Buzzards, Hawks and Ravens
(Account of Six Friends' Lives in the "Dark" Ages)
by
Ruwen Rouhs
Chapter 14.5
- Clandestine in Trescrossing -
- Jeroen Needs a Friend -
The wound on Jeroen’s upper left arm was itching like mad, “Can’t you get me some relief, Ruwen? I can’t stand the itching anymore. Please do something or I’ll cut my arm off!”
“Your arm is doing just fine. That itch is a sign of healing. Don’t bitch like a shithead, and let me finish changing the bandage.”
Bastian watched the complaining boy, pleased. During the last ten days Jeroen had changed from a ragged, moribund stranger into a lively teenager in love with life. “Stop eating, at least while Ruwen is changing your bandage. Don’t eat us out of house and home, greedy guts!”
Jeroen poked his tongue out at Bastian. “Remember, you have to put up with me the whole day, because the others will rush ahead to Trescrossing on horseback, while I go along with you and the covered wagon.”
Since that morning when Jeroen had recovered consciousness in the healers charge, he had formed a secret crush on Bastian, especially after the strong young man had carried him like a baby, to the chapel on Bealltuinn´s eve. Secretly he called him “Bastie” now. Bastie was his big hero. He wanted him as a friend, but after a week with the healers he was sure this dream couldn’t come true, because Bastian had Ruwen. But he wanted a friend - he needed a friend. He wanted a friend to walk alongside, in the sunshine, touching knuckles; he wanted a friend to walk with in the moonlight, holding hands, and he needed a friend in the dead of the night, to comfort him, or when he woke up, shaking with fear. Yes, he had a problem he could only tell a friend. Night after night he woke up in terror, remembering the howling canines chasing him during the flight from the Abbot’s hunting lodge.
After turning this problem over in his mind for several days and nights, he had decided he had to find a friend of his own. But how could he find a friend, a friend like Jannes had in Thimus, Berrit in Anzo and Bastian in Ruwen? He had to ask Bastian how to make a friend; how Bastian had found Ruwen. However, so far this had been a problem, a big one. He had never had the slightest chance of talking to Bastie alone, because of the others, especially Ruwen. Ruwen and Bastian were as thick as thieves. But today, he promised himself, ‘Today I will ask him.’
Berrit, Anzo, Ruwen and their pages, Jannes and Thimus, had soon disappeared around the next curve of the gravel road. Sitting next to Bastian on the wagon’s box, Jeroen tried to find the right time for his interrogation, but his hero chatted on, about this and that. He was relaxed and full of joviality, and told Jeroen one joke after the other. Whenever Jeroen thought he had an opportunity to set out with the issue, something surprising happened along the bumpy road; a pack of hounds showed up hunting a deer, a flock of pheasants took into the air, or a nice farm-girl threw them a hot kiss.
At noontime they rested on the riverside at a ford across the Orn-Brook. While Jeroen took into the bushes to relieve himself Bastian opened the lunchbox and began to devour the still warm left-overs from breakfast.
“Hey Bastian, my stomach is rumbling too; it’s not nice to let a poor boy starve!” Jeroen complained, pulling a face. “It’s my spoon that you are using! Give it to me!”
His hero just grinned. “One spoon for Daddy and one for little Jeroen!” was his reply, and he began to spoon-feed his Jeroen with the hot porridge. Happily Jeroen adopted the part of the little boy and burping, he wailed “More, Daddy, more, Daddy, give me more. Your baby is starved!” and they began a fight for the spoon.
Licking clean the spoon, Jeroen decided it was the time to turn to the matter of his concern. “Bastie!” he started, addressing his hero for the first time with this nickname, “Bastie, you and Ruwen…are you friends or… ?” Suddenly, becoming ashamed because of his boldness, he broke off the sentence, thinking No, I can’t! I can’t ask Bastie if he and Ruwen are lovers!
