The Bunting Quest

by Steven Marcuson

  It had been many weeks since Bunting, Jakob and Amir had boarded the Sao Cristovao. Gerard had negotiated the arrangement with the owner and captain of the caravel, Antonio Serrao. Bunting could see that the two men enjoyed a long-standing relationship by the easy banter between them.

  ‘I pay this old sea-dog for second-hand information,’ said Gerard loudly in front of the captain, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘He doesn’t think of me for twelve months sailing in uncharted waters, then a few hours from home, asks his sailors for anything they can remember, and charges me a small fortune.’

  ‘Well, you are rich and you can afford it, Gerard,’ replied Serrao, ‘and anyway, who else can you trust? I only hire the most experienced marineros. My master pilot is a renowned navigator and his services don’t come cheap. The crew and I deserve more than your paltry sum for the new lands we chart. I’ve seen the prices of your maps.’

  Both men laughed and continued haggling, while in a more sombre mood, Jakob and his son hugged each other, neither wanting to let go. Apart from bruising on his forehead, Cornelis bore little outward signs of his recent tribulations. Jakob’s nose however, now resembled a rotting cauliflower, the blow from the Spaniard’s sword having smashed the bone to pulp, leaving it flatter, wider and discoloured.

  ‘Keep in contact with your mother, Cornelis. Tell her I will return by late summer. Tell your sisters to continue studying with the tutor.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘Do not be a burden to your uncle and aunt. I have arranged with Gerard that he will take you to the synagogue on the Sabbath. Do not eat of the pig or the shellfish.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And please be careful, son. I almost lost you a few days ago and …’ Jakob had started to sob and buried his head in his son’s shoulder. ‘I could never forgive myself if anything happened to you.’

  ‘Father, I will make you proud of me and will meet you on this very harbour when you return,’ said Cornelis, shaken by seeing his father in tears.

  Jakob took one last long look at his son while holding his shoulders, then turned quickly and walked the short gang-plank onto the vessel.

  The first two weeks on board were a nightmare for Bunting and Jakob. Both were struck down by unrelenting seasickness. Neither had travelled by boat before, apart from on pontoons when crossing local rivers. In fact, neither had seen the ocean before and the rolling movement of the caravel was too much for their inexperienced bodies; cramped living quarters and bedding down in unfamiliar hammocks only exacerbated their symptoms. Surprising to both men was the ease to which Amir took to life on the boat, unable to disguise smiling at their distress as he went back and forth tending to their needs.

  ‘Your boy is a natural. I don’t normally take to Moors,’ said the captain one day while looking in on the two dry-retching men. ‘We have him up on the highest topgallant mast now. What is his background? Once he has finished with your business, he can join my crew on the Sao Cristovao. By the way, don’t worry, you will eventually find your sea-legs. A six-week stint is the worst I’ve seen.’

  Both men groaned as he left their quarters.

  32

  All the occupants of the car were in a quiet and reflective mood as they left Lemgo and headed towards the A2 and the two-hour journey to Magdeburg.

  Professor Schroeder broke the silence. ‘Now in Bunting’s day, we would have travelled as the crow flies, through Hamelin and Hildesheim to Magdeburg. However, on this occasion we will stay on the autobahn for our convenience. Although longer in kilometres, we will arrive at our destination a half hour quicker. The old Roman roads were always the straightest, but these days there are always other considerations when constructing major roads. Hanover and Brunswick were too large and important commercial centres to miss out, hence the route of the autobahn.’

  Verity and the professor then digressed into a discussion about some of their mutual colleagues, which suited Nick, as his mind wandered while listening to classic jazz playing on the car radio. He reflected on everything that had occurred over the last few days, trying to make some sense out of it all.

  Verity was probably right about the strange poem that Julius had discovered in Bunting’s book. It was more than likely to be a parable for finding oneself. ‘Where few trees grow and no water runs’ had to be a desert and that made sense in the Holy Land. Every second prophet, including Jesus, was disappearing into the desert for forty days. However, what about the words: ‘The map is the guide to the place across the sea.’ Well, that was okay … although most people in the time of Bunting did not travel by sea to the Holy Land, instead more commonly they went by land through Europe to Constantinople, then through Asia Minor and south through Syria. There may have been some travel by sea. No, it was the lines: ‘In a land beyond the faith where no cross has shined / the words are hidden in this Godforsaken land’. This just didn’t make sense if he was talking about the Holy Land. Why would he say that? And what about: ‘God has cursed the animal with two heads to bound’? This made no sense at all.

