BryonySeries Excerpt: "Bad Air"

So with multiple days in a stretch of unhealthy to hazardous air quality, I thought you might like a short excerpt from the second installment of this BryonySeries novel.

The main character is Kellen Wechsler, an extremely poor cottager in early seventeenth century Germany, living on the outskirts of a the fictional town called Grotekop.

Kellen's fortune slightly changes when the wife of a wealthy farmer Kellen calls "Voll-Bauer" takes an interest in his hard, daily labors in the farm's fields and gives him his own plot of land to tend, with a small share of the profits going to Kellen.

At that point, Kellen's very large family (his wife and an indeterminate amount of many children, some who work the fields with him) move from the cottage to town, trading one set of problems for another.

Like the plague.

CHAPTER FIVE: BLACK DEATH

            Wailing, wailing. Everywhere, wailing.

            If not wailing, then eerie, uneasy, disquieting silence.

            Both were for the same reasons: Death.

            Black, grisly, painful death.

            It happened fast, and it happened like this.

            One day, as they did every day except Sonntag, Kellen and the boys left the house before sunup (with Catarin's nagging and the kiddies' sassy mouths ringing in his ears) and rode out to the fields.

            About midday, Kellen had left the boys to meet Voll-Bauer's Man. Fraulein had barred his entrance.

            "Enough foolishness," Kellen had said. "I'm to see Him this day."

            "No," Fraulein said. "We have sickness here. Now leave, before you're sick, too."

            Fraulein heaved against the door, but Kellen braced himself against it.

            "If you speak truth," Kellen argued, "why do you remain?"

            Fraulein's lips trembled, but her response was stoic.

            "No one may come in. No one may go out."

            As Kellen pondered this information, his hold on the door slackened. Instantly, the door slammed into his face. Rubbing his bruised nose, Kellen continued to ponder the queer exchange all the way back to the fields. Ludolph looked up and saw Kellen's puzzled expression.

            "Meeting go well, Paps?"

            Kellen, still pondering, scarcely noticed. Ludolph paused to lean on his hoe and wait for his father's reassurance.

            "No meeting." Kellen ducked his head into one of the water buckets and drank a long draught, still pondering. When he came up for air, and shook out his hair, Kellen added, "They've got sickness at the House."

            "Paps! Paps!"

            Ruprech and Nolthe came running up, Nolthe holding Ruprech by the wrist.

            "Something bit Ruprech, Paps!"

            Kellen leaped to his feet, just as Nolthe held up Ruprech's arm. Deep in his pit was a large angry swelling.

            Immediately, Ludolph tore off his shirt, dunked it in the water, and began bathing Ruprech's arm. Ruprech winced, and tears ran down his cheeks, but he did not cry out.

            "It hurts," Ruprech sniffled.

            Kellen turned to Nolthe. "What bit him?"

            "Don't know," Nolthe answered. "We didn't see anything. Right, Ruprech?"

            Ruprech wiped his arm across his eyes and nodded.

            Bizarre.

            No one scolded Ruprech for infantile weeping. No one shamed him when he faded into sleep against a tree near the lavender and forsook his afternoon work. No one spoke when a second swelling appeared on Ruprech's neck, except Nolthe, who bathed the bite while Ruprech drowsed in and out of consciousness, and Kellen and Ludolph worriedly watched.

            "What bit him, Paps?" Nolthe asked as he dabbed the angry lumps multiplying on his younger brother. "A yellow sac spider?"

            "I don't know," Kellen said.

            But he remembered the fright in Fraulein's eyes and wondered.

            That night, they returned to a changed Grotekop.

            Bonfires hissed and spat at the crossroads. Whitewashed "X's" marked the doors that weren't boarded up. Carts stacked with bodies rumbled past them and out of town. A stream of disoriented townspeople bore candles as they shuffled toward church.

            "Bad air," one old woman muttered. "Bad air. Bad air. Bad air."

            Kellen abruptly stopped the horses.

            "Herr Flechtemann?" Kellen called out, as the sausage-stuffer stumbled past his cart.

