Pray also for me, that whenever I speak, words may be given me (Eph. 6:19)

[Gouw Marken]

Markstad, St.-Filippusbasilica, minutes before the beginning of the vespers.

Canon Adrianus Boome ter Beke looked at the Prince-Bishop. He was elected 10 years ago. How has everything changed. Gouw Marken had been an open, prosperous country. Quintus I has been a respected leader around the world. But religious life was getting weaker as the country became more and more open to other cultures. And with the foreign politics came conflict. His successor, Adrianus VII, has closed the country. A strong Church in a agricultural society. Evangelization in its own inner lands. And he was right. The Church flourished.

“But, Your Holiness, should we leave the world without the light of the true faith?”. He surprised himself by speaking so frankly to Quintus. If they hadn’t been born in the same town, had been to school in the same class and hadn’t been called by the Lord in the same church of St.-Perpetua in a small village, marked by the green of the woods and the yellow of the wheat fields, he would have been dismissed by this evening.

Now Quintus looked at his Canon. He said nothing. Service was on hand and he had to go. The velum over his shoulders, gold and red appeared in the light of the lead glass windows when he entered the choir of the basilica. The chorus of priests and canons sings Psalm 147. “qui emittit eloquium suum terrae velociter currit sermo eius”- He sends his command to the earth; his word runs swiftly.

Quintus looked at the light in the lead glass window. The glass above showed a dove – it catches the sunlight. A sign? To the earth…

 

[Gouw Marken]

Voorteberg, a day in August

Harvesting times… busy times. Death is always unwelcome, but sure it is in midsummer. The farmer must go on, nevertheless. Jacobus Descheeve looked around. He had farmed all his life. So did his father, who died three days ago. At 67, he grew old. Many people didn’t get that old in the countryside of Groendael, a county in the north of Gouw Marken. Petrus Descheeve, he had had a hard life. But he did well and the farm prospered.

Brother prior of the St.-Bernardus abbey of Breelinde, capital of Groendael, arrived. “Dona eis requiem aeternam”, he said when he expressed condolences to Jacobus. And he looked around. The abbey had the patronage over the village of Voorteberg, where the farm was located. Yes, they were free farmers. Yes, the farm was in Descheeve family for a long time. But still they had to obey the costumen of the county. And het beste catteel was one of those local customs. The lord who had patronage over the village has the right to choose one thing out of the heritage. The best of most valuable thing. Brother prior looked around. “Let your son bring that cow to the abbey”. A heifer, healthy and strong. The best of the cattle stock. One out of four cows they had. Death always comes as an unwelcome guest.

 

[Gouw Marken]

Breelinde, county Groendael, city gate

Nicolas Descheeve, youngest son of Jacobus Descheeve, led the heifer in the direction of the gate. It was a big building, guards on both side. A tax collector sat in a little room left over in the thick walls. A little window, facing the vesten – the water around the city fortifications. “One man and a cow, one Greendael pound”. He had paid taxes on Leiewaters Bridge, on Kleinbos Ferry and now again. He entered the city. Soon he would reach the abbey. “Hand over the heifer and return immediately”, his father said. He had never been allowed to go to the city on his own. He was 17 now, and because his father and brothers were needed on the farm, he had to go alone.

Further on the road he saw a lot of people, slowly moving towards him, gathered around a man with a red flag. And something was behind this man. Something on wheels, moving. As it came closer, he saw a kind of carriage, without the horses. It moved, without the men around it pushing it. It smelled strange as it passed. This must be a ‘car’. He heard stories about it from merchants passing by the farm. Nicolas couldn’t believe his eyes. He checked the heifer. Better he didn’t tell the monks, as the cow would never give milk again when it has had a car passing by, like people had told him.

 

[Gouw Marken]

Markstad, Palace of the Prince-Bishop

Quintus stood at the window. He looked at the skyline of Markstad. The St.-Pilippusbasilica coloured red in the evening light. Further away a boat drew a line in the sea. He thought about the Psalm and the light in the lead glass window, earlier this week. He sends his command to the earth; his word runs swiftly. To the earth…

Hadn’t Gouw Marken borders been locked for too long now? Shouldn’t Markstad Harbour be full of ships and ferries? Shouldn’t the Dominican Catholic Church send out her sons… to the earth?
Markstad had shown time is ready. It awaited the tourists with impatiens. It was ready to open the windows and look at the world.

But was this population really ready? Was it safe to let anything in? The devil waited at the doorstep – was it wise to open the door? Modernism, atheism, all those fallacies Gouw Markens intelligence abroad reported day after day. Was this country ready?

He looked out of the window again. The sun had left the day… darkness was everywhere. He prayed for enlightment.

 

[Gouw Marken]

Voorteberg Village, Descheeve Farm

Farmer Jacobus Descheeve looked at the wheat. At first, at the edge of the field, everything looked fine. But when he and his sons harvested more to the middle, the saw those little black spots on the crop. Fungus! The weather had been cold and damp, June and July had lots of misty mornings – often only by noon the sun was able to burn the mist away.

He knew better, he shouldn’t harvest any longer. The fungus would spread in the storage room. But what would they eat? Maybe he could save some, maybe it was still edible. He would bring the rest of it to the market, and sell it. He would only keep the wheat harvested at the borders of the field, to provide for him and his family.

With the death of his father, he lost his best cow to the abbey. Now this. What would it be tomorrow? Maybe it was best to start working at the weaving-loom as soon as possible. Work for winter days, but they better make most out of it this year, to earn some money. They will be in need of it in the future, that’s for sure!

 

[Gouw Marken]

Molenwege, Village Market, 7.30 h.

Farmer Descheeve carried a jute bag on his shoulders. So did four of his sons. They entered the village through the Zandpoort – the gate on the eastern side. Along the road they saw more people bearing goods, bags, animals. Molenwege Market was well known. Now, in the streets, more and more people were out and about. Father Descheeve noticed almost all of them had one or more jute bags. Grain. Everywhere. This wouldn’t do any good to the price.

At the market place people were shouting, haggling, busy and nervous. It was not the usual noise. It seemed hard and aggressive. Descheeve heard the haggling – the price went down and down. A bag of grain gained nothing.
A man halted. “Infected?”.
“Huh?”, the farmer replied.
“Is your grain infected?”.
The farmer didn’t reply at once and the man concluded: “It is, apparently. I give you 3 Groten for a bag. Good price”.
Nicolas Descheeve couldn’t believe it. “This must be a joke – 9 Groten is a normal price.”
“Not now”, the man answered. “Three. Take it or leave it”.
Descheeve accepted. What did he know aout prices? e was just farmer. He sold everything to this merchant.
Whilst they looked around, more people came to market to sell grain… infected… and got even less.
The price for not-infected grain had risen from 9 Groten to 21 Groten for a bag. In half a day.
Descheeve and his sons went home. With 15 Groten. And they had paid taxes along the route upto 6 Groten. What a disaster.