Q, Luther Blissett [children's ebooks online .txt] 📗

a great cartwheel and tied up with heavy chains, probably forged by himself, is surrounded by four guards, improvised like everything else at this time, waiting.

The population of the city, along with the new arrivals whose numbers are mounting each day, has been summoned to meet at two o’clock in the afternoon, by the supreme Prophet: angry, disappointed, melancholy, bestialised by the behaviour of his sainted subjects.

Ruecher, the blacksmith, that great piece of shit, dared to offer up heavy comments of disapproval about the outcome of three days of meditation, total abandon, the full descent of the light of the Supreme One into the earthly body of the Great Matthys, all of which� had yielded important decisions.

What the fuck, said the blacksmith, expressing something that many people were thinking, it’s all fine with me, abolition of property, common ownership of everything available, wealth of no one and for everyone, of course, we’d thought of it ourselves, and some time ago, the fund for the poor, all sacrosanct, new rules, but fuck, you go and appoint seven deacons for the administration and distribution of all resources, for the solution of all conflicts or emergencies and not one, not a single one of them, was born in M�nster or had been resident there, they’re all Dutch, all disciples of Matthys, and we’re absolutely fucking not having it, he said, we’ve risked our lives for municipal freedoms, we weren’t far off having our heads adorning the battlements of the city walls, fuck’s sake, and then along comes someone, a great prophet, illuminated by the holy word, certainly, but fuck not a single one, all of them Dutch, and he wasn’t even there when we took the city, what the fuck’s that all about? Someone shows up, finds everything in place and starts issuing orders, issuing orders and installing his own men to issue orders, issuing orders and suddenly we’re all being fucked over again.

Arrested, on the spot.

Hubert Ruecher. Ironmonger and blacksmith. M�nsterite. Baptist. Hero of the barricades of the 9th February. Hubert Ruecher. Son of the cause. Forger of projectiles. Fighter for the liberation of M�nster from the tyranny of the bishop.

Hubert Ruecher is being dragged in chains to the market square: a traitor, a scoundrel who has raised a doubt, spoken out, said that Matthys prayed for three days before appointing his own most loyal followers as deacons. Community of goods, fine: collect them together in big warehouses, one per district, and distribute them to those who have need of them, fine, but why put the Dutchmen in charge of them? Why? Why exclude the M�nsterites? It’s a fuck-up, Jan, an unforgivable fuck-up. Are you scared? Of what? Of whom? We’re all saints, that’s what you said, we’ve been chosen, we’re brethren. Do you think that by concentrating all the power in your hands you’ll prevent everyone from having any doubts? Someone who’s fought to free his city might now, after the appointment of those seven Dutchmen, find himself thinking it had all been for nothing, if he can’t make his own appointments in his own house.

Someone like Hubert Ruecher.

They’ve told you everything — perhaps you’ve unleashed your spies on the city? — you sent your cops to arrest him by force. In chains, now, foaming at the mouth with rage: a warning to everyone. You’ve lost your mind, Jan, this isn’t what we fought for.

I see you as you come impressively on to the stage, ice in your eyes, your beard more pointed than ever.

I see you talking about the lack of faith, waving your thresher about.

I see you.

‘The Lord is enraged because someone has raised doubts about His Prophet’s task.’

He fought along with me, that man, he obeyed my orders, and now I know he regrets it, he may well hate what he has done, I try to catch his eye so that I can understand: but maybe it’s better not to. There he is, bolt upright and paralysed by his chains, waiting for God to tell Jan Matthys the Prophet how to behave.

‘The time is over. The choice has been made. Anyone who abandons the Lord’s banner shows that he was always undecided, that he followed the others without ever really receiving the inner call to holy arms: he is an enemy. And now he is spreading uncertainty among the ranks of the saints in order to throw our victory in jeopardy. But that victory is inevitable, because the Lord leads us.’

You’re a madman, a mad scoundrel of a baker, and I’m a madman too, because after all I was the one who handed you all this on a plate.

‘If we don’t immediately remove the sinner from the midst of the holy people, the wrath of the Lord will fall upon everyone.’

Sword in hand, he walks around Ruecher, whose face is purple and startled.

The pettifogger, von der Wieck, along with three other notables, objects that in M�nster no one has ever been executed without due process, that there should be witnesses, an advocate…

Matthys walks around and around in silence, he weighs these words, goes on walking around, the tension rises from the people and reaches him. He stops.

‘Due process. Witnesses, an advocate. Come forward, then.’

Hesitant looks, they come uncertainly forward to the stage.

What the hell are you doing, Jan? I realise I’m clutching my pistol. A few heads away, Gresbeck looks at me, his face harsh, impassive, the scar quivering on his eyebrow, his only sign of nerves.

