In the beginning I was merely an idea – a rough sketch of a tunnel-like passage. But as soon as the idea was born, I became conscious.
James, a renowned young bookkeeper and bishop’s scribe, comissioned an old stonemason, Master Reinhardt, to construct me between two alleys, connecting two houses – one belonging to James, and the other to Bacchus, a wealthy 60-year-old merchant.
Master Reinhardt was almost as poor as the blind beggar woman singing at the cathedral doorstep every Sunday, but he always had a kind word and a dime to bestow on her. I once heard James explain that kindness and honesty were the main reasons why he chose Master Reinhardt to build me – he believed only a solid man could build solid walls. James would pay handsomely, and old Master Reinhardt appreciated the opportunity. The old man knew illness had numbered his days, his wife’s death weakening his spirit. In his younger years, when work was all his focus and money was plentiful, he had tried to buy his sons’ respect with large allowances, which they would squander with reckless disdain. Now that his fortunes had changed, this commission provided the perfect opportunity to teach his two sons the craft which would become their profession, as well as the importance of relying on each other. As Master Reinhardt and young James stood among a portion of the stones which would grow to be me, they discussed my design and shook hands to seal the agreement, and I was hoping the plan was sound. I had wanted to be built through good, strong team-work. I intended to be there for a long time.
The neighbour, Bacchus, was another breed entirely. I would rather have been the prison wall separating him from the rest of the world, but my fate was to be a passage, so I reconciled myself with it. My era brought the dawn of stone-built cities. Rich men, like Bacchus, built their houses where they wanted and how they wanted, gold greasing each and every hand necessary. He lived in a huge mansion with his beautiful young wife Ophelia. He paid good money to have his house walled off from the rest of the world, like a castle in the middle of town – he had secrets he didn’t want the world to know.
Sitting out there, in the pile of stones, waiting to be built, I soon learnt the real reason behind my construction. People talked. I listened. I was being built by men because of a woman.
It had all started a year before I saw the light of day.
Ophelia was barely sixteen when her dear mother died, and her father considered his daughter nothing but a burden in his life of debauchery. One evening, as he gambled away another portion of his wealth to Bacchus, he shouted at Ophelia to play the piano and sing for them. Her fragile silhouette slid along the room without a sound, and her pale face, trimmed with raven black hair and sparkling with sapphire eyes, caught the attention of Bacchus. He grabbed her hand in passing, holding her wrist till it turned blue, and his hungry gaze made her blood freeze. As she quickly turned from a burden to an asset, her father promised her as wife to Lord Bacchus, breaking her heart. Later that night, she cried and begged her father to release her of the promise, but he was only too happy to lose his daughter and keep his house. At the mere dawn of her life, Ophelia became payment of debt.
On the first morning of her marriage, Ophelia regained consciousness on the floor of their extravagant bedroom, lying amidst the blood-crusted pieces of her torn wedding dress. Her head pounded, still echoing with her own screams, which had ricocheted back and forth against the thick walls of the bedroom on their wedding night, as she had become intimately acquainted with her beastly husband’s fists and appetite. His violent grin floated before her eyes, with the haunting promise of all that was yet to come. She tried calling for help, but her voice was too weak to carry any sound. Trapped like a canary in a golden birdcage, she gathered her feathers, and managed to rise. Her eyes scanned the room in panic, relieved that her husband had long been gone on business. The silvery bathtub was prepared in the corner of the room. She didn’t wash herself – she couldn’t bear even her own touch for the pain. She just sat in the water till it turned as cold as ice. Then she put on her mother’s pale yellow dress and covered her bruises with a matching silk scarf.
As Ophelia started wandering the mansion, desperate to find help, servants avoided her gaze and shut the doors before her as they cherished their lives. Gold and threats had always been Bacchus’s powerful allies. The guards at the main door had been given strict instructions not to let her out of the estate by any means necessary, and they followed the orders to the letter. So the poor canary climbed up to the tallest tower and sat at the window, lost and alone. Music had always been her solace; perhaps that was the reason she started to sing an old tune her mother used to sing to her when Ophelia needed solace. There she sat till her husband’s shouting announced his return. The first time she tried to remain in the tower, he took his rage out on the cook and her children. The following evening, and every other evening since, Ophelia would descend her tower and be the wife Bacchus expected. While she had respite on Sundays when her husband went hunting, the tower remained a refuge for her songs and unheard prayers.
