Ode to Johann Sebastian Bach

By Gary Cox

"Ode to Johann Sebastian Bach" chronicles the most dramatic episode in the Bach historical record, a violent altercation which occurred between Johann Sebastian and an inept student Bassoonist, Anton Geyersbach. The narrative follows him to Lubeck where he meets the Dietrich Buxtehude and his lovely daughter and aspiring female composer Anna Margareta, who potentially holds the key to Bach's future.

The most profound artist in the Western Tradition, yet the most ordinary seeming, Bach is a mystery to us still. This imaginative novel explores the unknown moments of this luminary giant of European culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781098328986

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ISBN: 9781098328986

For the Wolf Goddesses of the Great Sage Plain

Corin             Carly             Gabby

Table of Contents

The Bellicose Bassoonist

The Keeper’s Tale

The Keeper Comes to Arnstadt

I Meet Sebastian for the First Time

Barbara Catherina Bach

The Hearing

The Wedding

Nach dir, Herr, verlanger Mich

Herr denket an uns

Odette Crevel

Johann Ernst III

Maria Returns

The Journey to Lubeck

Castrum doloris

Templum Honoris

The Maris Retreat

The White Reindeer Goddess

Four Sacred Cantatas

Australia

The Answer

The Bellicose Bassoonist

I shall never forget that night. I was waiting in the square for Sebastian. We had agreed to go to the Mermaid tavern after he had finished performing for the local nobility. He emerged jauntily from the ornate archway of Neideck Castle dressed in his finest pink satin trimmed with French lace. An ornate silver sword swung by his side. He paused to look up at the stars then began absentmindedly filling his pipe. I greeted him and we bowed to one another in our special, elaborately contrived way then turned and walked slowly through the chattering pedestrians. Sebastian lit his pipe. The cobblestones were moist from a cold fog that had hung over Arnstadt all day long. Sebastian shivered; he was not as well protected from the chill as I was in my English greatcoat. The square was sporadically illuminated by carriages clattering by with dangling lamps and a few torchbearers accompanying companies of bewigged gentlemen. The windows of the tall stone houses looming around the square glowed faintly. We were about to head up the side street that led to the tavern, when Sebastian was suddenly accosted by a group of taunting young men, obviously drunk, led by Anselm Geyersbach, the hulking bassoonist from the student orchestra.

A few days prior Sebastian was attempting to rehearse a few preliminary sketches he had been working on for a possible Sacred Cantata. The students, unskilled and exceedingly frustrating were being difficult as usual. Geyersbach, the bassoonist, was belligerently inept, and the passages the ensemble had been called upon to play included several prominent bassoon parts. After numerous blatantly unsuccessful attempts to play the parts, Sebastian had soundly berated Geyersbach in front of the rest of the orchestra members, calling him a prick of a bassoonist.

Now Sebastian confronted a drunk and furious Geyersbach. For many days now the bassoonist had been stewing over the insult. Geyersbach and his companions, stealthily clutching cudgels menacingly began hurling jeers at Sebastian, mocking his feminine finery, his fancy pipe, his proud manner. Sebastian stopped, looked them up and down with contempt, and continued puffing calmly away. Geyersbach lurched forward, and in loud slurred tones demanded an apology.

I quietly stepped back, put my hand into my greatcoat and gripped the butt of my French musket. Sebastian continued puffing unconcernedly as the snarling ruffians slowly surrounded him. Suddenly Geyersbach reared back and swung hard. Sebastian ducked just in time, managing to evade a direct blow, but the sideswipe raised a bruise that drew blood. Bewildered, he put away his pipe and pulled out his handkerchief and began dabbing dazedly at his wound. Geyersbach then reared back and swung again, this time striking Sebastian’s head directly with a sickening crack, barely missing his ear. Sebastian’s wig went flying into a puddle of horse piss. Sebastian stepped back, drew his sword and began brandishing it unconvincingly. The drunken ruffians roared with laughter then with cudgels raised closed in for the kill. 

I instantly stepped out of the shadows, grabbed Sebastian by the arm and placed myself in front of him. I glared at the club wielding louts then opened my greatcoat to reveal my other hand holding the cocked musket. Geyersbach’s accomplices fled at once.  Geyersbach stood his ground a few seconds then followed suit.

