Breslau, Silesia 1195
“You missed it again!” Berthold sputtered attempting not to laugh.
Otto brushed against me as his arm gesticulated emphatically at my Lord's shyrt which I was trying to wash. “Yeah, can't you see? The spot is right there!”
Teeth clenched in frustration, I tried not to cry, because truthfully I saw no spot on my Lord's shyrt, and I didn't want another beating at the hands of these two fools.
“Here, you two, you done with your washing up?” Mistress Hedwig demanded harshly. Get those linens out on the lines to dry and be off with you. You've other tasks than loitering here.”
Mumbling and shuffling of baskets, then the fading whisper of their shoes on the stone floor of the laundry room told me they had gone. My shoulders sagged in relief.
“Let's have a look, Wolfram,” Mistress Hedwig's slippers scuffed across the floor to me. She took the shyrt from my hands. “You've just about made another hole in Lord Paschke's shyrt,” she sighed in exasperation and began lifting the sodden mass of the other laundry I had been doing for my Lord. “We are going to have to come to an understanding. You are not to let those two fool you about stains on your lord's linens!” One wet hand grabbed my chin and she raised my face.
I looked toward where I thought her face was. Two shadows I thought were her eyes, another I thought must be her mouth were all I could distinguish now. I blinked trying to see more clearly. Tears seeped down my cheeks.
She sighed and muttered, “Monday is laundry day, can't escape that. You've duties same as others, and no getting around those. There's order in the universe – or so I'm told – and so must be order in the household too! So how do we accomplish all things?”
The shadows I thought indicated her face moved from side to side as if she shook her head.
“Hilda!” She called to one of the girls in her charge. I heard slippers as if Hilda's feet scampered across the floor. “This time I want you to take charge of Lord Paschke's linens. I am taking Wolfram to the Duke.”
I shrank away from Mistress Hedwig's grasp, but to no avail. She marched me out of the laundry, across the sun drenched courtyard, through the dark alley, and up the cobbled ramp to the main keep.
My mind was frantic as I stumbled along under her rough guidance. Why the Duke? Why not the Duchess or surely she could have should have started with my Lord, couldn't she? Was my offense so serious? Was I to be cast off as my father had cast me off onto the mercy of Lord Odo, who had bequeathed me to his son Paschke? What was to happen to me? Would his Grace, the Duke, even be in? Would he see Mistress Hedwig on so spurious a moment? Surely we would interrupt his Grace and that could not possibly help my case.
I had short-lived hope of reprieve at the door of the great hall. The guards, shadows to my straining eyes, tried to refuse Mistress Hedwig, but she prvailed in the same calm authorotative manner she ran the laundry.
The heavy door swung open into shadows and light. We were announced.
Mistress Hedwig strode forward towing me in her wake like a puppy. My feet counted a hundred steps as shadowy blurrs of color, emphasised by mutted comments, moved before me. Somewhere to my right a minstral played a lute, his melody the cadence of my steps.
I knew more than saw not Duke Boleslaw the Tall but his son and heir Henryk the Bearded. He was a dark form capped by a light coif. His cheeks were patches of light between the dark holes of his eyes and full beard. Lighter shades were spread before him, velum and books I surmised. Other shadows flanked him, most likely guards and clerks, or perhaps his son.
"My Lord," Mistress Hedwig began, snatching my coif from my head as she sketched a courtesy, "This boy, body servant to your Page Patchke, is almost blind and cannot properly fulfill his duties."
I gulped and stared toward the shadows that must be his Grace's eyes.
"I've spoke to Page Patchke numerous times, now I bring the issue to you," Mistress Hedwig concluded.
A light objest lifted from the table to his Grace's great dark beard and wiggled as if he scratched at his chin.
"Boy, have you a name?" a voice asked.
Hoping it was his Grace, I stammered, "Wo- Wolfran, your Grace."
His hand-shape moved. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Squinting and staring at the shape, I guessed, trying to sound certain. "Three, your Grace.
Movement to his Grace's right. "How many rings on my hand?"
This head, coifed by a smear of red coif, must be Bishop Siroslaw. "Which hand, your Excellency, right or left?" I stalled for time, hoping that some glint of light would flash on a ring that I might guess.
He moved, but not so I could see his hands better. "My right," his voice growled.