James heard her over the wall. As he worked in his house in silence, copying scrolls and documents, his house would fill with that fairy-like voice, and he fell in love with that sound of sadness and longing, innocence and childhood, long before he’d ever learned it was hers. He, too, had sorrows to tell, and he recognised the pain from the first note that reached him.
James had learned all about suffering at the hands of his step-father. When he was five, his mother did her best to save her son’s life by taking refuge behind the city church. Going to morning mass, the bishop found her on the doorstep, lying next to little James. They had both been beaten, starved and were terrified. James’s tormentor soon died of liver failure after drinking away his fortunes, and his mother joined the monastery, finding peace and solace in chores and prayer. James grew up in the abbey orphanage, and the bishop became his patron, urging him to excel at his studies and skills. James was now in his early twenties, never ordained, but well-educated and hard-working. The bishop employed him as a scribe and readily recommended his services to wealthy lords.
But James still remembered how pain sounded. And Ophelia was only seventeen, but the horrors she had known were already worth a lifetime of nightmares.
One Sunday at mass, among all the voices singing their hymns, James recognised the enchanting voice. Church was the only place Ophelia was allowed to attend regularly without her husband. Being called a lady didn’t change the fact that she was sold into marriage to a money-packed brute, heavy-fisted and light on liquour. Her gentle song made James breathe hard, swallowing the urge to go up to her and help. At the end of service, his gaze followed her silhouette as she moved towards the exit. Her unsteady walk reminded him of his mother’s, and he could imagine the horrors she had suffered during the previous week. Ophelia stumbled over the hem of her dress, and James rushed to hold her before she fell. As he touched her arm, she released a painful cry. Her blue eyes washed over his face, and he felt blessed and cursed at the same time.
She averted her gaze as fast as a hunted doe, and vanished among the crowd. But James’s warm brown eyes and eager face started haunting her songs, bringing with them the yearning for rescue and love.
Yes, these are the stories stones know. You would be shocked and amazed at what you could hear, if only you could listen. And I listened.
As time progressed, and James found his heart wandering more and more toward Ophelia, torn to help her, he knew he needed council. He was apprehensive to talk to the bishop, since Ophelia was a married woman; the bishop knew him only too well and would easily guess that James’s desire to help Ophelia was not without romantic notions. The bishop was a kind man, but old and burdened by strict regulations.
On one of his regular visits to his mother, James decided to ask for his mother’s advice. As he retold the whole story to her in the seclusion of the monastery garden, she became very quiet. Having been a woman of those times, married to a rich and abusive lord herself, she knew very well, much better than young James,
the dangers lurking in every crevice of such an unhappy home. Tears trailed the creases of her wrinkled face as she took her son’s hands and gripped them tightly. James kept on whispering.
“I would go to her father, but he’s a drunken monster who cares nothing of others. I cannot go to the bishop. Ophelia is married, and you know the church never meddles in marital affairs, unless the lady pleads sanctuary, and Ophelia… I cannot even send her a note to do so, without risking her life. I must do something,” he implored.
His mother’s fervent gaze pierced his eyes with decisiveness.
“Yes, you must. We must take a different route. Use the bishop’s help…”
“But, mother…”
“Just use a different approach,” she urged on. “Tell the bishop you need a passage. Tell him Bacchus’s wall prevents you from getting from one place of the city to another, so you cannot get to his lords in time to provide your services.”
This was actually true, in part. James did manage to get everywhere, but he was also forced to turn down several clients or delay them due to inefficient routes, which did not make the bishop too pleased.
“Have the passage built in honour of a patron saint,” she suggested. “That will go well by the bishop, mark my words. You will see – the passage will change things. Bacchus won’t be able to hide. The wall needs to come down.”
The bishop readily agreed to the plan, as the new passage would also shorten his morning walks and he could come by James’s house more easily. He was getting old, but he loved walking around town and visiting his protégé. Since the passage would be named after a saint, he even offered for the church to pay for building material.
This is how I knew of all this. I was going to be built from stones gathered from all over the city by poor folk, in exchange for a proper meal. There were so many people, with so much to say.
People talk, stones listen. So I listened.
One evening, Master Reinhardt and his sons drew my initial design in James’s study. James provided dinner and the four men exchanged ideas, pretending not to hear the awful screams from across the wall. The background noise, however, did urge them on, and they seemed to work harder and faster than usual.
