.

  ‘That’s the strangest swain I’ve ever seen, but eager, eh miss?’

  With a wink and a smirk the youth gets back onto his horse and trots off.

  Ruth watches Tuvia draw nearer. She should go to greet him but finds that obstinacy has pinned her to the ground.

  The young rabbi, his olive skin burgundy with the heat, finally reaches her. Now Ruth can see the ridiculous poppy he has slipped into the band of his hat, the bunch of violets hanging out of the straw basket he carries defiantly in front of him, the flush of courtship playing across his tortured features.

  ‘Good morrow, sister.’

  ‘Good morrow, Reb Tuvia. You are a long way from home.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Still she does not invite him in, determined not to encourage him. Tuvia stands in the dust, shifting his weight restlessly from one leg to the other, sweat staining the front of his plain cream jerkin.

  ‘I bring greetings from your father. He is well.’

  ‘So he seemed yesterday when I saw him at the synagogue. He did not tell me I would be receiving a visitor.’

  Tuvia glances at the shadowy doorway of the cottage, it looks enticingly cool. ‘Will you not invite me in? I am in need of refreshment.’

  ‘Would that be proper?’

  Momentarily outwitted, Tuvia looks around and sees Miriam hoeing suspiciously vigorously. ‘But we have an escort,’ he points out, trying to keep his nerves from showing in his voice.

  ‘If you insist.’

  ‘I do.’

  The three of them sit around the small wooden table beside the kitchen window. Miriam, as chaperone, between Ruth and Tuvia as is the custom. A jug of milk and a bowl of eggs lie before them next to a loaf of bread while a lump of oozing honeycomb sits on a plate Ruth has placed in front of the young rabbi.

  Tuvia looks around the room. Even in the shadows he can see the row of books placed on the mantelpiece above the hearth. Surreptitiously he scans them for blasphemous titles. To his relief he finds none.

  ‘For a philosopher you keep a clean house.’ He smiles, attempting to ease the tension with humour.

  Ruth pours the rabbi a glass of milk. ‘You walked two miles to tell me this?’

  ‘Please, Fräulein, you know your hand has been promised. Why make this even more difficult?’

  ‘Because there is the small issue of my desire.’

  ‘Desire will come with time. Besides, with your dubious history you should be honoured; there are many mothers in the village who would seek me as a son-in-law.’

  ‘In that case there is even less reason for you to be sitting here.’

  ‘Ruth, your father gave his word. He wants to protect you, as do I.’

  ‘I am able to protect myself.’

  ‘That I have not noticed.’

  Tuvia looks at Miriam who is staring politely down at a struggling bee trapped in the sticky honeycomb. Ruth, noticing his glance, leans forward.

  ‘She is to be trusted. She has ears but as yet has not got her tongue back.’

  ‘The archbishop’s men should answer for such an outrage.’

  ‘But they never will.’

  ‘Ruth,’ Tuvia leans closer, ‘I have heard from a reliable source that the inquisitor returns to Cologne and is determined to pursu
e your prosecution again.’

  ‘But I have a royal pardon.’

  ‘Royal pardons have a habit of bending with the winds…Marry me, we shall sell your father’s house and together with the good reb we shall join with Messiah Zevi in the Holy Land. It will be like a dream…’

  ‘It is a dream.’

  Tuvia looks at her obstinate profile. It is a face he would love to conquer, to see that stubborn soul broken and submissive. He is convinced that this is his mission: to make a wife and a mother out of the old rabbi’s wilful daughter. He owes it to the father, the one person he regards as his intellectual superior. He will be Elazar ben Saul’s son. Ruth and he shall bear children for Messiah Zevi to populate the new Holy Land. It is his spiritual duty to make her a full Jew, he thinks, remembering the burning shame of the revelation of her baptism. Her own sentiments are nothing more than a mild hindrance.

  ‘I have more patience than you, Fräulein. And you should be careful, you still have many enemies. I’m sure it would be a relief for the archbishop to hear that you have stopped all meddling and become an honourable married woman destined for the Holy Land.’

