Eifelheim

“I have a cross Lorenz made for them, and I thought I’d take them some word of Joachim.”

Gregor gri

The monks at St. Martin’s Church were assembling a large crèche in the sanctuary. Francis of Assisi had begun the custom of building a Christmas crèche, and its popularity had lately spread to the Germanies.

“We start placing figures after Martinmas,” the prior explained. The Feast of St. Martin would mark the popular begi

“Certain church fathers,” Dietrich said, “ascribed the Nativity to March, which would be more reasonable than December if shepherds were watching their flocks by night.”

The monks paused in their labors and looked at each other. They laughed. “It’s what happened that matters, not when it happened,” the prior told him.

Dietrich had no answer, only that it was the sort of historical irony that had appealed to students in Paris and he was no longer a student and this was not Paris. “The calendar is wrong in any case,” he said.

“As Bacon and Grosseteste showed,” the prior agreed. “Franciscans are not backward in natural philosophy. ‘Only the man learned in nature truly understands the Spirit, since he uncovers the Spirit where it lies — in the heart of nature.’”

Dietrich shrugged. “I intended a jest, not a criticism. Everyone talks about the calendar, but no one does anything to fix it.” In fact, since the Incarnation signified the begi

“It is not ‘a pretty display,’” the prior admonished him, “but a dread and solemn warning to the mighty: ‘Behold your God: a poor and helpless child!’”

Taken somewhat aback, Dietrich allowed the prior and the abbot to escort him toward the vestibule; proceeding slowly, for the abbot, an elderly man with a wisp of whitish hair ringing his bald headskin, walked with a hobble.

“Thank you, for bringing us word of Brother Joachim,” said the abbot. “We will inform the Strassburg friary.” His eyes pinched in thought. “A devout boy, I recollect. I hope you have taught him the dangers of excess. The Spirituals could use a little restraint.” The abbot glanced side-long at his prior. “Tell him an accommodation may be reached. Marsilius is dead. I suppose you have heard. They’re all dead now, save Ockham, and he is making his peace with Clement. He’s to go to Avignon and beg forgiveness.”

Dietrich stopped short. “Ockham. Do you know when?” He could not imagine Will begging pardon of anyone.

“In the spring. The chapter will meet and make a fomal plea. Clement seeks a way to take him back without making it too obvious what a fool John was to expel him.” The abbot shook his head. “Michael and the others went too far when they went to the Kaiser. It is not for us to order the affairs of kings, but to care for the poor and lowly.”

“That,” said Dietrich, “may require you to order the affairs of kings.”

The old man was silent a moment longer before saying mildly, “Have you learned the dangers of excess, Dietl?”

Returning to the Dear Lady Church, Dietrich noticed that one of the fishwives setting up her booth had paused in her labors to watch him. He shivered against the breeze and pulled his hood up and pressed on. When he glanced back, she was tying the tent ropes. He had imagined her interest. People had long forgotten.

The Strassburg diocese governed the Elsass, the Breisgau, and most of the Schwarzwald; but an archdeacon resident in Freiburg spoke in the bishop’s name. Dietrich found the man praying at the Atonement Chapel and thought it a good sign that a man so highly placed should be discovered on his knees.

When the archdeacon crossed himself and rose, he saw Dietrich and exclaimed, “Dietrich, my old! How goes it by you? I’ve not seen you since Paris.” He was a soft-spoken man, gentle in demeanor, and with a pressing urgency to his eyes.

“I have now a parish in the Hochwald. Not so grand as yours, Willi, but it is quiet.”

Archdeacon Wilhelm crossed himself. “God-love-us, yes. Too much excitement down here these past years. First, Ludwig and Friedrich fighting over the crown, then the barons — Endingen, Üsenberg, and Falkenstein -laying waste the Breisgau over God-knows-what for six years—” He gestured at the Atonement Chapel, which the barons had built in token of the peace. “- then the Armleder smashing and burning and hanging. So the madness ran from the imperials, to the Herrenfolk, to the common ruck. God be praised for these ten years of peace — God and the Swabian League. Freiburg and Basel enforce the peace on the barons now, and Zürich, Bern, Konstanz, and Strassburg have joined, as you may have heard. Come walk with me. Have you heard from Aureoli or Buridan or any of the others? Did they survive the pest?”

“I haven’t heard. I’m told Ockham is to make his peace.”

Willi grunted and stroked his black and white beard. “Until he picks his next quarrel. He must have dozed when his class discussed ‘Blessed are the peacemakers.’ Maybe the Franciscans don’t teach that at Oxford.”

In the nave, the overhead vault seemed to go on forever and Dietrich saw what Gregor had meant about illuminating the interior. By the tower entrance stood a fine statue of the Virgin flanked by two angels, carved in the old style of the previous century. The stained glass lights were modern, save for the small round ones in the south transept, which were also in the old style. “I have a troubling theological question, your grace.”

“It must be troubling if I’ve become ‘your grace.’ What is it?”

Dietrich handed him the packet and explained in elliptical terms his thoughts regarding the Krenken, whom he described only as strangers of a terrible mien, governed in large measure by instinct rather than reason. Could folk so governed have souls?

“If one is to err,” Willi said, “best to err on the side of caution. Assume they have souls unless proven otherwise.”

“But their lack of reason…”

“You give reason too much weight. Reason — and will — are always impaired to some degree. Consider how a man will pull his hand from the fire without first weighing arguments sic et non. Being subject to habits and conditions does not deprive a being of a soul.”

“What if the being owned the seeming of a beast,” Dietrich ventured, “and not that of a man.”

“A beast!”

“A swine, perhaps, or a horse, or a… or a grasshopper.”

Willi laughed. “Such a vain argument! Beasts possess the souls appropriate to them.”

“And if the beast could speak and build devices and…?”

Willi stopped walking and cocked his head. “Why so agitated, Dietl, over a secundum imaginationem? Such questions make fine school-puzzles in logic, but they have no practical significance. We were made in God’s image, but God had no material body.”

Dietrich sighed and Willi placed a hand on his arm. “But for the sake of old Paris days, I will give the matter thought. That is the problem with the schools, you know. They should teach the practical arts: magic, alchemy, mechanics. All that dialectic is in the air.” The archdeacon waved a hand above his head, fluttering the fingertips. “Na, folk like nothing better than a good disputation. Remember the crowds at the weekly quodlibets? I’ll tell you my first thoughts.” The archdeacon pursed his lips and lifted a forefinger. “The soul is the form of the body, but not as the shape of a statue is formatio et terminatio materiae, for form does not exist apart from material. There is no whiteness without a white object. But the soul is not a form in this simple sense, and in particular, is not the shape of the material it informs. Therefore, the shape of a being does not affect the being’s soul, for then something lower would move something higher, which is impossible.”