Old Wennecke was not heard amidst the Tumult. He was Surpriz’d to hear Droschler speak of the Piglet’s crooked Nose, since he saw that Nose as Flat and much like his own, Wennecke’s, Nose. But the Townsmen heard only that which they wish’d to hear, and said only what show’d them to be in the Right of it, and this was Devilry. So now each spoke up for his Neighbor as they seldom did, for Man often strives only for his own Advantage, and to show his Fellow Men in a bad Light. Great Wrath was stirr’d up against the Pig, that same Pig meanwhile squealing pitifully, but none could say whether ’twere with the voice of a Babe or of a Pure-born Pig.
At last Miller Mertens did seize the Piglet around its neck with both his Hands, and he rais’d the Piglet over his Head and he threw that Piglet high into the Air, to fall into the Lake, where it immediately sank, never to be seen again, or so the People thought. The Men rejoic’d, and the Count laid his Hand on the Miller’s Shoulder, and then it so chanc’d that the Pig came to the Surface again and began swimming to the Bank, grunting right merrily.
It was old Wennecke who threw the first Stone.
That same evening the Sow was first blessed and then eaten.
And it was in the little town of Fürstenfelde, in the year of Our Lord 1587, that here by the Pillory, on the banks of the Deep Lake, the Miller’s Sow gave Birth to a Pig of monstrous Kind, for in all other respects it was made like a true Pig, but it had a human Head, and a Face like mine, and a Face like thine, and a face like the face of Everyman.
HE DOESN’T WANT TO DO IT TONIGHT; THE BELL-ringer doesn’t want to ring the bells any more. He should have been in the church by now, instead he stays lying in his bell-ringing uniform and his bell-ringing boots and his bell-ringing gloves, with his bell-ringing top hat lying beside him. He doesn’t want to ring the bells, never wants to smell the church again. The church smells like Great-Aunt Elsbeth’s wig, of pomade and dust, and Great-Aunt Elsbeth puts her wig over the little bell-ringer’s head, his whole face disappears under it, pomade, dust and sweat, and he’s supposed to turn round in a circle saying a prayer, his great-aunt hides and he looks for her, what a brutal game, you can only lose, you could lose consciousness too, that must be nearly ninety years ago, his great-aunt choked to death in ’44, think of choking to death on your food when there was almost nothing to eat.
The bell-ringer is cold. If he’d listened to Rosa he’d have retired long ago, he’d be a pensioner watching the box in his slippers all day long, and now his knees hurt even when he’s lying down. Twenty steps three times a day, every day since ’43. He’s had enough of it. Johann will have to ring the bells alone, yes, Rosa, you do know him, Johann Schwermuth, son of Herrmann and Johanna of the Homeland House, yes, my apprentice, surprised, aren’t you?
Seventy years, and how many days has he missed? Three! No bells ringing for prayers in Fürstenfelde on only three days! Not counting holidays and days when the bells were being maintained.
Once in April ’45. At first he ran away like the others, but you easily died on the road, so he and his family came back and he went straight to his bells. The Russians let him ring them.
Again at the end of the 1970s, because of Schramm. Schramm came by, Comrade Lieutenant-Colonel, asked whether the bell-ringer wouldn’t like to give it up, that noise reminded people of other times. But those times were over, said Schramm, we weren’t living in the Middle Ages any more, thank God, and in these new times the church was needed only as a place for events to be held, was wanted for deeds and not bells. Gustav, watch your step. I’m asking you nicely. Others will order you.
The bell-ringer stayed at home that day and the bells didn’t ring, and after a while Rosa said: there are hundreds of reasons not to ring bells but politics isn’t one of them, so he went on ringing the bells. Schramm apologized to him last summer, thirty years late, but never mind that.
The third time was when Jakob came into the world, and then he and Rosa were in Prenzlau. He made up for it with a jubilant peal the next day.
When the ferryman was buried recently, he wanted to ring his old friend of so many years into the last darkness with the chiming bells, but his knees failed him. Later, he went to the ferry boathouse and struck the ferryman’s bell. The lake was calm. He sat in a small boat. The landing stage was empty, the little boathouse deserted, no one had heard the sound of the bell. That’s the real meaning of Nothing, Rosa. When something exists and works, but is no use to anyone. Objects, implements, a whole village. The bells. They are still there, that’s all.
Once upon a time, ah, once upon a time bell-ringers marked the beginning and end of important events, warned the people of dangers, of enemies, of the elements. Many bell-ringers were struck by lightning while doing their duty. By night, in a world not over-full of light as it is now, the bells were a lighthouse of sound for all wandering in the darkness. Here, where we chime, living hearts beat. Today? Today bells are the acoustic reminder that the church still stands. A wake-up call that no one has asked for.
The best part was going home to Rosa after ringing the bells for morning prayers, and Rosa would wake up and hold him close. Her hair, still soft from sleep. She would whisper his name, getting the emphasis wrong all those years, beautifully wrong.
The mechanized system will have to take over if Johann doesn’t want to ring the bells. Johann is always punctual, what a hypocrite! An atheist. Johann will want to ring the bells. He knows what to do, and he can do it on his own. Johann’s hands are not soft and delicate any more.
The bells are ringing.
The bell-ringer opens his eyes. He is lying outside the front door of his house, with his bell-ringer’s top hat on the gravel, his head on the gravel, blood on the gravel, the crunchy sound of footsteps on the gravel.
“Rosa?” He smiles. Rosa says something, it isn’t his name with the emphasis wrong, the bells lose their rhythm and the sound dies away. Johann, my boy, and you’ve practiced this so often. Now, quick chimes as the clapper strikes the bell, rhythmically, the steps on the gravel come closer, the first drops of rain fall, Rosa bending over him—“Master?”—Johann crouches down, takes the bell-ringer’s arm, tries to help him up. “You’re bleeding, Master!”
“Never mind. It’s all right.” Slowly, the bell-ringer sits up.
The last chime of the bell and its long echo.
“Johann, what’s going on?”
We ourselves are confused, too. If the bell-ringer is here, and Johann is with him — then who is ringing our bells?
Gustav drags himself up the steps, unlocks the door, staggers. Johann supports him, helps him over to the sofa. The bell-ringer’s head drops back. Abrasions on the palms of his hands, a deeper cut on his temple.
“Johann?”
“Yes, Master.”
“My times are in thy hand.”
“Master?”
“That was the tune. Well rung, almost perfect. My times are in thy hand.” The bell-ringer grimaces. The hair above his temple is sticky with blood. He closes his eyes. Johann cleans his injuries and bandages them. He learned all that from role-playing, who says it’s just a waste of time?
“That’s good. Thank you, Johann. Please will you — will you go and see to the bells?”
It’s raining harder now. The bell-ringer’s top hat is still lying on the gravel. Johann picks it up, turns it in his hands. Puts it on. Hurries out into the roads by night.
WE ARE WORRIED. NO ONE KNOWS THE BIBLE AS well as church bells. Psalm 31:15. My times are in thy hand: deliver me from the hand of mine enemies, and from them that persecute me.
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1588, IN THE MERRY month of May, two fine Horses were Spirited Away from Ulrich Ramelow, Inn-Keeper in this Place, and two Starveling Nags left in their Stead. His Groom gave Word to the Inn-Keeper, as had been given to the Groom himself by two Men, one tall as a Tower and t’other round as a Barrel, that since he, mine Host of the Inn, kept good Beer aside for himself but Water’d what he serv’d his Guests, so that it tasted thinner even than Small Beer, the Horses he kept should be such Sorry Nags as those the two Fellows left for him.