            Swaying slightly, Herr Flechtemann paused and looked up at Kellen with glassy eyes. Nolthe shrank into Kellen. Ludolph sucked in his breath.

            "Paps," Ruprech whined through chattering teeth. "I'm scared."

            "Pray for God's mercy," Herr Flechtemann mumbled. "We are doomed."

            Herr Flechtemann crashed to the ground. Those nearest him shrieked and scurried away. The rest kept walking.

            "Paps," Ludolph whispered. "What does this mean?"

            Kellen did not answer.

            "My head hurts," Ruprech moaned low in his throat.

            He jerked up and vomited over the cart's edge. Ludolph steadied Ruprech so he wouldn't fall.

            "Paps, his skin burns," Ludolph said. "Is it...is it the sickness of which Fraulein spoke?"

            Kellen did not answer.

            "Unhitch the horses," Kellen said to Ludolph and Nolthe. "I'm carrying your brother inside."

About the BryonySeries: Old St. Patrick's Cathedral Catacombs

Cindy, who makes our Ribbit-Ribbits, announced at our marketing dinner in December that she and her family would be spending New Year's Eve at Times Square and a few days in New York, seeing "the sights."

At the time, Cindy didn't have any "sights" in mind. So I suggested a few.

Because the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" is part historical fiction, I created the "feel" of the time and locations by lightly blending real landmarks and events into the overall story.

One landmark was St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, which was established in 1815 at 263 Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan and was the seat of the acrchdiosese until 1879, when St. Patrick's (New) Cathedral on Fifth Avenue replaced it as the seat.

You can read a brief history and excerpts from  "Before The Blood: John Simons" in this blog: About the BryonySeries:  Basilica of Saint Patrick's Old Cathedral.

Today's post focuses on St. Patrick's Old Cathedral cemetery as well as the catacombs beneath the church and the opportunity to view the catacombs during a candlelit tour, which Cindyand her son Justin took.

Enjoy a glimpse of the experience through Cindy's photos.

Below the photos, read an except from "Before The Blood: Byrony Simons," which takes place in the catacombs.

 

He released her and looked away. "Would you like to meet my mother?"

            The abruptness of the question and the lingering pressure of his fingertips warned Bryony to think carefully before speaking.

            "Your mother?" she whispered.

            "Yes."

            "You want me to meet her?"

            John did not speak again, nor did he direct the driver

. But they soon stopped outside a gray and salmon-colored church with Gothic stained glass and a red brick and stone fence surrounding it.

            "What is this place?"

            "Old St. Patrick's Cathedral."

            "I don't understand."

            "You will."

            They walked past the simple yet dignified building to the churchyard, dotted with old stones and markers, toward the front of the building. They silently trod over the lumpy ground, the silence broken by the rumbling of carriages, the twittering of gray birds, and an occasional snapping of twigs beneath their feet.

 

            “My mother is encased in her sad little world. And my father is dead.”

           

            John led her up the stairs, opened the heavy front door, and, before she could absorb the cathedral's plaster interior and marble statues, headed for a side door and opened that, too.

            He led her down the dark narrow stairs to a cold stone room and double set of wooden doors, which he also opened.

            Through the dim candlelight lining the walls, Bryony glimpsed an endless tunnel of splendor and gloom.

            "John?"

            "Catacombs, darling."

            "Catacombs? In New York?"

            He shut the doors, locked them, and then took her wrist.

            She was sealed in an underground cemetery with no means of escape except doors John had secured.

            What did he want of her?

            Then she remembered. She stood tall and met his eyes.

            "Faith," she said.

            She saw a hint of animation in the pale blue at the word, and she felt emboldened at the sight. She didn't understand the game, but at least she was learning the rules.

            Bryony clung to her small victory during the grim trek through an everlasting passageway of arched doors and nameplates. John kept only a loose grasp, for where would she run?

            Their heels clicked on the stone; their respiration rasped in the stillness. She tried not to think of all the human bones lying behind the cold walls.

            After a time,  John stopped at a door. The golden plate gleamed with single word: Simons.

            John inserted a key.

            She grabbed his wrist. "John, no!"