Sebastian was quite angry and shaken up. He wiped at his injuries until his handkerchief became crimson. I offered him mine which was much more substantial. He held it to his face until the bleeding stopped. I offered him a sip from my flask and we proceeded to the tavern.

The atmosphere in the Mermaid was cheery and convivial. Through the merry din and smoke, we went in search of a table. We finally found one near the fireplace. We ordered dark ale and filled our pipes. We discussed the incident at length. I told Sebastian that there might be repercussions if Geyersbach filed a complaint against him for drawing his weapon. 

As we drank, Sebastian said he was damn well going to finish the Cantata he had begun. And he would make sure it required the performing skills of a highly competent bassoonist. And, though he was not going to try practicing it or performing it in Arnstadt, he would leave it with the Consistory when he departed. And, when his successor tried practicing it with the student orchestra, Geyersbach would be humiliated.

I encouraged him. Now that he had successfully mastered the art of composing for the organ, he owed it to his musical gift to start composing Cantatas. This would be a good time and place to begin. Sebastian agreed and said he would begin work on it the next day.

His bruise had been swelling and it began to seem worrying so I suggested we leave the noise and commotion of the Mermaid, and make our way to my abode; I had medical supplies. He agreed, and we left the clanking tavern, and stepped out into an utterly clear night blazing with stars.

After treating his wounds, I offered him a glass of brandy. He accepted it, and after filling his pipe, stood by the window looking out. I lit a large candelabrum and positioned it beside the harpsichord. He polished off the brandy and puffing away on his pipe, remarked that though he had experienced many overpowering emotions in his life, this night’s episode had awakened an emotion he had never experienced before. I really feared for my life. He thanked me for being there for him adding that the whole episode had left him strangely euphoric. My dear Edmund, he said, A soaring melody is dancing right now in my soul; a soprano aria which I think I shall make the centerpiece of my first Cantata.

He sat down at the harpsichord and began playing. The melody, so concise, so potent, so free flowing, so heart wrenching, brought tears to my eyes. After playing it several times, he began improvising, and I was swept into a musical universe of light – a flowing world of endless sparkle fluidly gliding over a riverbed of precious stones. I sat in bliss until he came to a concisely stated variation of the original melody, and ended.

I sighed and told him a Cantata built on that theme would be the greatest of masterpieces. He smiled at me – a knowing smile that seemed to say he knew he would create such a masterpiece, and that far from being flattered by my praise, he very much appreciated it. I then offered to accompany him to his residence in case Geyersbach and his cronies were still on the prowl. He replied that he was far too fired up to sleep. I said I was too, and that he was welcome to stay in my spare room. He thanked me and said he might take me up on my offer.

I then rang for my servant Felix and when he appeared asked him to build a fire and bring out my finest brandy and some food. Felix appeared to be in bliss as he busied himself.  As I have always observed Master Edmund, Sebastian plays like the angels in heaven! I wholeheartedly agreed. The fire was lit and we dined. Afterward we sat, pipes lit, and began sipping brandy.

As the room flickered in the firelight, Sebastian stood, went back to the window and looked out. He gestured at the stars and said he wished his music to be as brilliant and as mysterious as they. I launched into yet another of my tedious meandering expositions about the ideas of Galileo and Newton. I reiterated that thanks to their calculations and discoveries, the objects in the heavens had been shown to be much further away and much more mysterious than anyone had ever previously imagined.

He pondered this for awhile. He finally said he fully agreed; Actually, I find all of life much more mysterious than anyone ever previously imagined. My desire is to distill the utterly mysteriousness of this into music.

He took another sip of brandy and refilled his pipe. Edmund, he said thoughtfully, "I wish to share with you a secret about my true view of the world, a view that came to me during my first years living with Christoph. What makes tonight so very unusual for me is that I have always studiously avoided violence - of any kind. But tonight, I drew my sword without hesitation. And I’m not sure why. Maybe it was that unexpected emotion of fear.

"This pertains to the story I wish to tell you, because when I was but a wee lad, a scrawny little pupil at the Latin School in Eisenach, violence was a way of life among my fellow classmates as well as in the cruel delight the headmasters and teachers took in meting out discipline. I have, since earliest memory found violence supremely horrid and ugly, nothing but ignorance and total insensibility. And violence always whirled around me, everywhere, at school, I seemed to be always in the thick of it, and it repelled me, made me physically ill.