  It was not the crescendo in the music that brought Nick back into full concentration; it was the professor’s intriguing disclosure. ‘As you know, I have spent my academic career researching medieval economies and I am very careful to check my facts before publishing.’ Schroeder used his right hand to switch off the music, gaining both his guests’ attention. ‘In fact, many consider me to be a pedant in regard to detail. So I must stress that what I am about to say is mere legend. More of a whisper, or a shadow of information I have heard in papal inner sanctums over the last thirty years.’

  Nick’s ears pricked up as Professor Schroeder continued. ‘In fact, I should really not even mention this, however, given the strange circumstances of your friend’s death and the mystery of the maps, perhaps I will let go of some of my strictures.’

  Nick could see Verity’s expression and, like him, she was clearly taken by surprise by the professor’s tone.

  ‘The legend, or myth if you like, is that Pope Gregory left Rome in about July or August 1576, came to Germany and returned a few weeks later, via the Benedictine Monastery at Monte Cassino.’

  ‘So why is this strange or important?’ asked Verity. ‘Popes travelled extensively, didn’t they? They were always attending synods or negotiating treaties or opening new monasteries.’

  ‘Because,’ said Professor Schroeder, his voice now almost a whisper, ‘what makes this highly unusual is that there is absolutely no documentation regarding this trip. Normally, a Pope travelled with great fanfare, with an entourage of advisors, guards and servants. On this occasion, nothing has been recorded. However, and this is where it becomes almost unbelievable, he took with him, according to the legend, an original manuscript written by Christ himself !’

  ‘What! An original hand-written manuscript by Jesus Christ!’ said a gobsmacked Nick, repeating the professor’s incredible information, while Verity stared wide-eyed, stunned into silence.

  It was obvious to both Nick and Verity that the professor was well out of his comfort zone by the way he was stumbling over his words. ‘Eh, well, there is a legend that says Saul of Tarsus, better known as Paul the Apostle, was given the writings by James, the brother of Jesus and the head of the new Christian Jewish sect in Jerusalem, to take with him when he was spreading the Gospel. As you probably know, Paul travelled extensively throughout Asia Minor, Greece and finally Rome. So there you have it!’

  The professor’s face reddened, as if the telling of the legend had embarrassed him.

  ‘My God, it is almost beyond belief: a hand-written document by Jesus Christ!’ said Verity almost shouting. ‘And why on earth would anything as important as that not have been kept in Rome?’

  ‘Of course it is probably all nonsense, but yes, you are right. Normally all secret documents or rare items were kept close to the centre of power, in the vaults of the Vatican, or even in the monastery at Monte Cassino. However, the legend says that, for some reason, the ma
nuscript was removed from Rome by Pope Gregory himself, already an old man aged seventy-six, and taken to Germany.’

  ‘Hold on a second,’ said Nick, joining the strange discussion. ‘Are you linking the mysterious journey of Pope Gregory to Germany … to Heinrich Bunting? That is an incredible leap, if you ask me.’

  ‘As I said before, it is not my normal practice to delve into the dangerous world of myth and unsubstantiated events. In fact, it can be the death knell of a serious academic. This is why I have never mentioned this to anyone before. It reminds me of these quack experts who talk about discovering Noah’s Ark or searching for the Holy Grail. However, the strange circumstances that draw us together have compelled me to disclose this highly unlikely theory.’

  ‘Can you imagine how important that manuscript would be if it really existed,’ mused Verity.

  ‘I can only see controversy,’ said Nick. ‘The Gospels were all written well after the death of Christ, the earliest being the Gospel of Mark twenty to forty years after the crucifixion, and the other three Gospels later. The whole structure of the Church depends on these “four pillars”. If there were original writings and they in some way did not fit into Church thinking, then it could be a disaster to have them revealed.’

