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- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
The story follows the lives of three generations in the late Middle Ages, exploring themes of belief, friendship, betrayal, and the struggles of life. The reader is taken on an exciting adventure through danger and unexpected discoveries. The story promises to weave together history, adventure, romance, and spirituality to create an enchanting and thrilling tale.
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Seitenzahl: 402
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
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ORONTIUS AND MAFALDA
ON A MYSTICAL JOURNEY
BEA ESCHEN
Copyright © 2023 by Bea Eschen
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
FOREWORD
This is a fictitious work. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either the result of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
ABOUT THIS VOLUME
There are two books in this volume:
- Orontius, God’s Juggler
- Mafalda, the Juggler’s Daughter
Inhalt
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Orontius, God’S Juggler
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Mafalda, the Juggler’S Daughter
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
"Poem of Eternity
"Also by Bea Eschen
Orontius and Mafalda
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
One
"Also by Bea Eschen
Orontius and Mafalda
Cover
I
II
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VIII
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ONE
Thick snowflakes fall on my feverishly hot face. Each one makes me shiver in the melting cold. The thought that it won't be long before the white mass closes in on me and buries me alive drives me mad. I look up at the grey sky through the white treetops, snow trickling from the branches with every breath of wind.
The sound of the branches moving in a gust of wind reminds me of my father's last breath. I feel the icy cold penetrate me and spread through my aching body.
Despite my almost paralysed consciousness, I can see the blurred outlines of several wolves out of the corner of my eye. Slowly and stealthily, the lead animal approaches, never taking its eyes off me for a second. Now the pack surrounds me and I freeze in the hopelessness of my situation. There is silence.
I take each step as the wolves close in on me. With the last of my strength, I reach into the right pocket of my robe and feel for the slingshot with my ice-cold fingers. Zacharas, the novice, had entrusted it to me before my long journey. "In case the wolves get too close," he had whispered to me, looking at me as if he suspected it might happen. Surprised, I had taken the weapon and hidden it in my cloak. We were not allowed to have anything but the clothes on our backs - let alone a weapon!
In the panic of a bloody and painful death, I now remember that the weapon is not in the right pocket of my robe, but in the left. As I fell, my loose robe wrapped around my body, so that the pocket was now underneath me. Cautiously, I lift my arm, desperately searching for the opening. Too weak to reach, I let my arm fall into the snow.
The wolves do not miss this movement. The lead animal is only an arm's length from me. Its breath, reeking of rotten flesh, creeps right into my nose. In a last attempt to escape a terrible fate, I turn my head and stare directly into its eyes. Sure enough, the animal stops. While the wolves are looking for their next meal, I am hoping to have a chance to survive.
A wild scream forms like a lump in my stomach and threatens to explode in my throat. I open my mouth tensely without taking my eyes off this wild animal.
My scream comes from the depths of my soul. I feel as if the earth beneath me is shaking and the branches above me are cracking. Loud, shrill and with all my strength I let it out. It almost takes my breath away, but it frees me from my paralysing fear of death. The leader tucks its tail between its legs in fright, flattens its ears and slinks away.
With new-found energy I manage to pull myself up a little. I watch as the pack disappears into the darkness of the forest. The tracks in the snow remain as witnesses to what has just happened. Relieved, I lie back and quietly say a prayer of gratitude for the grace I have received from the Lord. As I have always done, I raise my right arm to heaven and open my hand. Does he hear me? Does he see me? The silence makes me doubt his existence, as I have done so many times before. My hand, with the stub of my thumb, stands out black against the grey sky.
"IT IS the same hand I used as a child to steal our bread, meat and vegetables from the market. I pulled my cap down over my dirty face and wrapped a scarf around my neck, so big that it covered my torso up to my navel. Thank God I was never recognised as my father's son.