"And so, I skipped school all the time to avoid it, and fled to the forest. There I found beauty and mystery abounding. There I wandered far and wide. Not long after my first all-day excursion, I had what can only be described as a mystical experience. I felt the life of the trees! They were throbbing with significance and spirit; their glow seemed somehow connected everywhere, and alive, flowing not just among the themselves, but flowing among the wildflowers, the shrubs, the sky, the clouds, all flowing, connecting one with the other. All I could do in response was sing. And I sang as I never had before. It was not singing from memory. It was composing, I was improvising. I had had enough rudimentary musical training to realize what I was singing was original and significant. The music I was singing was flowing through me from the trees – from everything in the forest.

Afterwards I had two or three more such mystical experiences and these gave me even more reason to escape the violence. Of course my grades suffered, but I knew in my heart that I was learning much more than I ever could in the classroom. And after that first epiphany, it did not take a mystical experience to inspire me to sing the beauty of the forest.

"When my mother died, I sought comfort and counsel in the forest. When my father died not long afterwards, I was uprooted, taken far away from the home I had known all my life, my favorite forest haunts too. It was absolutely devastating and I had no will to do anything.

"As you know, my brother Jacob and I were packed off to live with Christoph my eldest brother, in Ohrdruf. Christoph was a very stern brother, very disciplined, very hard working, and he took very firm charge of us. I plodded grimly through my days, unthinking, obeying, whatever, without any enthusiasm. I had no joy, not even in music. The new school, though reputable, suffered from the same violence as the old; if anything, it was worse. The Choirmaster at the Ohrdruf School was actually perverted. His violent application of disciplinary measures was as excessive as his iron-clad regimen was irrational. I endured him as I endured everything else, plodding unthinkingly along, filled with a bottomless disgust. Finally it became so bad I began fleeing into the forest, sometimes for two or three days in a row.

"The forest around Ohrdruf is much denser, darker and wilder than the woods around Eisenach, and the first time I explored it I was moved beyond words. I began singing again. I had regained my voice, and my improvisational ability seemed to awaken too. That day I sang until darkness came. It was my first moment of joy since my father died. When I entered Christoph’s abode well after dark, I was given a stern lecture about arriving home on time for dinner. I answered the big guy by going to the harpsichord and improvising on melodies that had come to me in the forest. Christoph sat down, a look of utter amazement on his face. I played for about an hour. He listened spellbound. He asked me where I had been and what had happened. I told him. He, of course, had been giving me instruction on the harpsichord and organ; but my playing so far had been plodding and mechanical, and I had never improvised.

"Christoph jumped up and went over to a pile of scores. He selected one by Pachelbel and spread it out. I had developed the ability to read music at a very early age, and I was also able to hear in my mind’s ear every note on the page as I read, in whatever instrumentation I chose. I played the Pachelbel piece from one end to the other, and then began improvising. Christoph could not get enough. I improvised on various other pieces he laid out before me far into the wee hours.

"After that, Christoph made every effort to help me. We copied everything we could get our hands on and I developed sets of improvisations on them all.

"In the meantime the violence at the Latin School became even more intolerable. And I went wandering in the forest non-stop. However, I found myself easily able to pass the exams. The inspiration I found was somehow translating into academia. By now Christoph had become accustomed to reports of my absences and my excessively late arrivals and said nothing.

"One thing I liked doing while wandering was tracing streams to their source – usually a tiny pool oozing from a shrubby dell on a hillside. This provided a sort of structure to my wanderings. One day, in autumn, following the sweetest little streamlet I had ever seen, I wandered into the reputedly haunted part of the forest. I had steadfastly avoided the place. Satanic apparitions were often said to be seen there, and eerie female singing heard.

I wandered into the haunted region following the streamlet. As I went along I began noticing this particular streamlet had a unique beauty. Its waters were by far the clearest I had ever seen. I was entranced. I sang my heart out as I continued following. The streamlet soon began to meander through increasingly dense thickets. I had to abandon my quest as the sun was setting and I could find no way around or through the rubbery tangles. I ceased singing, turned, and was beginning to make my way back, when suddenly I heard a soaring soprano voice coming from deep within the thickets, in the direction of the source of the stream. I stopped in my tracks. The singing continued. I was utterly transfixed! That melody burned itself into my soul and has never left. And that, my dear Edmund, is the melody I just played for you.