Nervously I swallowed. Is it bearing false witness to guess? How many rings would a bishop wear? I squinted and guessed, "Three your Excellency," I choaked.
"Thank you Mistress Hedwig. Page Patchke, undoubtedly will attend us at meat. We will settle this then. Boy go sit over there." The blurry shape of his Grace's hand waved vaguely.
Mistress Hedwig placed my coif in my hand and then shoved me forward and to the right.
I stumbled in the direction of the minstral. A few steps and I stifled a yelp as I sprawled on the floor, tripped by the edge of the raised dias I could not see. Miserable, I got up blinking back tears of shame and terror. I shuffled slowly, cautiously toward the sound of the lute.
The minstral was only deeper shadow in the dark corner. He stopped playing.
I froze, afraid to move forward.
"Sit," a whisper hissed at me out of the shadow.
I sat where I was.
"Not there, fool!" the voice hissed again. "Here!"
"Where?" I asked.
"Here!"
Perhaps he pointed, but I couldn't see. Hot tears betrayed my misery. A strong hand grabbed my arm, dragged me to the desired place, and deserted me.
The lutenist began another tune. He continued through the murmur of voices, the shuffling of feet and manuscripts. He played through my self-mortification that I had risked eternal hell fire by not admitting I couldn't see the bishop's hands well enough to see if he wore rings or not. The minstrel had named me for the fool I was.
I had short-lived hope of reprieve at the door of the great hall. The guards, shadows to my straining eyes, tried to refuse Mistress Hedwig, but she prvailed in the same calm authorotative manner she ran the laundry.
The heavy door swung open into shadows and light. We were announced.
Mistress Hedwig strode forward towing me in her wake like a puppy. My feet counted a hundred steps as shadowy blurrs of color, emphasised by mutted comments, moved before me. Somewhere to my right a minstral played a lute, his melody the cadence of my steps.
I knew more than saw not Duke Boleslaw the Tall but his son and heir Henryk the Bearded. He was a dark form capped by a light coif. His cheeks were patches of light between the dark holes of his eyes and full beard. Lighter shades were spread before him, velum and books I surmised. Other shadows flanked him, most likely guards and clerks, or perhaps his son.
"My Lord," Mistress Hedwig began, snatching my coif from my head as she sketched a courtesy, "This boy, body servant to your Page Patchke, is almost blind and cannot properly fulfill his duties."
I gulped and stared toward the shadows that must be his Grace's eyes.
"I've spoke to Page Patchke numerous times, now I bring the issue to you," Mistress Hedwig concluded.
A light objest lifted from the table to his Grace's great dark beard and wiggled as if he scratched at his chin.
"Boy, have you a name?" a voice asked.
Hoping it was his Grace, I stammered, "Wo- Wolfran, your Grace."
His hand-shape moved. "How many fingers am I holding up?"
Squinting and staring at the shape, I guessed, trying to sound certain. "Three, your Grace.
Movement to his Grace's right. "How many rings on my hand?"
This head, coifed by a smear of red coif, must be Bishop Siroslaw. "Which hand, your Excellency, right or left?" I stalled for time, hoping that some glint of light would flash on a ring that I might guess.
He moved, but not so I could see his hands better. "My right," his voice growled.
Nervously I swallowed. Is it bearing false witness to guess? How many rings would a bishop wear? I squinted and guessed, "Three your Excellency," I choaked.
"Thank you Mistress Hedwig. Page Patchke, undoubtedly will attend us at meat. We will settle this then. Boy go sit over there." The blurry shape of his Grace's hand waved vaguely.
Mistress Hedwig placed my coif in my hand and then shoved me forward and to the right.
I stumbled in the direction of the minstral. A few steps and I stifled a yelp as I sprawled on the floor, tripped by the edge of the raised dias I could not see. Miserable, I got up blinking back tears of shame and terror. I shuffled slowly, cautiously toward the sound of the lute.
The minstral was only deeper shadow in the dark corner. He stopped playing.
I froze, afraid to move forward.
"Sit," a whisper hissed at me out of the shadow.
I sat where I was.
"Not there, fool!" the voice hissed again. "Here!"
"Where?" I asked.
"Here!"
Perhaps he pointed, but I couldn't see. Hot tears betrayed my misery. A strong hand grabbed my arm, dragged me to the desired place, and deserted me.