Careful, Jan, these men have learned to fight.

‘Today you will bear witness to the greatest of events. You will bear witness to the birth of Jerusalem: M�nster is no more, in the city of God His word alone is law. And he speaks and acts through the hand of his prophet. You are the witnesses.’

The blade swings up and comes down on Ruecher’s throat, killing him with a single blow.

Despair.

Von der Wieck, drenched by the deluge of blood, stands devastated in the middle of the square, Knipperdolling and Kibbenbrock stare at the ground, Rothmann moves his lips in prayer, Gresbeck is motionless.

A silence more chilling than the coldest ice of hell, broken only by humble invocations of the will of God: some people fall to their knees.

Bockelson takes the stage: ‘How privileged we are to have the blood that washes the people of the saints of the shame of doubt!’ He puts a hackbut to his shoulder, walks forward and runs a finger down von der Wieck’s face for some of Ruecher’s blood. He smears it on his own face. ‘That bastard. That wretched worm has been granted the highest of honours. Why? Why him?’

He fires point blank into the corpse’s chest, plunges his hands into the wounds and blesses the crowd with generous splashes of his blood: ‘I bless you in blood and spirit, my most holy brethren!’

No one moves.

Matthys spreads his arms to welcome us all: ‘Flock of the Lord, God the Father has given us a great lesson. He has revealed impurity, he has dug to the bottom of the yearning for privilege and ownership that still spreads among us, and he has cleansed us of it. There were some who still believed that the spirit could be encompassed within the mean municipal privileges of a city. They were mistaken. The New Jerusalem is now a beacon for all the people of the saints, who are coming here from the whole of Christendom to share the glory of the Supreme one. We are not fighting for the privilege of the few, but for the Kingdom of God. And indeed that is the wonderful message: I tell you that by Easter this year there will be a new heaven and a new earth, the beginning of the Kingdom of the saints. God the Father will come and sweep away every scrap of earth beyond these walls. In the short time left to us, not me, it will not be me who keeps the flock from the temptations of the old world. God the Father says it is good, that anyone appointed by men to this task will be carrying it out in His name’ — he hands his sword to Knipperdolling. ‘Don’t hesitate, brother, it’s the will of the Father.’

The burgomaster takes it, incredulously, then looks to Matthys’ face for help, finding none. ‘We are merely His instrument.’

The Prophet intones the psalm and gradually everyone turns to follow him:

The Lord is known by the judgment which he executed:�

the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands.

The wicked shall be turned into hell, and all the nations that forget God.

For the needy shall not always be forgotten:

�the expectation of the poor shall not perish for ever.

Arise, O Lord; let not man prevail: let the heathen be judged in thy sight.

*

Knocking at the door. I don’t move. I’m tired, in the darkness. Sharp taps, repeated.

‘Gert, open up. Open the fucking door.’

More knocking. I get up, slowly. He isn’t going to go away.

I open up.

Wrapped up in a heavy dark cape, ready for a long journey, Redeker is standing before me.

He’s going.

I sink into my sofa with my head on one side. As I was just before he came in. As I have been for the last three hours. What can I tell you now? My brain won’t respond. A whisper, lacking conviction. ‘I didn’t think things would turn out like this.’

‘What did you think? What the fuck are you on about, it was you who brought him here.’

I stammer something. Redeker’s fury slashes my words.

‘I believed in your God, Gert, because he came out on to the barricades and got drunk in the taverns, he sacked churches and he frightened the horsemen. I still believe in him, if you want to know. Do you happen to know where He went after he left here?’

The echo of the phrases that have been rattling around in my head since Jan of Haarlem arrived.

‘Matthys is a fool, Gert. The judges, the cops, the executioner are the worst enemies of the poor who have been fighting on our side. That son of a bitch talks of the God of the last men. But who is his God? Another judge, another cop, another executioner.’

Three hours ago, in the square, clutching my pistol. I gulped air and saliva. I waited.

The others were waiting. For me.

‘That fucking madman has ruined everything. It chilled my blood.’

‘So why are you standing there? Why don’t you get rid of the son of a bitch? Come on now, Gert, get off your arse, Gert from the Well! You’re the saints, remember, I’m the thief. I’ve taken what’s mine. When I leave here I’m off.’

I clench my fist, my fingernails sticking into the palm of my hand. I have no answer.

Faint light on a man who doesn’t look as though he’s from hereabouts, a nervous little hawk, on his feet — his only protruberance — his big solid boots, filthy and fast. I can just make out the swell of his pistols and his little bulging rucksack, short curly hair and a strange, sparse beard trimmed and combed to a point, the honed black blade pointing to the ground, his supple whiskers curling to his chin, a weird crossbred geometry, the kind of sharp corner you don’t want to stumble against on the uncertainy nights in these parts.