There Came a Contagion

By Doug Ingold

There Came a Contagion is a work of historical literary fiction set in the Territory of Trier, Germany late in the sixteenth century. The reformation is ongoing but the Territory has remained Catholic, ruled by an archbishop who is also a prince and elector of the empi

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolfenden
• Release date: Jul 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9780997351323

Book preview

THERE CAME A CONTAGION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be

reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic or mechanical including photocopying,

scanning, recording, or by any information storage

system without the written permission of the author,

except for brief quotations in a review.

Copyright © 2021 by Douglas A. Ingold

ISBN 978-0-9973513-1-6 (print)

ISBN 978-0-9973513-2- (e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021902892

Published by

Arcata, California

[e-mail]

wolfendenpublishing.com

Cover, Layout & Design:

Robert Stedman Pte Ltd, Singapore

Printed in the USA

Other novels by

Doug Ingold

Rosyland: A Novel in III Acts

SQUARE

The Henderson Memories

In the Big City

This Novel is dedicated to

Nina Haedrich

(Her memory inspired it, her support and assistance sustained it.)

With additional thanks to

Jan, Steve, Cynthia, Robert and Gabrielle

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Contents

The Family

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

The Midwife

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Sterility

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Contagion

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Fifty-One

Fifty-Two

Fifty-Three

Fifty-Four

Fifty-Five

Fifty-Six

Fifty-Seven

Fifty-Eight

Agnus Dei

Fifty-Nine

Sixty

Sixty-One

Sixty-Two

Sixty-Three

Sixty-Four

Sixty-Five

Sixty-Six

Sixty-Seven

Sixty-Eight

Sixty-Nine

A Mother Remembers

Seventy

Postscript

Sources

THE FAMILY

ONE

he woman Arved, the wife of Basil Helgen, a farmer in the village, had become pregnant with their second child. The first birth (that of their son Johannes, named after his stern grandfather, who at that time still lived and dominated the home) had nearly cost Arved her life, and Basil had determined to never cause her to become pregnant again.

I will protect you, he promised. I will keep you safe. And Arved, wan, the infant Johannes at her breast, had responded, Yes, Helgen. If that is your wish.

His fear of a second pregnancy combined with the physical demands of their work, the crowded conditions in which they lived and the church’s condemnation of all sexually related pleasure kept them apart for several months. The very real problem was that they were profoundly and passionately attracted to one another. As the weeks passed, as the boy grew and their lives returned to their familiar rhythms, looks passed ever more frequently between them. Hands reached out to touch, lips brushed. Every impulse called for their bodies to be entwined.

His wife was capable of a kind of wonderment, it seemed to Basil, a passion that was vaguely frightening, almost blasphemous. And yet, when they were separate from one another, he with the scythe in his hands, she in the house spinning with the other women, there would arise in him a desire—one more powerful than anything he had ever experienced—a desire to bring her again into that state of wild, clinging passion.

Away, he would mutter aloud, the scythe swinging, the sun hot on his shoulders. Get away from me, fiend. For how could he explain the all-consuming hunger that rose in him, rose in direct contradiction to his intent, except to attribute it to some outside force?

I will withdraw myself, Basil whispered one night, his voice husky. Before the end I will withdraw myself. Blushing slightly, his wife lowered her eyes causing him to add: Your safety is my desire.

Arved did not lift her eyes; she stroked his neck with delicate fingers, and pulled his face closer to hers.

Then one night, when the child Johannes was almost five, Basil Helgen failed.

It was Basil’s mother, the widow Marsel, who first suspected a change in Arved. She noticed that her daughter-in-law rarely spoke now in the morning, while before she had often hummed, and late in the evening, Marsel would hear her praying aloud in a singing, chant-like voice. Then one morning she followed Arved outside. She found her holding back her hair with one hand and pushing against the woolen folds of her dress with the other as she retched onto the ground.

Marsel placed her hand on Arved’s belly. My child, have you yet told your husband? At that point she had to catch the suddenly sobbing young woman to keep her from collapsing entirely.