Bastian realized the situation. Putting an arm across Jeroen’s shoulder, he asked, cautiously, “Did you want to say more than friends; did you want to say --- LOVERS?” Studying Jeroen’s blushing face intently, “Am I right, Jerie?” said he added, with a reassuring voice, “Calm down, Jeroen. I am not mad at you! I am your friend and you are mine, and if you call me Bastie then I will call you Jerie!” Thinking a moment, he began, “I will tell you all about Ruwen and me! Now relax!”
Jeroen relaxed and feeling suddenly safe, he began to listen to Bastian.
“I have two older brothers, the twins, Bendrich and Geroldt! As far I can remember, they did everything together: ate together, played together, slept together, and even went to the outhouse together. I felt left out of their close company, as far as I recollect. I wanted a twin brother too and begged my mother to give me one! I begged my father too, but my mother had only girls. ----- When I was nine, Ruwen turned up in our little village; he was on the run from the atrocities of war. He was worn out and desolate because he had lost his father and mother. He was ragged and dirty, just like you when we found you under the cart. I saw him and without thinking, I knew he was my new brother. I forced my father to adopt Ruwen and from that moment on everyone in the village called us the “TIBs”, the Two Inseparable Brothers. The year I became sixteen our unity became endangered. I had to take part in the rites of passage to become a man, but Ruwen was too young to be become initiated because, he was only fourteen at the time. He was desperate, but he didn’t give up. He took the only chance that was left to become my partner, in accordance with the old rites. He challenged me for the title of the Midsummer Night Prince in the race through the Big Wheel, at the Tree of Life, the Yggdrasil.
And a miracle happened, the unimaginable happened. At the race he had to take the long course through the labyrinth, a course about eight times longer than the one the Midsummer Night Prince had to take. Faster than a bolt he raced and we both arrived at the holy Tree of Life in the same instant. The three Wyrd Sisters, the Holy Sisters, Urd, Verdani and Skuld, the Norns, decided that neither one of us should win the race through the Big Wheel. They had made us attain the goal at the same time and thus tied us together forever. Since that time nobody but the norns is able separate us, the Midsummer Night Princes.” Pressing the Jeroen even harder Bastian smiled, “Don’t be sad Jeroen, my Jerie, don’t feel disheartened. Ruwen and I are inseparable till the end of our days.” Breathing deeply he concluded, “Let me tell you one thing Jeroen, if the Norns wish it, you will find a friend for life like I did!”
Sitting on the box beside Bastian, Jeroen fell asleep because of the mild swaying of the wagon on its way along the Orn-Brook. When he woke up, he couldn’t remember the details the dream he had had at all. All he knew, it was a good dream. He had dreamed he would meet a boy at the gateway of Trescrossing, a very special boy, a boy with dark blue eyes. He was confident his dream would come true. There was still one nagging question: How could he recognise his friend? He knew though, he had to look into his eyes.
*.*.*
At the mouth of the Orn-Brook, where it fed into the Reuss-River, Bastian and Jeroen caught sight of Trescrossing for the first time in their lives. The foaming water of the Reuss-River sloshed its way alongside a steep wooded mountain ridge crowned by a string of ragged rocks. Miles downstream the ridge came to an abrupt ending at a peak crowned with the Archbishop’s castle. At this point the Reuss joined the sluggish water of the wide Aare-River rolling down the open valley on the other side of the mountain ridge. At the foot of the castle hill was Old-Trescrossing, with its high church, rich monasteries and splendid town houses of the nobles, which were nestled and spread along the peninsula at the junction between the two rivers. Opposite the old town prosperous settlements had evolved on the banks of the two rivers. On the right bank of the Reuss, the guilds had settled in the wall enclosed New-Trescrossing, while well-to-do farms occupied the fertile countryside on the left bank of the Aare-River and further down along the now proud river.
Late in the afternoon the healers covered wagon approached the city gate in the high city wall. For the first time in his life Jeroen had to pass through a closely guarded city gate. At the gate he got uneasy, when the bearded guard levelled a halberd at his breast and asked him with grumpy voice, “Where to, boy? Have you got a passport? Have you got the money to pay the toll? Don’t look surprised, hurry up!”
