Old hay, beer, sweat and dirt. Those are the smells that rush out to envelope Jan Timmerman as the front doors of the De Draak – or The Dragon – are opened for him and Anna Pietersdochter, his new bride. For Jan, this place is more than he imagines a home could ever be. Indeed, the smells that have greeted them are the smells of friendship, of community and of love.
They are the smells of life itself.
As Anna and Jan step through the doors, the tavern erupts in applause. Everyone is there. Family, friends from the village and the Master Carpenter who employs him. Even a few merchants traveling through town have heard of the celebration and come to participate. All their glowing faces are illuminated in the dim light cast by the tavern’s flickering candles and the fire raging in its brick hearth.
As Jan takes in the scene, he can’t help himself. He smiles broadly and he knows Anna is doing the same. In that instant, he cannot imagine that a man has enjoyed a moment as wonderful as this one in all of human history.
Not everyone is smiling, though. There is a man in the far corner of the main room. He is so tall that his head is almost brushing the low beams of the tavern’s ceiling. A sword is sheathed at his waist, a giant blade that would be almost ridiculous except for the fact that the man himself is so huge. Despite his size, and despite his weapon, the man does not seem threatening. Instead, he seems unsure. Maybe even a little frightened. Jan looks to him and smiles. With that simple gesture, the huge man looks a little less uncertain. Then Jan looks to Anna. He watches as her eyes meet those of the swordsman. When Jan looks up again, the huge man is beaming with the same joy as everyone else who has come to their celebration.
From that point, everything goes just about as Jan had seen it go before. There are older men who clap him on the shoulder, deliver the occasional ribald remarks and give him all-knowing winks. Meanwhile, the women whisper in low voices in the side rooms. Occasionally, their excitement bubbles over into something approaching conspiratorial laughter. And the drinking. Of course, there is always the drinking. And why shouldn’t there be? The merchants are beginning to invest in the New World and are already seeing returns. The fishing and cloth trades are flourishing. And Jan’s people? The carpenters? All around the town and in the towns nearby, there is building. Homes, warehouses and stores are emerging from the damp soil like wheat on a blessed field. The town can afford to drink. It can afford to celebrate.
The giant man is still hanging back from the celebrations, though. Just a bit. He watches those around him, on the edge of contentment. He seems to be deep in thought and immersed in a joy that is foreign to him. He holds a beer in his hand, half full. Nobody has noticed that he poured the missing half onto the dirt and hay floor. For whatever reason, he hasn’t had a sip the entire evening.
As the night rolls forward, things eventually begin to quiet down. A few guests leave, happy and laughing and worn through by the festivities. Most, though? Most settle into little groups, talking and sharing stories and jokes in the evening’s stupor.
And then, seemingly out of nowhere, the giant man begins to speak.
“My name,” he says, “Is Hans von Lüneburg.” His Dutch is near perfect, only his somewhat harsher accent, and the occasional word choice, betray that he is a foreigner.
His voice booms. As a nobleman and a knight, he is used to commanding attention. But people put his sudden announcement down to the effects of drink. Why would they care that he has announced his name? They ignore him. They don’t stop talking. They don’t turn to listen.
Hans seems a little confused by their reaction. But then he smiles. He realizes he is among friends, not vassals. He speaks again, his voice somehow louder, “Recently, I received a letter written by the naturalist Antonio de la Cruz.”
The room quiets just a bit. No one recognizes the name, but it is Spanish and naturalists are those who accompany ships on trips to the New World.
“He left on an expedition, this last summer, to explore the mysterious Islas de Oro – the Islands of Gold.”
The room quiets just a bit more.
“His letter tells of his greatest discovery.”
With that, the room is nearly silent. Even Jan and Anna find themselves drawn in. A story of the New World, a story of discovery! Such a story will make this occasion one to remember.
Von Lüneburg theatrically pulls a sheaf of papers from his breast pocket. He’s so tall that nobody can quite see what’s on them. But imaginations are fired. Perhaps this is the very letter written by the naturalist himself. It’s hard to imagine such a thing in the possession of a man standing right here in this tavern. Even a nobleman.
The crowd gathers closer.