Sebastian paused to finish his brandy. He relit his pipe and stared out the window. I refilled his glass. Did you ever go back to the haunted region?

He took another pull on his pipe then began blowing smoke rings at the Milky Way. Yes, he replied. "All through that long, dark and very snowy winter I could not get that melody off my mind. I improvised endless variations on it. It took hold of me like nothing I had ever known. The days had become too short for me to reach the haunted region again and return before dark. Then all my rambles came to an end. The first snowfall came early, and was unusually heavy.

"I kept very busy with music that winter. And I became more diligent in the classroom. The brutal Choirmaster had been booted out when it became obvious that he was creating many more problems than he was solving. I applied myself. And I easily passed all the exams with honors. I also wrote out various harpsichord pieces I had composed, and practiced the organ. But as busy as I kept myself, I could not get that melody out of my head.

"Finally, all the snow melted and the first shoots of spring appeared. I resumed my woodland rambles, but with far less frequency. The Latin School had become tolerable, and I was studying hard. There was little need to escape. At first when I went into the forest, I found myself wary of returning to the haunted region. The more I thought about that melody, the more serious the prospect became.

"I spent long hours practicing the organ. At times people would come, sit and listen. As spring went by, I noticed a rather dowdy old peasant woman who always seemed to be there. She sat at the very back and listened with rapt attention. And she always disappeared the moment I stopped playing.

One stormy afternoon in May, I began improvising on that unforgettable melody. The only person present was the peasant woman. Soon thunder began roaring, and hail began pelting the windows. My improvisations became wilder and more extreme. I glanced into the darkness and saw the peasant woman dancing. She was obviously much more agile than her appearance suggested. She twirled and leaped and made elaborate gestures. The thunder roared louder than ever. I pulled out all the stops and began playing with an intensity I had never known before. I glanced down now and then at the peasant woman. Her dancing further inspired me. I gradually wound down from a towering climax into a slow romantic Sarabande. When I looked again at her, I could see she was weeping. I concluded, and bounded immediately down into the nave. But she had vanished. That incident was the inspiration I needed to go back to the haunted region. I thought there must be some connection between the peasant woman and the voice I had heard.

Sebastian paused to refill his pipe. It was growing late, but I was so fascinated by his tale I felt no fatigue, and he seemed more wound up than ever. Felix darted in with more wood and arranged the logs. I refilled my pipe and poured Sebastian another measure of brandy. The room had grown cold and the renewed fire felt good. We stared at the flames, puffed on our pipes and sipped the fiery, yet velvety smooth vintage. Sebastian finished his pipe, took a sip then resumed.

"I decided to skip classes altogether and spend a good long day exploring the haunted region. I had not delved that far into the forest since fall, and had a bit of trouble remembering the route. Finally I found the streamlet, this time even more magical than before.

"I followed it until the thickets became too dense, then waded in and continued. Soon the branches became interlaced. But at these points I would duck into the water and swim underneath. Finally the stream became too small and too shallow, and the thickets even more dense. I had to turn back.

"It was over a year before I made my next attempt.  This time I explored its perimeter. When I reached the area of the thickets, I began walking along the edge hoping for a way through. The gigantic, ancient trees clustering densely near the thicket line stretched trunk after receding trunk up very steep hillsides. I wandered far but could find no gap. Unbroken hills continued all the way around as I marched along and ultimately circled back to my starting point.

