First Light

I was getting ready to leave at what I consider an early hour of the morning, although even at five o'clock there are a few intrepid souls already at work. Making my way into the Place du Saint-Sernin I found myself drawn by the haunting beauty of a girl singing where the walls of the Place produce an acoustic almost like a concert-hall. The words, “O quam mirabilis est” — “Oh what a miracle this is!”

She sang like a lark, apparently just enjoying the quiet morning air, and I loitered just inside the square to listen, waiting until her song wwas finished before crossing to greet her. I suppose I should not have been surprised to learn that she was the oldest daughter of Herr Grüneberg; that her family had lived in Bad Sobernheim for five generations becoming one of the wealthiest farming families. In the hope of learning more I invited Traudi and her father to share breakfast with me in the tavern and over the meal, I learned more about the hazards of den Weg des heiligen Jakobus.
The first hazard as you climb into the Pyrenean mountains, so Sigismund tells me, is the packs of wolves in the high forests which prey on lone pilgrims, and it was because of these that the hôpital at Roncesvalles was established. And it wasn't so long ago, that the souls of pilgrims were at risk from the pernicious teachings of the Cathar heretics who sought refuge in the mountains.
On the east of Lorca is the bitter river the local people call the Salado. There are wicked men who wait beside the river for unsuspecting pilgrims and encourage them to water their horses there. When the horses fall dead, these rogues skin them before their carcases have even cooled!
Once you pass over the mountains into Spain, do not eat their beef, pork, shad, eel or tench for they will almost certainly make you sick. (Spanish tummy? I wondered that such a thing has been known for such a long time) The Porma and the Sil are good rivers of sweet water, flowing through verdant and pleasant lands. A few miles from Santiago our party halted and we bathed in the waters of the Miño, a river surely blessed by God, stripping off even our underclothes.
Sigismund was so keen to tell me of the adventures they had been through, and the things they had learned along the road that our meal was done before ever I had a chance to ask Traudi about the song she was singing earlier. Before the poor girl had a chance to utter a word Sigismund told me with a note of pride in his voice that she had learned the song as a pupil, one of the few females admitted to the school run by the Benedictines at Disibodenberg.

References

                    

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Those boots were made for walking

Whan that Aprille with hise shoures soote
The droghte of March hath perced to the roote,¹
and bathed every veyne in swich licour
Of which vertu engendred is the flour;
Whan Zephirus eek with his swete breeth²
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours y-ronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye³
That slepen al the nyght with open eye,—
So priketh hem Nature in hir corages,—
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages,
And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes,
To ferne halwes, kowthe in sondry londes;⁴
And specially, from every shires ende
Of Engelond, to Caunterbury they wende,
The hooly blisful martir for to seke,
That hem hath holpen whan that they were seeke.

Checklist

1. April has quenched the drought of March
2. Gentle breezes have replaced the howling gales of the equinox
3. The Dawn Chorus has resumed rehearsals
4. Wanderlust takes hold once more

As you might guess from the checklist, my first, very ambitious thought was to make the pilgrimage, at least part of the way, for myself, to Santiago de Compostela. But the suggestion was vetoed very firmly citing the risk of exposure as a reason. Any physical risks I might take are part and parcel of the lives of the people around me, but the danger of being exposed as someone with ‘supernatural’ connections for the duration of quite a long pilgrimage would place my life in danger unjustifiably. I may not be able to make the pilgrimage immediately, but I intend to find some way to overcome any potential obstacles in due course somehow.
For the folks who live in the era, I can hardly blame them for wanting to go on vacation once the weather starts to improve: three months of cold, damp, and preserved food has certainly done it for me in the past. In my case though, I am looking further afield than Caunterbury; I figured if I can establish myself at Toulouse, long-since established as a popular rendezvous for pilgrim groups crossing Europe, there should be some good pickings for a seller of pilgrim memorabilia. Yes, even in the 13th century, there is a flourishing trade in souvenirs. And if you're rich enough, and have the right connections, you might even be able to buy one of St.James’ actual fingerbones (current estimates suggest that he had between thirty-five and forty fingers on each hand!)
As a first stage, before heading towards Toulouse I made the acquaintance of some of the craftsmen of L'Isle Jourdain, where I obtained a workable stock of rosary beads, small carved wooden figurines and some carved bone icons. Thus prepared I made my way to the Cathédrale Saint-Etienne in Toulouse to set up my stall. Describing my adventure in such bald terms belies the competitive nature of the vendors already there, and I was obliged to display my stock at the furthest edges of the market.
Identifying the pilgrims returning is simplified in many cases by the scallop shells which they wear fastened to their hats or breasts, although in a few cases, they are equally identifiable by the evidence of miracles which they proudly display to anyone who shows the slightest curiosity: I obtained the following song from an older man who was keen to show me his well-worn crutch, explaining that for many years he had been lame as the result of an accident, but now, not only could he walk, but as he eagerly demonstrated, he could dance once more!

Herr Grüneberg, as he identifies himself to me, knows many of these pilgrim songs which have even been set down in written form by King Alfonso X, ‘The Wise’ of Spain.
                   

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Lord of the Dance (3/4)

s friars, even mendicant friars, we are expected to attend mass once in a while, and since today is Monday the 26th of June it would look fishy if we failed to attend the festival mass of Saints John and Paul. The town is busier than usual for a Monday with people from many of the surrounding villages who have come to town for the festival mass, and presumably at least some of them are hoping for special blessings on this festival of two saints.