Hans von Lüneburg lowers his voice. He wants those in the room to have to listen, to focus on what he is going to say. “I have to warn you,” he says, “Antonio – for that is what I call one of my oldest friends – is not like others whose letters you may have read or heard. He speaks in the voices of those you would least suspect.”
Now, even the barmaid and the owner of the tavern has come from behind their partitions.
With that, Hans von Lüneburg clears his voice and begins to read.
“I am standing on the beach when the strangers arrive. We’d seen their ships from afar. Massive. Dark. Hulking. Alien. Our people have gathered to greet them. But we are uncertain whether those ships bore gods or demons or simply men.”
The people in the room had never heard anything from the perspective of a native. There’s a small murmur of disbelief that flows through the crowd. How could this naturalist, this Antonio de la Cruz, possibly know what this savage was thinking?
“Trust me,” says von Lüneburg, “You will understand why he writes this way, and how we can know he is speaking the truth.”
The murmuring dies down and von Lüneburg continues. “When the ship came to rest off the shores of our island, we were ready for every possibility. We had gifts to offer gods. We had spears and bows with which to attack demons. Our leaders, men of great bravery, came forward bearing the gifts. They hoped that the strangers would be kind and worthy and good. But all they had was hope. They were risking their lives for peace and for blessing. I was a young unmarried maiden and meant to stay far from the strangers. But I saw them, shining and squeaking and clanking as they disembarked from their ships. Even their smell, carried with the sea breeze, was unfamiliar to me. Were they beetle people – somehow combining the size of men with the armor of an insect? Were they people at all? Those questions were filling my mind when I saw a man, a single solitary man, step out from amongst their company. He did not shine. He was clothed almost like any other man, although he was wearing far more than could have been comfortable in the heat. I looked at him from afar and I saw excitement and curiosity and fear and pain – all at once.
“I could not help but wonder. Was he a slave of the bug people? Or, was he their master?
“The man came close to our elders and I found myself pulled towards him. I didn’t even know it was happening. Soon, I was a mere spear’s length from him. I was overwhelmed by curiosity.
“The man began to gesture with his arms. He waved unfamiliar objects through the air. He spoke what must have been simple words, in his own tongue. But no one could understand him. And then he smiled, the way a warrior smiles just before he is about to attack. Our elders suddenly shied away, fearful of his assault. A moment later, our warriors unleashed a volley of arrows. The man who had been speaking shied backwards. He hid amongst the beetle-people. A shield was raised to protect him. And the arrows? They just bounced off the shining creatures like pebbles off a tree.
“Then a series of great booms, like thunder on a clear day. With that three of our elders and five of our warriors fell dead. My own grandfather was among them. The squeaking, clanking, creatures surged forward. As our people fled, vanishing into the jungle, I was left alone. The monsters grabbed me. Then, like ants transporting their food, they lifted me and carried me to their boat and then from their boat to their ship.
“All the time I was wondering. Was the man their slave or their master? Had he been the one to kill my people or was he also a victim of their beetle-like violence? I found I liked the man. I hoped he was a slave.”
von Lüneburg looks up. Everyone is facing him. Hanging on his every word. He slowly lifts the page from the front of the stack and places it at the rear. Then, he continues reading.
“The beetle-people shoved me, still tied, under the top of their ship. It was dark. It smelled of resin, soaked into the wood. And then there was the smell of the squeaking, clanking, creatures. I had never smelled anything like it before. Then, I could feel that the ship was moving. It was only a few minutes later that the man, the solitary man, came down to me. I feared the worst. Captured women are not treated well by my people. My own mother had been a captive. But the man did nothing to me. He just sat opposite me. He pointed at himself, and he said ‘Antonio.’ I knew then that that was his name. I pointed at myself and said ‘Taiyana’. It means ‘good one.’ We gestured to each other, trying to communicate. He stayed there for hours. Then days. I would sleep and he would go. I would awake, and he would return. He made sure my natural needs were taken care of. Of course, by then I knew that the squeaking, clanking men were just that. Men. I had seen them without their armor. That was how I knew that Antonio was not a slave. He kept me safe, and no slave could have kept me safe from men such as they were.
“He was not slave and so I knew he was the one who had killed my grandfather and stolen me. I wanted to hate him. Instead, as he stayed with me day after day, trying to talk with me, I found myself wanting to listen. And I found myself wanting to speak.