The lutenist began another tune. He continued through the murmur of voices, the shuffling of feet and manuscripts. He played through my self-mortification that I had risked eternal hell fire by not admitting I couldn't see the bishop's hands well enough to see if he wore rings or not. The minstrel had named me for the fool I was.
The
morning stretched to tedium. I was not used to sitting still. I had
tasks to do for my lord. Now I sat with the edge of a tapestry
brushing my head whenever the great doors opened or closed.
When
does one step onto the road of one's life? Can one put a finger on
one event of many and say with certainty “My path began here!”?
Or is it like my life, a series of stumbles and falls altering the
course of life. Is it the stars in the heavens directing us? If so,
does my life star blunder about erratically like I do? Or have I
sinned so evilly as to be going blind?
I
should have been a hunter, like my three brothers, following Jäger's,
my father, path. But though I practiced with sling and bow more
diligently than any of them, I missed every target he set. In the
forest, I was lost as soon as he released my hand.
“Look
where you're going! Jäger repeatedly admonished.
Look
I did. Blurs of color suddenly became trees that leapt up in my face,
rocks or roots to tangle my feet. By my seventh year, Jäger was
eager to release me to a different life, perhaps hoping it would
better suit a half blind boy.
“Mind
Lord Odo. Do as he says,” Jäger growled as we approached the stone
keep, white against the dark shadow of trees. “For all he is a
noble, he is a fair man, which is why I came with him from Walendia.
So be sure you do right by him, and he will do right by you.” These
were his last words to me.
Lord
Odo had less use for me than Jäger, so with quick training he
assigned me to his son, my Lord Paschke, as body servant when he
became page at the Ducal court some five summers past. Now my Lord
would have no use for me either. What path would make my feet stumble
now?
Eventually
Duke Henryk ended his morning court to attend Mass. The minstrel laid
aside his lute after the courtiers cleared the hall. Servants came
and hurried to dress the table. I saw linens flutter briefly. Boards
banged onto trestles. Pewter plate clinked. This was not the place
for wooden plate, bowl, and spoon I knew.
When his Grace returned, the court reassembled to eat. Against the
burble of conversation, the minstrel resumed playing while I knew
hunger. The aroma's were a feast in themselves. I looked for my
master, but could not distinguish him from those who moved. He would
be there.
At
some point there was a hush in conversation we say is because an
angel is present. Into that hush his Grace asked where my master was.
The reply came from Depolt, whose voice I knew well, as he was master
of the pages. My master was not at meat. The new silence was not
that of angels, but more of surprised insult.
In
that silence, I worried what new plot my master was involved in. My
Lord Paschke is mettlesome. Some would say meddlesome. If I had not
been sitting here, I probably would have been extracting him from
whatever he was up to. Was he covered in muck from the midden, or on a
rafter in the stable eavesdropping on the holsters , or more likely
to have brawled with other pages?
The
court lapsed into a buzz of speculation offset by a distant sound as
if two smiths hammered urgently but not on metal. That relentless
rhythm grew louder. AH! Leather shoes relentlessly slapping stone. A
runner approached and I knew his footsteps moments before he burst
into the Great Hall. My master.
The
minstrel stopped playing and conversation ceased.
Though
I stretched and strained to see him, my place on the floor, separated
by those feasting at the tables that marched down the sides of the
hall, thwarted my efforts.
In
the silence I could hear my Lord Paschke drawing great breaths of
air. Like me, everyone else seemed to be holding theirs! He must have
halted just inside the doors, awaiting his Grace's pleasure. Time
stretched until one must breathe too.
“You
have a reason, Page Paschke, for your tardy attendance upon us?”
His Grace asked gravely.
“I
beg your Grace's pardon,” my Lord Paschke's voice was stilled
ragged. “I came as fast as I could. This morning I attended to your
Grace's pigeons. Just when I should leave, one arrived with this
message. I was ordered to have it transcribed for your Grace.”
The
court erupted into murmurs of speculation.
I
had no doubt that this was truth. Though, if I had coin – and dared
– I'd wager he had contrived to be dispatched. I wouldn't be
surprised if he had also done the transcription himself under the
scribe's close supervision. If he hadn't then surely he would have
memorized whatever code and tonight he would be unraveling it.