It's not hard to get caught up in the crowd squeezing into the Minster of St.Boniface and once inside I am surprised yet again by the absence of something I had expected: the smell of a large mass of unwashed medieval humanity in a confined space is much less noticeable (or my nostrils have become desensitized during our stay here) than the sweet scent of bunches of herbs hung from the walls and stacked in the corners of the windows.
At about the point that the priest is making the absolution I plan to slip outside, and I encourage you to do the same. If anybody asks where we're going, say it's a call of nature. On a feast like today's the mass can take quite a bit of time if the clergy are keen to include all the various options in the service which might give the piper more time than he needs to do his dirty work. My hope is that we can catch him in the act (but remember, look, but do nothing that might change the course of events!).
We don't have long to wait in the shadows of the Minster before I hear the sound of that shawm once more. The streets are not deserted, but very much quieter than earlier, with the few traders who have chosen not to attend mass vying for the closest positions to the entrance to the Minster. Making our way towards the town walls, aiming to get closer to the sound of the shawm a couple of young girls come running out of one of the smaller houses. The older girl is clearly trying to get her younger sister to listen to her cries to come back, but within minutes, both seem more curious about the sound of the shawm which is definitely playing more musically this time.
The air is a dance tune with a lively beat, and I find the jigging rhythm almost hypnotic.

Getting to the town gate, it is clear that we are following the last of the stragglers. Ahead of us, on the westward road heading up towards the hills is a sizeable crowd of dancing children and keeping up is quite an exercise in itself. By the time they reach the stand of yew trees on the lower slopes I have lost sight of them completely and when I manage to struggle up there myself, the grove is completely quiet.

The story we are trying to follow speaks of them entering a cave and it doesn't take long to find the trail of trodden-down bushes and broken branches. By the time the undergrowth gives way to the rocky ground there is a cleft in the rocks a few meters to the right, small enough for less well-nourished bodies to squeeze through. But my calls and whistles go unanswered.
The eeriest thing though, to me, is the silence up here. No birds, not even crows cawing in the trees. And nothing grows under the yew trees. The ground is just littered with leaf mold and little red berries.
Perhaps the best plan would be to return to the town and make a respectable exit. If we just disappear I am worried that we might become part of the legend, however unlikely it is that anybody would ordinarily notice the departure of two mendicants. Particularly, I am worried that if we should disappear without some kind of explanation, somebody will make a link between us, and the missing children. And Mother Church has a long reputation of accepting oblatus novices without examining their past too closely.

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The Lord of the Dance (1/4)

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.

Hamlet, Act I, scene 5
W.Shakespeare

To prepare for our latest excursion, I recommend reviewing a few perplexing mysteries. It vexes me that with almost a thousand years of human history available to us for exploration, and the benefits of scientific observation, there are still mysteries that resist explanation to any substantial extent.
In 1872 the brigantine Mary Celeste was boarded while under sail, and found to be sailing unmanned towards the straits of Gibraltar. The ship's lifeboat had apparently been launched but the ship's company were never found.
In 1809, on the night of November 25th, in the town of Perleberg, British diplomatic officer Benjamin Bathurst disappeared from the White Swan Inn after a pause to change horses.
In the fifteenth century, an opportunistic grave-robber who hoped to avail himself of the gold supposedly manufactured by alchemist Nicholas Flamel opened the alchemist's grave in Paris, but was shocked to discover that the grave contained neither projection powder for the manufacture of gold, gold, nor body!
In the twelfth century, two incongruous green-skinned children wandered into the village of Woolpit in England from the forest behind the wolf pit which gave the village its name. The boy grew sick and died, but the girl grew stronger and in time her skin colour became a normal human pink.
The German town of Hameln seems not to have been the only one that received a visit from a mysterious rat-catcher, though thanks to the Brothers Grimm it is probably the most well-known instance.
The town of Brandenburg lost all its children to a musician who enchanted the children and led them to some hidden place inside the Marienberg.
On July 15th, 1237, the children of the town of Erfurt were entranced, and followed a mysterious piper, dancing as far as Arnstadt where they collapsed, exhausted. When news of their whereabouts reached their parents in Erfurt their parents sent wagons to bring them home.
How do you fancy being a mendicant friar for a week or so? it'll probably mean going hungry a bit, but hopefully we will have a chance to see at first hand, who conjured the children away, and how they did it.

I have selected Thursday, the 22nd of June, 1284, a couple of days before the recorded date when the children of Hameln danced away from the town, as our starting point. That way we should be able to see the ratcatcher in action, and I hope, confirm that he is one and the same as the so-called "pied piper".
Perhaps because it is a river port on the Weser, the town certainly seems to be infested with rats as we arrive. Passing the dungpits outside the town walls the vermin are very much in evidence, not even bothering to conceal themselves from the men who cart the night soil. Once inside the town the rats are even more in evidence: every shady alley has its skitterings, small dark shapes disappear from the tops of barrels, and appear from under crates of fruit. And any article of food left untended for a moment soon receives the attention of the rodents. Did you see that monster carrying away the fishhead? I'm sure its tail was six inches long at least! ugh!
Since we arrived events have been fairly unremarkable, allowing for the constant presence of these disgusting rats, and their confounded fleas. One of the women trading in the marketplace convinced me that if I eat enough garlic the fleas will be less troublesome, so I have been adding a clove or two crushed, to my opportunistic meals.
With a bellyful of barley pottage at about two hours after Compline, having passed most of the day in asking alms and preaching, I am contentedly watching the sun set beside the Weser, and it is then that I hear the raucous sound of a shawm somewhere across town. You're welcome to remain here, but I'm off to see if I can find the source of the commotion.
Contrary to my expectations, the player (should I dignify his performance by calling him a musician? it seems to be more enthusiasm than skill right now) is not leading the rats, but herding them, from behind! As extraordinary as it seems, the rats seem to be running from the sound of the shawm as the player leaps and bounds from street to street!

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