Jeroen’s face was pale when he turned to Bastian, seeking help. Just then Bastian was climbing out of the wagon, waving a letter of letter of safe conduct and a money pouch. “Ask me, Master of the Gate, not my friend! I am responsible for the healers wagon! Haven’t you heard about the healers and the miracles they performed at Oranna’s Chapel? Haven’t the folks told you about us? Didn’t the healers passed this gate at noon to announce our arrival? ---- Check the passport and then open the gate! --- Hurry up! The sick and ailing will praise you!”
The gate keeper became wide eyed, “Sure I have heard of the great miracles. You are welcome! Welcome in Trescrossing! --- Everyone is talking about the healing of Jeroen and the reviving of little Jessie! The healers’ fame has spread!” Eying Jeroen closely, he asked with curiosity in his voice, “Are you the boy Jeroen; the deathly wounded boy who was rescued by the miraculous healers?” Adding, after a moment, “You are a happy lad! You surely must have been born with a caul!”
Jeroen smiled at the bearded guard, but he knew this wasn’t the friend he was expecting to find. But where was this friend?
Three alleys led from the small square at gate, through the waterfront town of New-Trescrossing, to the big old bridge crossing the Reuss. “Take the one to the left, it’s longer but wide enough for your wagon. In the others you may have a problem passing carts coming toward you,” the guard advised Bastian.
Jeroen took horses by the headgear, and dragged the slightly hesitant animals into the alley, with its unpaved muddy ground. The air in the small alley smelled of scat and piss, because it was not used only for traffic but also as a drainage ditch for waste. The alley was dim and the light of candles or torches illuminated many of the small rooms in the lower stories. Jeroen wondered about this because it was not yet evening. He looked up toward the sky and suddenly felt uncomfortable. The upper floors of the houses stuck out over the ones below, leaving only room for a small blue band of sky.
He hesitated, being scared that the jetties might break and bury him and his hero Bastian, as well as the horses and cart. “Go ahead,” Bastian called to him, “the jetties will not fall off and bury you! But take care; people like to dump their piss pots and kitchen slops out of the windows onto the street below.”
At the bank of the River-Reuss the dark alley crossed over, on a causeway to a towering house, the gate to the bridge. The fortified house barred the ramp of the bridge, but the iron mounted wings of its gate were wide open and the watchmen waved the healers wagon through the darkish passage.
Jeroen was confused. He hadn’t expected a second checkpoint separating New-Trescrossing from Old-Trescrossing. Again he cast an irritated glance towards Bastian. “Go on, Jeroen! That’s not the entrance to hell; it’s the portal to the covered bridge of Trescrossing, the famous covered bridge. Haven’t you heard of the famous Old-Bridge with its roof to keep rain and snow out, and with its famous public latrines?”
With wide open eyes and feeling nervous, Jeroen directed the draft horses pulling the wagon into the sinister looking thoroughfare. The echo of the wrought iron wheels rolling over the wooden beams in the casket-like passage made him shiver. Bastian walked up to Jeroen, and, patting his shoulder, he laughed. “Sounds good to me! It sound like the beat of the drums of a welcoming committee.”
The bridge, crossing the foaming waters of the Reuss, was supported by five abutments of enormous oak logs, each embedded into the bedrock. Arriving at third arch, Bastian called Jeroen’s attention to the sidings. “Hey Jeroen, look!” Pointing to the left and the right, “These are the famous public latrines, on the right for men, on the left for women. All crap ends in the river. This keeps the streets clean. You have to use these latrines and not take a shit behind a bush. Remember, the Archbishop’s wardens are enforcing this order!”
Jeroen screwed up his nose and grumbled, “I do not like to take a shit in presence of strangers!” Bastian patted his shoulder and grinned, “Ruwen and I will be with you and will protect you from lewd men!”
*.*.*
When they finally arrived at the bridge house on the other side of the river, Jeroen’s heart jumped for joy. The thoroughfare opened into a nearly trapezoid town square. The long sides of the wide cobblestone paved place were taken by small houses perched against the city wall which ran along the riversides. Always only two or three of the two story houses, with jetties, were huddled together, leaving space for sheds, small stables and house-gardens. According to the signs swaying in the light evening breeze, they accommodated small shops with traders and artisans.