“Come,”
his Grace must have beckoned him forward.
My
Lord Paschke's footsteps were soft approaching whispers, barely
audible over continuous mutter of voices which silenced again when
his footsteps halted.
There
was a faint crack of the seal, followed by the rattle of parchment
being unrolled. Then I counted four breaths before his Grace spoke.
“The
Emperor has called a meeting of his nobles and prices, and his Grace,
my father, Duke Boleslaw desires that I represent his Grace there.”
The
outburst from the court was forestalled as his Grace continued.
“Master
Depolt, see that all pages do reckon accounts on the number of my
retinue, food, supplies down to the last horse shoe, days travel, all
manner of possibilities we may face.”
Depolt's
murmured “Very good your Grace,” was all but unheard as his Grace
returned his attention to my Master.
“Page
Paschke, our laundress, Mistress Hedwig, brought your body servant
here today with the notification that the boy can't see. Do you know
of this?”
“Yes,
your Grace,” my Lord's voice was clear.
“What
have you done about it.”
“There
does not seem to be anything I can do.”
“Perhaps
not. Have you taken him to a physician?”
My
Lord paused, “No your Grace. I didn't not think of it.”
“Then
you will take him to my physician before None (3pm) today.” The
duke raised his voice, “This is agreeable with you good Steffan?”
“Whatever
pleases your Grace,” a voice from the far side of the hall spoke.
“Page
Paschke, a blind or almost blind body servant will be of no use to
you. Have you plans to replace him?”
My
heart sank. His Grace wanted me replaced. My worst fears were near
realized. My apprenticeship was ending. No one wants blind chattel. I
might become a beggar. I must have moaned at the prospect for my Lord
noticed me at last.
“Ohren!”
My Lord Paschke sounded surprised as he used his pet name for me.
“What is he doing here your Grace? May I go to him? He won't be
able to find his way here without help.”
My
master was babbling, his voice anxious. A tiny thread of hope wavered
in my chest.
“Yes,
yes. Bring him forth. I asked him to remain so I could confront you
about him,” his Grace replied.
Rapid
steps, and my Master's dark form loomed over me. One of his arms slid
under one of mine, guiding me to my feet. “Are you all right?” he
asked in a murmur as he began leading me forth.
I
nodded as my ears told me everyone attended our progress. I was
ashamed. I should help my Master though he is a boy about my age, yet
I could not. Instead he helped me. It was all wrong.
Soon we stood in front of his Grace again awaiting his pleasure. I gazed at the floor before me, waiting. “Page Paschke, what thoughts do you have regarding your body servant's future – especially if Steffan cannot physick a cure for his eyes? Your allowance covers the cost of your and his maintenance, but if he is unable to perform his duties, he is of no use to you and you are in no position to hire another, nor is it ever wise to succor useless chattel.”
Soon we stood in front of his Grace again awaiting his pleasure. I gazed at the floor before me, waiting. “Page Paschke, what thoughts do you have regarding your body servant's future – especially if Steffan cannot physick a cure for his eyes? Your allowance covers the cost of your and his maintenance, but if he is unable to perform his duties, he is of no use to you and you are in no position to hire another, nor is it ever wise to succor useless chattel.”
“Your
Grace, I have been considering this possibility since Lord Odo, my
father, charged me with Ohren's care.”
If
I knew my Lord Paschke at all, this meant he was doing all his
thinking right now.
“Indeed
my good page,” his Grace's tone was wry. “I'm sure you ponder the
matter far into the night.”
I
might doubt my Lord Paschke, he is my charge, or he has been.
However, I didn't like his Grace doubting my Lord! I tipped my chin
to my chest, lest his Grace see my scowl.
“Many
a late night, but more since Ohren could no longer see the stars.”
His
Grace must have heaved himself about in his chair, for I heard
movement over the quiet occasional mutters that suggested the court
was considering what transpired with us.
"Explain
several things to me. First, why do you call him Ohren? I thought his
name was Wolfgang,” his Grace began.
“Wolfram,
yes your Grace,” my Lord corrected deferentially. “But he hears
exceptionally well, hence Ohren.”
His
Grace, or someone at the head table, grunted acknowledging the
connection between my hearing, my ears, and my Lord Paschke's pet
name for me.
“You
mentioned seeing the stars. Explain.”
