The Witch of Cologne

‘Look through here.’

Jacob gazes through the lens, fascinated. ‘Mama! It’s a dragon! Or at least a large green elephant!’

‘It is an insect that feeds on the leaf of the rose. In its world, it is not a carnivore like the dragon.’

‘But it’s green, and hairy! With funny things sticking out of its head!’

‘Antennae.’

Jacob pauses, then looks up at her. ‘Did you show Papa these things?’

‘This and much more. There were many things I shared with him.’

‘What was he like?’

‘You know what he was like.’

The young boy’s face changes expression as he searches back into his memory.

‘I remember walking by the canal with him. I remember the big black cloak he put on when he was going to church and I remember him reading stories to me at night, but Mama, I begin to forget what he looked like.’

‘He was fair, like you, with the same shaped eyes and the same mouth, but his eyes were blue. And he had the same temper as you, Jacob.’

‘Did he kick things too?’ the child squeals, delighted.

‘In a manner. He kicked at authority and questioned all that others took for granted.’

‘Som

etimes I get frightened because his face has begun to disappear from my dreams. Does this mean he is leaving us?’

‘No, Jacob, and I would forgive you if you did forget, for Papa will always be here, inside you, in your nature and in your flesh.’

‘Is that how we live for ever?’

‘That is what I believe.’

She smiles down at him, marvelling at the child’s gift for reasoning, which she recognises as a heritage from both Detlef and herself.

Thank the good Lord for the philosopher, she thinks, pleased that Spinoza has secured the promise of an apprenticeship from the publisher Rieuwertsz for the child should anything happen to her before Jacob reaches his adulthood. She gazes at the long black eyelashes fluttering against the fair skin. She is a fortunate woman to have this bond of flesh, this profound love, which in times of great loneliness jolts her back to a state of grace.

Sleepy, Jacob rests his head on Ruth’s bosom, nestling against her like he used to do when he was a small babe, until a tremor of fever forces her to carry him to the bed.

Twentieth of August, 1672

My love, I am writing to tell you a wonderful thing. My first paper will be published at the end of this month under the name Frau Ruth Tennen. Is this not an occasion to be joyous? How long have we waited for this moment? Are you not thankful now that you tolerated, nay, cajoled me into all those hours of study?

My husband, when are you to return? It has been two days since I last saw you and my body grows weary of waiting…’

‘Your body has grown weary because you have been waiting for two years. But now I have come back.’

Detlef stands before her, dressed in his old vestments of the canon, his features as young and handsome as they were when Ruth first made love with him in the cottage at Deutz.

‘Two years? But that is not possible. And why do you wear the cloth of the church?’

‘I wear the cloth for I am here to give you the last rites.’

He moves towards her and takes the golden feathered quill from her hand. She looks at the scroll she has been writing on and sees that the calligraphy has begun to fade.