"The next day I was filled with creative fire. I spent most of the day copying out Monteverdi. When I got to the church for practice, there was no one there. I climbed up and sat at the instrument. I had not seen the peasant woman since the day of the hailstorm. I quickly became caught up in Monteverdi improvisations. The sun was beginning to set and I was finding great inspiration from the light filtering in shafts of pure gold into the church. My playing was reaching a fevered pitch when I glanced towards the back. There, sat the familiar peasant woman. I knew the moment I arose; she would vanish so I tried to study her, in a non-obvious way. She sat, leaning forward, drinking in my every note. I played on and on. It got dark. I ended and jumped up just in time to see her bolt. I ran out but she had vanished

"Christoph greeted me at home with a sly grin and handed me a letter. He said it had just been delivered. The envelope was pale pink, and upon it was inscribed, in extremely fine, ornate handwriting, in the upper left hand corner; ‘The Peasant Woman.’ I felt a sudden shudder run through me. My brother noticed it and quipped; ‘A secret admirer, eh…’ I replied that it must be and ran up to my room. I lit candles, opened the envelope and withdrew sheet of vellum on which was written; ‘Meet me tomorrow afternoon at the edge of the thickets by the sacred stream.’ It was signed, ‘The Keeper of the World Tree.’

"The next morning I slipped out before sunrise. The sky was blazing pink. It was a glorious morning. I marched along at top speed.

"The Haunted Region was quite distant, but after three or four hours of determined tramping I reached it. I hunted around for the magical streamlet and finally found it. I looked at its waters in the hot, mid-day light. The ripples sparkled in such a way as to suggest notes. I began singing them. Soon, my singing was echoed by the soprano voice. I stopped, listened. I could not contain myself. I rushed madly upstream in the direction of the voice, but the thickets quickly closed in and became too dense.

"I went back to the meeting place. I heard a faint rustling. I turned around and there before me stood the peasant woman. I looked closely, something I had been unable to do in the church. I was surprised to see she was quite young.

"I greeted her; ‘I am Johann Sebastian Bach.’

"I am Maria, Keeper of the World Tree. I am the sole inhabitant here and wish to invite you to my abode. You possess a magic that is sorely needed by your fellow beings. And I wish to enlighten your magic by inviting you to my home, The World Tree - the spiritual heart of the Black Forest.’

"I followed her into the thickets. A very subtle gap soon gave way to a clear and much trodden path. It wound up a small hill then through shallow ravines, finally descending to a flat area dominated by the largest, oldest Beech trees I had ever seen. The thickets soon gave way to a carpet of densely blooming wildflowers and moss.

"The Keeper walked rapidly along, almost dancing. We finally emerged into a clearing. Before us stood a tree of such staggering dimensions I began trembling, its massive gnarled trunk was at least fifty feet in diameter and rose over three hundred feet straight up before spreading out in a perfect umbrella-shaped canopy. At the base of the trunk was a large opening, a wood cave of sorts out of which issued the magical streamlet.

"I looked at the colossal tree and fell down on my knees. I turned to the Keeper. She had removed the peasant outfit and now stood before me dressed in sturdy trousers, boots and a white silk shirt. She appeared in her mid-twenties. I stood, took off my hat and bowed. She smiled and invited me into her dwelling.

"The Keeper busied herself at the stove, I surveyed the sitting room. A small harpsichord stood at one end facing a window that looked out on the World Tree. Books of all sorts lined the walls. On a table beside the harpsichord were scattered stacks of music. I picked up the top score. It was the Magnificat from Monteverdi’s Vespers. ‘You certainly do possess a fine wealth of sheet music.’

‘Yes, Sebastian, I regard music as the highest, purest form of magic.’ She said she knew I had made the discovery that trees have souls, and that their soul energy had provided me with musical inspiration.

"I affirmed what she said. ‘I know it is heresy, but I feel deeply that flowers, grass, the streams, the stars, the clouds, all have souls and that they are all united in an inconceivably massive harmony – a Fugue of the Universe. It is from this infinite Fugue that I draw my inspiration!’

She positively beamed at me. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘you made this discovery all on your own. It is exactly what I and my Sisters in Venice – a convent of Lay Nuns – believe.’

‘I am wondering how you were able to afford this handsome marble house, all this music, all these books’.

"She explained that her story was far too long and complicated to be told. It was growing late. I needed to begin my journey home. ‘But, I have written it all down,’ she said, ‘and here it is. ‘She handed me a large, thick envelope.

‘Before you go, Sebastian, we must honor both you and the World Tree with a sacrament.’ We went to the opening at the base of the tree. From within, water poured off a marble shelf into a small pool – and from it the magical streamlet flowed. The Keeper reached inside and withdrew two elaborately engraved cups and a ladle. She dipped the ladle into the pool and poured it over my head. Then she filled the cups and we both drank. She then invited me to join her in singing the Magnificat from Monteverdi’s Vespers. My soul was deeply touched. I had never sung with such feeling. We ended. And all the birds burst into wild chorus. ‘We were well received,’ she commented.