“He,
Ohren, could see stars when we came to your Father's court five years
since. We saw them. He can't see them now, though he still sees the
inconstant moon's light.”
“How
do you know this?” his Grace demanded sharply.
My
Lord Paschke moved. “Your astronomer Berwicus has taught all the
pages astronomy, your Grace. I wanted to learn more of them, so I
went out to see them. Of course Ohren went with me.”
He
didn't say how often he went out. There was no mention of the
different times of night, so he could see the stars dance in their
seasonal spheres. Our excursions were always on my Lord's whim,
always in secret. He didn't mind the wind or cold if he could stare
up at the black sky. He said he was learning the patterns of their
dances so he would always know where he was. It was becoming a habit
for him, especially since this past winter.
“My
good Berwicus,” his Grace's voice smiled, “You seem to have a
pupil here. You may wish to examine him to see how apt he is.”
“Yes,
your Grace.” Berwicus spoke.
“Your
Grace?” a rough voice queried.
“Lord
Jost” his Grace gave the questioner name and permission to speak.
“I'd
like to know – or suggest – if this boy has been soundly
whipped?” Lord Jost's rough voice continued eagerly, “Often a
good beating will do wonders for memory or any plaguing problem
chattel have.”
Involuntarily
I shivered, hoping Lord Jost would not buy me. I'd probably be
whipped immediately, and often.
“My
Lord Jost” my master began, “I do not think that beating will
make a man see if the Lord God Himself has taken that man's sight.”
“You
think this is God's doing?” I recognized Bishop Siroslaw's voice.
“Pardon me your Grace, this touches firmly on my provenance.”
“You
yourself spoke of this during Lent!” my master seemed surprised.
How
could he remember all that the Bishop said?
“You
were paying attention,” Bishop Siroslaw's voice stumbled between
satisfaction and humility.
I
wondered if he wore a horse hair shyrt next to his skin for
self-mortification.
“Gentlemen,”
his Grace's voice regained control. “We will wait upon my good
physician's report to evaluate the next step. However, my good page,
consider well what action you will take then, for you cannot afford a
useless servant. You're dismissed.”
My
Lord bowed, so I bowed too. Then his hand gripped my arm, escorting
me backward over the smooth tiled floor.
Outside
the sun had finally crested the roof of the Great Hall and begun
warming the stones. I shook out my crumpled coif, felt the seams to
tell inside from outside, and pulled it on my head.
“What
happened?” my Lord began. “Were you fighting?”
I
almost laughed, “No my Lord, you and I both know I can't win a
fight!”
He
grunted in agreement.
“Berthold
and Otto were showing me places I'd missed when washing your shyrts.”
He
sighed and might have shaken his head but I couldn't hear it rattle
so I can't be sure. “We're going to have to find something you can
do whether you see or not! Undoubtedly most trades will be closed to
you if his Grace's physician can't save your sight.”
My
lord was mumbling between his teeth.
“You
can't become a carpenter, a tailor a shoe-maker, a saddler, a
smith...” he continued down a line of trades.
“You
could try to sell me,” I whispered.
He
spun me towards him, “No! That I will not do! Father swore me to
look after you, and I will, even if I don't know how just yet, I'll
figure out something. There has to be something you can do. Besides
you're not that bad at taking care of most things for me.”
Relief
washed over me. I was not to be cast off.
“Come
on,” my Master grabbed my arm. “Let's beg something to eat, I'm
starving!”
Knowing
we were heading to the kitchens, I trotted along willingly. Waiting
is hungry work!
My
Master drew me back just before we were at the kitchen door. “Can
you look sad? Yes that's just it! Keep that face!” He pushed my
shoulders down. “Come on then!”
I
was used to his games.
He
paused just outside the doorway. I knew he was listening, in fact it
was hard not to. Over the clatter of pewter plates and crockery, Cook
was demanding more details about us. One of the Pages assured his
listeners that Lord Paschke would sell me.
My
Lord Paschke, tugging me in his wake, moved slow step by step into
the kitchen. He stopped, so that my back was to the solid oak door. I
could easily get out and knew my way from here into hiding.
“Hey
you! Shut you yap!” Someone bellowed. I guessed we'd been seen.
Firm
steps approached us. “Now see here Page, you were supposed to serve
his Grace today and you weren't here. This won't do. I hear your
lad's got you into trouble, and that isn't allowed either!”