My movements were fast. No one could keep up with me. Even the children of crooks, witches and murderers followed me to learn a trick or two. The most important thing was to watch the merchants at their stalls and know how they moved. The butcher's wife would turn from time to time to look at her baby in a basket behind her. The baker's wife disappeared behind the curtain to take the bread out of the fire. The vegetable farmer was a fat old man, blind in his left eye. He dozed off regularly. It was at these moments that I struck. For me, these were not tricks, but simply the only way to survive. My sack quickly filled up with enough food to last a week.
I am sure now that my father knew. But each time he pretended that my thieving was normal. It could have cost us our heads!
MY PARENTS WERE FARMERS. But our grain was always inferior. The soil was clay, stony and hard. My father worked hard, but unfortunately we could not plough our field properly because our old wooden hook plough only scratched the surface of the soil. We also used an old ox as a draught animal that was ready for slaughter, but we had no means of buying a new one. When the ox got tired, it would just lie down and we would have to wait for it to get up again. I can still remember my father spurring it on. Under pressure to get the field ready for planting, he would yell at it and beat its hindquarters with a stick.
Our landlord was a Count. I can't remember his name because it was difficult to pronounce and my father mockingly called him His Highness. Our Count owned pigs, which ensured his wealth. You could see it at the end of the year, after fattening, when the pigs were sold for slaughter.
Every year at Christmas there was a big feast in the manor house to which the nobles from the surrounding area were invited. Pork was served, and my parents had to slaughter and process the pig. It was terrible for me to have to help with this because I had formed a bond during the time I spent with the pigs in the forest. Taking care of the pigs was part of the indentured labour we had to do to satisfy our landlord — this Count with the difficult name — so that we could continue to live on his land.
It was my duty to drive the animals into the forest after the feast day of St. Michael, where they foraged for acorns, beechnuts, chestnuts, mushrooms and wild fruits. I had to check on them regularly, which gave me a reason to leave field work occasionally during this time. I was very happy to have these freedoms and often took stones from the field to practise juggling.
Time in the woods also gave me a chance to practise other tricks I had seen the travelling troupe perform at church festivals in the village; climbing, balancing and somersaults. There was a stone-lined pit that must have been used as a storage cellar around which the pigs foraged. The wooden roof lay in pieces beside it, and I took two narrow slats and laid them across the pit, supporting them in the middle with stacked stones. As the pigs grunted around me, I practised my balancing act, falling several times into the soft leaves, which made me laugh all over again.
WE DID NOT HAVE a happy home. My mother had several miscarriages and was always sad. My only sibling who was born alive died of measles in his third year. I was the only child of my parents to survive childhood. That's why they always worried about me.
Last winter, my mother suddenly fell ill. One day she did not get up in the morning. She was lying on her straw sack, staring ahead. I went to her and spoke to her: "Mother, what is wrong with you? Why aren't you getting up today?"
But she did not react. She just lay there staring at the ceiling. Suddenly she coughed and spat out blood. I felt a shock in my limbs. What was I going to do? "Mother, what's wrong with you?" I shouted in horror and panic.
Instead of answering, she moaned softly and then a gurgling sound came from her mouth. I tood there paralysed, unable to think. What was wrong with her? I realised that she must be seriously ill. Father! I remembered my father. He always had advice when something happened. He always knew what to do. I had to get him. No sooner had I finished that thought than I rushed out the door. "Father, father, quickly!" I shouted into the open. I couldn't see him, but I kept shouting: "Father, come quickly, mother is ill!"
He came out of the stable with a handful of food for the old ox. "Orontius, why are you shouting?"
"Please, Father, you must come quickly to Mother, she is vomiting blood. Hurry, father, I'm afraid for mother!"
When my father and I returned to her straw bed, my mother had spit up more blood. It was running down her throat from her mouth. My father quickly went to her, touched her and was startled. What was wrong with my mother? Then he put his hand on her forehead. After a few moments that seemed like an eternity, he said to me: "She has a high fever." He thought for a moment. "Orontius, get some cold water and a cloth. Dip it in cold water and put it on her forehead. I'll get a surgeon, maybe he can help her. Pray to God that she gets well.“
No sooner had he said this than he left. Now I was alone with my mother and did not understand what was happening. My thoughts were racing. Prayer! My father had told me to pray. I knelt down. "Dear God in heaven, please make my mother well. We need her. Please God…" Suddenly I remembered my father's other words. I got up to rush to the well and fetch some fresh, cold water. There was a bowl on the table and I took it. When I returned to my mother, I put a cloth soaked in water on her forehead, just as my father had said. I touched her with my fingertips. She literally glowed. My worries grew.