Basil and Jacob had already left for a day of cutting firewood in the forest. When they returned, smelling of pine resin, their hands and forearms dark and sticky with the substance, Basil entered a room filled with women, all of whom went suddenly silent. In addition to his mother and wife, Jacob’s wife Klara was there, holding the baby Irmele; beside her was Sabastian’s bride Ursula, and Arved’s two sisters: Anna, with her daughter Agnes, and Gisele, the mother of the boy Zacharias.

When Jacob entered the room a moment later, he witnessed a scene he would not soon forget. He saw Basil sit down heavily and call for beer. Then Arved stepped away from the other women; she approached her husband, and with trembling lips, whispered something to him. Jacob saw his brother jump to his feet and call out: My God, I have killed you and damned my very soul! Then he turned and ran from the room.

The women were gasping and crossing themselves. They rushed to Arved who had fainted and fallen to the floor. Looking out, Jacob saw his brother half running as he left the property entirely.

It was after dark when Basil returned to the Helgen home. With him was Frau Rachel Mueller, the village midwife. The women in the family were surprised to see the two of them together; Frau Mueller was not normally seen walking about in the company of a man. Gray, short and spiny, it was generally believed she had never married, though there were rumors to the contrary. She could be seen trekking alone over the fallow ground or along the river, a pouch slung over her shoulder. In addition to midwifery, she knew plants and their uses in medicines, and it was said she utilized incantations and charms in her practice. Rachel Mueller was a person whom if you went to see, you went in private and in need, as had Basil with his dark and sticky hands on that fateful evening.

Frau Mueller was made welcome by the women and offered beer, which she declined. She sat across from Arved who was still crying softly, and she studied her for a few moments. Then she asked to meet with the young woman in private. When the two of them returned, she spoke privately with Basil who nodded his head solemnly. Then she insisted that he and the other males leave the room including young Johannes and his cousin Zacharias who were watching wild-eyed from a doorway.

When the men had gone, the midwife spoke: We must do what we can to help this woman survive her pregnancy and to bring into life a new child. She removed a small packet from her pouch, which she tied around Arved’s neck. We do not want you sneezing, my girl. Sneezing weakens the womb. Avoid intimacy with your husband. I will speak to him about this. And keep your eyes and thoughts away from ugliness and death. Attend no funerals. If you encounter a body in the street, be it animal or man, turn away. And your workload must be lightened. On the other hand, I don’t want you lying about in bed like some lazy duchess who expects her food brought to her and her hair combed by a dutiful servant! I have seen your needlework. This you should keep up. Just avoid lifting sacks of grain or pushing about barrels of beer or kraut. I will come regularly. And when I approach this house, I want to hear your laughter ringing out and your voice singing. Do you understand?

I do, Arved answered, wiping her eyes.

You will bring to us a beautiful child, Rachel Mueller said softly, and she bent down and placed her hands on Arved’s shoulders.

TWO

Autumn arrived with its smoky air. The sow had delivered a healthy litter. The cereals had been harvested and safely stored. Where winter rye had been planted, the strips of land showed now blankets of pleasing green. And Advent, that season of cruel nights and bitter days fast approached. Time had come for the Helgen family to deliver its annual rent to the abbey.

The journey would take a full day, and Basil, Jacob and Sebastian were outside before light. They packed the wagon with sacks of grain and hoisted the yoke onto the oxen. The ground was hard with frost. The oxen huffed vapor from their nostrils; the heavy wheels creaked and the men walked alongside wrapped in sheepskin coats.

This would be the brothers’ first trip to the abbey without their father. The stern Johannes had died suddenly on the Sunday that commemorates the birth of Saint John the Baptist, and Basil had inherited the land and house. The law did not require that property pass from father to eldest son, but that had been Johannes’s will. The brothers had learned the details while seated in the notary’s office a short time following their father’s death.

The three of them felt muted in the large room with its polished furniture, its cushioned chairs, the table stacked with papers covered with seals and incomprehensible writings. The notary himself was intimidating. An older man, he had a wart at the center of his wide forehead, gray, bristly hairs shooting out from his ears, and what struck Jacob most strongly, on the man’s soft fingers jeweled rings that reflected the light entering through the window.