"Did you see the Keeper often after that?’

Yes, replied Sebastian, Many times. And I paid many more visits to the World Tree. But it is getting very late and I must play for the Count and Countess in the morning. So I think I’ll say goodnight.

Are you sure you don’t want to stay?

No I’ll need a change of clothes for my morning performance. There are bloodstains on my jacket. But I do wish to dine with you tomorrow. Let’s eat at the Mermaid Tavern after organ practice. I want to give you the Keeper’s narrative. I feel it is important for you to know more about her.

I told him he should go to the Consistory on his way to the castle, and lodge a formal complaint against Geyersbach.

I was planning on doing just that. I shall demand that Geyersbach be soundly punished, and that I be given respect and safe passage on the streets of Arnstadt.

I bid him goodnight and he stepped out under the blaze of the Milky Way. 

****

The Keeper’s Tale

The next evening I met Sebastian at the Mermaid Tavern as planned. We ordered dark lager and filled our pipes. Sebastian told me he had duly filed the formal complaint. After we had eaten, he withdrew from an inner pocket, a large, thick envelope. On its face was an embossed image of a gigantic tree surrounded by tiny mushrooms and birds. ‘This, Edmund, is my greatest treasure. I give it to you freely to read - for being there last night.’

I told him I would treat it with utmost discretion.

He then told me he was going to Martin Feldhaus’s guest house to give his second cousin Maria Barbara a clavichord lesson. As I think I have mentioned, I have developed quite a regard for her. We are in the process of developing a relationship, an understanding.

So, you did not fall in love with The Keeper? 

I love her to be sure - but she is a holy woman, a mystic, a total recluse. Maria Barbara is pretty, accomplished, and as you well know, quite attached to me. It would be an easily arranged alliance. But she and I need time: before I marry, I must obtain a better post. I could never support a wife and children on my current salary. And if I am to fully realize my vision of producing concerted music, I must have better musicians!

I told him his decision was wise and applauded his practicality. We parted with a hearty handshake.

I went back to my abode to sip sherry, puff on my pipe, and read the narrative of The Keeper. I carefully opened the beautifully decorated envelope and withdrew a thick stack of light pink pages inscribed in a very precise hand. I settled back in my chair to read.

My dear Johann Sebastian Bach,

I know you have a lot of questions, about me, about the World Tree, and about how I came to be its Keeper. I represent a long tradition of female mysticism wholly devoted to the idea that music is the only way of directly communicating fundamental spiritual reality. My Sisters and I worship music. We believe music possesses far more magic, far more power to move the soul, to motivate the human spirit, than anything in texts and verbiage. Yet there have been so few who have had authentic direct communion with this reality, along with the ability to effectively translate it into music; Josquin and Monteverdi are two names that spring readily to mind. But you outdo them all! When I first heard you play the organ, I was utterly transported! Your spirit blazes so brightly. Afterwards, I came often to hear you play. And you began to notice me. But I wanted to listen to you as much as I could before attempting communication.

I come from a very long line of Keepers. The World Tree is much older than Christianity. Keepers are always women. They sometimes come under suspicion for being witches; but they provide so many healing remedies and administer such effective medical services for the community, that the local citizens usually regard them as saints.

My Grandmother was raped by a soldier towards the end of the Thirty Years War and became pregnant. My Mother was born prematurely in the forest clearing beside the World Tree. My Grandmother bathed the tiny infant in the Sacred Pool and the tree performed its miracle. My Mother was soon full of life and eager to be nursed. She grew strong. My Grandmother did not live at the World Tree. As did previous Keepers, she lived in a peasant cottage near the edge of the thickets. She had a large garden there. And she gathered medicinal herbs from the forest. Only on appointed ritual days would she visit the World Tree. Keepers always tried to appear as normal as possible.

Mother was proficient in music. And the house was filled to capacity with copies of the best music. For over six hundred years, Keepers have been the spiritual leaders of a society of Lay Nuns in Venice, devotees of spiritual music. Occasionally two or three Sisters will make a pilgrimage to the World Tree.