At its short side, the square opened into a wide passage which led to the meadow at the tip of the peninsula. Left and right of the passage two spacious estates stood out. The big signboards, mounted above the doorways, invited strangers and citizens for a lazy stay in the comfortable guest-house. The owners of the “Three Swans” and the “Black Eagle” were brothers and business rivals at the same time.
The fourth side of the trapezoid square was the widest. It was the edge of the old city; with its small lanes full of nooks and crannies, its narrow houses along dusky alleys around tiny piazzas, small chapels and speakeasies. The high church with its two sturdy towers dominated this side.
Left of the cathedral a monastery spread out, enclosed by a high, nearly unsurpassable wall. Of the buildings hidden by the curtain wall only the roof of the high rising refectory and the sharp spire of the monastery’s chapel were visible from the market square. The sharp pointed tower of this small church rivalled with the square towers of the cathedral for predominance. To the right of the high church colourful townhouses and roomy estates of the city nobility framed the town square.
“That’s a place I like, Bastian! I never expected such a lovely place after coming through this casket,” pointing at the mass of booths already assembled around the fountain in the middle of the square. “Where are Ruwen and the others? I can’t see them! They promised to meet us at the gate!” Impatiently he pulled at the headgear of the horses.
Then Jeroen remembered his dream. Where was the promised friend? He hadn’t been waiting at the first gate. Was he waiting here? He searched the places around the gate, in vain.
A dream is a dream, Jeroen soliloquized, just as a silvery voice struck his ears. “Hey stranger! Tell me who you are looking for?” Turning around, Jeroen perceived a young lad poking out his head of the loophole of the guard house.
“I’m sure I can help you,” the lad said. Sizing up both newcomers knowingly, he pointing at Bastian, “You are the steward of the wise men, am I not right? And you,” pointing at Jeroen, “you are Jeroen, right? Everybody is talking about the wise men. I have been waiting for you!”
Stepping out of the small guard house was the strangest young lad Jeroen had ever seen. The guy was tall, nearly two heads taller than Jeroen. He was extraordinarily thin, thinner than Jeroen, who hadn’t much flesh on the bones. He was clad in an extraordinarily ample coat of a dirty grey and sporting a wide-brimmed hat. But the dress wasn’t the most impressive feature; it was the colour of his face and his hair, both were whiter than snow. His eyebrows seemed to be missing, but his eyes were of the deepest blue one could imagine and his lips purple like very ripe cherries.
“I am Francis. I help you, if you help me!” he announced with his silvery voice. “Your friends are over there in the guesthouse, waiting!”
Bastian had heard of whitelings before, but he had never seen one; and a whiteling with eyes this blue? He shook his head. Answering, with a nod and a broad smile, he accepted the offer of the stranger, to guide them to the “Three Swans”.
Jeroen was absolutely amazed. Could this weird-looking beggar-boy be the dreamed of friend? He closed his eyes for a moment to think the matter over over. Just than Francis touched Jeroen’s still bandaged arm gently with his fingertips, remarking in his silvery voice “A miracle fixed your arm, Jeroen!” Perceiving the soft touch with his soul, Jeroen opened his eyes, looked up into the deep blue eyes belonging to Francis and smiled, “Yes, Francis, life is a miracle! Let’s conquer life together!”
When they were halfway down the square nearing the “Three Swans”, Thimus and Jannes assailed the newcomers. “Look. Look Jeroen! Look Bastian! So many booths! Have you ever seen such a big marketplace? Tomorrow the show starts!” Thimus shouted excitedly and added, “Over there you can get the best sweets north of Castle Quentisburry!”
“No, they are even better! They taste just like being heaven-made! They taste like the ones mother prepares!” Jannes argued, gripping Bastian’s hand. “Will you buy me some, tonight?”
