by Clio Gray
Groben ignored him, heaved Philbert up into the air and threw him with all his fighting strength; Philbert somersaulted, landing mercifully not on hard ground but into a deep pool beyond the popplestones, sank and stayed, bobbed and gasped, arms flapping and floundering, body banging against one rock here, another there, head surfacing every now and then to hiccup in a bit of air, drowning like a puppy in a pail. And then he was up, someone yanking hard at his collar, bringing him to land, choking and coughing, sounds around him of a hundred sheep stumbling and complaining, rearranging themselves, shuffling themselves like cards.
‘Stay here,’ commanded his rescuer, throwing a heavy coat about Philbert’s shoulders before marching away down the track, muttering under his fast-drawn breath, stamping his big boots, heading for Groben’s fire; Groben loomed beside it like a venomous bat, spitting drunk and spoiling for a fight, lifting his fists as he saw the man’s approach.
‘Whaddaya want, old Stultzie? Old farty-pants-farmer Stultzie?’ Groben swaggered, invigorated by action, certain he’d righted a great wrong by chucking the kid into the river. Schtultz did not reply, marching on with sure and steady stride, removing a leather glove from his back pocket and fitting it on. Straight to Groben he went, and straight into Groben’s face went his leather clad fist, Groben far too drunk and slow to respond, falling to his knees with an audible oomph. Schtultz gave him no leave, pulled him up again by his collar, punched him three times more, saying vehemently each time he hit:
‘That’s for the boy; and that one’s for knocking down a sick old man; and this last is for me, because I’m sick of the sight of you, and I’m sick of the sight of your maggoty sheep, and I’m sick of what you do to little girls behind hedges. Sick,’ he said quietly, delivering a final blow, ‘of your waste of a life.’
Schtultz stopped and stood, breathing hard, releasing Groben who slumped to the ground, nose and cheekbones cracked and bruised, bleeding and moaning in the dirt.
And away to the west, the reed-cutter sits in his reed-house, thinks he hears a commotion coming to him on the breeze; he cocks his head and listens: nothing but the sound of the wind and the water. He puffs his pipe and is at peace.
30
Loss and Gain and on to Bremen
Low grey clouds drizzled over Philbert’s world. He was down by the river looking at the laundry pool into which he’d ended up the night before, watching the water as it splayed its toes between rocks and the discarded limbs of trees before losing itself in the shallows and beds of reeds. He saw the dippers darting from rock to rock, and a kingfisher cutting from air to water and back again as if there were no difference between the two, listened to the water burbling sleepily beneath its breath of mist. He slipped along the grassy bank, two green snakes following where his feet pushed through the dewy grass. He found his satchel, snagged and sorrowful, caught on the roots of a tree that had out-grown its bank, Raspel hanging out from beneath the flap, pink tongue smooth and sodden, long and limp, blue eyes cloudy and vacant, fur sogged and draggled into dark points, bones sharp beneath his waterlogged skin. Philbert retrieved the satchel, lifted him out gently and laid him on the bank next to the water-steeped Philocalia. So different, his little Raspel, so thin and cold, Philbert weeping for the loss of the warm purr, the companionship of Raspel wrapped about his neck or snuggled in his satchel, Kwert staggering up behind the boy and laying down his sticks, putting his arm around Philbert – cold and thin as Raspel – pushing the large familiar head against his chest and the arrhythmic beating of his heart.
It was a slow and sad sojourn to Bremen, Kwert on his donkey, Philbert walking in front, Schtultz taking up the rear, going behind his sheep, driving them on with two switches of willow held in outstretched hands. Philbert’s role was to keep the sheep from wandering on ahead, but mostly he just dawdled, kicking stones with his feet, eyes red and bleary, knapsack damp, weighing more though it carried less – only the Philocalia, with the flyers from the Cloth Market torn up and tucked between its pages to suck out the wet. The sheep, incurious, kept their heads down and soodled steadily along, ignoring the boy and the odd sobs that escaped him occasionally but soon desisted, Philbert’s grief twisting into an anger as integral as the pit to the peach, growing with every step he took, its hardness spreading throughout him like a mushroom spreads its roots beneath the soil, unseen. And he was glad for it, giving him to understand how cruel the world could be, how filled with chance, how the next time it showed itself he would pay it back in kind.
