DARKER.jpg

My preliminary sketch for Sly. The damselfly on page seven is also mine. I will replace the borrowed images (indications of my intentions) on the following pages with my own drawings. I have eight chapters up, out of – my guesstimate – thirty.

 

 

The Rogue Regrets

Book Three of A Rogue, Reconsidered.


 

 

1. The Hour That The Ship Comes In.

 

And like Pharaoh’s tribe they’ll be drownded in the tide

and like Goliath, they’ll be conquered.

                                                                   When the Ship Comes In – Bob Dylan

 

Freifrau Annette von Droste-Deckenbrock counted herself blessed.

Her husband having done her the boon of dropping dead, she had settled into widowhood with a prayer of thanks in her heart. She had long lived under autocrats, her father lording over her, then her spouse. Her newly of-age son was trying to continue in the mold, but she was an independent woman for the first time and would not tolerate it.

This was an era in which rapidly sequential pregnancies were the norm. Annette, having fulfilled her husband’s core requirement early by producing a healthy son, subsequently squeezing out three babes stillborn, or dead in infancy or soon thereafter, in her dotage (in terms of fecundity) finally having achieved a second success in the form of a surviving girl-child, treasured the latecomer as a miracle, a comfort to her old age, and an ornament to be polished and displayed.

Heinz-Helmut Wackenroder was the girl’s tutor. Smart as a whip. Drop-dead handsome. A talented raconteur. Attentive to a fault. Best of the best. Best for the daughter, an argumentative student, needing considerable guidance. Best for the Mama, for the age-old reasons.

Annette intended her daughter to have the broad education she’d not gotten. She had interviewed a stream of scholars and had hired the applicant whose educational philosophy was most in accord with her own, who, by pure chance, happened to be the prettiest of the lot. Heinz-Helmut had fallen in with her radical ideas immediately, suggesting the pleasant prospect of a charming intellectual fellowship.

The reality of the time was the unpredictability of existence. Population centers were death traps, prone to epidemic diseases and the illnesses caused by poor sanitation and dirty water and, although it was not understood at the time, by the rats that prospered off the abundance of a commercial hub. People saw the hand of God everywhere. And the frenzied belief in a compassionate and/or vengeful deity slid easily into superstition, which was the mindset of the Mama, and the source of her solid sympathy for a man whose idiosyncratic treatises had earned him renown.

Annette had taken pains to conceal her serious interests during her husband’s reign for the sake of peace in the household. Hans-Detlef had responded to any consequential remark with Pray, do not tax your female brain with weighty thoughts. Thinking in women causes wrinkles. The timid bride had complied. The resentful wife, grown into herself – as we tend to do, no? – had chafed, but had (mostly) submitted. The merry widow had vowed to devote her remaining span to refuting the fallacy of the incapable female brain, and was grooming her daughter to be the embodiment of her vision and values.

She was a big proponent of broadening travel, Heinz-Helmut accompanying her as a protective presence and to give daily lessons to a pupil. Now, roving, even for the well-heeled, was a complicated business. Progress by coach was slow, uncomfortable, and serviced by more-or-less despicable inns. Roads were dreadful, the worst of them, those of Germany. For most, journeying was limited to pilgrimage, the hardships considered an integral feature of the redemptive experience.

Annette, like any seeker, viewed inconvenience as part of the process and was not deterred by it. She celebrated ‘the imaginative faculty’, ‘the domain of wonder and insight,’ ‘the poetic.’ These terms put an artistic face on her true fascination. Many dabbled in a romantic mysticism; it was a vogue among a certain class of female. Annette did not dabble; she was an ardent believer.

The Freifrau is just disembarked from a schooner put into the port of Bremen

after a visit to the university town of Leiden, where she and Heinz had enjoyed themselves attending lectures and hosting top professors in the best restaurants in the city.

