The Anatomist's Dream

by Clio Gray

  35

  The Sylvean Aqueduct

  Philbert followed the course of a stream running from their camp towards a mill, and from the mill onwards to the village. Once there Philbert lurked and listened, mostly to a group of old men who were sat gossiping on logs of varying sizes carved into chairs, this being the village pub, such as it was. From this he learned several very interesting facts, the first of which was that they were on the right track. Just as they’d hoped, they’d managed to completely circumnavigate Hamburg, and therefore any news of them that might well have reached that city. He also learned that the beck he’d followed was one of the many tributaries feeding into the vast river of the Elbe; also that the prevalent topic of conversation was nothing to do with murders or fugitives but centred on something called Magendie’s Aqueduct, the Grand Opening of which was due to take place a few days hence. Philbert absorbed this piece of information with great interest, for it transpired that a large proportion of this village had left earlier that morning in order to get to this Opening that was to be a very great affair, with carnivals and hooplahs by the dozen, and would be the most exciting ­spectacle any of them would ever see.

  Enough information for Philbert, for what better place to find news of Maulwerf than where fairs’ folk of every stripe would be gathering? And it wasn’t going to be hard to find. Philbert returned to Kwert, to Kwert’s immense relief, and the following morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, they followed the stream down to the ford on the other side of the village. Philbert could see immediately that a great many people had trod the path alongside the stream, and followed it too, right down to the banks of the Elbe where they arrived two days later. Once there, it was no effort to be unobtrusive; crowds of people thronged the Elbe’s sides, eager to cross the water and get to the other side in time for the Grand Opening, which seemed to be all that anyone could talk about. Exactly what this Opening was Philbert neither queried nor cared. He shouldered his way with the best of them onto one of the many paddle-steamers, boats and fishing skiffs queuing up to take people to the other side. The one that took them over landed them just to the east of Brunsbüttelkoog and, as the stream of sightseers began to trail off up the track, Philbert and Kwert mingled in with the crowd. According to the chatter of the folk about them they still had a way to go, all heading north, somewhat by Rendsburg but before Kropp, not too far from the Sorge River.

  Philbert was decidedly curious now about this marvellous aqueduct, apparently built of wood and stone and spanning a fissure through which had once run a torrent of blood. This last detail hardly seemed credible, and the tales being told about the engineer who had built the aqueduct even less likely. He smiled as he listened to the bits and pieces of the story, recognising patter when he heard it, surmising that the fairs’ folk had been busy, sending out trackers to drop this anecdote or that here and there to elicit the greatest interest, bring forth the greatest possible number of attending crowds. And the story they’d engineered about the engineer amounted to this: he’d appeared out of nowhere as a migrant charcoaler, set up shop in the ­forests bounding the River Sorge and, before anyone knew it, discovered some rare metal – possibly gold, possibly tellurium, possibly both – and gone to the nearest town, bought up the mining rights for a song, everyone knowing nothing was to be had around these parts and that the man must be madder than a hen in a thunderstorm to spend good money on mining rights worth less than the paper they were written on. Except that the man struck it rich; still mad, no doubting that, for what he chose to do with the greater part of his new-found wealth was to build an aqueduct right across the valley, linking two lands, two villages, two rivers, and it was to the opening of this great aqueduct that everyone was now hurrying to see.

  Philbert didn’t know what day it was, but knew the month to be June because the lime blossom was out and abundant, filling the air with its sweet scent; also that it was close to midsummer, the days stretching their necks further into the shortening darkness of every night that passed. Kwert was struggling, his back crooked over his crutches as they travelled the last few miles, breath shallow and erratic as they tailed the crowds up a short rise away from the track. It was late in the evening but the darkness was little more than shadow, people swinging out like hammocks onto the crest of the hill, whispering excitedly, their lamps pock-marking the brief night, for Philbert had been right. Tomorrow was the summer solstice, longest day of the year.

  ‘You’re tired,’ Philbert said. ‘Why not try to rest up and get some sleep?’

  Kwert took his advice and lay down on his blanket, Philbert easing his crutches away, taking off his coat to cover him. It was a meagre bed, but Kwert was grateful for it. He was so thin now that it was hard for him to be warm even here on this crowded hillside where people were lighting fires, chattering excitedly, exuding heat with every breath.

  ‘Thank you,’ Kwert murmured, placing his hands beneath his head for a pillow, feeling easy for the first time in several months, happy to be surrounded by other people, one amongst the many, a single pip inside a many-seeded pomegranate, thinking that perhaps things might yet work out well, especially when Philbert lay down beside him, donating his warmth. Within moments the two travellers were fast asleep, unhindered by the chatter of unknown men and women all around them, sleeping all the better because of it. Anonymous, unknown and unrecognised.