They reached the outskirts of Bremen two days later, Schtultz not minding the presence of his two companions, pretending they were being a big help with the sheep as he shared out his meagre portions of food each night. They heard the city long before they stumbled through the hinterland of villages that were caught around its edges like goose-grass to a dog: the noise of cattle bellowing, sheep coughing, the grackles of geese, the howling of dogs, clear as a multitude of clarion at battle’s start seven miles distant. The closer they got, the more crowded the lanes became, filling up with animal muck, spilling one track into another – some wide as weirs, others bottle-necked over a ford or bridge – and everywhere the dust kicked up by the folk and animals coming into market carked and choked and cloaked the air, the pale blue of the sky disappearing, all to see being the livestock stumbling all around them and the backs of the men tending them, everything, everyone, pushing onwards, all shoving into one other, until it seemed a miracle any one farmer could distinguish his stock from another’s.
They stayed their last night a few miles out of the town and took off in the early morning, the drizzle helping for a while to settle the dust to the earth, allowing an hour or so of cool, clean air. But this soon ceased the moment everyone else started their own forward momentum, kicking up the dust again, great clusters of flies rising in the growing morning warmth that swarmed around both animals and men, settling on their backs, in their collars, at the corners of their eyes. The clamouring hurry-burry of noise was incessant, the dung so all-pervasive that it was difficult to make out any other smell excepting by degrees of stink and shit. As soon as they passed the town’s boundary markers every square inch seemed covered and close-packed with hurdle-houses, animal pens, cheese and butter makers setting up their stalls, touting for milk and cream, thick-armed women churning and stirring everything they could get their hands on. Boxing booths opened, gaming rinks were cordoned off, the screams of cockfights and the howls of dogs pitched against chained bears ripped through the air, and every step sent up streaks of pinch-backed rats that had woken up in paradise. Every yard of every street was taken up by stalls selling crooks and whips, poultry, jugs of cream, curry-combs, buckets of dip and dye, worm powders, fleece pullers, shearers, hoers, turnip-cutters, saddle-sellers, harness-hammerers, ox-hoof clippers, tail-trimmers. From all sides came the hurdy-gurdy of sheep’s bleating, cattle lowing, chickens squawking, donkeys braying. Philbert had never encountered anything like it, eager to run up every ginnel, might have been landed on a different continent, and so much to explore.
They left Schtultz when they reached his allotted patch, nothing to give him but their thanks, taken with equanimity and a brief tip of his head before carrying on shoving his sheep inside his pens. Kwert and Philbert pushed and butted their way through the crowds until they reached the cooler, quieter back streets, clutching the few coins Schtultz had pushed at Kwert as they had left; in payment, he said, for the labour they had but poorly given.
‘My God!’ Kwert groaned, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘If I never see another sheep it will be too soon.’
They stopped by a coffee barrow, sipping the rich liquid, glad to be still and almost alone. The streets were still awash with shouts and smells, but the further they went from the hurdle-houses, the quieter it got. By late afternoon the noise crescendoed again as stockmen began their early celebration of the various sodalities of Horn Suppers, Whip-Words, Cock-Claws, am
ongst many other initiatory drinking rites. Needing rest and food, Kwert and Philbert tucked themselves away into the back-haunts of the city, eventually landing at an inn renting out its back yard for cheap night lodgings, and settled down to noodles, gristly meatballs, and gravy-dunked slabs of stale bread. It was late, and dark.
‘Read to me,’ Kwert’s voice was soft in Philbert’s ear, but before Philbert could take out the Philocalia and its water-smudged pages, Kwert was asleep. Silence then, only the sound of a few snores and grunts, everyone rested and content to have found their small square of peace. He placed his head on Kwert’s knees, but his eyes were open and years later he could have told anyone who asked how many cobblestones there were in that yard, and how many people sat around its walls or were curled upon its benches. And if Philbert had ever become a man who could paint – which he did not – he could have depicted every stroke of light and dark that fell upon that place, every star as it appeared in the sky, every colour of every coat buttoned tight, every strand of hair, every wisp of straw; all there in his head as it was then, before he closed his eyes and slept.