The exposure of Fräulein Drusilla to extraordinary minds, the excuse for the frolic, had failed to impact her in any desirable way. The last leg of the trip, a three-day journey from Bremen to Hameln, will be very different.

John Dee had fallen out of favor with his long-time patroness. 

Fleeing England in search of other opportunities, he has set foot ashore in the same port on the self-same morning, a lucky happenstance for all of us.

Dee sits in the common room of a tavern, a space accommodating fifty or sixty guests just off or soon onto a vessel and their mounded boxes and baggage. The room is a maze, to be negotiated. And it’s stifling. Germans consider it the height of hospitality to warm their guests to a lather.

Zum Roten Bären (the Red Bear), the premier gathering spot on the dock-side, is none too grand. The façade is freshly painted, but inside, in the dim, that touch had been deemed unnecessary. Rudolph Bingle has made one concession to travelers of the finer sort. He has partitioned a corner of the big dining room for the use of those he judges to be betters. Thus it is that John Dee and his unhappily boxed-up companion come to be seated nearby to a well-dressed female of forty and her party.

Annette, observing a man at the next table engrossed in a book, discerning the book to be one on mathematics, is well-disposed toward him immediately. A few words of conversation confirm the impression. When he mentions his goal is to reach the city of Hameln as quickly as possible and asks for advice on how to go at it, she advises him to hire a coach. Barges ply the river, but at a glacial pace.

“I am summoned to Hameln,” says Dee, “to assist with a situation.”

“The rats!” exclaims Annette. She speaks a halting English, having studied the language with Heinz-Helmut.

“Precisely.”

“We have tried everything,” moans the woman. “We are a grain-collection point for the region. The rats eat well off us, I can tell you.”

“You are a resident of the besieged burg?”

“All my life, sir.”

“You are on your way home, then. How do you proceed? Must I hire a coach?”

The woman is more than half inclined to offer him to share her private carriage. She expects to be collected at any time.

“Let me introduce myself,” says Dee. “I am Doctor John Dee, Royal Astrologer to Her Majesty of England,1 come to render to the utmost of my ability assistance in the struggle against your local scourge. Your city council awaits my arrival most anxiously. I can show you the contract of employment with the town seal.”

A contract, a seal, excellent recommendations. But it is not this information that causes Annette to catch her breath. “Dr. John Dee! Can it truly be? Doctor, I have only recently read your pamphlet Divers Authenticke Rich Discoveries; Discerning Observations Thereupon. Merciful heaven! I speak to the author himself! Herr Doctor! I insist you remove with me, in my personal conveyance. This encounter is the happiest of accidents. I am thrilled to have you to myself for a bit, for once we arrive in Hameln you will be busy with your responsibilities.”

“You are kind, Ma’am. I accept, but I must inform you that I carry a dear friend with me, whom some object to. In this carry-case beside me I transport my cat, as cunning a foe of all rodentia as ever walked God’s green earth, and a darling beast to boot. And he is a comfort to me, a calming influence. His peaceful presence helps me to focus on any problem.”

“I must warn you – ours is no ordinary problem. It has baffled many.”

“I have a plan to deal with the infestation using methods known to myself alone. The rats, Madame, like Pharaoh’s men, will be drowned2 or otherwise dealt with. You may count on it.”

A loud harummpt! issues from the container on the chair beside him.

“Is that your cat?” squeals Drusilla. “Let me see him!”

“Nein!” admonishes the Mama. “Liebling, our ride is here.” Through the window can be seen workmen loading her baggage, which had been piled near the entrance, into the rear hatch of a magnificent vehicle. Her driver, shown to her table, hoists her close-carried belongings and lumbers away. Those effects stashed under seats and overhead, he is stationed at the coach door ready to hand her up as she confronts the wrought iron three-step boost.

 


Chapter Notes
  1. Dee has been given the boot by the English queen but sees no need to admit it.
  2. In the original tale, the rats drowned in the Weser.

 


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