Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

I jumped up from the table. As if in a bright light, for a
small moment I saw the connections of all the mysteries of my
life. But quickly enveloping veils descended on an image that
was not accessible to my ordinary senses.
“May I make a great request?” I asked.
“If it is in my power to grant it.”
“Lead me to the dying man,” I asked.
“So come,” said the priest.
We went quickly to the little cottage at the end of the
village. A reddish light pressed through the tiny, dim windows.
We heard many people murmuring, and when we entered the
low room, we saw several men and women kneeling in prayer.
In a meager bed lay an old man. His small, shriveled face
stood out from a blue pillow and was surrounded by the glow
of the dying candle burning at his head.
We approached his bed. The heavy eyes were glazed, his
mouth was open.
I saw at once that this man, in his distress would no
longer be able to answer the questions that were burning on my
lips.
Then something incomprehensible happened.
Slowly, the staring eyes turned and looked toward me. In
the face already marked by the paralyzing finger of death, there
was a faint movement, a joyful smile played around the thin,
sunken lips, and before we knew what was going on in the
dying man, his upper body rose, his haggard arms stretched out
toward me, and almost sobbing, the thin old man’s voice came
from out of his mouth:
“So you have come after all — at last!”
Radiant joy flamed in his eyes, then his head fell back
into the pillows, a gray shadow ran over his mouth and nose,
his body stretched so that the bedstead creaked.
The clergyman stepped in and closed the eyelids with his
hand.
“Rest now, thou faithful servant,” he said softly. “Let us
pray!”
We said the Lord’s Prayer, and as we left the parlor, I felt
everyone’s eyes on me.
The deceased believed he had seen his friend, Ewli, in
me.
The clergyman did not speak a word. When we were
back in his comfortable room, he looked at me with uneasy
eyes.
“It must have been the scar,” he said to himself.
“What scar?” I asked in amazement.
“The red scar that is between your eyebrows, Baron
Dronte. – No, no!” he cried suddenly. “Further brooding over
these things would be called trying God! – If it is convenient
for you I will show you your bedroom!”
I bowed my thanks and went with him.
When we were standing in the room I had been given, he
took me by the shoulders with both hands and looked me in the
face for a long time.
“Forgive me for my rude confusion!” he then said. “But I,
an old man, have experienced too many incomprehensible and
disturbing things. I myself am not able to solve the terrible
riddles of providence. I want to be alone. Please don’t be angry
with me. I need to flee from the confusion of these mysterious
incidents to a safe haven! In the faith in Him, who directs
everything according to His high will, and in the peace of
prayer.”
“Pray for me, too, Reverend Herr”, I asked with emotion.
Then I was alone. And restlessly I groped with the
feeling that the mind was not able to bring me any help, to find
the little portal within the dark wall that would lead to the truth.
But here and there, in the sleepless night, appeared a faint
glimmer of foreboding – I could not grasp anything of that,
which in the deepest and darkest depths of my soul approached.
A farmer, whom I had taken into my service with his
team and asked for the most stately building in the entire area,
assured me that it was Krottenriede Castle. But the road that
led there was a two day journey through a thick forest and a
horrible moor and was by no means safe. Not too long ago the
Spillermaxe gang had lain in wait in the Damned Quarry and in
Klosterholz near the road, and the poachers were not doing too
well either, and seldom gathered together, for example, to hunt
a more spirited game than a deer or roebuck.
Also the priest, whom I clearly saw had kept watch
through the night, warned me of the vast forest, where it was
not safe. When I had made up my mind to leave, he took his
leave visibly moved and commended me to the blessing of God,
who would protect me from the false arts and deceitfulness of
Satan. For after careful reflection he could not believe that God
would want to use a Mohammedan monk or dervish to help a
believing Christian, whom he recognized me to be.
I thanked him for the night’s lodging and the food and
urged the farmer, whose name was Görg Rehwang, to hurry,
since I had every reason to fear that the little courage the man
had would evaporate before the journey began. After I made
sure that the mail coach driver would be able to travel home in
the course of the day and was quite well, we drove into the
middle of the forest.