  Ruth contemplates his threat. Mindful of the warning Detlef gave her to remain invisible, she has delivered only two babies since her return and those at a great distance from Deutz and Cologne. Now she wonders whether Tuvia has heard that she is still practising.

  ‘I will give you an answer by Rosh Hashana.’

  ‘But that is three months away!’

  ‘It will give you an opportunity to display your famous tenacity, Reb Tuvia.’

  She stands and opens the door. ‘Good afternoon.’

  Reluctantly he rises to his feet, leaving Miriam still sitting shyly at the table.

  ‘Your father wants you back under his roof. It is not safe for you to be living alone, nor is it honourable. Now that you have been accepted back into the community it is your duty to reassure the other women that you are capable of being a good Jewish woman. At least move back into your father’s house.’

  ‘I cannot shed my skin that quickly, Tuvia. But I will visit for sabbat. That much I can promise.’

  As the two women watch Tuvia walk sullenly back towards the town Ruth wonders how long she will be able to ward off his advances.

  Suddenly a small hawk swoops down and plucks a hare from the bank of a hedgerow. As the animal kicks its legs helplessly mid-air, Ruth has a sinking sensation of foreboding.

  ‘London, Amsterdam, Leiden…it is a Protestant disease, there can be no doubt about it.’

  ‘Your grace, the plague discriminates against no man. It is happy to consume Christian, Jew, even Moor in its path.’

  ‘But it is not here yet and we can give thanks to the three Magi and the holy virgin Saint Ursula for that. This is a great pilgrim city and is honoured by our good Lord.’

  ‘Our good Lord has nothing to do with it, it is merely a question of time.’

  ‘I have it on good authority: Cologne will be spared.’

  ‘Whose good authority?’

  ‘My astrologer’s,’ the archbishop answers, staring Detlef straight in the eye. The canon snorts derisively, unable to hide his frustration.

  Maximilian Heinrich, magnificent in his green weekday robes, sits at the head of the oval oak table in a large chamber in the town hall, surrounded by his advisers. To his left are the von Fürstenberg brothers, Wilhelm a place closer than his brother; to his right are Detlef and several sympathetic bürgers. It is the monthly meeting when representatives of the Gaffeln join with the clergy to discuss local policy and tariffs.

  Detlef, a new hollowness to his face, senses the growing frustration of the merchant sitting next to him, the head of the bakers’ guild. ‘Your grace, this is a secular matter and the city must take precautions! I suggest we veto all English and Dutch cargo for the summer,’ he declares.

  Heinrich glances thoughtfully at his cousin. Detlef’s growing defiance and zeal for social change is not an enthusiasm Heinrich had bargained for. Of more concern is the mounting support Detlef seems to be engendering amongst the younger tradesmen. The archbishop has even heard a rumour that Detlef is shunning the affections of Birgit Ter Lahn von Lennep, refusing to take her confession, and has given up his luxurious chambers in Cologne and taken a simple room at Saint Pantaleon monastery. It is as if a harder, leaner, more inflexible man has been prised out of the softer, corruptible, but always diplomatic canon. He even has the look of the fanatic, Heinrich thinks, with those sunken cheeks, the dark rings under his eyes. If the archbishop did not know that the canon had been fasting, he would be inclined to think that either politics or a fixation of the cock was the parasite eating at the young man’s soul. Nevertheless, the archbishop reminds himself to tread carefully around his cousin’s new-found fervour.

  ‘Canon von Tennen, if we were to veto such cargo we’d all starve to death before the plague had a chance to kill us. This is a trade town, we can’t afford to lose the business,’ one of the bürgers ventures.

  ‘I am aware of the implications, but it is better to err on the side of caution. Over ten thousand died last month in Leiden alone and there is a rumour they have started to perish again in London. At least quarantine the ships,’ Detlef counters.