            John pried her off and swung open the door. She started to run, but he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside with him.

            At the far end of the lighted room lay a single sealed coffin.

            Bryony stared at it and then stared up at John, her heart racing.

            He didn't look angry, which she expected given her outburst, or sad at the sight, which she hoped. Instead, he casually pointed out the fixtures hanging from the ceiling.

            "Edison and Co." His voice echoed as he spoke. He gestured at the vault's lining. "Guastavino tiles."

            "What?"

            "Only the finest for my mother. And today my father joins her. Isn't it exciting?"

            She turned back to the coffin.

            "Did they love each other?"

            John did not answer. So she tried again.

            "Is...is this what you meant about her being "encased in her own little world?"

            "Somewhat."

About the BryonySeries: Basilica of Saint Patrick's Old Cathedral

Cindy, who makes our Ribbit-Ribbits, announced at our marketing dinner in December that she and her family would be spending New Year's Eve at Times Square and a few days in New York, seeing "the sights."

At the time, Cindy didn't have any "sights" in mind. So I suggested a few.

Because the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" is part historical fiction, I created the "feel" of the time and locations by lightly blending real landmarks and events into the overall story.

One landmark was St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, which was established in 1815 at 263 Mulberry Street in Lower Manhattan and was the seat of the acrchdiosese until 1879, when St. Patrick's (New) Cathedral on Fifth Avenue replaced it as the seat.

In "Before The Blood: John Simons" John's father Abbiott Simons insists they walk the five miles one way to from their Fifth Avenue mansion to St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, even after the arrival of New St. Patrick's Cathedral, which Abbott loathed. This never made sense to John, as the latter more grandiose and close to home.

John Simons was born in 1863, and he recalled the first time he attended St. Patrick's Old Cathedral (1868), quite a trek for a young boy. But as far as we know, John never complained about the walk, only about the length of the archbishop's sermons.

That archbishop was Father John McCloskey, a man with a fascinating backstory and who later because the first United States cardinal.

The bust in the first photo is of "Dagger" John Hughes, fourth bishop and first Archbishop of New York, and the bishop responsible for the construction of the new St. Patrick's Cathedral, although that church was not completed until after Hughes' death.

Hughes was the son of a poor farmer, so the story of his life is also fascinating read.

Below are photos Cindy took of the interior and exterior of St. Patrick's Old Cathedral, including a few of the cemetery on church grounds, as the church is still very much an active church.

The old Erben organ, installed also in 1868, was out for repair, so she didn't get photos of it. But you can see and hear it here.

Beyond the photos are three excerpts from "Before The Blood: John Simons" that take place at or near St. Patrick's Old Cathedral.

Next week, we'll explore one interesting feature about St. Patrick's Old Cathedral that also made it into "Before The Blood."

You see, St. Patrick's Old Cathedral also has catacombs.

It didn't matter if John dreamed of his father as the devil or the Almighty, for behind the walls of the Fifth Avenue mansion loosely called "home," John perceived Farlow Abbott Simons as the embodiment of omnipotence, supreme authority, and judgment, an eternal presence John could never please.

            On Sundays and Holy Days of Obligation when Abbot stayed in town, father and son attended High Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral, its Federal-style architecture and plaster ceiling and walls inside its one hundred and twenty foot long and fifty foot wide interior resembling home: hard, beautiful, and cold. As erect and immobile as the marble statues, but not nearly so tall, Abbot stood beside his son, and, to the accompaniment of the Erben organ, sang those majestic Latin hymns in a strong and powerful tenor voice.

             John even recalled the first day they had attended: March seventeenth, eighteen-sixty-eight. The sermon, delivered by Archbishop John McClosky, droned on and on and on. More than once, a restless John shuffled feet and felt his father's pinch.

             "He speaks too much," John whispered after one such assault on his neck.

            Abbot did not reply, but during the walk home, Abbott did say, "A fire destroyed the sanctuary two years ago, but, as you saw today, it was rebuilt. The archbishop will not always talk so long. Today was the cathedral's rededication, the feast day of the church's' patron saint."