"Mother, say something, please!" She spat blood again. Now it was almost black. I got another cloth and struggled with God. Why had he let my mother get so ill? Didn't he know we needed her? I didn't give a thought to the possibility of my mother dying. She had always been there for me for as long as I could remember. Why should that suddenly change? It was almost impossible for me. My mother could not die.
Suddenly she moaned again. I took the towel off her forehead. It had become very hot. I quickly dipped it in cold water, wrung it out and put it back on her forehead. With the second cloth I washed the blood from her mouth and neck, which had already collected under her head.
Time passed - where was my father? Mother was getting worse. I was afraid for her. Past experiences flashed through my mind. Just her and me. I didn't even notice that I was starting to cry. It was only when I tasted the salty liquid that I became aware of my tears and quickly wiped them from my face with both hands. My fear for my mother remained. Once again she spat blood. Again I changed the cloth on her forehead. How many times had I done that? I couldn't remember. Again I wiped the blood from her face.
Finally the door opened. My father came in with a man I didn't recognise. He gave me a quick nod. Then he looked at my mother. No one said a word. My mother spat blood again, and this time it was almost black. Then the man said quietly: "I am sorry, but there's nothing I can do for you."
I thought I had misunderstood him. In desperation I said to him: "But there must be something you can do for her! You are a surgeon. There must be something you can do to help my mother!“
"No, I can't help her, even surgeons are sometimes powerless!" he replied in a hard voice, looking at me sternly.
"What kind of surgeon are you if you can't help her!" I screamed.
"Orontius," my father warned me, "do not be disrespectful."
I lowered my head. Tears were in my eyes. I heard the surgeon leave. My father stroked my head with one hand. Then he left the house too.
My mother was going to die, I thought. I still couldn't believe what this meant for me and my father. Once again my mother vomited blood. Oh my God, where did all the blood come from? I washed it off her face and neck again. I suddenly hated the surgeon. He hadn't even bothered to examine my mother. He could have gotten his hands dirty with her blood. What a stupid man, he wasn't a surgeon, he was a vet.
Was my mother going to die? No, it was not possible, it was not allowed. "God, don't let my mother die!" I cried to him in despair. "What kind of God are you if you take my mother away from me!" I could not hold back my tears. Why didn't father stay? Didn't he want to be with her when she was dying? More blood to wipe away. The water was already red, and the cloth would not wash out. How could I wash all the blood off my mother's face?
My thoughts raced. As I went to get fresh water and a clean cloth, I became even angrier at the surgeon. If he had still been here, I would have punched him in the face. He could have tried a bit harder. Why didn't my father want to help her die? I was confused and yet relieved to be alone with her. For the last few minutes, or was it hours, I had my mother all to myself. I did everything I could for her. But I also became more and more aware that my mother would soon no longer be there for us.
When she finally fell asleep, I held her hand with my left hand and stroked it gently with my right hand. As I did so, I hoped she would wake up.
Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, I saw her soul fluttering away in my mind's eye. The butterfly had beautiful, colourful wings, it was graceful, and as if it wanted to show me a dance, it flew once more in circles before finally disappearing. Then I gave up hope that my mother would wake up. At that moment I wondered again where God was. Had He seen everything? Why had He let her suffer so much? Why had he let my mother die at all?
AFTER HER DEATH, our life became even harder than before. When she was alive, she had spun sheep's wool and woven cloths and blankets for the earl and his family. Now that this was no longer possible, the Count demanded more interest for the little grain we had, which we had to sell cheaply because it was inferior. My father and I were starving, and because we didn't want to eat roots and bark, what I stole from the markets was essential to our survival.