  ‘… or a blessing, Nick,’ said Schroeder. ‘It depends on which way you look at this type of revelation.’

  ‘There are other Gospels which the early Church leaders rejected. They considered those who supported them as heretics. So if there really was an original manuscript, the Church would have to be very careful with it, depending on what it said,’ said Verity.

  ‘I can’t believe we are following this line of thought,’ added Nick, shaking his head, ‘and with respect to you Professor Schroeder, it does seem totally out there!’

  ‘I agree,’ said the professor, appearing slightly humiliated, ‘it does sound ridiculous.’

  ‘I think it’s worthwhile to be open about all possibilities,’ said Verity compassionately. ‘I mean, we owe it to Sarah and Bronte.’

  Nick stared at Verity for a few seconds. ‘Okay, you’re right. I’ll talk it out … a sort of free-flow of thought.’

  Nick closed his eyes and started to speak. ‘Gregory wants to hide the manuscript for some reason and is not comfortable with the more obvious places, so he makes contact with Bunting. Bunting agrees and travels with the manuscript to the Holy Land with Jakob de Jode and …’

  ‘Hides it, or leaves it there,’ chipped in Verity.

  ‘Yes. He takes it to the Holy Land, returning it from where it first came. Then, after the pilgrimage, he writes his book with some obscure references and unusual maps, some of which were published by Cornelis de Jode, the son of Gerald de Jode, perhaps a relation of Jakob de Jode. Today, there are people willing to kill for these maps, including bogus policemen and Benedictine monks.’

  ‘Perhaps the map points the way to where the manuscript is hidden?’ said Professor Schroeder, sounding less defeated.

  ‘That is a possibility,’ said Nick, ‘Bunting, with the help of the De Jode family, produces a map that identifies the whereabouts of the holy relic, somewhere in modern Israel. It is this map, or the search for this map, that has led to the killing of Sarah. Sort of makes sense in a ridiculous type of way.’

  33

  Be careful in Lifau, Heinrich,’ said Captain Serrao, ‘we are within a day of Timor and although the Dominican friars at first glance appear welcoming and intelligent, in fact they even preach the Gospels in the language of the natives; if they smell heresy, then be assured, you will burn at their stake.’

  Seven months at sea had changed the young priest. He no longer wore his weathered grey cassock but the garb of any sailor on board the Sao Cristovao. His once pasty sun-starved face was now a golden brown. His hair, bleached by thirty weeks at sea, was blond, thick and tied back in the style of the other marineros.

  ‘Are you in the service of Lord Jesus or Lord Neptune now, Heinrich?’ remarked Jakob dryly.

  ‘Well, that is rich coming from you. You have more in common with an Arabian pirate than a Jew from Magdeburg.’

  The observation was true, considering the mane of black curly hair that now extended below Jakob’s striped fabric head-cover, knotted behind his left ear, to where it met his unruly grey-streaked beard at the shoulders. His skin was now almost as black as that of Amir, apart from the purple tinge over his flattened, broken nose. He had discarded his leg hose, on the advice of Captain Serrao, and was now wearing common sailors’ baggy pantaloons.

  Slowly acclimatising to life at sea and recovering from the debilitating effects of seasickness, the two men had taken on responsibilities on board the caravel. Bunting was assigned to help the ship’s barber look after the wellbeing of the crew. However, he found out very quickly that this meant far more than the cutting of hair. He was greeted on his arrival at the barber’s quarters, on his first day, by a terrible shrieking.

  ‘For God’s sake man, keep still,’ shouted Matos the barber, standing above a wide-eyed and terrified young sailor, one hand pressing down on a shoulder while the other prised a tooth out with a metal contraption.

  ‘You, Priest, come here and hold this coward steady, while I yank this tooth out.’ Matos, it seemed, was responsible for all matters of health on board the Sao Cristovao.

  Thirty weeks later they had removed dozens of teeth, treated outbreaks of ‘The Sickness’ and amputated one leg and one arm. ‘The Sickness’ started with spots developing on the skin and bleeding from the gums, followed by extreme weakness, with old wounds re-opening and suppurating.