“Everything was a little different than I would have expected. Even from alien men such as these. After all, any normal man would have wanted to force their captive women to speak their language, no? It is how you make them a part of your people. But Antonio insisted on speaking my language, as if I was the captor and he was the captive. He learned my language well and he learned it quickly. And onwards we sailed. Only little beams of light, cast through the deck of the ship, let me know if it was day or it was night. But Antonio’s presence seemed almost constant. And with his presence came a strange sort of joy.
“Antonio wanted to learn about me. But he also told me about himself. Antonio, indeed, all of the men on the ship, had come from a place called ‘Europe’. It was both magical and frightening. There were vast wars. There were incredible machines and sailing boats. As I listened, I realized that the life and people I had known were gone. Even if I had remained on the island, my world was going to be destroyed. Then Antonio described something else, something I could not understand. Religious war. Antonio was careful to speak of this war only in my language. But one day he told me he was something called a ‘Jew.’”
A frisson of energy runs through the tavern. Each man glances at his neighbor. Their eyes seem to ask: “A Jew? A hidden Spanish Jew? Why would he admit this in a letter? Is he insane?”
Hans von Lüneburg seems not to notice the excitement. He just keeps reading.
“When a sailor asked why Antonio used the word ‘Jew’, I heard him lie and say it was a word from my language. A word that meant ‘great wave.’ Antonio had to hide who he was, even from these men. I knew then that Antonio’s world was broken. He was just like I had imagined him when I first saw him. He was a man, surrounded by monsters.
“’Why did you come from Europe?’ I asked.
“He answered, ‘Because I was hoping to find a better world.’”
“He said it mournfully and I knew that he had not found that which he was seeking. Then he continued, ‘And I was hoping to discover better people.’ He smiles at me, and I realize that perhaps this search has been more promising.
“We kept talking and I found myself sharing more and more. I shared the stories of my people, of my family, and of myself. He listened. He listened and I knew that he regretted what the others had done. I knew that he was a kind man. He, like me, had been stranded in a foreign world. He was as utterly alone as I was. It surprised me when I realized it, but I loved Antonio de la Cruz.
“It was after many days that Antonio finally convinced the master of the ship to allow me to see the sun. I climbed up to the deck. At first, the glare was overwhelming. But, bit by bit, my eyes adjusted. Then I saw it. I saw the tiny islands poking up from the sea. They were all around us. I saw they were brushed smooth. I saw them and I knew where we were and where we were going.
“’We must flee!’ I said to Antonio, in my own tongue.
“’Flee?’ he said, ‘The men of this ship would capture us in mere minutes.’
“’No. We all must flee. We are in the waters inhabited by the monster. And if we do not run, none of us will survive.’”
Hans von Lüneburg slowly moves on to the next page – allowing the tension in the room to rise. He continues reading. Now, though, his voice seems just a touch deeper, a touch more scientific. The words are no longer those of Taiyana. “My name is Antonio de la Cruz. The words you have just read are those of Taiyana, a young native slave woman captured from the Islas de Oro. I have recoded her story, translated to the Spanish language as faithfully as I can manage. Now, I will share my story, although it is but a sliver of my history.
“When Taiyana told me of the monster, I rushed to the captain. I warned him about what she had said. But the captain ignored me. He didn’t care what the native girl had to say. I told him, as a naturalist, that I believed the natives knew these waters better than we did. But he ignored me. He had a ship. He had armored men. He had guns. The natives had none of these things. No monster would threaten him. He was going to find the gold from whence the islands had received their name.
“We sailed on. Taiyana was pointing at the edges of the islands. They were smooth like a river had passed them by, wearing them away over centuries. But there was no river. I showed the captain what she saw. I argued that whatever caused those marks must be truly massive. But the captain ignored me.
“Soon, the waters grew quiet. Our men, in an uneven rush of realization, noticed that there were no birds in the sky, no animals on the small islands we were passing, and no fish in the sea. Now, the captain was not ignoring me. He knew something truly dangerous was here. He ordered the sails trimmed. He ordered us to turn back. But it was too late. The winds suddenly died, and we found ourselves trapped in a Sea of Death. Taiyana was shaking with fear. Our knights put on their armor and readied their guns. Our sailors loaded their cannons. And then we all waited, frightened and praying for wind.”