MY FATHER never had the time or opportunity to indulge his artistic side. But he knew that I was fascinated and interested in the arts, because when the juggling troupes came to the village, we stood in the front row. We were very impressed by the tricks. My father’s grey-blue eyes widened and his face crinkled into countless wrinkles when he began to laugh. This revealed his dark gaps and half-rotten teeth, which he usually kept carefully hidden behind stiff lips. In those moments I could smell his bad breath, which reached me with the outpouring waves of his laughter. Despite this little ugliness, I loved it when he enjoyed himself. He rarely had the opportunity to do so. They were the only moments when I saw him laugh heartily.
"Do it again, for me," he shouted enthusiastically to the juggler who had just jumped from the tightrope after a balancing act. Many of the spectators were excited by the risk of the feat, some were even frightened. The rope was between the chimney of the bakery and the canopy of the small village church, barely five cubits high. The juggler had managed a distance of twenty cubits without any major incidents. He risked his life each time, but my father didn't seem to care.
"What are you offering to make me do it again?" the juggler asked challengingly.
My father lowered his eyes. What was that question about? The juggler knew perfectly well that we had nothing to give him. I felt a pang in my heart. At that moment - I don't know what devil drove me - I ran as if stung by a tarantula to the bakehouse, climbed onto the roof and reached the start of the rope. Was it luck, magic or God's will, but there was a stick as long as my body. A perfect balancing pole! Without the slightest doubt, I began the !rst balancing act of my life on a tightrope. The crowd below me froze and held their breath. But I looked away from them and up to the sky. Not that I wanted to ask God for help - no, but the higher I looked, the better I could control my balance. It felt as if I was "oating over the rope and it took no e#ort at all. When I reached the end, to the horror of all the spectators, I did a double somersault backwards and landed on both feet on the muddy ground of the square as if I had never done anything else. People looked at me as if in awe. They had obviously not expected such a feat, especially from a boy who had just completed his twelfth year. Even the juggler tugged at his beard in amazement and seemed puzzled.
My father, on the other hand, had immediately recovered from my breathtaking feat and used the opportunity to his advantage. He smiled haughtily in the juggler's face. "As you can see, your performance needs no reward. Even my son can do better than you."
I had not done it to show off or to put the juggler in a bad light. My act had come out of nowhere, and that's what I told my silent audience.
"Where did you get these ungodly ideas?" I was asked by a person I recognised as the woman who had supplied my mother with sheep's wool. "You are a boy sent by God. Our Lord is not nothing!"
All I could do was shrug my shoulders and hang my head. The juggler, who called himself Eberlein, as I later learned, came to my rescue. "Woman, how would the boy know?"
His booming voice regained the respect he had just lost. The crowd nodded in understanding. They all had children who did not go to school or have any hope of an education. Few in our village could read or write. We clung to our faith, repented from time to time, and that kept us alive.
The show was over and the crowd dispersed. I watched as the juggler, Eberlein, for whom I felt admiration and gratitude, walked towards my father. He was a tall, thin man. His coarsely woven cloak hung down his body in generous folds. The deep furrows in his face bore witness to a hard life, as did the scar that ran down his left cheek from forehead to chin. At the same time, he had a wisdom that set him apart from the rest of the village.
"Come to the Ox-House tonight, man. I'll feed you and your son."
My father and I looked up in surprise. We had never been invited to a tavern for dinner before, let alone by a juggler! I noticed that my father inhaled sharply and exhaled again. He always did that when he was anxious. He didn't seem to want to show his confusion, though, and nodded his head in agreement. I copied him and so we stood nodding in front of Eberlein, the juggler. He seemed amused by us and said goodbye with a grin: "I'll be waiting for you there after sunset."
At the same time we turned to leave. I knew my father to be a taciturn man, but on the way home he did not even say what he always said. At the corner of the !eld he would have told me about the coming rain. On the short walk under the birch trees, he would have warned me about the birch dust that often made him sneeze. He walked ahead of me at a fast pace, silent and introverted. My eyes were glued to the heels of his boots, which dug deep into the mud.