The words read from the will stunned the young men, though the brutal directness of their father’s decision struck them as typical of the man under whose dominion they had grown. As a child Johannes had had his right foot crushed beneath the hoof of an ox, and his determined limping stride—as if he were punishing that crushed foot with every step—revealed the character of the man. They could picture him making a decision in mid-stride and turning suddenly into the office of the notary. He would have demanded that the will be written out then and there. After the text had been slowly read to him, he would have made his mark and watched closely as the mark was witnessed and the document sealed. Then, after setting coins on the table, their father would have abruptly left. Each son could imagine the expression of smug contempt that would have appeared on his face as he returned to the street. It all rang true. Some wave of irritation, some slight, real or imagined, followed by a sudden act that he revealed to no one.

But after the notary had read the will, and after Basil had recovered from the shock, he made a declaration. Yes, he understood that the Helgen holdings, their home, the lands they owned and those they leased, all passed to him, subject to the rights of their mother. And should Basil wish, upon his death his son (the dark-haired five-year-old who stood now at his knee staring with unabashed curiosity at the ugly notary and his finery) would inherit the estate as well. But as to the house and the land itself, both the strips they owned and those they leased from the abbey, it was Basil’s promise that the benefits should go equally to himself and his brothers. It was his intent that Jacob, Sebastian and their wives continue to live in the home and farm the land with him, not as hired workers but as partners equal in every way. For all practical purposes, the three of them would be shared owners of the Helgen family inheritance.

The younger brothers looked at each other and then at Basil. The notary, after a moment’s pause, and perhaps calculating the additional fee he could charge, proposed that he should reduce the boys’ verbal understanding to a formal written agreement that he would date and they would mark and he make binding with his seal. He would draft the document in triplicate, he proposed, three originals each dated, marked and sealed. Having expressed this sound advice there arose on the face of the notary an expression of competence and pleased self-regard.

For a moment the brothers appeared paralyzed. Perhaps each of them was asking himself what he would do with such a document. Where would he put it? How would he keep it safe? And what use could it possibly have, given that none of them could read? Or perhaps it was just that they loved and trusted one another, because Jacob, who was the second oldest son shook his head. Then Sebastian did the same, and Basil said to the notary: That won’t be necessary.

They say horses are faster, Sebastian suggested as the brothers and their oxen left the village in the first light.

And more expensive, Basil said. A man would need give two oxen to get himself a decent horse. And what good is one horse?

Give me the ox, Jacob agreed. A temperamental animal, the horse, twitchy. Given to moods. The ones bred for riding even more than your draft animal. They’ll kick at you if they don’t like the cut of your beard. But a good ox is like a good brother. You can count on him when you need him.

But a man has two horses, Sebastian persisted. Two good draft horses trained to the harness, he’d be over this rise and gone by now.

Our boy’s in a hurry, Jacob said, nudging Basil in the ribs.

A good thing we got all day, Basil said.

When they reached the top of the rise, they could see where the road skirted the lower side of the large forested hill that rose up behind the village. They paused to give the oxen a breather and as they passed a jug of beer among themselves, they watched a solitary crow rise up from the trees in the distance. The bird set out on a flight directly toward them. As they turned and watched, it flew down toward the village and was out of sight in the direction of the pastureland on the other side. Soon there came others, alone or in groups of two or three, each silent, each making deep strokes with its wings. A hundred or more must have passed as they stood watching.

Your raven will play, Jacob said. He’ll soar and tumble and spin. He’ll make more sounds than a clown at a street fair. But these crows look to have a job to do. They got no time to glide, no idea to look around. And you’d think they had no word to say, not for good or ill, not to you, not to me, and not to each other.

They don’t speak good to me, Basil said. All I see is black, a sky of black.

The three fell silent for a moment. Then Sebastian said, Your woman will be all right, brother.

The boy’s right, Jacob agreed. I heard Arved singing sweetly just last night. She’s strong, that girl. Bright of spirit. She’ll get through this.

Basil did not respond. He watched the last of the crows disappear, then turned and grunted at the oxen to get them moving.