  The table erupts into violent debate. The archbishop has no intention of stopping the pilgrimages to the bones of the three Magi and the eleven hundred martyred virgins of Saint Ursula. Such visits are the cathedral’s main source of income. Equally the merchants are determined to keep their exports leaving the city. Finally Heinrich slams his fist down onto the table. Immediate silence ensues.

  ‘There is no argument. The pilgrimages will continue, as will the traders. In the meanwhile we shall be doubly vigilant for any signs of the scourge. This is the cathedral’s final word on the issue.’

  Detlef, disgusted, storms out of the hall. All swing around to Heinrich, whose face remains stiffly impervious to the insult.

  After a beat, Wilhelm Egon von Fürstenberg leans towards the archbishop and whispers into his ear in Latin. ‘Remember, we still have the Spanish card up our sleeve should the naughty child decide to further insult the father.’

  But inwardly anxious, Heinrich is beyond amusement.

  Striding furiously along the bustling Judenstrasse, Detlef heads towards a coffee house at the corner of the square. On the way he purchases a news sheet from a war cripple.

  The young canon has never offended the archbishop so directly, but at this moment Detlef is concerned not about the consequences of his actions but about the shortsightedness of the city fathers. They will endanger the populace through their greed, he thinks, gazing around at those who might be first to perish: the poor, the half-starved, the orphaned and the aged. Here a beggar woman, her face a web of pain in which her toothless mouth gapes. Pitiful, she rests heavily against a gnarled tree branch, her hand a filthy claw petitioning for alms. There, squatting in the gutter, a child of no more than three years of age, his naked buttocks poking through his ragged smock, too exhausted to beg, too exhausted even to cry as he gazes up at the indifferent world bustling past him.

  As a boy Detlef saw the scourge decimate the local village, then witnessed the slow and lingering death of his mother who contracted the disease after attempting to ease the discomfort of her peasants. Is there no one with whom he can share his fears? No one with an enlightened mind? No, not since Das Grüntal. Not since Ruth.

  A woman with long black hair turns the corner and Detlef is instantly flooded with memories of the midwife: her gestures, the particular way she speaks with her hands. It is over a month since he last laid eyes on her, the day she left his brother’s estate on a cart headed for Deutz. They parted after he had warned her of the temporary nature of her pardon. Knowing that the emperor is fickle and the inquisitor dedicated, Detlef suggested the midwife leave Deutz as soon as she could for a more remote settlement or for the Lowlands itself. But Ruth promised nothing, saying only that she was committed to spe
nding the last of her father’s days with him now that they were to be reunited.

  The woman with the raven locks passes out of sight and Detlef is reminded that he does not even know whether the midwife is still in Deutz, or if she thinks of him at all. To his shame he realises that the meditations, the fasting, even the lashing he gave himself with the knotted whip of the flagellant, have not banished Ruth’s image but only enhanced it. The picture of her face, her voice, her scent, grows within him like a luminous visitation.

  There is not an hour when he does not think of her: the clarity of her logic, the whiteness of her skin, the curve of her cheekbone. She creeps in everywhere, in his prayers, in the faces of the hopeful pilgrims staring up from the pews, in the texts he studies. Ruth, Ruth, Ruth. Desperate to be released, he has taken valerian for slumber and claret to quieten the mind. Groot, smelling wine on the canon’s breath before midday mass, has begun to wonder what new fiend possesses his master.

  Detlef steps through the low arched doorway of the coffee shop, his nostrils pleasantly assaulted by the fragrance of this novel beverage shipped from the new Americas. The air is thick with tobacco. The scent of ginger and cinnamon rises from the freshly baked pastries that line the marble countertop. Serving maids in white caps and stained aprons carry jugs of the steaming coffee between the crowded tables. Several of the merchants and their clerks look up from their scribbled calculations, then, upon seeing the newcomer is merely a cleric and not one of their own, look down again. Intrigued by the seriousness with which the bürgers carry out their endeavours, Detlef secures a small table to himself by the window then orders a cup of the steaming brown liquid and a pipe. By the dim light filtering into the smoky room through the tiny diagonal glass panes he begins to scan the news sheet’s headlines.