"Wait for me!" I called after him. I could barely keep up, panting as I followed him. At this point, I didn't know what was moving him so much. I couldn't help but notice that he was trying to hide his feelings from me. He avoided turning to look at me. I ran and reached out for his arm. The touch seemed to bring him to his senses. He took my hand in his and held it until we reached home. As a teenager, I was usually embarrassed to walk hand in hand with my father, but in that moment, something intimate connected us. Holding hands reassured me of his love and gave me a foothold in my confusion.
THE OX HOUSE was a hive of activity. As we entered, a group of people were gathered around a table covered with playing cards. A musician in a colourful costume was playing a sweet-sounding melody on his lute and singing a song, the words of which I did not understand. When we entered, many of them looked up. Even the music stopped for a moment. I could feel my cheeks burning. People looked at us from top to bottom. Why, I wondered. My father held me close and for the second time that day I felt his insecurity.
Eberlein emerged from the crowd. He had taken off his long coat, and his emaciated body looked all the more emaciated in his shabby clothes. Relieved, I greeted him with a slight nod. He walked nonchalantly towards us. I watched as he and my father met at eye level and locked eyes. My father swallowed so hard I could hear the rasping in his throat.
"What do you want?" he asked him.
"Let's sit down," Eberlein suggested, leading us away from the crowd to a corner table. He turned to the bar table. "Innkeeper, bring us some food and beer!"
He impressed me again. Only noble gentlemen spoke with such boldness. However, he seemed completely confident and grinned at me.
"Boy, what's your name?"
"Orontius," I replied.
"You did well on the rope today," he said, looking at me admiringly. "Nature gave it to you."
I didn't know what to say and looked over at my father. He should have done the talking. Strangers rarely talked to other people's children, especially when their parents were around. This juggler simply behaved di!erently to the people from our village.
After a long silence, my father started talking again.
"What do you want?" he asked a second time.
Eberlein directed his penetrating gaze at my father.
"May I introduce myself and my troupe as bringers of joy to the people, bearers of news and preservers of ancient poetry and performing arts!”
My father stared at him dully. "Where's your troupe?"
"Uh," Eberlein said, confused by the question he had obviously not expected after his elaborated self-introduction. “In our camp."
"And where is your camp?" my father asked.
"In the forest, out there," Eberlein said and pointed in the direction of the village entrance.
"What do you want?" my father asked for the third time. This time he showed his impatience by drumming his !ngers on the table. Eberlein ignored it.
"Let's eat and drink !rst," he suggested.
At that moment, a barmaid placed a large bowl of bacon and beans in front of us. It smelled delicious and since I hadn't eaten all day, I grabbed plenty. The fat ran down my chin as I became aware of my father sitting stiff as a board. Was he not hungry?
"Drink, man," Eberlein said and put a mug of beer in front of my father. He took it without hesitation and drank the contents in one go. While wiping his beard with the back of his hand, he exhaled loudly and lustily. I could not believe my eyes and ears. Not that my father didn't drink beer, but when he did, it was always very slowly and in small sips. I think he had always wanted to be a good role model for me, but at that moment he let his senses run wild. It didn't take five minutes and the alcohol in his empty stomach seemed to have loosened him up. He turned to Eberlein.
"If you want my son, I have conditions."
The fork dropped out of my hand. Shocked, I looked back and forth between Eberlein and my father. My mouth was open, dripping with halfchewed bacon and beans. It was about me!
Eberlein put another jug on the table in front of my father. Again, he picked it up and drank it down in one go. Carefully I tugged at his sleeve. His behaviour frightened me through and through. Either he ignored me or he didn't notice, but he seemed to have become a different man that evening.
"What are these conditions?" Eberlein asked casually.