             John had opened his mouth to ask, "What's a patron saint?" But Abbot had chosen that moment to toss a coin at a ragged boy with a runny nose in exchange for a copy of the New York Gazette, and John let the question drift away.

            Often, as John stole glances at his father lifting his voice to the firmament in song, he wondered if the beautiful words cut into Abbot's alabaster exterior to stir something of the immortal within him, or if his father merely crooned empty syllables. Sometimes after Mass, Abbott would walk through the church's cemetery, pausing now and again before a tombstone, and bowing his head in prayer.

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By the evening of December 23, the house was filled with guests anticipating festivities extending through New Year's Day, most of them centered around food, from the creamed fish leading the Christmas Eve dinner at dusk to the roast goose stuffed with apples and potatoes on Christmas evening. As Christmas Eve night deepened and the post-dinner conversations grew louder over thick slices of Irish cake and lively games of whist, John retreated to his chambers, avoiding those of his mother's where she relentlessly sang Silent Night, to think and plan.

            He was back downstairs by a quarter past eleven. With his star outshining the others in brilliance and brightness, John accompanied Abbott on foot to the candlelit midnight Mass at Old St. Patrick's Cathedral. Abbott stubbornly refused to set foot inside the new seat of the Archdiocese of New York, which John could not comprehend, as his father was not generally sentimental. But either the solemnity of the newborn Savior or the claret punch struck Abbott, for his strong tenor cut through the silent, glittering night on the walk back:

Adeste, fideles, laeti triumphantes:

Venite, venite in Bethlehem:

Venite adoremus.

Venite adoremus.

Venite adoremus Dominum.

            At home, feast number two awaited them: French omelets, hot buttered toast, buckwheat cakes, creamed potatoes and creamed sweetbreads, oyster pie, assorted jellies, and coffee. But the post-Mass discussions were subdued and halting. Gradually, the weary clan dispersed to their rooms, and John went with them, Gloria, in excelsis Deo lingering in his mind. By late morning, they had relished a hearty brunch of French onion soup, mutton chops, and fried apples; an afternoon Christmas tea staved off hunger pains for several more hours. John retired sooner than usual. Abbott had scheduled an early morning meeting with the board of trustees.

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For the next two hours, John sprinkled complex compositions with renditions of The Liberty Song and The Star-Spangled Banner, as the half-starving refugees ravaged the food tables. Eventually, John switched to songs Papa Everett used to play, and these resonated with the shabby audience more than his masterpieces. Ladies in rags and shawls gradually released their inhibitions long enough to persuade their weary husbands to dance in the aisles with them. Children skipped in circles and twirled to the beat.

            As John set down the lid, Peabody walked up.

             "What a phenomenal success, I tell you! I even hired a couple of the...um...guests. I can't thank you enough."

            "My pleasure."

            "Say, I know you can't play without pay all the time, but would you consent to one last special request? Nothing as fancy or long as today."

            "What are you suggesting?"

            "I belong to old St. Patrick's. It has the most beautiful Erben pipe organ. I think the old cathedral sometimes gets forgotten, now that the archdiocese has a new seat. What would you say about playing High Mass, just one time? I could arrange it through our priest."

            "I'll play Sunday."

            Peabody blinked, taken aback. "I didn't expect immediately. Certainly, you may ponder the request."

            "On the contrary, I'm looking forward to fulfilling your wishes, and quickly."

            "Well, thank you. Not trying to offend, but you don't strike me as the pious type."

            "I'm not offended. And you'd be surprised."

            The next day, John had an invitation for a special July fourteenth appearance at the Academy of Music, a four thousand seat opera house of New York's old money, eclipsed in popularity when New York's new money opened the Metropolitan Opera House five years ago. John smiled when he read the telegram and handed the urchin ten dollars.

             "Thankee, sir!" The boy tipped his hat and dashed away.

            Not long now, John thought with satisfaction, not long at all. He patted his wallet and hoped each card therein felt his hand. His hour with destiny drew near. He was ready.