“The first hint that something was coming came with a rustle of the water in the distance. It must have been a league away. It was a disruption, like a dolphin skimming below the surface. But the disruption was many times larger than that of a dolphin. The path it cut was as wide as three ships, and it was far faster than any ship I had ever seen. There was indeed a monster amidst the Isles de Oro. The gold the legends promised was for fools alone.
“Despite our fear, every man stayed where they could see that wave coming. They watched death flow towards them. They stood on the deck, knelt behind the gun ports, perched in the crow’s nest itself. They watched as that ripple grew larger and larger. Then the head of the monster suddenly rose above the waters. It was the head of a snake, of a worm, but its jaws were as massive as a cathedral. It shot upwards, its body was like a river flowing into the sky. The men crossed themselves in fear. I heard the captain begin to recite Subvenite, Sancti Dei – ‘come to my aid, saints of G-d.’
“I thought about reciting the shema, the Jewish statement of faith. What else was there to do? But then I saw the eyes of the creature. Those eyes were as large as horses. There was violence in them. But there was something else as well. There was anger as well. And there was intelligence.
“The monster’s head started down towards us. It grew closer and closer. The jaws opened wide, and I realized that each of its fangs were as massive as a watch tower. We felt its breath on us as it grew close. Somehow, despite it being a cold-blooded snake, that breath was warm with rot and death.
“And then the snake’s eyes were level with ours. It was staring into us. A man fell, overwhelmed by his fear. I felt the snake smile. Our fate was sealed. What could a few cannon balls do to a monster such as this?
“And then, almost unbidden, an ancient word crossed my tongue. I said, almost silently. ‘leviatan.’
“The creature heard me. It cocked its head. Curious. And then everything fell into place. I asked, in the original tongue of the G-d Almighty. ‘How long have you been alone?’”
Hans von Lüneburg pauses and then turns to the next page. It seems like no one in the tavern is even breathing as they await the next part of the story.
“I was amazed when the great creature answered me. Its Hebrew was so ancient, its pronunciation so unfamiliar, that I could barely understand the words it uttered. But I did understand them. It said, in a voice raw with disuse, ‘I have been alone since the days of creation.’”
“What is it saying?” asked the captain, urgently, “What language does it speak?”
“I ignored the captain. Instead, I saw only Taiyana standing beyond him. Somehow, she too had understood the great monster. Somehow, she knew what it needed. In her language, she said to me, ‘Tell it we will stay with it, and for as long as our mortal lives last, it will not be alone.’
“The captain was angry. His bluster and his rage were rising. But the presence of the great Leviathan was so overwhelming that he did not lash out. I was his only hope, and the only hope of his crew. I repeated Taiyana’s words, but in the ancient Hebrew spoken by the great serpent. Gesturing at just the two of us, I said, ‘We will stay with you. For as long as our mortal lives last, you will not be alone.’
“I don’t know if the great worm could smile. But I know that it can weep. And so, these are the last words I will ever commit to paper. I have composed them and given them to the captain. They are a warning: men should never return to this place. Men should never return, but Taiyana and I will never leave. We have found our home, and I have found my better world.”
With that, Hans von Lüneburg stops reading.
It is Anna Pietersdochter who asks the first question: “Where did you get the letter?”
Hans von Lüneburg holds the sheets up high and then turns them towards us. He displays them to the collected crowd.
There is nothing written on them.
“Why tell us a story that isn’t true?” asks the Master Carpenter.
Murmuring voices, disappointed and confused, join in his protest.
Hans von Lüneburg answers, a smile on his face, “They are true. There is no Leviathan, but they are true. You see, I fought in the Peasant’s Rebellion. I committed terrible crimes. Those crimes built up until they buried me. Their weight was far too great for any man to bear. One day, I realized I could add to those crimes no longer. I left the wars. I just walked away. And I kept walking. But in village after village and city after city, men shied away from me as if I had been branded with the mark of Cain. I was a monster. I am a monster. And then I came here.