It was noon when they reached the old Roman bridge. A boat stacked with large barrels, its sail up, was being towed upstream by a man riding one horse and snapping his whip at two additional horses in front of him. The towrope stretched from the rear horse back to the hull of the boat and then on to the mast. A man standing in the hull, his hands gripping the rope, was shouting something at the horseman but his words could not be understood from the bridge. In the water flowing below them, Sebastian saw three snow-white swans. When their heads and necks disappeared beneath the surface, their bodies resembled large inanimate mounds of floating feathers.

At the city wall they turned the team south and made their way along the cobbled street toward the abbey. The wheels of the wagon scraped, the oxen snorted, their hooves spreading awkwardly and slipping on the uneven stones. Near the abbey guardhouse, a man stood wrapped in skins. He was moving his legs about and stomping his feet as if cold. Beside him was a horse loaded on either side with finely shaped leather boxes.

As Basil set off for the guardhouse, Sebastian approached the man and began a conversation, sliding his hand along the horse’s flank.

Twitchy, is she?

Not even on a Sunday, lad. Her mood’s as smooth as cream atop the pail.

Sebastian crouched down and felt along the horse’s foreleg. Then he leaned back on his haunches and studied the leg. God gave them a strange construction when you look at it. Knobs and all, a spindly sense about it, one joint here opposite the one there. And a single toe only, not like the pig, the sheep or the ox. He stood and stepped back a pace. But they are a handsome creature overall. Where, may I ask, do the problems show up?

Problems tend to show up wherever and whenever they are least needed, lad. That is true of man and beast in my experience. But with the horse, I’d say in the leg, the foreleg more than the rear. You have more familiarity with the ox, I take it.

I do. I hold great admiration for their tolerance and strength. But in their rolling eyes I sometimes see what I fear may be a great hatred.

Hatred, do you?

I do. It’s like the coals of a fire that’s been bedded down for the night. It smolders below the surface, another burden, I imagine in the journey God has given them, a sullen hatred that they must cart from here to there and beyond.

The man seemed to think about that. He studied the oxen standing thick and stolid before the wagon, the yoke heavy on their necks, their horns glinting in the light. Then he said: Hatred is a heavy burden indeed, lad. And one born by many with less strength and less patience than the ox.

Jacob had approached and was examining the leather boxes secured on the horse. He ran a hand carefully across the surface of the one near him, and bent close to study its seams and fastenings.

Now, these announce an excellent craftsman, sir, he said to the man. An artisan who is skilled in his work. One capable of recognizing the best materials, who has the means to acquire them and the skill to wisely use them.

Your eye is clear, my friend. I have kept them hidden beneath a covering for much of my journey for fear the packaging would attract thieves as likely as their contents. You might note as well my attire, which resembles that of a picker who ambles about in search of that which has been discarded by others. All of a purpose, I assure you. The countryside is alive with brigands and zealots and I have passed among them without serious notice. But my disguise has proven itself too clever on this frigid morning. That quarrelsome guard at the gate has refused me entrance!

And why is that? Sebastian wanted to know.

He claims that I am but one of those who, these last days, I have successfully avoided. I removed the covering on arrival to show that sour fellow that I had goods of value to deliver but so far to no avail. He trusts me not and he believes little of what I have to say. Even my naming of the Mother Superior at St. Scholastica did not persuade him. ‘A name can be spoken by anyone’ was his foul-breathed dismissal. ‘A name is not a letter written and signed under seal.’ But the Mother Superior did not think to give me such a letter. She naively assumed I would be made welcome, even embraced for the good service I have rendered. Those of good heart are fools, I tell you. She, who would have welcomed one such as me, assumed the same would be true at this dismal place. Yet this man treats me like vermin when I had expected to be made welcome with food and drink, with hay for my horse and a comfortable bed for myself.

Has he refused you outright? Sebastian asked, returning from the wagon with the jug of beer and some bread.

He insists I wait here in the cold until he has had an opportunity to meet with his superior, which he is in no hurry to do. Has he gone to his superior? No, he has not left his post this past hour or more. Has he sent for his superior? That I doubt as well. Certainly no one has come to consult with him, or to examine the materials I have to deliver. The materials I have, I assure you, will speak for themselves. Once they are seen and examined, I will be made welcome. Yet even now he is chatting amiably with that fellow and seems in no hurry to accommodate my needs. He paused to take a bite of bread and a swallow of the beer. Well now, I thank you, lad. This beer is as fine as any I have tasted in a while.