31
The Bundle of his Life
Morning came, as mornings often do, cold and stiff and grumpy, but not for Philbert, for this was the day he might find news of Maulwerf.
‘It’s such a huge to-do in Bremen,’ Kwert assured him. ‘We’re certain to find someone we know and who knows where Maulwerf is or where he’s heading.’
Philbert slipped on the slops of stale beer on the cobbles without caring, nor that he got bitten on the shoulder by a hungry mule, or had to queue ten minutes for the stinking water-closet. Nothing could damp his enthusiasm.
‘How will we ever know where to look?’ Philbert asked as they set off, his eyes sweeping from the tip of the cathedral across the river and its bridges to the plazas, shambles and hurdle-houses, the unfathomable maze of streets and tall, point-headed houses.
‘Now then, Little Maus, you know very well that at all sheep fairs there are entertainers, and they almost always congregate in one place. All we need do is find it.’
Philbert helped Kwert onto the donkey. He still had difficulty walking, even with his sticks, but this morning he was buoyant, feeling stronger, something of the old Kwert back in his bones. They were astonished by the sights and scenes of the enormous city, which neither had visited before. The noise and tumble of people so oppressive the night before seemed today vibrant and alive. There were hats far larger than Philbert’s, planted with feathers and flowers, and women with hair much broader and taller than the best of those hats. There were coats that flashed with fur and sparkled with buttons and brooches, capes that swirled around corners, appearing before their wearers, proud and stiff in silver trim. The sounds of livestock chorused through the city streets, pungent smells around every corner, the air stirred up by the miles of bunting and flags that fluttered like washing from every building. At the bleating heart of the city were the animal-greens, where grander colours muted into browns; here, mud-speckled cattle lowed open-throated over fences, sheep shoving each other into wooly-backed lagoons inside their hurdles, squinny-eyed goats head-butting their enclosures as dirt-spattered men and dogs fought to keep everything in.
Kwert and Philbert were soon directed to the vast common grazing lands where the Fairs’ folk were settling like goldfinch across the fast-filling fields, all gay and gaudy, twittering at each other as they set up booths, tents and stalls, gossiping, catching up, the townspeople hovering at the edges gawping, coins clinking in pocket and purse, eager to fling themselves into the alternative reality of the Fair, away from the humdrum into a paradise calling out to their hearts’ desires. Amongst the push and swell Kwert gravitated instinctively towards the Seers’ quarter, following the hierarchies and structures embedded into the large gathering despite the overwhelming impression of chaos. And there was Kwert’s old pal Zehenspitze, who could map out your past and future by rubbing his fingers over the soles of your feet.
‘Come on, come on!’ he was shouting to the sightseers already gathering. ‘Let me feel the life-force of your feet, where they have been and where they are going. If you heed their wisdom, your path will be sure. Ah yibbelly yes, yibbelly yes.’ Zehenspitze nodded his sincerity, then thrust his head into the air, banging a hand against his heart. ‘A fanfare for the feet! A paean to the pod! A song for the spirit of the sole! Let the podognomist divine the direction of your life!’
The first punters were dithering on the edge of Zehenspitze’s pitch and he was about to reel them in when Kwert on his donkey tottered into view, his affect so greatly changed for the worse that Zehenspitze cut short his advertisements, advancing with arms outstretched.
‘Oh my dear old friend,’ he murmured, helping Kwert indecorously to the ground, ‘whatever has befallen you? Come, come,’ he urged, sitting Kwert on the stool normally reserved for paying customers. ‘This last year has not treated you well. Let me get you something . . .’
He shook Kwert warmly by the hand, the other placed on Kwert’s shoulder, appalled by the thin brittle of bones poking through his friend’s thin skin. He wasted no time, fetched the condiments normally lavished on his more affluent clients – a lit pipe, a glassful of watered brandy, some little cakes and krapferl biscuits, Kwert accepting them with gratitude, soon enlivened, and before long he and Zehenspitze were talking fondly of old times, old scams and pitches. Kwert trusted Zehenspitze implicitly, telling him the gist of his recent adventures, his finding of Philbert, the descent on him of the glanders, the disastrous visit to Lengerrborn, Zehenspitze reacting to this last with visible shock and excitement.