By the crouched neck and the shy side glances, which
Rehwang did to the right and left, I soon realized that his heart
was in his pants, and it was not long before he half turned
around and asked with a cheese-white face:
“”Didn’t you hear something, Herr?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“To the right hand someone has made a whistle or I shall
not be blessed!” he whispered, scratching his furry hair.
But nothing happened. It might have been a wild bird.
Then, however, when we reached a marshy area of heath
he began to talk about the inn, in which we were to find
accommodation for one night and which was called “The Ball
Mill”.
“Supposedly there were many a man there with heavy
stones on their feet, without clothes and possessions, in the
depths of the black moor waters, to the delight of crayfish,
water beetles and eels.” he babbled, his teeth chattering.
“Lord, how about we turn the foreheads of our nags to
where we came from?”
I gave him no answer, and so he drove on with a deep
sigh. The area was gloomy and sad. Between shimmering pools
stood ancient and gnarled trees, covered with warts and goiters.
Dead trunks and those peeled by lightning desperately spread
their twisted serpentine arms. On water covered with a skin of
thick green slime, lurked crippled willows, on which hungry
crows squatted. Trunks and branches were whitewashed with
the droppings of the resting birds. Sometimes a duck would
rise out of the reeds with a whistle and beating wings. Very
distant, mournful notes from a flute purred in the wind, and
gray misty women dragged their dripping gowns through the
treetops.
“Here it’s called the Damned Quarry”, the farmer began
again. “And the path there, between the young birches, leads to
the Ball Mill, where we can spend the night.”
But it went on for a long time, until we arrived in front of
the dark gray and unfriendly building. Large, stone balls, green
with moss, eaten by rain and snow lay next to the door, and a
moldy soft spot still showed where the dammed waters of the
moor brook had driven the mill, which had long since become
an inn.
The farmer got off the wagon with a crooked back and
shouted a few times:
“Hey there, the inn!”
But nothing moved, yet we thought we heard wild
singing coming through the greenish windows behind the
strong square bars. After long shouting the host finally
appeared with a huge black and white spotted dog, whose dull,
raw face was not unlike that of a man. The broad-shouldered
man, who had an excessively long knife sticking out of his fat
leather pants, looked at us unkindly enough and grunted:
“Hoho, Rehwang, what do you bring us there for a
distinguished gentlemen?”
“The gentleman has a long way to go,” the farmer
apologized. “And so goes inquiry on account of the night’s
lodging.”
“Still don’t know the household custom, you living cow
patty?” the rude host dug at poor Görg Rehwang. “And if the
emperor and the pope and all the electors and as far as I’m
concerned, also the empress and the archbishop’s bed warmer
come riding and driven, there is nothing else in the Ball Mill
but a bundle of straw in the large room. – The Herr can do with
it as he pleases!” he said with a treacherous look at me.
Behind him, pointy-nosed, shabby and rattle-thin like the
forest crows on the garbage heap by the building, suddenly
stood, as if grown from the earth, the landlady who smiled
wryly and said:
“If it is convenient for the Herr he is welcome! While
there is nothing but a poor man’s bed, we have good wine and a
company in the house, where there is a great deal of fun.”
“There is no lack of wine,” the innkeeper in the woollen
doublet interjected much more friendly. “I just wanted to warn
the gentleman that he does not expect anything fine from us
and does not beat the wheel in disgust at the burping and
farting of the sleeping companions around him.”
I did not reply to the coarse lout’s rude speeches and
entered the house. Roaring laughter and shouting rang out to
me from the tavern when I opened the door, and stinging pipe
smoke billowed out in clouds.
At the long table, above which was an elaborately carved
in wood, six-horse carriage with all the accessories hung in toy
size, also burned six or seven candles in tin lanterns. Three
students sat at it, their long swords strapped around them, their
sleeves pinned up, drinking Runda. With them was a tree-tall,
gaunt fellow with a bald skull and a fiery red vulture nose,
dressed in a scuffed black robe, who held a cheeky brown-
skinned woman on his lap, with his hand waving a yellow neck
cloth in the air. The black-eyed woman laughed in such a way
that her exposed breasts trembled, and she pinched the old beau
in his drunkard’s nose, so that he cried out loudly and let her go.