            On Sunday, John climbed to the choir loft of that Federal-style edifice and took his seat at the organ, one of the earliest sources of music from John's long-ago childhood, and John's first experience at awe, for the organ had cost fifteen thousand dollars at the time of its purchase in eighteen sixty-eight. As the Latin hymns reverberated off the plaster walls, John's spirit soared higher than the ceilings, knowing his father was facing the gold-leaf screen behind the altar, standing as proud as the marble statues, and loathing every note.

About the BryonySeries: McSorley’s Old Ale House

Cindy, who makes our Ribbit-Ribbits, announced at our marketing dinner in December that she and her family would be spending New Year's Eve at Times Square and a few days in New York, seeing "the sights."

At the time, Cindy didn't have any "sights" in mind. So I suggested a few.

Because the BryonySeries prequel "Before The Blood" is part historical fiction, I created the "feel" of the time and locations by lightly blending real landmarks and events into the overall story.

One landmark was McSorley's Old Alehouse, which was established in 1854.

McSorley's Old Alehouse appears twice in the first installment of the BryonySeries prequel "Before the Blood" (excerpts to follow below the photos).

But first, a few facts about this old establishment, which was closed to women until 1974 and opened its first women's restroom in 1986.

 

The floor is covered with sawdust, the bar has no stools and no cash register, and the space is frequently standing room only. And no beer: only light or dark ale.

The menu still has original items, such as turkey and the famous cheese, cracker, and raw onion plate. 

Cindy actually went back a second time for the wishbones, which she didn't notice the first time. 

The legend is that McSorley's gave patrons off to fight in World War I a free turkey dinner before they left. These patrons hung their wishbones, to split when they returned.

Legend says these old dusty McSorley wishbones are from soldiers who never returned to claim them.

Now for the excerpts:

Excerpt No. 1

Helsby looked at John.

            "The ladies of the church are hosting a tea in Miss Bartlett's honor this afternoon. When I return from escorting her, would you accompany me to McSorley's? The ale, raw onions, and turkey all are first rate, I promise you. It's just we two. Tommy is busy with his studies."

            "The villa's host is scorning the toque?"

            "Alas, the host's culinary skills are so poor, even the lads on the roof won't touch his dinners."

            "Then McSorley's it is."

            "I shan't be long. If you like, you may play piano in the parlor. The music won't disturb Tommy. He's deaf in one ear."

            The door closed, and John, deliberately ignoring the leaning floor and the scrabbling behind the faded wallpaper, wandered into the parlor. For all its shabbiness, the flat was clean. Poverty, at least for the future Mr. and Mrs. Helsby, didn't equal substandard housekeeping, although the abode could have used a picture here and there and perhaps a potted plant or two to lighten its bleakness.

            A small upright that shouted "scrap heap" pressed against one wall. John plunked a yellow key and winced at its reply. Taking a pass on torture, John gazed out the window and tried to envision what Savannah might be doing. Next year, John vowed, Helsby and his wife would spend their summer at the farm. He wondered if either of them could ride. Well, no matter. Between him and Savannah, it would simple to teach...

            "Well, this is truly a first: Master John and a silent piano occupying the same room. I'd not have believed if my own eyes hadn't witnessed it."

            John started from the reverie and turned from the window. "I didn't hear you come in."

            "I'm quieter than mice. Ready?"

            "Yes. Are we walking?"

            "No, it's too far. I've called for a cab. And no, you shan't pay for it. It's my treat. I've been saving for it."

            Lined up on the sidewalk outside the pub at 15 East 7th Street were empty barrels, all bearing the lettering McSorley's. The sign above the door extended from  one end of the building to the other and read, McSorley's Old Ale House: Established 1854. Inside, sawdust covered the dark wood floors; tintype photographs and Harrigan and Hart playbills lined the walls. After inquiring if John would prefer the porter or the cream ale, Helsby ordered for them both and found a table.

            "So don't be mum, Master John. What's her name?"

            "Savannah Holloway."

            Helsby leaned forward, eyes alight, the color rising in his cheeks. "The robber baron's widow?"

            Inwardly, John smiled. He had forgotten Helsby's fascination with society news.

            "The very same, Helsby."