“My
apologies, Cook. You know I cherish your good opinion, but my morning
duties were with the messenger pigeons and a late message to his
Grace delayed me. Surely you heard.”
There
was a whack as if someone's head was cuffed, but no one yelped, so
they must have realized it was fair punishment for omitting a prime
morsel of court gossip.
“That
detail seems to have skipped someone's notice!” Cook growled.
“Outta here you lazy lot! You've training to get to or my lord
Depolt will be here askin' questions you lot won't like answering. Go
on get out!”
Many
feet scurried past, one or two of the pages jostled me, intending
insult and knowing I couldn't seek reprisal.
“What
message? Did his Grace speak of it?” Cook asked when the other
pages had gone.
“I
was ordered to deliver it to the scribe, and he commanded me to wait
and deliver it to his Grace. I'm sorry Cook. I would never
deliberately upset your plans.”
“Don't
suppose his Grace mentioned what was in the message, did he?”
“Said
his father ordered him to attend the Emperor. His Majesty has called
a meeting in Würzburg.” My Master was speaking quietly now.
“Did
he say when?” Cook also hushed his voice.”
My
Master must have shaken his head.
“Do
you know when?” Cook's insistent voice was barely audible.
“Spring.”
the sibilant caught my ear. “Good Cook, “ My Master raised his
voice again, “Have you any mercy for a delinquent as myself. Might
I have a crust of bread to tie me over until tonight? I must take
Wolfram to his Grace's physician, shortly, and Depolt will make me
work harder than ever to catch up with the others.”
“And
I suppose you'll want something for that good-for-nothing-lay-about
you please to call your servant?”
“He
does remarkably well for a blind man.”
“Man?”
Cook chuckled then sobered. “Blind you say?”
“Close
to it, yes. His grace's physician is to physic him and see is
anything can be done, but I think this is something the Good Lord
Himself has given to Wolfram – though Lord Jost is all for beating
Wolfram as a cure for his poor eyes.”
“My
mother went blind. Not could do a thing for it. Terrible to lose yer
sight. So helpless. She spent most her time spinning. Couldn't see to
sew or cook. I think it killed her, I do!” Cook was doing something
while talking – or somebody was. “Here, you have those. Take 'em
out and eat in the sun. It's a fair day for this time of year!”
My
Master's hand closed around my wrist again and we returned to the sun
filled courtyard and ensconced ourselves on stone steps by the gaping
well. My Lord Paschke handed me both fair sized loaves and drew water
so we could wash before eating. He washed first then held our meal
while I washed.
“Lean
forward and let the juices fall on the ground. The little beasties
will dine like kings on our crumbs and spilled juices.”
I
did as instructed. The crust of bread held savory meat and
vegetables, remains of the meal served to his Grace Henryk. They'd
been slopped together in the crust, but the different flavors blended
tantalizingly, some sweet, some tangy with verjuice, and some morsels
redolent of rare expensive spices. I savored each mouthful.
When
we'd eaten we washed again. “Lets get to Steffan, and get this over
with,” my Lord said determinedly, as if he was the one facing the
physician!
We
made our way to the physician's chamber up the wooden steps from the
courtyard. I managed most on my own for they were well-made and
regular.
My
Lord's knock at the door, brought Physician Steffan's apprentice, one
of his sons – a boy younger than either my Lord or me.
“Good
day Sifret. We're to see the good doctor by order of his Grace
Henryk.”
“Your
boy's to see him,” Sifret's whiney treble replied. He was a dark
body beside the open door. I could tell he wore a long robe that
reached his feet, a mark of his status. He was standing to allow us
entry to the infirmary.
“I
will be with Wolfram,” my Lord Paschke replied firmly, his hand on
my arm. “Mind your step Ohren.”
I
felt him step up onto the threshold and then down into the infirmary
chamber. I tried shuffling forward but the floor was strewn with
rushes. I had to lift my feet stepping carefully. My nose told me
that the rushes needed replacing. The herbs and ladies bedstraw mixed
with them to freshen the air were exhausted with the effort.
“My
Lord Paschke,” Steffan's voice, smooth, unctuous, “You need not
stay. Surely as Page you have duties.”