As Mother grew up she spent considerable time singing. She easily memorized the music in the house and strenuously practiced it. She and the World Tree formed a special spiritual bond. She set up a small hut in the clearing beside the Tree and installed there the finest Venetian virginal the Lay Sisters could obtain.

Mother grew up a solitary, and after she had been educated as well as my Grandmother’s store of knowledge enabled, was seldom seen at the peasant cottage. My Grandmother traveled to Ohrdruf for supplies, or had had them sent in exchange for herbs.  As Mother grew into maturity her musical ability became immense, and her mind penetrating and far ranging. She possessed a powerful healing ability, along with an extraordinary ability to combine medicinal herbs in new and powerful combinations. ‘It is like improvisation in music,’ she would say.

One day in late May, she was returning from Ohrdruf after having healed a little girl of a lung ailment. As she was passing through the forest, she was accosted by a band of outlaw soldiers. The soldiers had just looted a nearby castle and had slain all the inhabitants. The local militia happened to be out in the fields that day practicing and when word reached them of the raid, they immediately gave chase. The rogue soldiers fled into the forest, their ample saddlebags filled to capacity with the fruit of their pillaging. The militia finally gave up the chase when the forest became too dense, dark and wild. The rogue soldiers continued on and encountered Mother. They surrounded her and ordered her to remove her clothes: When she stood trembling and naked before them, they took her, and one by one cruelly raped her.

After finishing, the soldiers declared themselves starving. They had emptied their saddlebags of provisions in order to carry more loot. They asked Mother if there was a cottage nearby where they could get a meal. As she was putting on her clothes, Mother told them she would lead them to her own cottage.

That morning an uncharacteristically vociferous Raven gave my Grandmother a premonition that something was going horribly wrong. And my Grandmother somehow intuited the nature of the disaster. Upon reaching the cottage, the rogue soldiers found my Grandmother stirring a large iron pot of venison stew over an outside fire. The aroma was overpowering and the drooling soldiers lost no time dismounting. They were served bowls of the steaming stew, and mugs of a very special wine. To the wine, my Grandmother had added the most potent vision inducing mushroom tea in her store along with a variety of her most potent pain relieving herbs. Meanwhile Mother vanished into the thickets to seek comfort at the World Tree.

The soldiers grew rowdier and more out of control as the afternoon progressed. Suddenly they shed their armor and their clothes then danced around naked in the clearing for awhile before fleeing into the forest.

Mother became pregnant with me as a result. She and my Grandmother decided to move into the clearing surrounding the World Tree. They had suddenly acquired fabulous wealth - the looted treasure the soldiers had left behind. They decided to sell everything as quickly as possible. They would use the cash to build a house in the clearing - a very nice, spacious house worthy of the Keeper. This they did. My Mother and Grandmother were masters of disguise, and were easily able to pass themselves off as male traders. They used the horses they had acquired to transport the goods to Venice, where with the help of the Sisters, they were able to sell everything for a fabulous price.

For the design of the house in the clearing, my Grandmother employed an excellent Venetian architect for next to nothing thanks to his love for one of the Lay Nuns whom he hoped one day to marry. The Lay Nuns found builders they knew could be trusted.

The money not used for construction (and it was considerable) was turned into gold for future expenses. The peasant cottage was abandoned and burned to the ground.

When I was born, I was baptized in the sacred pool. Mother’s milk and World Tree sap nourished me. From the earliest age I was precocious, especially in music.

One clear windless night, when I was five years old, the full moon and the Vernal Equinox coincided. As the moon rose my Grandmother removed from a niche in the World Tree’s alcove, a small highly ornamented bottle. It contained dust from the World Tree’s rarely occurring vision inducing shelf mushrooms. The dust had been aging for over two hundred years – the last time the shelf mushrooms had appeared. She sprinkled a pinch into one of the World Tree’s ceremonial goblets and water from the pool. As the full moon’s illumination began streaking through the forest my Grandmother began playing the harpsichord. As she did so my Mother danced in rhythm around the edge of the clearing lighting herbal smudges. I was seated in the alcove, gazing at a mirror my Grandmother had placed on the bottom of the pool. The smoke from the smudges rose straight into the air, enhancing the shafts of moonlight. My Mother then began plucking at the shafts as she danced. As she did so they began undulating wildly twisting off from time to time into elaborate floral forms that danced and cavorted. My Grandmother’s playing grew increasingly complex. The floral shapes began expanding into interlocking geometric forms. When a shaft of moonlight finally hit the mirror a golden spark arose, hovered over the water then began trembling. Finally after breaking a fifth string my Grandmother collapsed. After a long sickening silence she recovered. As Mother embraced her and stoked her hair, I began singing one of the melodies my Grandmother had just played as the pulsating spark continued hovering. My Mother and Grandmother tucked themselves into the alcove with me and we all sang to the spark. It gradually rose up from the pool touched each of us on the lips then floated off into the upper branches to become lost in the leaves.