  They were woken by the growing rustle of expectation amongst the crowd, opening their eyes just as the sun slipped up sleek and fat from the waters of the distant Baltic Sea. Everyone was surging up and forward to the crest of the hill Kwert and Philbert already inhabited, pushing and jostling, craning necks for their own look towards the valley opposite. There was a sudden, ­collective intake of breath as all took in what was spread out before them: the great canvas of land unrolling at their feet, its colours deep and yawning in the pink glow of the new born sun; a hard ravine cleft the hillside ahead in two, dark and vast, hidden in shadow, ripples of forest running out around the lip of a perfectly circular reservoir on the higher side of the drop, a great wall protecting it like a hand braced about its chin; the shorter, closer side of the ravine was carved into great steps, each cupping a small lake shining like polished agate, the green of their surrounding woods glimmering in a thin mist, waterfalls tipping from one step to the one below in a silver chain. And across the ravine stretched the aqueduct: magnificent, with its red sandstone chinked with gold in the morning light, the legs of its three spans unequal in length – lofty and tall on the far side, diminishing in height as they strode across the gap to reach the other. Each arch was carved as a branch, topped by a straight and even channel, giving the overall appearance of an enormous tree trunk falling by chance across the cleft, the straight conduit it carried leading from the higher reservoir to the lower lakes on the other side.

  All shaded their eyes as the sun climbed the sky like a rope being pulled up a mast, spreading a sail of orange cloud across the horizon. There were murmurings behind Philbert, and the folk who were waiting with them, as more people arrived, but no jostling now, no discord, everyone spreading their blankets on the ground, inviting their fellows to sit so they wouldn’t be troubled by the morning’s dew. A few ale and food sellers began hawking their wares but their transactions were muted; everyone quiet, everyone waiting for the main event. As were Kwert and Philbert, until Philbert’s hat was suddenly tweaked from his head by a scrawny hand and Philbert caught his breath, ­frightened for what would come, but when he turned all he saw was Tangelrichter – or was in Tingelburg? My God, but he didn’t care, for marching up the hill behind came speckled Hannah in a fine patchwork dress into which she’d sewn all the many squares cut from Hermann’s shirt, and Maulwerf mopping his brow, leaning heavily on his silver-topped cane, and Otto single-handedly hauling Frau Fettleheim on her cart as others pushed it on from behind, and running beside them all came Lita, tripping over a waddle of red pig, and Philbert forgot he’d b
ecome another person, that he’d murdered men and almost been murdered himself. He stood up, shouting like the devil.

  ‘Kroonk! My wonderful Kroonk!’ and Kroonk raised her startled head as Philbert began to jump up and down, waving his arms high, hat abandoned. And up they all came, Maulwerf pink and pert, jacket and waistcoat immaculately brushed as usual, lace kerchief dabbing daintily at his brow; Lita laughing and putting her small arms around Philbert’s neck before moving on to Kwert; Otto standing back, breathing hard, red cheeks puffing, hands on hips, Frau Fettleheim gasping on her cart as if she’d run up the hill on her own two feet, fanning herself with a handful of enormous feathers; and then there was Kroonk, tripping and snorting between them all, bashing into Philbert’s legs as if he were a skittle and she the ball, and he hugged her hard and hugged her again, kissed her neck and kissed her snout, and then they all desisted as everyone around them began to ooh and ah, and all looked down below into the valley whence came a roaring from the fissure as of a thundercloud as the sluice-gates were opened, water streaming from the circular silvered reservoir on the higher side of the ravine, a thin white arm of foam reaching out before it as it was funnelled along the aqueduct as if to lead it on, gushing headlong from the ­aqueduct’s end into one pool, one waterfall, then down to the next and the next and the next. As one man they stood and stared, reunions forgotten as they watched in awe the sword-straight arm of water stretching along the length of the aqueduct, joining the disparate hillsides from high to low, from light to shade, in one continuous glide of motion. And then everyone about them was shouting and whooping, shaking hands with strangers, throwing their hats into the air, delighted to have been here, to be able to tell their children – and their children’s children – that they’d been amongst the lucky few to see such a sight. They’d travelled many miles and many days to see the Grand Opening of the Great Magendie’s Aqueduct and it did not disappoint. The spectacle may have lasted only minutes but for those there to witness it they would count those minutes amongst the greatest of their lives. Philbert was as astonished and delighted as the rest, but he shook no hands, his own clasped tightly about the red neck of Kroonk and not about to let go, not even once the excitement had died down and he heard the words he’d longed to hear falling like petals from Lita’s lips: Welcome home, Little Maus. Welcome home.

  He smiled, leaving the words of reciprocation to Kwert because he knew the greeting no longer applied. Little Maus was gone, and he could no longer call the Fair his home. At best he could stay with them temporarily, a few months maybe, but the reality of it was that Philbert could not stay forever. The ramifications of what he’d done – of what he’d caused to happen – were too great. He was no longer an inhabitant of their world, had gone to a place they could not and should not go. Philbert apart, great destiny or no, maybe always so, and more now than ever.