  Matos was at a loss. ‘Every voyage is the same. The men start in good health but after a few weeks they often deteriorate. We always lose some.’

  Bunting, who had studied health in the seminary, tried to apply his knowledge to these cases, but to no avail. The only cure it seemed was fresh food and water which was in short supply for much of the journey. The quickest recoveries, he noted, were made after the crew ate exotic fresh fruits and vegetables in Sofala and Zanzibar on the east coast of Africa.

  On two occasions sailors fell from the topgallant, twisting and turning in the air, like marionettes on string, before crashing violently onto the deck. One, whose leg was snapped in half, with the jagged bones protruding, remained partly conscious while he was rushed into the care of Matos. The other, after the terrible impact, jerked and arched his body uncontrollably, with his arm and back broken beyond repair.

  In both cases, Bunting helped Matos to amputate. Even with the soporific effect of alcohol, both sailors screamed and cried hysterically. Bunting prayed for the men as he held them down in position, as Matos sawed powerfully through the flesh and bone. Many of the other sailors placed their hands over their ears to drown out their mates’ anguish, before both patients thankfully passed out.

  On each occasion, the amputees contracted fever, never recovered consciousness and died within a few days. Both were dispatched overboard, wrapped tightly in hessian sacks, after a short Christian service by Bunting and the captain.

  ‘Make no mistake,’ said Matos, ‘life on board a sailing ship is brutal. It is no wonder these men drink themselves stupid and fornicate for days on end at every port. Each day on a voyage could be your last; if not by accident or disease, then by storms, pirates or monsters from the deep.’

  Whenever Matos had no need for him, Bunting spent time with Martin Cortes, the master pilot. Martin was the renowned navigator of the Sao Cristovao and had sailed with Captain Serrao for over ten years. Bunting watched carefully as Martin aligned the cross-staff to his right eye, calculating the angle between the horizon and the sun, determining the caravel’s latitude.

  ‘This is the old-fashioned method. It has been around since the first sailors took to the oceans. That’s why we sometimes refer to it as Jacob’s staff. I only use it as a quick double-check for my invention, the astrolabe. I have been perfecting this instrument over the last ten years,’ he said, pointing pro
udly at the circular brass inclinometer, ‘and I assure you, it is far more trustworthy than “old Jacob”.’

  With Bunting’s grasp of mathematics, he was soon helping Martin to plot their progress by using the astrolabe to measure the sun’s altitude at noon, or the meridian of a star determining their latitude. He watched how an hourglass, filled with sand, was religiously turned day and night to measure time, and how a weighted rope with knots tied at regular intervals was placed in the sea at the side of the caravel, to measure the speed at which they were travelling.

  Captain Serrao noted how quickly the young priest had gained a rudimentary understanding of navigation at sea. ‘I will know who to call on if Martin should succumb to the sickness, Heinrich. You are no sailor, but you have a quick mind.’

  Jakob, with his broad shoulders and sturdy frame, was assigned as assistant to the cooper and the carpenter. Half his day was spent keeping the ship’s barrels and casks together. It was hot, back-breaking work, bent over in the gloom of the low-ceilinged hold. The barrels were filled with provisions for the voyage and were meant to be water- and air-tight for freshness.

  ‘It is a nightmare,’ said Jakob, exhausted. ‘No sooner have we repaired one barrel and transferred the food to another barrel, then it too springs a leak.’ He then lowered his voice. ‘And between you and me, whether it is the meat, fish, beans, cheese or even the hardtack, the barrels are always filled with weevils and sometimes rats and mice. It is disgusting and I can understand why so many of the sailors get maladies eating this shit-infested food.’

  ‘I imagine the ship’s cook cleans out the worst of it,’ said Bunting, wishing that Jakob had kept the information to himself.

  The best days for Jakob were spent with Jan, the Dutch carpenter, perched high above the rolling sea, repairing masts in the wind and sun. A call of ‘ahoy there!’ would be a signal that Amir was waving down at him from the topmost lookout. In all weathers the young Moor would scamper up the rigging to the platform which he had renamed ‘Amir’s Nest’, much to the admiration of Captain Serrao.