"A promise," my father replied. "And a payment.“
Finally, he began to eat. With a large wooden spoon, he shoved the meal into his almost toothless mouth with relish. It was impossible not to hear him smacking his lips. Nobody but me was bothered by it, because he had never smacked at home. I carefully tugged at his sleeve again. This time he shook me off. At that moment, I sensed my impending fate.
"Why do you want to get rid of me?" I asked unspeakably quietly.
“So you become someone."
"What is to become of me but to be a farmer, as you are?"
"Shut up, boy."
I kept silent, humiliated and terrified by my father's plan to sell me to the juggler.
Eberlein was watching me. At least he felt sorry for me, I could see that clearly in his face. Then he addressed my father. "What do you want promised?"
Without batting an eyelid, my father put forward his ruthless plan for me. "The boy must be delivered to the monastery in Siegen at the beginning of his fifteenth year. There he is to learn to read and write and become a Franciscan monk."
Eberlein was visibly astonished. "You let him go with me and my troupe for this? With my retinue, homeless and lawless before the law and feared in society because of our evil tongues?"
Instead of answering Eberlein's question, my father asked the next question. "How are you going to pay for it?"
My soul ached so much that I felt sick. My father, whom I had always looked up to and respected for his dignity, was about to sell me to a strange man with no feelings at all. A man who was despised by most of our society because he belonged to the wandering rabble! Suddenly I remembered my mother and what she had told me long ago. I tugged at my father's sleeve again to get rid of my nagging question. "Why go to Siegen? Mother once said it was foggy and cold there. Besides, the forest is said to hold secrets that, if revealed, would bring disaster upon the people."
"Yes," Eberlein interjected, "I would like to know that too. Why Siegen? As far as I know, there is no monastery there!"
"But one is being built," my father replied. Undeterred, he continued. "A Count Johann from Dillenburg has put up six thousand guilders to build it. When it is !nished, it will be consecrated and used by the Franciscan monks."
Two pairs of eyes stared at my father in disbelief.
I was perplexed. "How do you know all this?"
"You don't remember, son, but your mother was born in Siegen. She knew the area and still has relatives there."
"What kind of relatives?"
"The Polmanns. There is a Konrad Polmann, a cousin of hers. There is talk of him becoming abbot of the monastery."
Then he addressed Eberlein again. "So, how do you want to pay for my son's services?"
Eberlein thought. He took a hearty swig from his mug. "Why should I pay you to take your son to Siegen? You should pay me to keep your child company and protect him on his way to the monastery!"
Father became a little unbalanced. He began to sweat. "You are right, we both benefit. I cannot demand payment from you," he admitted. "But I need proof that you will keep your promise. That would be when you have delivered Orontius to the monastery at Siegen."
There was a long pause during which I recovered a little. I finally understood that my father meant well for me. But I also understood that my fate was in the hands of these two men. At that moment I experienced a transformation that matured me for years. I decided in my mind that in the future I would decide my own destiny without the influence of others.
Meanwhile, Eberlein dug around in his shabby leather pouch and pulled out a round, carved wooden object. The artefact was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. He opened it and held it up to the light for us to see.
"What is it?" my father asked.
"It's a boxwood artefact. It's said to be valuable. I got it from a travelling Dutch merchant, who knows where he got it?"
My father picked it up carefully. Together we looked at the tiny sculpture. The figures were so small that I had to look closely to make out the scene. A group of people dressed in biblical garb were gathered around a central figure.
"What are they doing?" I asked.
"It's a religious scene." My father looked at the details with enthusiasm. "People are crowding around Jesus Christ - they are worshipping him. Look, some are kneeling before him."
Infected by his interest, I asked, "How do you know it's Jesus Christ?"
"You can tell by the rays that are arranged around him. That is his aura." He closed the icon and rolled it back and forth in his large bony hand, looking at it closely from all sides. Then he opened it again and looked intently inside. I noticed how entranced he was; how his ears were glowing with eagerness, his eyes were shining, and his rare smile was getting wider and wider.
Eberlein brought us back to reality.
"Then how about you keep the icon until the monk Orontius comes to collect it from you and bring it back to me?"