My
Master didn't reply immediately, but when he di his resolution was
firm, “Thank you Physician Steffan, I will stay. I am too
distracted with curiosity about Wolframs' sight to do justice to my
Lord Depolt's instruction.”
“If
you insist. Sifret, what's the first task?”
“You
need to make water in the beaker over there,” Sifret responded
sulkily.
Since
I didn't know where I was to go and couldn't hope to see a beaker in
an unfamiliar chamber without knocking over ten things, I stood
still.
“Sifret...”
Physician Steffan began, just as my Lord Paschke took my arm.
“This
way Wolfram.”
We
heard the smack of a hand against a head and Physician Steffan
irritated voice, “He's blind fool.”
I
dealt with my tunic and points and my Lord handed me the beaker.
“Tell me when to stop,” I muttered to him.
His
“stop” came very quickly and I realized I needed to relive myself
as soon as possible. “What do I do with the beaker?”
“Sifret...”
The
boy hurried over, “I'll take it.” He almost snatched it away from
me.
“Carefully,
Sifret, carefully. Bring it here to the light,” Physician Steffan
advised, as I set my clothing to rights. “Hold it up to the light,
and compare it to the chart. What color is it?”
“Yellow!”
Sifret responded as if he hated stating the obvious.
“Ah
but what color yellow Sifret? Is it straw yellow, or more tansy
yellow, or...”
“It's
just clear yellow!”
“Smell
it. What does it smell like?”
“Like
pee.”
Physician
Steffan groaned in exasperation. “Siman...”
Someone
moved toward Sifret. Siman was Physician Steffan's older son, almost
a physician himself now. He must have taken the beaker from Sifret.
“It's a good clear – translucent – yellow, not foamy, I don't
see signs of sediment. The smell is strong. He needs to drink more
small beer and void more often.” He paused in his description. “It
tastes a bit salty.”
“Did
he drink it?” I muttered to my Master in revulsion.
“No,
just stuck his finger in it,” he sounded equally repulsed.
There
was a the faint chink of the beaker being placed on wooden surface.
“Come
here to the light,” Siman began. “Sorry.” His dark form moved
toward me, and he took my arm. “This way.”
The window was a wide deep embrasure in the thick wall. Fortunately I guessed there was a step up onto it. And when Siman stepped up, his movement wasa warning. I stepped up after him.
The window was a wide deep embrasure in the thick wall. Fortunately I guessed there was a step up onto it. And when Siman stepped up, his movement wasa warning. I stepped up after him.
Siman
turned toward me and spent a few moments seemingly reviewing some
scroll in his head. “He seems to be of phlegmatic nature.”
“Correct,”
Physician Steffan replied. “Sifret, what are the aspects of a
phlegmatic person?”
“Wet.
They cough a lot.”
“Has
our patient coughed since he's been in here?” Physician Steffan
asked, a hint of frustration in his voice.
“I
don't remember,” Sifret whined.
“Phlegmatic
people tend to have an overabundance of water in them, so they should
eat hot drying foods for balance.” Physician Steffan offered mild
praise. “What is the nature of Lord Paschke, Sifret?”
There
was a pause before Sifret replied. “Maybe sanguine.”
“Yes,
very good. Now, Siman have a good look at Wolfgang's eyes.”
“Wolfram,”
my Master and I said simultaneously as Physician Steffan said “Sorry,
Wolfram” correcting himself as Siman grasped my chin and began
studying my face.
“Sifret,
what do we know about eyes?”
“They
are the window to the soul and bright eyes are the sign of life.”
“Yes
and what color are Wolfram's eyes?”
“Sort
of green?” Sifret was unsure.
“Meaning?”
“He's
got dampness from earth.”
“Siman,
expound please.”
“Wolfram's
eyes are green and the earthy dampness – typical for someone with a
phlegmatic nature has taken hold here. It doesn't seem to be thick
dampness, rather a thin one. See the color is not cloudy. Rather it
seems that the green from his eye is filling the part that should be
black.”
Physician
Steffan stepped forward and took my head, tipping it more toward the
window. “Umm, yes, you are right.” He sounded concerned. “Sifret,
fetch a bowl – a clean one. Siman,” Physician Steffan let go of
my chin to point, “Bring some of the grapevine drippings. They
won't be as effective now, not being in season, but we can try, yes
we can try...” his voice sunk to a troubling mutter. “And bring
some dew.” He raised his voice again as his sons stepped into the
chamber.
