Joachim's Magic, page 3
Reis’s heart was beating wildly as he slipped into the final nightmare. He was standing in the corner of a small room. In front of him, Dougham Gaunse was murmuring incantations in a language he didn’t understand. Dougham stirred the embers of a fire and from his pocket produced a taper. He thrust the taper into the embers and it caught on fire. Dougham was mumbling and muttering strange, undecipherable words as he read from a book held in his hands. Behind Dougham stood figures, chanting also. One of them took out a knife and slit the throat of a lamb held by two others. The lamb squealed and bleated piteously while its blood dripped to the floor. Dougham took a silver cup and let the blood flow into it, then put the cup to his lips and drank. The dead body of the lamb began to change.
Reis awoke with a start, sweat upon his face. For ‘twas not the first time he had dreamed of the lamb, the Lamb of God. Master Lane had named it so when he’d called the men to prayer one Sunday morn in a misting rain. They had gathered together in a somber group, shoulder to shoulder, all except Master Gaunse who stood on the far perimeter near the trees, ever separate and apart. Master Lane had read long and loudly from the Holy Bible. Men were impure, he’d said, condemned forever by the sin of Adam and Eve. God had cast them out of Eden to wander in the wilderness. Only Christ, God’s Son, could save them.
“Lamb of God, have mercy upon us,” he intoned. In answer to Reis’s questioning look the German miner, Master Greutter, had leaned over and whispered,
“Ach, know you the Lamb of God ist Jesus, who vas killed by the Jews.”
In his mind Reis saw the gentle white lamb sacrificed, as Christ had been sacrificed upon the cross to save the souls of men. All had bowed their heads and murmured the Holy Words. Out of the corner of his eye, Reis peeked to see Dougham standing, head bent and murmuring also but not the same words. Somehow he knew in his heart that Dougham spoke, not their prayers but his own mysticism.
Around Reis the woods were still; he heard only the low hoot of an owl, the muffled sounds of the men sleeping. He saw Jeremie lying beside him and he was thankful the boy had not drowned in the river’s swift current. It had been only a dream, after all. Reis lay on his back staring at the firmament above him with its millions of twinkling lights. He wondered if each light was an angel of God placed there to watch over him. After the dreams, it was a comforting thought.
He heard Dougham’s voice coming softly from the trees and half-rose, resting on one elbow to see if he could spot him. But it was too dark and the tree line was in the distance. Reis got up and went away from where he slept to relieve himself against a bush. He heard Dougham’s voice again, this time he was sure.
“Baruch atah adonai eloha-nu melech ha-o-lam.”
What words were these? Not German, for he’d heard the miners conversing in their gruff, guttural language. His master was kneeling facing the woodlands, his hands clasped in reverent prayer, swaying side to side in a slow rhythm. He wore a fringed shawl draped over his shoulders.
“Master,” Reis whispered and the man stopped. He turned.
“Who is there?” he called.
“‘Tis I, Reis Courtney. What be you doing?”
Dougham’s voice was low and measured.
“I am praying, that is all.”
Reis glanced around. “But where be the lamb?”
“What lamb?”
Reis started. This was not a dream.
“Are you real?”
“Indeed,” came Dougham’s voice. “As real as you, my fine apprentice. What are you doing disturbing my prayers? And what is this lamb of which you speak?”
“Only a dream,” Reis murmured, red-faced beyond all measure. “In my dream, there was a lamb sacrificed.”
Dougham stared at him. “There is no lamb here,” and he swept an arm before him.
“I must go,” Reis said hurriedly.
“And what else was in your dream?”
Reis didn’t want to tell him how the lamb had turned into the figure of the Christ. He backed away, seeing Dougham’s face before his eyes.
