“Two wanderers,” calls a voice. “In Christ’s name, open the door.”
Claus stands up, goes to the door, and unbolts it.
A man enters. He is no longer young, but he looks strong. His hair and his beard are dripping wet. Rainwater forms pearls on the thick gray linen of his cloak. He is followed by a second, much younger man. This man looks around, and when he sees the boy, a smile passes over his face. It’s the stranger he encountered at noon.
“I am Dr. Oswald Tesimond of the Society of Jesus,” says the older man. “This is Dr. Kircher. We were invited.”
“Invited?” asks Agneta.
“Society of Jesus?” asks Claus.
“We are Jesuits.”
“Jesuits,” Claus repeats. “Real, true Jesuits?”
Agneta brings two stools to the table; the others move closer together.
Claus bows awkwardly. “I am Claus Ulenspiegel,” he says, “and this is my wife and this is my son and these are my mill hands. We rarely receive distinguished visitors. It’s an honor. There’s not much, but what we have is at your disposal. Here are the groats, there is the small beer, and there’s still some milk in the jug.” He clears his throat. “May I ask whether you are scholars?”
“I should say so,” replies Dr. Tesimond, taking a spoon gingerly. “I am a doctor of medicine and of theology, in addition a chemicus specializing in dracontology. Dr. Kircher concerns himself with occult signs, crystallography, and the nature of music.” He eats some groats, screws up his face, and puts down the spoon.
For a moment it is silent. Then Claus leans forward and says, “May I be permitted to ask a question?”
“With certainty,” says Dr. Tesimond. Something about the way he speaks is unusuaclass="underline" some words in his sentences are not where you would expect them, and he also emphasizes them differently; it sounds as if he had little stones in his mouth.
“What is dracontology?” asks Claus. Even in the weak light of the tallow candle the others can tell that his cheeks have turned red.
“The study of the nature of dragons.”
The mill hands raise their heads. Rosa’s mouth hangs open.
The boy feels hot. “Have you seen any?” he asks.
Dr. Tesimond furrows his brow as if an unpleasant noise had disturbed him.
Dr. Kircher looks at the boy and shakes his head.
“My apologies,” says Claus. “This is a simple house. My son doesn’t know how to behave and sometimes forgets that a child is to be quiet when adults are speaking. But the question did occur to me too. Have you seen any?”
“It is not the first time I’ve heard this amusing question,” says Dr. Tesimond. “Indeed every dracontologist is met with it regularly among the simple people. But dragons are rare. They are very…what’s the word again?”
“Shy,” says Dr. Kircher.
“German is not my native tongue,” says Dr. Tesimond. “I must apologize, sometimes I fall into the idiom of my beloved native land, which I will never see again in my life: England, the island of apples and of morning fog. Yes, dragons are inconceivably shy and capable of astounding feats of camouflage. You could search for a hundred years and yet never get close to a dragon. Just as you can spend a hundred years in immediate proximity to a dragon and never notice it. That is precisely why dracontology is necessary. For medical science cannot do without the healing power of their blood.”
Claus rubs his forehead. “Where do you get the blood, then?”
“We don’t have the blood, of course. Medicine is the art of…what’s the word?”
“Substitution,” says Dr. Kircher.
“Yes, indeed,” says Dr. Tesimond, “dragon blood is a substance of such power that you don’t need the stuff itself. It’s enough that the substance is in the world. In my beloved native land there are still two dragons, but no one has tracked them down in centuries.”
“Earthworm and grub,” says Dr. Kircher, “look like the dragon. Crushed into a fine substance their bodies can achieve astonishing things. Dragon blood has the power to make a person invulnerable, but as a substitute pulverized cinnabar can still cure skin diseases due to its resemblance. Cinnabar is itself hard to obtain, yet all herbs with surfaces that are scaly like dragons can in turn be substituted for cinnabar. The art of healing is substitution according to the principle of resemblance—crocus cures eye afflictions because it looks like an eye.”
“The better a dracontologist knows his trade,” says Dr. Tesimond, “the better he can make up for the absence of the dragon through substitution. The pinnacle of the art, however, lies in using not the body of the dragon, but its…what is it called?”
“Knowledge,” says Dr. Kircher.
“Its knowledge. As early a writer as Pliny the Elder reports that dragons know an herb by means of which they bring dead members of their species back to life. To find this herb would be the Holy Grail of our science.”
“But how do we know that dragons exist?” asks the boy.
Dr. Tesimond furrows his brow. Claus leans forward and slaps his son’s face.
“Because of the efficacy of the substitutes,” says Dr. Kircher. “How would such a puny insect as the grub have healing power if not by its resemblance to the dragon! Why can cinnabar heal, if not because it is dark red like dragon blood!”
“Another question,” says Claus. “While I am speaking with learned men…while I have the opportunity…”
“Go on,” says Dr. Tesimond.
“A heap of grains. If you always take away only one. It’s driving me mad.”
The mill hands laugh.
“A well-known problem,” says Dr. Tesimond. He makes an encouraging gesture in Dr. Kircher’s direction.
“Where one thing is, no other thing can be,” says Dr. Kircher, “but two words do not exclude each other. Between a thing that is a grain heap and a thing that is not a grain heap there is no sharp dividing line. The heap nature fades little by little, comparable to a cloud dispersing.”
“Yes,” Claus says as if to himself. “Yes. No, no. Because…No! You can’t make a table out of a fingernail of wood. Not one you could use. It’s not enough. It’s impossible. Nor out of two fingernails of wood. Not enough wood to make a table never becomes enough wood just because you add a tiny bit!”
The guests are silent. Everyone listens to the rain and the scratching of the spoons and the wind rattling the windows.
“A good question,” says Dr. Tesimond, looking encouragingly at Dr. Kircher.
“Things are what they are,” says Dr. Kircher, “but vagueness is embedded deep within our concepts. It is simply not always clear whether a thing is a mountain or not a mountain, a flower or not a flower, a shoe or not a shoe—or, indeed, a table or not a table. That is why, when God wants clarity, he speaks in numbers.”
“It’s unusual for a miller to take an interest in such questions,” says Dr. Tesimond. “Or in things like that.” He points to the pentagrams engraved over the doorframe.
“They keep away demons,” says Claus.
“And one just engraves them? That’s sufficient?”
“You need the right words.”
“Hold your tongue,” says Agneta.
“But it’s difficult with the words, isn’t it?” says Dr. Tesimond. “With the…” He looks questioningly at Dr. Kircher.
“Spells,” says Dr. Kircher.
“Exactly,” says Dr. Tesimond. “Isn’t it dangerous? They say that the same words that banish demons under certain conditions also lure them.”
“Those are different spells. I know them too. Don’t worry. I know the difference.”
“Be quiet,” says Agneta.
“And in what else, then, does a miller like you take an interest? What occupies his mind, what does he want to know? How else can one…help you?”
“Well, with the leaves,” says Claus.