            "However did you meet her? Through your father?"

            "You could say that."

            Their meal arrived. Each man bowed his head for a silent prayer. After swallowing a generous forkful of turkey, Helsby asked, "And you're actually engaged?"

            "Yes."

            He shook his head and cut another slice. "A pity she had a conflict, but I suppose she must be quite occupied with finances. Mr. Holloway had amassed a substantial fortune."

            "My interest is Savannah, not her money."

            Astonished, Helsby set the fork down. "I never meant to imply otherwise. I only wished to say her affairs must keep her busy. But, as they say, marriage requires many sacrifices, and they often begin well before the 'I do's.'"

            "So it seems, Helsby, so it seems."

Excerpt No. 2

Ticket sales remained high for days, despite the effects of an ice storm that lasted all week, another fallout from January's blizzard. One afternoon, soon after the temperatures rose, and as John had launched into his final practice piece, Henry walked up to him.

             "I dying to try McSorley's. Shall we?"

            They took a cab to lower Manhattan, with Henry chatting all the way about New York's cantankerous weather, how it kept him busy with news articles all winter, even as it ruined one suit after another. Despite Henry's fine manners, he seemed equally at home with the rustic McSorley's as he had been inside Delmonico's.

            Not until John picked up his ale and took a long drink, the type of drink Jackson would approve, did he dare ask, "So Lord Girard's ward enjoys reporting?"

            "I never said I enjoyed it." Henry raised his glass to his lips and sipped it. "Well, this is quite good."

             "Writing is not your passion?" John couldn't fathom why anyone as rich as Henry was would engage in business he did not enjoy, especially when he need not engage in business at all.

            "Journalism is not my passion," Henry set down his glass. "But writing most certainly is, the main reason for my marriage to Agnes King."

            "I don't understand."

            Henry held out the plate. "Soda cracker?"

              John shook his head, still watching Henry.  

             "I prefer shocking to informing." Henry grabbed another cracker. "Supernatural stories, not news stories.

            "I see."

            "But penning content for dime novels doesn't pay Fifth Avenue rent."

            "You're renting? On Fifth Avenue? But I thought..."

            "That I subsisted off Lord Girard's riches? Hardly."

            "And a reporter's salary covers those expenses?"

            Amusement on his lips. Henry took out a card, inscribed something on it, and then passed it to John. "This is my address. You're welcome to call on me."

             John read the card. His eyes widened. Henry merely cut another slice of turkey and said, "I see you recognize the address. My, did Mr. Russell have plenty to say about you when my story broke."

            "About?"

             "About how Little Lonnie, who's not quite so little anymore, would be so accomplished if you hadn't abandoned your commitment to teaching 'the dear one.'"

            Henry, John thought, for all his dandyisms, understood more than he showed.

            "So," John said, deciding no further remarks about the Russells were necessary, "you intend to use the King family riches to further your goals?"

            "Not exactly, no. I view it as an exchange of resources. Trust me, Agnes King is, and will be, amply compensated."

            "I still don't comprehend why you must marry Agnes when you have Lord Girard as a...resource."

            Henry waved for the bill and then leaned forward with a sly look.

            "Lord Girard is fairly young and healthy, making an early demise and acquisition of his inheritance unlikely for some time."

            "That's cold."

            "See here, John, don't act so coy. You and I, we are nearly the same."

            "How so?"

            "Similar resources, congruent goals, but..." Henry grinned impishly. "... different applications."

            John said nothing.

Daniel Bought a Bible from 1881

For Last Friday, Daniel bought an 1881 Bible from The Book Market with the help of the store credit that Ed Calkins, Steward of Tara, provided every guest during the Calkins Day celebration.

Daniel took the Bible out of its package last night after physical therapy, and he, Rebekah, and I marveled at its weight, thoroughness of helpful information (more complete than any modern Bible study), detailed artwork (including some plates in color), section that once held family portraits (a shame they were removed), string binding.

Of course, 1881 puts us right into many of the scenes in the BryonySeries novel "Before The Blood," so we have that connection, too.

Here are some photos from you to enjoy!