‘The Westphal Affair! My dear Kwert. There’s been talk of little else in the taverns! You’re practically a hero for just having been there.’
No point in Kwert saying how little of a hero he was. Zehenspitze was, like most of the travelling Fairs’ Folk, bang up to date on the politics of the time. Their livelihoods were dependant on knowing which principalities would welcome them and which would not, which were lax on papers and town-passports, which trouble-spots to avoid. And Lengerrborn at the moment was of the last. No one would go within thirty miles of the place, especially considering what had happened at the nearby Abbey’s Cloth Market a couple of weeks afterwards. It was the epitome, Zehenspitze told Kwert, of the instability shaking the country up and down, foreign armies battering at its boundaries and – far more dangerously – the inner prickling of its citizens who, deprived of land and livelihood by famine and feudal taxes, threatened daily to rise up and murder their nominal protectors in their beds. He knew of the cholera epidemic in Silesia that had precipitated a short-lived, hard-crushed revolution, and was amongst the few who’d heard of the Kartoffelkrieg in Berlin when protestors had been run down and shot at like rats. The Westphal Affair, by contrast, was lurid and dramatic. Everyone was talking about it, especially travelling folk like Zehenspitze who cared to keep their heads on their shoulders and their bones inside their skins. The murder of the Lengerrborn Schupos and the daring escape of Von Ebner’s supporters from the town gaol were pivotal events for would-be revolutionaries across the land; the cruelty meted out to the recaptured prisoners – especially the one in the cage – made of them martyrs all, and nothing like a host of martyrs to spur a movement on.
‘You don’t know the half of it, Kwert,’ Zehenspitze leaned in closer, lowering his voice, for who knew who was listening on the other side of the canvas or the thin boards of a booth. ‘When the Handtheyrker guilds were dismantled they responded by dismantling the machinery taking over their jobs. Such a thing could never have happened a few years ago. And then there’s the case of the teamsters ripping out the railway lines they only laid last year. The railway was putting them and theirs out of work, you see. Bringing in cheap goods from elsewhere. And only a couple of weeks ago some redundant sailors attacked the company steamships on which they’d formerly worked. Caused
a great deal of damage before they were ejected. It’s sporadic, Kwert, but it’s happening. The revolution is persistent and gaining momentum, and will not soon be stopped. And they know it, Kwert, they know it! Did you hear that Prince William of Prussia – the King’s own brother – has already fled? Gone to England of all places.’
Kwert shook his head in disbelief, Zehenspitze not surprised. Apparently you could take the Hesychast out of gaol into a world groaning with injustice and suffering – his own included – but you could not make that Hesychast rise up to action. Navel gazers all – quite literally. He smiled indulgently. He’d known Kwert since they were new-come to their respective callings – Tospirologist and Podognomist – meeting by chance when they’d pitched their very first booths side by side, travelling then side by side for two decades before going their separate ways, Zehenspitze to his politics, Kwert to his religion, but friends ever since, meeting here and there, always glad to see one another, always jawing and drinking before diverging back on their separate routes. It occurred suddenly to Zehenspitze that Kwert was not wearing his usual red habit, and it jarred.
‘You’ve left something out,’ he stated quietly, no brandy-cloud to his eyes, and obvious to Zehenspitze that Kwert was carrying some unspoken burden.
‘I have,’ Kwert agreed, after a few moments. ‘Forgive me, but I’ve left out quite a lot. You said I didn’t know the half of it, but neither do you. That boy I introduced you to earlier?’
‘The one with the hat?’ Zehenspitze asked, looking about him, but the boy was gone, no doubt dipped off into the fair like a squirrel after nuts.
‘Philbert,’ Kwert said, drawing Zehenspitze’s attention back. ‘He was the reason we were in Lengerrborn at all, and why we were at the Westphal Club. It was he Von Ebner and his friends had come to see. And it was he who slew the Schupos and set the prisoners free, myself amongst them . . .’
