Death and the Devil

Tilman!” cried Jacob. It was his friend from the Duck Ponds staggering out of the tavern. Jacob was delighted. He had headed for the Hen in the hope of finding Tilman there before the source dried up.

And he needed someone to talk to. He hadn’t got over the fright yet.

Tilman grinned. He didn’t look any better than he had two hours ago, but there was a feverish gleam in his eyes. The drink was having its effect.

The others were beggars, too. Jacob only knew them by sight. Apart from one, who shared the “privilege of the Wall” with him, an unpleasant tub of lard, with whom he’d exchanged insults now and then. Nothing to get worked up about. They understood each other, that was all. Or, to put it another way, so far neither had smashed the other’s skull in for a few scraps of food. Not that there weren’t enough smashed skulls around. The fat man had a propensity to violence when there was something to be gotten out of it. The word was, he was getting careless. Jacob gave him six months before his head dropped in the executioner’s basket.

The Hen was one of the few ale houses that didn’t throw people out just because they were dressed in rags. The landlord was tolerant of the poor, as long as they could pay. Many beggars lived honest, God fearing—and correspondingly short—lives, and there was no reason why they should not enjoy the blessings of the Cologne brewer’s art.

With time, however, the clientele had sunk so low that respectable people no longer went there. The landlord had to put up with local hostility, especially from the Greyfriars, whose monastery was directly opposite. As well as that, the town whores complained it operated as an unofficial brothel for part-time prostitutes, ostensibly respectable ladies who sold themselves, secretly of course, to wealthy gentlemen. Thus they took business away from the licensed whores, which annoyed the town executioner, under whose jurisdiction they were placed and to whom they paid dues.

There had been repeated threats against the Hen, and the landlord had grown cautious. Only recently a brewer in Cleves had been accused of sorcery and burned at the stake. The night that happened, the venerable Franciscan brethren had written the word “Cleves” in pitch on the door; the merchant families in the imposing neighboring houses, at the sign of the Large and the Small Water-Butt, wondered out loud about a denunciation to the Holy Inquisition because their children had seen black cats running out of the Hen while inside two demons, Abigor and Asmodeus, in the form of lecherous women had shouted obscenities and given off sulfurous odors. Jacob wondered how the children knew it was precisely those two demons when there must be at least—how many was it?—at least ten demons, but the Hen had its problems.

And for that, Jacob was told by tub of lard, they’d simply been thrown out.

“Nonsense,” whispered Tilman. “The money was finished. You’re too late.”

“Thrown out!” bellowed the fat man, who had heard and was obviously the one who had been standing the treat.

Tilman coughed his lungs out.

“Doesn’t matter,” he panted. “Back to the Duck Ponds then.”

“Yes, lie down and die.” One of the others laughed, slapping him on the shoulder. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh.

Jacob felt a wave of disappointment. Why did it have to happen to him? The chance of drinking something other than foul water didn’t come his way that often.

Then he remembered the apples and Maria.

“Come on,” he said, grabbing Tilman by the arm. The beggars disappeared in the opposite direction, cursing because the money hadn’t been sufficient to get properly drunk.

“Did you get any apples?” asked Tilman, out of breath.

“Here.” Jacob pulled one out. Tilman bit into it as if it were the first thing his teeth had had to bite on all day. Perhaps it was.

Behind them a late cart rumbled across the street.

“Where are we going, anyway?” Tilman wanted to know. The last syllables turned into a new fit of coughing.

“To Maria.”

“See you tomorrow.” Tilman tried to pull away, but Jacob kept his arm in a tight grip and continued along the street.

“You’re going nowhere. For one thing there’s an incredible story I want to tell you and Maria.”

“You and your stories. Was there ever one that was true?”

“For another, you’re not well. If you don’t get a dry bed tonight you soon won’t be needing any more apples.”

“You know Maria can’t stand me,” whined Tilman as he scurried along beside Jacob.

“I know she’s fed up with giving shelter to all and sundry, but you’re my friend. And who isn’t to say whether, tonight of all nights, thanks to a happy coincidence—”

“You can forget your happy coincidences.”

“You’re coming!”

“All right, all right.”