The next morn it was as if nothing had happened. Dougham greeted him with a slight nod of the head, not more nor less than before. They were made to fetch water, put out the fire, gather the masters’ tools and equipment. When all was ready they began their trek southward toward the main encampment. This time their packs were heavier than ever with all the samples of rock and ore. Dougham carried many of the samples, as did the others. Going back was without breakfast and Reis’s stomach growled the whole way. At one point Jeremie left the trail and plucked berries from a nearby bush. He crammed them into his mouth and swallowed them before anyone could stop him. Within a few minutes he began to howl. His eyes teared red with pain and he held his stomach, moaning loudly. Dougham dropped his packs and came running.
“Foolish boy,” he admonished, forcing open his mouth. “To eat the yew berry can only mean he has poisoned himself.”
“Poison!” Reis gasped. He glanced at Jeremie, beginning to spasm in Dougham’s grip. Dougham dropped to the ground, cradling him, then ordered Reis to get a vial from his pocket. Reis handed it to him silently and Dougham opened it and forced the brown liquid contents down Jeremie’s mouth. Reis turned away, for Jeremie’s eyes were now rolling white in his head and foam was flecking his lips. Thomas Hariot came over but none of the others moved. Dougham forced still more liquid into the boy’s mouth and all of a sudden he vomited, spewing out half-chewed berries and bile. Again and again his body heaved until, at length, he lay quiet in Dougham’s arms. The man put his ear to Jeremie’s chest to listen for his heartbeat, then took a blanket from one of the packs and covered him. He glanced back at the others.
“We stay here for now,” he said authoritatively, “until the boy is well again.”
Master Hariot nodded.
“So be it.”
“What did you give him?” asked one of the men fearfully.
“A tincture,” Dougham replied, “to make him vomit.”
“Is he dead?” Reis asked.
“No, just resting now. He will be well within the hour. ‘Twas not the yew but liken to it.”
He got up and left Jeremie wrapped in the blanket. The boy’s eyes flickered open and closed several times, then he appeared to be sleeping. Reis scrambled to his feet and ran after Dougham.
“The men are talking,” he tugged on Dougham’s long cape.
“Why bother me, boy. It matters not what they are saying.”
“Witchery,” Reis could barely say the word.
Dougham gave a wry smile.
“Not witchery, indeed, merely a potion to release the poison from his body.”
“How do you know about such things?” Reis asked boldly.
“I have studied the wild plants and herbs in my native land. Always I keep this nearby,” and he patted his pocket, “for the things I have seen men put in their mouths you would not believe. The boy is young and headstrong. No doubt he has learned a valuable lesson.”
Jeremie recovered within the hour, as Dougham had predicted. The other men, however, kept to themselves at a distance, talking in low tones while Dougham went down to the river’s edge to stare at the deep waters. Reis stayed with Jeremie for a while, then got up and followed his master’s trail.
“I saw the men at prayers and kissing their crosses. They are sore afraid. Only Master Hariot said nothing, merely smiling he was.”
Dougham frowned.
“Afraid of me?”
“I think so.” Reis saw him staring at the cross around his neck. The boy touched it lightly.
“‘Twas my mother’s, given me by my father. I kept it hidden while I lived with my uncle, for he would have sold it otherwise.”
He stared at Dougham.
“Where is yours?”
Dougham looked annoyed.
“I have no cross,” he said.
“No cross? Are you not a man of Christ?”
His master frowned again.
“A man of God is what I am,” he answered slowly.
“You are not a heathen?”
Dougham shook his head. It was clear to Reis he was getting angry.
“A man of God,” he repeated. “Why vex me so?”
Reis turned to go. He heard his master call out behind him.
“Not a heathen but a Jew, one of God’s Chosen People.”
Suddenly Reis remembered his dream, the incantations, what Master Greutter had said, the blood of the dying lamb, the animal transforming before his eyes. Without a thought to guard his tongue, he blurted out,
“Then it must be true, you killed the Christ?”
CHAPTER 4
THE LESSON
REIS COULDN’T SLEEP after that, his heart sore with wretchedness. How could he have asked Dougham the very question Jeremie had blurted out to him? How could he have been so stupid? Now his master would think him foolish or rash, of no more consequence than a fly buzzing around a dung heap. If he had ever hoped to win Dougham’s respect, that hope was dashed by his unguarded tongue.
