St Paul’s Labyrinth. Jeroen Windmeijer

prophet still, if bird or devil!

      By that heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –

      Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

      It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –

      Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?’

      Quoth the Raven, ‘Nevermore.’

      He wasn’t much of a poetry connoisseur, but even he immediately recognised it as a verse from Edgar Allen Poe’s famous poem The Raven, about a mysterious raven’s midnight visit to a man mourning the death of his lover.

      Nevermore … The poem’s distraught protagonist is denied the hope of ever being reunited with his deceased love. Peter had barely finished reading the poem when the message disappeared. Nevermore …

      Peter called out Judith’s name, but no answer broke the silence. He climbed the narrow staircase to the first floor, but it was dark there too. He hurried back downstairs.

      Now he regretted leaving his own phone behind. Like many other people, he hardly knew any phone numbers by heart now that he had a smartphone.

      However, just then another message arrived. He struggled to hold in an expletive.

      Do not seek help. Only you can find her.

      It was immediately followed by another.

      Follow the black raven.

      A few seconds later, the messages were gone.

      Follow the black raven … What? Do not seek help? Find her? Judith? What did she have to do with it?

      The phone vibrated again. It was a link this time. He clicked on it. A digital clock appeared on his screen. The time on it was counting down.

      17:08:22 – 17:08:21 – 17:08:20 …

      He stared at the screen, transfixed.

      The starting time was displayed in the top left-hand corner of the screen. Two o’clock in the afternoon.

      Almost seven hours had gone already.

      THE FIRST VISION

      And behold, I saw a young man standing on the bow, with his arms wide like a bird. He gazes up to the heavens but his eyes are closed. He is short, his nose is long, and despite his youth, his head is already bald. He has a friendly appearance. The play of shadows and light on his face changes his countenance from man to angel and back again.

      And the prow cuts through the clear blue water, rising out of the sea on the crest of a wave and coming back down with a crash, splashing wild, white foam. But the young man does not lose his balance. He stands there as steady as a statue, like a man with a mission. He pays no attention to his surroundings. Neither to the green coast that they steadily sail past, away in the distance on the portside, nor to the dolphins who swim alongside the ship. They arc gracefully out of the water, pausing for a moment as though hanging between heaven and earth before diving back down.

      And then suddenly he opens his eyes and it is as though he sees me, looks right through me. As though he wants to tell me: I know you, I know who you are. His intense, fiery gaze burns right through my soul, disregarding all barriers, all appearances, all ostentation. My mask falls away and there I stand – naked. You know who I am, he says wordlessly. I will show you the way. Follow me. Salvation is at hand.

      And behold, evening comes and the young man takes a hunk of bread and a small, earthenware amphora from his knapsack. He goes over to the ship’s starboard side. He raises the bread up to the setting sun with both hands and murmurs a prayer. Then he does the same with the amphora. He breaks the bread and eats it thoughtfully. He takes a drink from the jug and the wine trickles out of the corner of his mouth and into his beard. Then he seeks out a quiet place on the deck to which he can retreat. He lays his head on his knapsack, and before long, he is fast asleep.

      And behold, the ship docks at a port. The marble on the temples glitters in the sun, and he can already see the great theatre and the hippodrome from the quayside. The young man picks up his travelling bag. It does not appear to contain many possessions. Without looking around or greeting anyone, he walks down the gangplank and into the town to find a bed for the night.

      And the next day, he rises before the light of dawn and goes on his way. He has joined a group of travellers and pays the leader to protect him. They will travel only by daylight and stay on the great road that leads to Jerusalem, sixty miles away. He speaks to no one on the way, and when the group rests, he does not join them, but sits alone to eat his bread and drink his water.

      And after three days, they enter the eternal city. They see the temple in the distance, shimmering in the sun. Many of the travellers fall to their knees, some raise their hands to the heavens and weep. But not he. He walks on, leaving the group behind him.

      And he walks through the narrow streets of the city. He does not know them, but he knows they will be his home from now on. He knows where he must go, he has memorised the way. People try to stop him. Traders hold up bolts of cloth to him, invite him to taste the fruit from their stalls, extol the qualities of their pottery. Women with heavily made-up faces tug at his sleeve and ask him to join them … The city air is thick with the odour of charred flesh from the ceaseless burning of offerings in the temple. Beggars cling to him, faces disfigured, hands missing, legs deformed, dragging themselves over the ground. But he does not allow any of it to distract him. His eyes are fixed on a point in the distance.

      And behold, he arrives in the tanners’ district. Their bloody hides stink as they hang drying in the sun. Defiled by so much blood, this is the neighbourhood that is shunned by the Jews. But this is where the young man will stay, where he will practise his craft. His sewing tools, a gift from his father, are in his knapsack. He will live here for two years, far from home. He must spread his wings and go out into the world. That is his task.

      He stops at a large, green door. The heavy iron knocker is shaped like a bull. He holds it in his hand and waits, as though he is unsure what to do, but then he knocks three times. The sound echoes in the hallway. He hears footsteps approaching. The door opens and an old man appears, tall, with a full grey beard and hair clipped short. The young man falls to his knees. The old man puts his right hand on his head as a blessing.

      ‘Pater,’ the young man says. Father.

      ‘My son, welcome,’ the old man answers. The young man stands up and they embrace each other like brothers.

      And behold, just before he enters, the young man turns around unexpectedly and looks at me for the last time. He moves his lips, but no sound leaves them. I hear his words in my heart:

      I am a Raven.

       8

       NYMPHUS

      BRIDEGROOM

       Friday 20 March, 8:00pm

      ‘Father.’

      The young man knelt with one knee on the rough stone floor and bowed his head.

      The old man put his hand on the young man’s hair and let it rest there.

      ‘Get up now,’ he said.

      The young man stood up, but kept his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the floor.

      ‘May I ask you something?’

      ‘You may.’

      The young man paused. ‘Are we doing the right thing?’

      ‘Look at me.’ The man looked at him earnestly, like a parent trying to discern whether their child is challenging him or sincerely wants an honest answer. He sighed. ‘Listen …’ he said, considering his words carefully. ‘I cannot expect any of you to have the insight that I have, but the hour has come,