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- Herausgeber: tredition
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Serie: Orontius and Mafalda
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023
In the late Middle Ages, Orontius grows up in poverty in a peasant family. After the sudden death of his mother, his father entrusts him to the vagabond Eberlein to protect him from hunger and hardship. The only condition is that Eberlein and his troupe take Orontius to a monastery in Siegen on his 15th birthday. An adventurous time begins for the boy. At the monastery, Orontius learns about the life of the Franciscans and becomes a monk. It is during this time that he meets Gregory of Metz, with whom he forms a deep friendship. However, he doubts the abbot's integrity. After more than two decades, Orontius leaves the monastery to visit his father. There he discovers that everything has changed. From then on, he learns about life in all its brutality, but also in all its beauty.
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Orontius, God’s Juggler
BEA ESCHEN
Copyright © 2021 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.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Vorwort
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue, or the beginning of the end
Also by Bea Eschen
Orontius and Mafalda
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Vorwort
Chapter One
Epilogue
Epilogue, or the beginning of the end
Orontius and Mafalda
Cover
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
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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.
Chapter
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 stood 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 first 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 floating over the rope and it took no effort 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.