He tossed and turned the rest of the night, falling into a fitful sleep only toward the dawn. When at last he awoke, the men were up and packing. Jeremie, pale and quiet, was by the river’s edge washing the last of the tools. Dougham and Master Hariot were nowhere in sight. Reis gathered his master’s possessions once more and strapped them on. He ignored the bread offered by one of the men, a big strapping fellow called Master Haring, kind in his way toward the apprentices.
Hans Haring had been a foreman at the Newlands mine back in England. He was broad-shouldered, with a thatch of dark brown hair. He shook his head when Reis refused the bread, then stuffed it in his own mouth. Though Reis’s stomach was once again growling with hunger, the thought of eating made him sick. He was glad Dougham wasn’t around at the moment for his face must surely be flushed with shame. He sought out Jeremie by the water and splashed some on his own burning skin. The young apprentice’s eyes were huge, framed by his pale complexion.
“I was stupid,” he said, lowering his gaze.
“Indeed, you be lucky.”
“How close was I then, to dying, I mean?”
Reis smiled.
“Not close at all, just spewing out your innards to the world.”
Jeremie clutched his stomach.
“It still hurts.”
“A painful lesson,” Reis remarked, taking a long drink of water from his cupped palm and thinking, ‘I, too, have just learned a similar lesson, perhaps losing the one thing I value most, Dougham’s respect.’ He shook his head as if to rid himself of such concerns. Jeremie was oblivious to this all, rubbing his stomach and trying to load his master’s packs at the same time. He was, Reis observed, quite comical in his actions, much like the monkey he’d seen once dancing at a carnival.
They walked back from the river together and Reis saw, to his dismay, that Dougham had returned and was waiting for him. But his master showed no sign of vexation or discontent. He handed Reis a pick and light auger which the boy took silently, as if the added weight would serve as atonement. The men were waiting in a group separate from him.
“Indeed,” Master Greutter’s voice came from their midst, “ist Dougham a sainted man or the Devil?”
“Perhaps a physician?”
“Perhaps a….”
“Not one nor the other,” Dougham’s voice rang out, his accent sounding even more foreign to Reis’s ears. “And best you mind your business, Master Greutter. Come, boy,” and he gave Reis a push.
“Perchance he is an apothecary, knowing well the medicinal value of herbs.”
Reis recognized Master Hariot’s calm voice. The others were muttering low.
“That I am,” Dougham called back, but his face betrayed the lightness of his answer. His brows were furrowed and his mouth set in a resolute line.
Reis heard some of them still whispering in their German language and not a word of it could he understand. He staggered a little under the weight of his load, then squared his shoulders and caught up with Dougham’s long stride.
“Master Dougham,” he panted as he came alongside.
Dougham kept walking.
“Master….”
“Hist, boy, bother me not with your prattle.”
Reis was downcast as they walked on. He almost had to run to keep up with his master.
“I don’t believe you’re the Devil,” he said at one point.
Master Dougham stopped in his tracks.
“What believe you, then?” he asked. Reis had never heard his voice so cold.
“You must be a healer if you know herbal medicine.”
“Heathen?”
“No, Master, healer is what I said. I’m truly sorry for calling you such a word.”
Dougham grunted.
“One pang of remorse at a man’s heart is of more avail than many stripes applied to him. No matter, for Jews have been called heathens before. Or worse,” he added wryly. He stopped and stared at the boy.
“That I am a Jew is of concern to you?”
“Indeed not, for to serve you is an honor….”
His master grunted again.
“It is not a good thing to be a Jew in today’s world.”
“Why is that?”
Dougham’s eyes flashed.
“Look you, boy, for your own self has said the Jews killed Christ!”
Reis hung his head. His very words were coming back to haunt him.
“It’s what the others said,” he mumbled.
“And you believe what others may say?”