“On the edge of your small town, Jan Timmerman was driving pilings into wet soil. A giant hammer operated by six men was slamming into the earth. It was expanding your town post by post and house by house. Jan saw me walking up the road. But he did not shy away from me. He did not run. He did not even ignore me as I passed by. Instead, as the rest of his crew pulled on the ropes that raised the pile driver up, he stepped away from the apparatus and ran to me.
“‘Welcome, friend!’ he said. Like the Leviathan, I had not heard friendly words for quite some time. ‘Where am I?’ I asked. Jan smiled and said ‘Miuterzee. Where are you from?’ He asked as if he truly wanted to know. Like Taiyana speaking to Antonio, I found myself wanting to share my story with this man. I told him only the most basic parts of my tale. He had work to do and so I, the knight, sat and waited until the laborer’s day was done. As Jan led me back into town, I shared more of my history. Jan did not run from me. He did not shy away. Instead, he brought me here and introduced me to his fiancé, Anna Pietersdochter. We were in this very room when she invited me to their wedding feast.”
Hans von Lüneburg takes a deep breath. Then, he continues with a voice that is a little unsteady, “Jan is simply a carpenter. Anna an embroiderer. They are not naturalists or explorers or exotic women from the New World. They are ordinary and they are real. And yet, their virtues are as great as those of Antonio and Taiyana. They listen to the hearts of others and then they act with love. Sometimes, they can even bring salvation to a monster.”
Hans von Lüneburg finally raises his glass. He announces, “To Jan and Anna, may their virtues become a part of forever.”
With a cheer, the friends and the family and the Master Carpenter and the travelling merchants and the fisherman and the sailors lift up their glasses and drink. And for the first time that night, the German drinks as well.
500 years later, little Luca climbs up into his bed. His mother, Olivia, sits on the side of the mattress. She reaches out with her hand and gently brushes his hair to one side. Then she utters the words she learned from her mother. They are words that have been passed down from parents to children for longer than anybody can remember. She tells Luca, “listen to the hearts of others and then act with love.”
Olivia and Luca know nothing of Jan and Anna. They have never heard of Hans or Antonio or Taiyana. Too many years have passed for the ordinary carpenters and knights and embroiders to be remembered. But despite this, Jan and Anna, Hans and Antonio, Taiyana and even the great worm, will forever be a part of their family.
People often ask me: In this story, which character is yours? In many cases there is no simple answer, or no answer at all. This story is an exception. I am Hans von Lüneburg. No, I’ve never been a monster marked like Cain. But I am a storyteller. I interview people and then I write stories crafted around their virtues. Whether the stories are crazy fantasies about dragons or contemporary tales of people overcoming everyday challenges, they are meant to lift up their subjects – both in their own eyes and in the eyes of others. Finally, they are meant to help carry those virtues into the distant tomorrow.
If you would like a Story that Celebrates for your wedding, anniversary, memorial or even Bar or Bat Mitzvah, please reach out to me at StoriesThatCelebrate.com.
Postscript: The day before writing this story, I met a woman whose brother passed away as a young man and whose mother passed away just last year. As I tend to do, I asked about the middot – the virtues – of those she had lost. The woman told me two stories. Many years earlier, their family had moved shortly before her Bat Mitzvah. She was worried she would be alone, friendless, in her new school. But before they had even moved, her mother had called all the girls in her new class and invited them to her Bat Mitzvah. When she eventually stepped into her class, the room was already abuzz with curiosity. She made friends instantly and she was never alone. Her mother listened to her daughter’s heart and acted with love. The story about her brother was also a powerful one. One Shabbat, when he could not write a note to his parents, he had a very important task he had to complete at a nursing home. It meant he would not come home that night. Concerned that his parents would be worried, he organized family photos and books in a way that suggested two words: “Daughters of Israel.” It was the name of the nursing home. As expected, his father understood the meaning of the puzzle. It might seem minor to us, but with that, his parents knew where he was and were not frightened by his absence. Her brother listened to his parents’ hearts and acted with love.
The woman I spoke to is quite private. She didn’t want her name or those of her family shared. Nonetheless, the virtues of those she has lost can still serve as a model for us. Indeed, her mother and her brother served as models for Antonio and Taiyana – and for Jan and Anna. After all, they listened to the hearts of others and then they acted with love.
Joseph Cox
Stories that Celebrate