My Grandmother related that when she had lost consciousness she had had a searing vision – a very detailed vision. ‘Five years hence, on this very day, a son will be born in this forest possessing more musical magic than the world has ever known. Of humble origin, he will lose his parents early and his situation will become precarious. We are tasked with finding and assisting him’

A year after that momentous night, my Mother began venturing for extended periods far into the remotest, wildest portions of the forest. She delved deeply into plant spirit medicine, identifying new plants and conversing with them in spirit language. She collected a wide variety and large quantity of healing herbs, brought them to the World Tree, and carefully prepared them according to plant spirit instructions.

When she had filled six large chests, she obtained horses and brought them to the clearing. She made ready for a long journey. She sat me down and explained that she was an especially gifted healer, and that her recent plant sprit work had given her a host of new ideas and techniques. As much as she loved me and enjoyed the idyllic life under the boughs of the World Tree, she felt she needed a safe place in which she could minister. ‘The World Tree has given me the rare gift to love humankind and to serve. So I shall travel to Venice and join my Sisters, many of whom are also healers.

I spent my days thereafter studying music with my Grandmother, practicing the harpsichord and receiving instruction. I spent much time mediating. And I played the harpsichord furiously. There was an extensive library in the house, and when I was not playing or learning rituals, I was reading.

When I was ten years old (it was the Winter Solstice and new moon) my Grandmother announced she was passing. She took a seat at the back of the alcove and stared at the pool. At the bottom was the mirror. She told me once again that my primary purpose in life, apart from tending the World Tree, was to find that bright star, that musical Messiah, and provide assistance to him. She then began singing her soul song. The World Tree’s branches quivered, sending down showers of snowflakes. I felt my Grandmother’s spirit gradually melt into the massive trunk to join countless other deceased Keepers.

And so I became a solitary. The sacred pool emitted considerable warmth, enough to keep the clearing free of snow and frost, and I was always quite comfortable in winter. Finally it was time for me to begin thinking about how I was going to find my Grandmother’s musical Messiah. Enough time had passed that he would now be in his early teens.

One spring day Sister Agnes brought me a load of supplies. She also brought news that a new Bach had recently arrived in Ohrdruf, a young lad who had just lost his parents and had come to live with his eldest brother, Christoph, the church organist. I thought I should probably go to the church sometime soon in my peasant woman disguise and listen to Christoph Bach play the organ. Maybe this younger brother would also be there.

In early June, as I wandered among the wildflowers, I heard your voice give wordless utterance to the noblest most beautiful melody I had ever heard. I snuck into the thickets and listened. I had never been so moved. I was transfixed. Your voice faded soon and was gone.

The next day, on an intuitive hunch, I went early to the church. Christoph was practicing. I listened without enthusiasm. He finally departed. It was growing dark. The bellows worker was having a final smoke before leaving. As he was puffing away, you rushed in, hopped on the organ bench and beckoned to the bellows worker to resume. The bellows worker burst out laughing. I pressed a few florins into his hand, and begged him to continue. You started out on a melody I had heard you sing in the forest. Then you proceeded to elaborate on it with such skill and creativity I was overwhelmed. Never had I heard such playing.

One fine morning in late October, I as was meditating in the alcove, gazing at the mirror, it suddenly told me that you were following the sacred stream. I jumped up and hastened to the place where the stream emerged. I waited. Soon I could hear you. I was profoundly moved. You stopped singing when you reached the thickets. I could sense you contemplating the water. Then you burst into joyous song.