Line by line, my sketch grew, as workmen tore down Bacchus’s wall. He protested, of course, and tried paying off whoever he could, but there was always a bigger fish, and a bishop always outweighed a pawn, even if the pawn was a wealthy merchant. Brick by brick, stone by stone, I grew. Day by day, scream by scream, the Reinhardt men learned the whole story, and they bonded with James more and more.
The brothers were about James’s age, and the three had become friends before my foundation was set. They were delighted with the fact that a renowned man would treat them as equals. When the bishop came to oversee the work every morning, he was always eager to hear Master Reinhardt’s reports on progress and fascinated by his craftsmanship. Seeing James and the bishop treat their father with respect, the brothers regretted their past behaviour. They now knew how difficult the work was, and observing their father at work strengthened their family. James taught the brothers to read better, and his access to various books from the abbey library opened up a whole new world for the two young stonemasons. Spending more time with his sons made old Master Reinhardt content. One of his sons was creative and quite the architect, whereas the other was practical, with a natural feel for stone quality – their father realised they would run the family trade well.
The old man’s heart was filled to the brim, and he feared death no more. One morning, when I was half-built, Master Reinhardt grabbed his chest, leaned on me, looked up to the sky and sighed.
“My dear lass, here I come!”
Master Reinhardt died with a smile, before the rooftop section of my tunnel-like design was finished. His sons blessed my stone with several tears before they carried his body away from me.
All building work was stopped for burial. In the evening, James led the blind beggar woman to the cemetery, to sing Master Reinhardt an old goodbye folk song she knew he had loved. Ophelia cried in her tower, without any song to sing.
Observing the funeral procession from his dark mansion, Bacchus rubbed his hands together, grinning in the hope they would stop building. He had already gathered a crew of brutes to knock me down, and the sunset funeral provided the necessary distraction.
In the shadow of the evening, masked men with scarred arms and heavy hammers came to see me. They raised their tools to strike at me and crush me in the name of their wealthy master. Little did they know the Reinhardt brothers had made sure their father’s work would remain intact. They had friends among the workmen, friends who respected and loved the old stonemason.
The scarred hands raised their heavy hammers, but the workmen snuck up on them from behind. Hammer clashed hammer, blood splattered my walls, stone smashed skulls, fury raged… Eventually, heart proved stronger than money. Bacchus’s crew of men scattered like rats down dark alleys, and the workmen cleared my passage, so nobody would know what had happened. Bacchus knew. He had seen and heard everything. He drank till he could barely walk, and collapsed on the floor of his living room, providing Ophelia with a night of peace.
The following morning, the builders were back at work, just as Master Reinhardt would have required them to be. As each stone was added on top of me, Bacchus’s rage inflamed even more. Ophelia paid heavily for his frustration each night, which made my creators work even faster and harder.
But I was being built for love and with love, and there was no way Bacchus would stop it.
James felt happy as he saw me grow, but I was worried about him. I saw him clench his fists and bite his lip in fury and frustration, whenever his gaze fell upon the Bacchus house. I feared he would not be able to control himself till the work was done; he feared Ophelia would not live till then. Still, she was a married woman, and James was not a killer. The Reinhardt brothers stood by him, respecting their friend’s feelings, and yearning for me to fulfill my purpose as a passage to change.
Finally finished and complete, I took my first deep breath in a brisk spring dusk, and all my stones clicked together. I was built from good, sturdy stone, and no effort was spared to make me resistible to all kinds of weather and disaster. I welcomed spiders and worms crawling into my crevices, knowing they would be my spies, as long as I was their shelter. They had already started telling me secrets, and I listened, as always, with an eager heart. My work was only beginning.
James invited the bishop and the Reinhardt brothers over for dinner on the eve of my great blessing ceremony. The bishop arrived, as modestly as ever, with only his assistant as entourage, and no great fuss or ceremony. As the men enjoyed dinner together, raising their glasses in honour of old Master Reinhardt, Ophelia’s screams slashed the night, and my tunnel channelled them directly to James’s door.
The bishop froze. He had heard rumours, but refused to believe them. His young priest, who was Ophelia’s confessional, had tried to tell him something, but the secrecy vow prevented him from revealing the whole story. The bishop looked at the faces of his companions, and he read them with wisdom and severity. He could no longer be still. He jumped to his feet and marched to Bacchus’s door, banging on it so hard that his knuckles bled. The screams stopped instantly, yet the door remained shut.