“How
do you happen to have dew?” My Master asked.
“I
see to its collection every morning. Tedious task but necessary –
imperative in a case like Wolfram's. Now Siman put some dew in the
bowl and help Wolfram to lav his eyes. Sifret, take a spoonful of
fennel seed and grind them in the mortar. Wolfram, do your eyes pain
you?”
“No,
sir, not really,” I replied listening to the dew water splash
quietly into the bowl.
“What
do you mean 'not really'?” Physician Steffan inquired sharply.
“I
think it's more that I really want to see, and I try, but the hurt is
that I can't see. I don't think my eyes hurt – or at least not like
they did when I get a black eyes fighting. Never win. Can't see to
land a blow.”
“Hum!”
He sounded thoughtful. “Did they ever hurt you – when you didn't
have black eyes?”
“I
don't recall. They did use to water a lot. Especially in bright sun.
or if I went into sun. They don't water so much now, but I don't see
so well as I used to.”
Physician
Steffan sighed deeply. “Pity I didn't have the care of you when the
trouble was first noticed. Yes, yes go ahead Siman.”
“Bend
forward and bring your eyes down to the dew. You will need to have
your eyeball in the dew and open and close it.”
I
tried this. To my surprise it didn't hurt.
“Now
your other eye,” Siman instructed. A few moments later he offered
me a cloth to take the moisture away from my skin. “Now, sit
down and tip your head back.”
My
Lord's hand on my arm guided me to a seat. It was part of the window
and wall.
“I'll
put a drop of grapevine drippings in each eye.”
I
almost laughed. It sounded as if I had many eyes.
Siman's
hand opened my right lid and the drop was pleasantly cool. He did the
same with my left eye. “You'll need to rest your eyes until
tomorrow. Close them now. There's one more treatment.”
I
heard him step away. Cool air rushed to fill the place he had
occupied. He was somewhere in the chamber, I think at a table or work
bench. Listening I thought he broke something small and fragile.
Someone stirred something in a clay bowl, and the pestle clunked
against the mortar. I wanted to look, even knowing I would not see,
but my eyes felt soothed – and I had his orders to keep them
closed.
A
drawer was opened and closed. Whatever was in the clay bowl was
stirred again.
Siman's
footsteps returned. “This is just a little messy, but the crushed
fennel seed will warm your eyes, drawing moisture from you, while the
egg white will cool and sooth you.” Gently he close one of my
eyelids and placed a damp cloth on it. He put another on the other
eye. He bandaged these down with a long strip of linen. I felt
helpless.
“You'll
need to return tomorrow morning immediately after Prime and we'll
repeat the treatment with dew and grapevine drippings,” Physician
Steffan's firm voice. “We will treat you after Prime,
Sext, and Vespers each day for a seven night. Sifret will come for
you. Page Paschke, it would be best if Wolfram is released from his
daily duties during this time. He will need a place that isn't too
disturbed. Fortunately Siman is correct, the wetness of Wolfram's
eyes is a thin wetness. Were it a thick one he would already be
blind. We hope to arrest the corruption of his sight or at least
prolong the sight he has left, but this catarrh has a firm grip and
will eventually claim his sight.”
We
were dismissed. I stood up and hesitated my right foot forward.
Someone grasped my arm.
“This
way lad,” Siman directed me.
I
almost smiled except that Sifret giggled and I realized that this was
my future.
“Step
down:”
Even
with his help I staggered at the distance to the floor.
Sifret
giggled again and Siman twisted toward the sound, almost unbalancing
me as he slapped his brother hard enough to draw a yelp.
“Have
a care Sifret!”
“I'm
sure the Falconer could sew your eyes shut for a week Sifret,” my
Master drawled. “As he does the hawks. It might give you a feeling
for the blind.”
Physician
Steffan grunted. “Might be a useful lesson.”
“Thank
you Physician Steffan and Siman. I can take Ohren now.” My
Master's hand slid under my arm lifting it to put my hand on his
shoulder. He led and I felt my way behind him, staggering and
tripping more than usual.
The next installment of Ears is here: http://sulokale9.blogspot.fi/2015/03/ears-ii.html please save the new addess to find it easily. See you there!