Reis felt like he was choking. For what Dougham said was true. How many times had he listened to the slander of others, or thrown cruel words himself? He couldn’t answer and tears suddenly stung his eyelids. What shame had he brought upon himself? What hurtful feelings had he wrought in his master’s breast? If he were female, he might have wept bitter tears but instead he wiped his arm savagely across his eyes and stumbled onward as his master led.
Later that night at the encampment, Reis still felt shame marking him. He fetched Dougham’s supper and took the mud-caked boots from him. Instead of waiting until the morn, he decided to clean and polish them even if it meant staying up well into the night. He worked feverishly to scrub the leather ‘til it gleamed and borrowed wax from Master Hariot, who winked as he handed it to him to work into the surface. When he was finished the boots shone like new. But still he wasn’t satisfied. He unpacked the digging implements and scrubbed and polished them, feeling for certain that his arms would drop from his body. It was well nigh the hour of three when he finally completed his tasks. His back ached and his head was dizzy from bending over the tools. He relieved himself at the woods’ edge and stretched.
Clouds had covered the heavens and in the distance he heard the faint rumble of thunder. He went back to the fireside and ate the scraps from his supper plate and even those from Dougham’s, until he felt the emptiness in his belly fill. But the emptiness in his heart was another matter. For he remembered Uncle Allyn’s words to him so long ago: “See that you mind,” and he hadn’t minded at all but been insolent and outspoken. Surely when they returned to England, his master would request another apprentice. It would be back to the world of poverty for Reis Courtney, of this he was certain. Even if another master took him on, his betrayal of Dougham was a stain forever upon his soul.
He heard his name called and turned to see Dougham beckoning him away from the camp. He laid the plate down and wiped his greasy hands on his pants. Then he followed his master into the woods. For a moment a thought crossed his mind that perhaps Dougham, the Jew, would slit his throat in the dark and somber forest in retribution for his evil tongue. But he pushed the thought from his mind and followed dutifully.
“Sit,” was all his master said and he squatted and leaned against the trunk of a tree, waiting to be further chastised.
“Tell me, boy, about the Jews?”
Reis felt his heart begin to pound in his chest.
“I know nothing,” he mumbled.
“Indeed?” Dougham’s voice was harsh. “Then it be my duty to educate you. Only then will you decide if I am heathen, Savage or, perhaps, the Christ killer.”
Dougham began speaking. For well over an hour he told a story and Reis listened. It was unlike anything he’d ever heard before. For in the beginning when God created the Heavens and the earth, He made mankind in His image and called him Adam. He created Eve and their son, Cain, slew his brother, Abel. And years later, when Abraham first heard God’s calling, he went to sacrifice his son, Isaac, upon the altar. And God spoke to Abraham and spared his son, and Abraham was the father of all nations.
Dougham’s voice had softened somewhat. Reis felt his eyelids drooping as his master neared the end of his story.
“This you have heard before?” Dougham asked.
“My father was not a man of the Bible,” Reis answered. He took the silver decoration when Dougham removed it from his neck and placed it in his hand.
“It is the symbol of my people,” Dougham said. “Many more stories could I tell you. Perhaps one day….”
Reis studied the intricate design in his hand, with its six points of light. It was different from anything he’d ever seen. He felt its heavy solid weight.
“It is pure silver,” Dougham commented. “I keep it hidden so none be tempted. It is called the Magen David, the Star of David.”
Then he added decisively.”Christ was a Jew.”
Reis was startled. He’d never heard anyone say that before. How could Christ, Son of God, the Savior of all mankind, be a Jew, despised by most, feared by many? Dougham must be teasing him. His master saw his face and gave a low chuckle.
“The boy does not believe me?”
Reis hung his head again. Here he was, once more doubting Dougham’s word.
“Ask a priest when you return to England.”
“I have no priest.”
Dougham started to get up.
“Then any of God’s clergy. Now it is late, you must get some sleep.”
Reis wanted to ask so many more questions. If Christ was truly a Jew, then why did the Jews kill one of their own? Was it true that Jews drank the blood of Christian babes, as Jeremie had said? What was it about the Jews that men hated so much? Why did they speak in that strange language?