Then Jannes noticed the strange white lad in his wide cloak, walking on Jeroen’s left, and asked quizzically, “Who are you?” Sizing him up carefully, he added suspiciously, “Are you a friend of Jeroen?” But then he caught Jeroen’s smiling face, and he was won over in a blink of an eye, “Welcome, stranger! Welcome at the healers!”
Arriving at the guest-house, a brawling voice of the waiter addressed the newcomers, “Hey, what kind of filth did you pick up out of the gutter! No place here for this spawn of the devil! Dips are not welcome!” Then he addressed Bastian with a bow, “You and your comrades are welcome, Milord. Check you pockets, he surely has pinched the money pouch from you already!” Pointing at Francis, “Not this hoodoo, however!” Swinging a stick the hunched waiter denied Francis entry to the guest-house.
Seeing Francis’ deeply shocked face, Bastian snapped back immediately, “Francis is our guest! If he isn’t welcome, this is no place for us to stay! We will not spend our money in an inhospitable place like this!”
Berrit, Anzo and Ruwen, listening to this dispute, immediately took sides with Bastian. “Let’s move.” Berrit decided and the others supported this decision wholeheartedly. Packing up their belongings they left the “Three Swans” on the spot.
One of the locals, a white-haired man, watched the scene closely. Intercepting the healers, he pointed to a small house close to the monastery, “I take lodgers. It’s humble but clean; just the right place for Wise Men, like you!”
*.*.*
When night closed in, the healers had set up the healers stage for the fair the next morning. Finally, they had run up the colourful banner showing Saint Agathius, the helper against headache and mortal fear. Jeroen was not much help, because of his bandaged arm, but his duties were attended to by Francis, without him being asked.
After they had enjoyed supper together, Thimus and Jannes decided to climb up the steep ladder to the sleeping-places upstairs. Halfway up Thimus hollered, “Hurry up, Jeroen! First up, first down!”
Coming back from the outhouse, Jeroen looked around for Francis, but could spot neither hide nor hair of his new companion. “Has anybody seen Francis?”
“I am sure he is on the privy! Look there!” Ruwen answered.
“No, he’s not, I was just there!” Jeroen’s worried answer alarmed Bastian. “Maybe he is stretching his legs at the front door,” he guessed and shouted, “Francis, Francis!” through the open front door, but no response. Becoming aware of Jeroen’s frustration, he patted the boy’s back, “Let’s have a look back at the guardhouse; he probably wants to fetch his night gown!”
This statement was met with laughter by Berrit. “I’ll bet he is used to sleeping in his birthday suit, like every other boy! --- But take a lamp to track him down, it’s already dark!”
Side by side Bastian and Jeroen searched their way between the booths across the dark square, calling out Francis’ name once in a while. No answer anywhere, not even at guard house, whose small door was barred. Jeroen was close to crying, when Bastian, searching a small space between the guard house and the ramp to the covered bridge, discovered a tiny hole in the wooden wall of the bridge-house. Shining his light into the cubbyhole Jeroen spotted a dark bundle huddled in a corner. “Hey Francis, is that you? --- Hey Francis, answer me! It’s me! It’s your friend, Jeroen!”
After a short while, Francis´ pale face emerged and he asked, hesitantly, “Are you really looking for me? Do you really want me to stay with you?”
Only moments later, Jeroen and Bastian fished Francis out of the cold cubby-hole. When Jeroen asked, “Why did you leave the house? I wanted you to stay!” and then added shyly, “I told you I need a friend!” Francis was at a loss for an answer at first. Later on, when he dossed down on the straw mattress besides Jeroen, he whispered, “Till today nobody called me “friend”. They all called me a creep or filth, or a hoodoo! From now on I have seven friends!” and then he started to weep for joy.
*.*.*
AUTHOR NOTE
I would like to express my special thanks to B. for doing an unbelievable great job by correcting all the wrong expressions and the punctuation used by a non native English writer.
Comments, reviews, questions and complaints are welcomed. Please send them to ruwenrouhs@hotmail.de. And I would like to add, thanks for reading.