The bishop had his assistant write a formal order for Bacchus to appear in his chamber the following morning. This was within the bishop’s prerogative. He also sent another letter to the King and Queen. The letter would take time, but I knew true justice would be swift.
James didn’t dare relax yet. He feared for Ophelia’s life.
I didn’t. Not anymore. My spider spies had already told me so many of Bacchus’s secrets that I knew exactly what to do.
The following morning Bacchus stormed through me on his way to the bishop’s, stomping my foundation with his heavy boots, followed by a group of his own thugs – a pitiful attempt at showing power, knowing full well they wou
ld not even be let onto the church ground.
I waited. Stones are patient. We have time.
An hour later, Bacchus returned. He’d sent his men away to avoid showing weakness. James had gone to work, and so did the Reinhardt brothers. It was just me and Bacchus. I had him all to myself now.
He stormed into my tunnel and stopped. I knew he would. He let out a beastly bellow and kicked my walls with his boots.
I shook. On purpose. A tiny lady spider living on top of me, in the crevice right above Bacchus’s head, received my signal, quiet and clear. She spread out her web strand, and descended, like an elegant acrobat down a silky line, right onto his hair. She disappeared within his gray hairs for a few seconds, completely ignoring his rage, his stomping and kicking. When she resurfaced, she climbed back up her web strand, and crawled into her crevice, with a whisper to me.
“It is done,” she smiled.
Bacchus scratched his head, and went into the house, ready to let out all his rage on his wife. He staggered, feeling dizzy, and demanded some wine first. Ophelia complied, as always, with a quick step and without a word. His hand trembled and he released the mug. Ophelia jumped at the crashing sound and scrambled to clean up the mess. He kicked her body with his heavy boot and ordered her to the cellar for some fresh wine. She scurried away to obey his command, holding her ribs in pain. His heavy hand wiped the sweat from his forehead, as he gasped for breath. The image of the room clouded, and he fell off his chair with a big thump.
Bacchus’s cook heard the noise from the nearby kitchen. She found Bacchus dead on the kitchen floor, swollen and disfigured. Shock did not prevent her from sighing in relief. Then she called for help.
I listened to the commotion and watched them fetch the doctor, but all was in vain. I knew my mission was a success. You see, my spider ladyfriend may have been tiny, but her venom was deadly. She had known Bacchus for a long time. She loved to crawl into his mansion and listen to his servants gossip about him when he wasn’t around. I loved to listen to them too, as they passed through my passage telling stories. Some of the servants had known Bacchus ever since he was a boy and whispered of the time he had almost died of spider venom. Another dosage would be fatal. It is useful to listen, you know. I may not be able to move, but I hear things.
People talk, stones remember.
Several years after I was born, the bishop performed the wedding ceremony for Ophelia and James. They lived in James’s house and their little girls’ laughter echoed my tunnel for years to come. Bacchus’s house was donated to the church, which turned it into a workshop and home for the Reinhardt brothers and their families. As I said, I was built for love and with love.
I am now almost a thousand years old, and I am still standing strong. I have seen procclaimed witches hunted through my tunnel, and I dealt with their hunters. I have seen drug dealers stalk innocent graffiti-artists, and dealt with those dream peddlers too. My spider ladyfriend wasn’t around for all of this, naturally, but there have been others willing to do the job. Always. There still are.
The world changes, but people don’t. Some still do horrible things, but others do things for love. It keeps the balance.
People still talk. And I? I remember.
Anita Kovacevic’s Bio & Links
Anita Kovacevic is an author and teacher of English, who draws inspiration from her family, friends and students. She writes various genres, and has self-published two children’s books (The Winky’s Colours and The Good Pirate), and an urban-legend novella (The Threshold). As a member of an international teaching community, she has also participated in a worldwide anti-bullying charity e-book Inner Giant with some of her short stories and poems. She enjoys writing about tales which come to her on her dreamstep, right before you wake up or fall asleep. You can read her interviews with other indie authors on her Wordpress blog Anita’s Haven, as well as book reviews and some free stories, poetry and essays. She loves reading, writing songs, creative hobbies, and using anything and everything for a story, a lesson or teachers’ workshops. Anita lives with her husband and two children in Croatia and doesn’t know the meaning of ‘free time’.
FACEBOOK https://www.facebook.com/anitashaven
TWITTER https://twitter.com/Anitas_haven
WORDPRESS https://anitashaven.wordpress.com/
Seven Years
Amelia Mapstone