My father looked up. I could tell by the look on his face that he agreed with the proposal.
"Good." He nodded and placed the precious artefact in his pocket.
The two men shook hands. My father put his arm around me and held me close. "I will bring my son to your camp the day after tomorrow at noon."
"That's fine. We leave in three days," Eberlein said.
"Where will you go?" my father asked. He suddenly looked grey.
"To the autumn fair in Frankfurt."
"The fencing tournament?"
Eberlein nodded.
"Take good care of my son."
We turned to go.
"Don't worry. I will protect your son as I would my own," Eberlein called after us.
• • •
"THE NIGHT BEFORE I LEFT , I asked my father if he would stay on the farm. He thought for a long time, and I sensed that my question was difficult to answer.
"I made arrangements with His Highness yesterday to let you go," he began. "I am to live in a room on the estate and be the swineherd." He hesitated. "It suits me better anyway, for I have always been a poor farmer. I don't want the responsibility any more."
"What will happen to our farm?"
"His Highness has found another farming family. They will manage our farm."
"Does that mean we have to give our home to the other family?"
"Yes."
We were silent, lost in painful memories.
I HAD NEVER LOOKED at myself before, but that evening I stood in front of my mother's old mirror and looked at myself from top to bottom. My old, dirty rags lay in a heap beside me. My father had painstakingly filled our old wooden tub with hot water. At least I would start my new life clean. I had to spend a long time rummaging through the chest to find some suitable clothes. My father took out his pigskin coat, which was a little too long for me, but nice and warm because of the fur lining. It was heavy and smelled of him.
"You can wrap yourself up in it at night," he advised me, "you won't get cold."
Then he gave me a pair of woollen socks. He looked a little pained as he handed them to me. "Your mother knitted them."
I accepted them gratefully. Anything from home would make my journey easier. It would give me comfort - something to cling to, something to remember, something to fall asleep with at night.
I immersed myself in the hot bath and was seized by a shiver. An intense tingling ran down my torso, up my legs and into my loins. An energy came over me that I had never felt before. I moaned, grabbed my stiff member and began to rub against it. The climax was exhilarating, overwhelming and at the same time relieving. I realised that my childhood was over, both mentally and physically. From then on I had accepted my fate to leave home and travel.
TWO
As we came over the hill, we saw a collection of leaf huts and tents. The smoke from a large fire mingled with the hustle and bustle of people busy with various tasks. Strangely dressed women, who seemed to have nothing else to do but spy on strangers, gathered around me and cheekily stroked my face with their dirty fingers.
"A soft fuzz is already there," shouted one of the women with red curly hair.
The others laughed uproariously. Disgusted, I backed away. "Leave me alone!"
We stared at each other. I noticed several freckles, large and small, distributed in an unusual way between her nose and mouth.
"Oh, the young man is sensitive!"
The women began to snort again.
My father brushed them aside with a brusque movement of his arm. "Are you going to let us through, or do I have to put my hands on you to get you out of the way?" and the crowd took off neighing like horses.
There were monkeys, guenons, marmots, camels and other strange animals. Yes, even a bear roared from its cage in unison with the wild drumbeats of a man who resembled the devil. Frightened, I looked at him. He was wearing a costume that reminded me of an evil forest spirit. A horned, bestial, furry figure with a tail and cloven feet. The words of our priest immediately came to mind: Satan, the great enemy of Christ, the Church and humanity!
When the devil noticed me, he waved at me. "Are you Orontius, the new boy of Eberlein the juggler?"
"Yes." I couldn't believe I was talking to the devil. The shock must have been written all over my face, because the devil seemed to know what was going on inside me.
"Don't worry! It's just a disguise. I am Godfrey. As the name says, the peace of God. I am also Eberlein's brother."
He held out his hand. Reluctantly, I took it.
Contrary to my fears, it was warm and I felt more confident.
My father cleared his throat. "Where do we find Eberlein?"
Godfrey pointed to a large tree. "You see the great royal wooden carriage under the giant oak? We call it the Ark. You will find my brother there."