  36

  An Unexpected Coming Together

  Tingelburg and Tangelrichter are dressed as bride and groom, Harlekin standing behind them, a stained glass window in his fine patchwork suit. He spreads his arms high and speaks to the gathered crowd:

  ‘Meine verehrten Damen und Herren! Hochgeehrte Versammlung! We are gathered here today to witness the ­nuptials of Bräutlich and Bräutigan, to bind them hand and foot in lifelong union, for better or for worse. And here are the musicians . . .’

  A loud shout of approval going up from the audience –

  ‘. . . playing stampstok, rinkelbom and rummelpot . . .’

  A shaking of tambourines and the beating of pig-bladder drums –

  ‘. . . and their pretty dancers!’

  Whistles and calls as Hannah and her friends do a quick two-step across the stage, flicking neatly turned petticoats and ankles.

  ‘And of course, the bride and groom! Where would we be without them? Come forward, Bräutlich, come forward Bräutigan! Take my hands!’

  Tingelburg and Tangelrichter make their way across the stage but find their chairs already taken, are reduced to grotesque clowns gesticulating rudely above the real couple’s head, who are Lita and her Bowman Lorenzini, for this is the day of their wedding. Harlekin hands them the knotted cloth containing three silver coins, the symbol of marriage in these distant parts, and as they each take one side of the knottedoek the whole stage explodes with purple smoke and iridescent flares, and the ­musicians fire up with renewed vigour as Hannah and her dancers come on again, appearing through the fast-fading ­billows. Behind them all Philbert glimpses Harlekin standing in his cloak like a ribbon-plaited pole, then all is hidden again as the dancers throw out great clouds of rice from their bundled skirts, and sugared nuts rain down upon the crowd below the stage, and soon everyone is joining in the dancing and singing and the raisin brandy is brought out to wet the heads of bride and groom.

  The marriage meal was enough to make the tables weep through their tight-knotted eyes, so hefty was the burden they had to bear. The Great Magendie was holding his own celebrations following the opening of his aqueduct, and the addition of a wedding banquet was an extra to be welcomed and fêted. Stall-holders and fair-ground shows added their wares to the trestles already set up beneath the orchard trees, legs secured in the cider-soaked grass, every square inch soon covered with pots and cauldrons, kettles and platters, flagons and kegs, everyone bringing their own contributions to the nuptials so that it was impossible to know where to begin. There was hotchpot of rabbit with juniper and jasmine, cow-heel fried and battered, cockscombs cooked with saffron rice and oil-fried rings of aubergine, sandwiches of rose-petals, of watercress and fresh curd cheese laced with lemon juice. There were sweetbreads grilled on skewers, wrapped in sorrel leaves, stuffed with garlic and snails; lambs’ pie and ox-tail mould, marrow bone baked with apple. There was cloudberry jam and heather-flower ­puddings dribbled with blackberry and hippen-haw syrups. There was mustard bread and sesame buns and soft-set curds flavoured with fennel and pepper, hard-rind cheeses with black cherries, sprinkled with herbs, rolled in oats; napkin-butter and mousses of mocha, strawberry and quince.

  And there was Philbert. He’d tried to act like a boy again, prowling the tables with Kroonk, taking a little bite of one thing followed by a smidgen of another, staining his shirt as he’d done with Kaspar in Finzeln with gravy medals of every imaginable colour and shade. But for Philbert it wasn’t like it had been before at other feasts and celebrations, and the greasy smiles and friendly chatter did nothing but get on his nerves. It wasn’t long before he took Kroonk off to lie together apart from the crowds under the shade of an old pear tree, Kroonk the familiar heavy comfort against Philbert’s legs, the two of them happy and content to be back together; Philbert happy and content also that Lita had found her Bowman, for he was so obviously a kind man and a good one, always laughing and smiling and helping others, and had taken exceptionally good care of Kroonk while Philbert was away, just as he’d promised. He watched the whole happy tableaux but didn’t want to take part in it. So much had happened in the months he’d been apart from Maulwerf’s Fair, so much death breaking upon the shores of his life – as the Rabbi at the killing grounds in Bremen would have put it. Philbert felt as if he’d been shaken up and re­arranged, and everyone else felt it too and kept their distance. Maulwerf had asked to see him earlier that afternoon and Philbert had dutifully gone, though it had been an awkward encounter.

  ‘How have you been, my boy?’ Maulwerf asked, Philbert not answering directly, which in itself surprised Maulwerf who remembered this child as honest and naïve almost to a fault, and certainly not evasive as he was being now.

  ‘How much has Kwert told you?’ Philbert replied with a touch of confrontation.

  Maulwerf shook his head. ‘Very little. But he is ill, as you must know, and isn’t speaking much to anyone. It must have been very hard for you to get him this far.’