That fellow is our brother, Jacob said. He is well known here. Perhaps he will be able to assist you if the guard remains unwilling to do so.

If your brother can pry me past that villain, I will be in his debt beyond question. Those with a modicum of power, I tell you, delight in tormenting those with none.

Jacob moved again to the patient horse and stroked the leather box with the tips of his fingers. These are indeed handsome satchels, friend, and finely made. Can you reveal to us from where you come, and the items you have been transporting in them?

From where I come I may speak, the man said. I began my journey at St. Scholastica, the Benedictine nunnery at Dinklage, far to the east. I have been passing through exposed country for seven days, sleeping in stables and on the floors of churches. Though I stand now at the very gate of safety, until that foul man grants me entrance, I must maintain my silence as to the purpose of my journey. As to the satchels, however, I can inform you that they were fashioned by a master craftsman in the city of Leipzig. A man who goes by the name of Julius. His reputation is well known in that country. Look, your brother has at last freed himself from that devil.

Basil had left the guardhouse. As he walked toward the wagon, he motioned for his brothers to join him.

We’re to proceed to the granary where Elias will meet us.

Brother, Sebastian asked, can you help that man? He has been denied entrance by the guard.

Basil chuckled. He grunted at the oxen and slapped the near one on the shoulder. As they passed through the gate, he said, That fellow will soon have his goods examined, and assuming they are as he says, he will be made welcome.

But why has he been made to wait all this time? He’s been on the road seven days, he tells us, sleeping in stables and on the floors of churches, and is here left to stand and wait.

He may be a fine fellow, Sebastian, and his purpose may be sound, but as the guard tells it, he has no manners and less patience. He arrived in a sullen state and behaved like a disgruntled noble, demanding to see the abbot himself without delay. Simply put, he does not know how to speak to a man in a guardhouse. This guard kept me there talking, entertaining me with gossip and jokes for the sole purpose, I suspect, of annoying your friend back there. And what did I do? I listened and laughed of course, and told a few stories of my own. I am not a fool. And now we are inside and he is still without.

Visible to them now at the far end of the courtyard was the great arched entrance to the two-spired abbey church. In its underground crypt, encased in stone, were the remains of an apostle, dead and venerated for more than fifteen hundred years. Over the centuries, the Helgen family and thousands of others had made pilgrimage to the site.

Basil was not a man given to sentiment, but he could not set eyes on the church’s façade without experiencing again the holy terror he felt first the time he descended into that smoky, torch-lit crypt to stand before the saint’s strange cubic encasement. Flickering shadows and wisps of smoke moved over and around it; glints of light reflected off the carved walls of the small cave in which it rested. The object had seemed to him a thing alive.

THREE

About the hour the wagon was making its way through the abbey’s gate, Arved and her mother-in-law, the widow Marsel Helgen, were walking home from church; they went daily now to pray for the coming child. Their heads were wrapped in wimples, their arms interlocked. They moved slowly and their heavy skirts brushed against each other; the wooden pattens on their shoes made walking somewhat precarious.

The days of morning sickness had ended for Arved. She was often ravenously hungry and Marsel had become her guardian angel; she prepared soups and stews and served them in a large wooden bowl accompanied by chunks of dark bread that the older woman broke off by the fistful, grunting audibly as she ripped it free from the loaf.

The widow Marsel had borne six children, five of whom had survived to adulthood. In addition to her three sons, she had two daughters, both older than the boys. The daughters had entered the service of the church which had been a source of pride to her. But she had no contact with them, so she extended her maternal impulses toward her three daughters-in-law. And of the three, Arved seemed to her the most precious and the most vulnerable. A shadow of fragility hung about the girl. Marsel fought this idea; she prayed for its removal, but it kept coming back to her.

She had known the young woman since birth. When Marsel first arrived in the village as the young bride of Johannes, Arved’s mother, a woman named Hette, had befriended her. Hette had been dead now five years, and that too—the fact that Marsel had lost her closest friend and Arved her mother—strengthened the bond between them.