We had to fight our way through a crowd of grotesque minstrels, quack doctors, musicians and jesters before we finally reached Eberlein's carriage. I could hardly believe my eyes. It stood out from the other wagons, some of which were draped in cloth, simply by virtue of its colossal size. The wheels were almost as high as I was! Moreover, the wooden body was suspended from the chassis with leather straps attached to the lower corners and to the high axles. Two strong looking mules stood nearby eating grass. There were ornate harnesses, the likes of which I had never seen before, and a padded coach box.
"There you are!" Eberlein came up to us. He seemed pleased to see us.
"Will my son be accommodated in your carriage?" my father asked enthusiastically.
"Yes," Eberlein replied. "It is the old carriage of Frederick III, the Holy Roman Emperor. He arrived in Frankfurt in it more than a decade ago."
"Are you joking?" my father asked.
"It's no joke," the juggler said, smiling. "On his way back from Frankfurt, the Emperor and his knights were attacked by a gang of rogues. The carriage was set on fire and badly damaged. The Emperor got off lightly. I happened to be working as a coach builder at the time and, together with another journeyman, we were given the job of repairing the carriage. The wheels and leather harness had to be completely replaced. The carriage had been badly damaged in the fire. He turned and pointed to a heavily sooted area. "See, quite a bit of it burned away up there."
I looked at where his hand was pointing. The damage had been irreparable - even as a layman that was clear to me.
"Not good enough for our emperor! That's why he didn't want to drive his old carriage anymore and gave it to us," Eberlein finished his story.
I swallowed. "That was generous."
My father turned to me. "I'm going now. You're in good hands here." He grabbed my neck and pulled me towards him. "Come back to me when you are a monk and pick up the icon. Goodbye, boy."
He left me quicker than I would have liked. I looked after him and a mixture of unease and freedom came over me. I got over it quickly, though, as my new surroundings distracted me from the pain of parting.
IN THE ROYAL ARK, Eberlein had set up a hammock for me. "So you'll be weighed like a baby on the journey!"
I laughed. I had never seen that before. Then he introduced me to his troupe. I could only count to ten at the time, and when I assigned each person to one of my fingers, I was two fingers short.
"This is our Hannes Harnisher, also known as the evil tongue of our troupe," Eberlein introduced. Hannes bowed and even took off his hat for me. He was a small, thin man with a remarkably large mouth. "I am the singer of the troupe and the shame of the meagre man. My satirical songs are the best way for us to get food, drink, clothes, gold rings and money when we visit the castles and houses of the nobles. For only my mocking songs teach them to fear us, for in them I tell the whole world of their greed if they do not pay us!"
"You've always been good at showing off! You're not the only one who keeps us alive," Eberlein replied.
"But the best!" shouted Hannes Harnisher proudly and disappeared.
Our next stop was the witch Walpurga. Her red curls were blowing wildly around her face in the rising wind. "We've already had the honour of meeting," she said cheekily, trying to stroke my chin with her fingers again. This time I grabbed her hand and held it tightly before she could touch me. We remained in this position, our eyes locked.
"Walpurga frightens her audience by getting involved with the devil on her little stage," Eberlein explained.
I took a step back. The woman was monstrous to me.
"And who are you?" I asked a little girl whose hair was as red as the witch Walpurga's. "Hildegard," the little girl replied, looking at me with innocent blue eyes.
"She is my daughter, the child of a lonely vagabond," Walpurga explained, disappearing in a short, violent gust of wind that ruffled the leaves around her.
Hildegard took my hand. "Would you like to play with me?"
"I'd love to," I replied, "maybe later."
Two more women joined us. Their clothes were unusual because they stopped just above the ankles. The women were heavily made up and wore their hair like Walpurga, open and without headgear.
"These are Margaid and Gertrude, our dancers. The noble barons and ecclesiastical lords find them irresistible," Eberlein said, looking at one of them from top to bottom with a grin. That puzzled me. Normally, such women were offensive and unwelcome in society as I knew it.