Marsel hated walking in pattens. She hated it only slightly less than she hated scrubbing filth off her shoes, which is why she wore them. On every walk she complained of them, sometimes vehemently. Each time Arved listened and commiserated, and was never so cruel as to say, Mother, you have told me that a dozen times!

The two walked very slowly. Perhaps Marsel even exaggerated her need for caution and the importance of Arved’s steadying arm; she wanted to extend this private time as long as possible.

As they neared the house, Marsel asked about Basil, her voice quiet. By outward appearances her son seemed to have accepted the pregnancy. That outburst, when first he learned of it, so uncharacteristic of him, so shocking to everyone, had not been repeated. He was always busy, of course, as were all three of her sons. Much of their work was physical and tiring, and the women accepted that when the men entered the house they needed to be accommodated in subtle ways. Not mothered, not babied, not sympathized with, but given a chair, given food and drink, given a chance to rest; all done at a respectful distance.

In some ways, the women behaved toward the men in the same way the men behaved toward their domestic animals: they provided for their needs without sentimentality or overt affection. Yet, the women’s task required greater subtlety. A man knew that the ox was larger and stronger than he; that it could with a sudden move crush him against a stable wall or with a step smash his foot as had happened to the boys’ father. Still, they presumed a position of dominance over the ox, the boar, the sow with her litter. The women on the other hand, should they determine that a man needed guidance, had to provide it in a manner that was undetectable to anyone, often to the man himself. In the application of this subtle skill, Marsel was an expert. She had learned these talents by necessity, having lived with and outlived the volatile Johannes.

So Marsel, while her mind may have been slipping, and her steps less steady, remained the unquestioned matriarch of the Helgen family. It was her nature to be attuned to the moods and activities of every family member. She was not comfortable unless she knew where everyone was, what he or she was doing, thinking and worried about. Thus, she asked her daughter-in-law on this morning about her oldest son, and was surprised when Arved suddenly began to sob.

Young women sometimes sobbed in Marsel’s experience, especially young women who were pregnant; she said nothing at first but kept walking slowly, her left arm entwined with Arved’s right. The morning was cold but not uncomfortably so. A woman approached bearing two buckets hanging from the ends of a pole that was balanced on a pad across her shoulders. She and Marsel greeted one another and Arved too nodded through her tears.

But though she might have appeared outwardly calm, Marsel’s mind was roiling. Basil was the block, the foundation stone around which the family was constructed. Without his stability, cracks would soon emerge, and that which appeared solid would begin to crumble.

You can speak to me, child, she said now. Tell me what weights so heavily on your heart.

He... Arved began, he is wonderful to me, surely you know. And to little Johannes as well. I am so grateful that he came to me and that you have taken me into your family. I have him because of you and I have my son because of him. So, I owe everything to you. You are my mother now, my only mother… Arved began to cry again.

Child…

No, Mother, I must tell you. I have caused him such pain!

No! Marsel jerked her arm against Arved’s elbow as if trying to wake her.

Yes! He thinks that he has killed me. In our bed he puts blankets between us. He rolls them up and makes a wall to separate us. He is afraid to touch me!

They walked a few more steps in silence. When Marsel spoke again it was almost a whisper. Arved, listen to me carefully. Do you remember what the midwife told you? That you should avoid intimacy with your husband? Did she not say that? Did she not say she would speak to Basil as well? He is trying to protect you, child. He is trying to keep you safe.

But Arved was not convinced. I’m sorry, Mother, what you say may be true, but you have not seen how he looks when he comes upon me by surprise, when his mind is unprepared. He thinks I am dead, or as good as dead. He believes that he has killed me when the opposite is true. It was my lust, my desire for a second child, that held us together. I wanted him inside of me. I would not let him go! It is I who brought this pain to him. And Arved continued to cry.

The oxen stood thick and stoical, absorbed in dreams of their own devising. They were still yoked and on the wagon the bags of grain remained secured and untouched. No progress was going to happen for a while, it seemed, because Brother Elias was being shaved