Once upon another time, in this wild, wide, desperate and wonderful world, there was a city. Not a big city. Quite a small city really. But an old city. A city with a dark forest growing thick around it. A city that was a thousand years old, with the houses built of a soft honey-coloured stone. And all the houses built closely together to protect the people from the cold timeless winds and the fierce timeless beasts.
Life had never been easy in this city, but people had worked hard and helped each other and protected each other and saved seed corn and money for the future. Between them, over many years, in the centre of the city they had built a cathedral. They had built it as a symbol for everything that was beyond them and above them as they lived their small and short lives. They had built it for beauty and justice and truth and love and safety and for all the other fine words they could think of. And because they needed something they could see that proved that those words were more than just words. They were real. They were in stone.
The cathedral was beautiful. It was built of the same honey coloured stone as the houses, but the stone had been polished so that it looked like gold and, like gold, it shone brightly in the sunshine.
People were proud of the cathedral. They said that maybe it wasn’t the most beautiful cathedral in the world, but certainly it was more beautiful than any other cathedral anybody knew of. Everyone who had ever been born in the city said this was so. And many visitors, particularly the polite ones, agreed and said they wished they had a cathedral like this one in their countries.
The people had built the cathedral on a hill in the centre of the city so that everyone who lived there, when they opened their door or their window in the morning, could see the cathedral and understand better what their life was about, what it meant, as they began each day. And, over the years, the people of the city filled the cathedral with beautiful things. A tall silver crucifix, heavy golden plates, statues of gods who lived beyond, before and after death, books bound in wine-red leather written by hand, bright, bright paintings on the walls telling stories that must be true since everyone had always known them, frescos on the ceiling showing heroes and heroines of the people, drinking cups covered with jewels, a very special beautiful small ivory box called a pyx that contained the host, tapestries of blue and green and red to protect and wrap like blankets the wishes and hopes of the people of the city.
The cathedral was the place where people were married, were baptised, were mourned. It wasn’t perfect, but it was the place that was closer to perfection than any other place.
The cathedral belonged to no one man and to no one family. And because it belonged to no-one, it belonged to everyone.
The cathedral always had a bishop. It would have been nothing without one. Without a bishop it would have had no voice. The bishop was the voice of the cathedral. And, of course, some bishops are better than others. But they come and they go. The cathedral remains.
Our story is about the time of the bishop Floris. Floris had been a priest assisting the old bishop and people had liked him. He had a bumbling, fumbling way about him that reassured everyone. If a man bumbles and fumbles then he must be humble, surely. No-one could imagine Floris ever doing anyone any harm. He didn’t seem to be an organised man, and surely you had to be organised to practice harm on people.
There were stories Floris was quite a lazy man. And a man who liked red wine very much, and sometimes liked his wine so much he spilled it over his books or someone else’s books and people got cross with him. But this just made him seem like your friend’s dad, or your younger brother who had never done well at school, or your grandfather who you only remembered as an old man, drinking wine in the evening, telling stories by the fire about when he was young, forgetting the things he had to do and hadn’t done that day.
So when he became bishop people were pleased. And they knew that Floris had people to help him in his duties. In the cathedral there were vicars and priests and canons and friars so Floris wasn’t alone. There were many people to give him good advice and counsel.
The person who most often Floris listened to was Canon Nicodemus. Nicodemus was from a wealthy family in the north. His father-in-law owned a barn and yard and a castle. Nicodemus was completely unlike Floris. Where Floris was fat, Nicodemus was thin. Where Floris had a big head covered with shaggy, yellow hair, Nicodemus had a very small head – like the head of a pin – and he had no hair. Floris dressed in bright robes of red and gold, and Nicodemus in dark robes of olive green and black. Floris’s eyes always had the look of a dog that knew it had something to be ashamed of but couldn’t remember quite what and was always waiting for a beating. Nicodemus’s eyes were those of a man who had come into a room that had suddenly fallen silent, and who knew that everyone in the room had been talking about him and would never tell him what they were saying. People would say that if you squashed the two men together, you would end up with one normal man. But people knew that neither man was normal.
At night, the cathedral was usually empty, though it was always open. Most people were asleep in their beds, but anyone who was troubled or sick at heart could go to the cathedral and sit in its coolness if they wanted. And this particular night, two men who lived next door to each other had both on the same day had bad news. They had sat round the fire together and talked till late. Their children had gone to bed and then their wives had gone to bed, but both men knew that it was pointless them going to bed because they wouldn’t sleep. They were sad and troubled and decided it would help if they went to the cathedral. Just to sit there. Not to talk or to think. To sit in a place where the everyday didn’t exist.
The cathedral was empty and silent when they got there. A few candles burned. The cathedral was vast, and in that vastness you felt you were a small, insignificant person who, nevertheless, somehow was connected to the greatest meanings in the universe. You felt fear and comfort, love and terror surround you. The two men sat in the silence, silent.
They had been sitting there for a few minutes when a door on the other side of the cathedral opened very quietly and a man in a priest’s cloak came in. The man moved quickly and quietly to the place where the golden plates were kept. Without hesitation, like a man who had practiced what he was doing, the man picked up the largest of the plates, put it into a sack he carried, turned round and went back out of the door he had come in by. The door closed.
The two men could hardly believe what they had seen. The cloaked man had stolen from the cathedral. They had been too shocked to say anything. But they had both clearly seen the face of the man as he had turned to make his way out of the cathedral. It was Nicodemus.
They went home and talked through the night. Not now about their troubles, but about what they had seen. And they decided that, at dawn, they would go to see Bishop Floris and tell him what they had seen.
At dawn they knocked on the door of Floris’s residence and were asked inside. At dawn they sat down and waited. Dawn turned to morning and morning to mid-morning and at 11 o’clock a door opened and Floris came in, wiping his mouth with a big red and gold napkin.
The men told Floris what they had seen. Floris said he couldn’t believe this. He said there must be some mistake, not to worry and he would go straight to see Nicodemus to hear what he had to say and that the men were to come back at the same time the next day and he was sure there would be a good explanation.
The men thanked him and left, but they were still troubled so went home and told their wives what they had seen. And they told other men. And other wives. And nobody could quite believe it. So someone suggested going to the cathedral to check that one of the golden plates had actually been taken. So they went and counted the plates and one, the largest and richest one, was missing.
The next day the two men went to see the bishop as he had asked. The bishop told them that he had spoken to Nicodemus and that Nicodemus had said that no-one had taken a plate from the cathedral. But the men told Floris that they had counted the plates and one had certainly been taken. So Floris said again that he couldn’t believe this that there must be some mistake, not to worry and he would go straight to see Nicodemus to hear what he had to say and that the men were to come back at the same time the next day and he was sure there would be a good explanation.
The men came away from Floris’s house and told everyone what had happened. Everyone was confused, but the schoolteacher said that she had checked the laws of the city and that it was clear that it was a crime to take anything from the cathedral. She showed the law book where this was written and everyone read it for themselves.
So the men went back the next day at 11 o’clock to Floris’s house. Floris met them and told them that there had indeed been a mistake, that Nicodemus had taken the plate from the cathedral but that this was not stealing as this was not against any law. Then the men said they had read the city’s laws and that it said there it was a serious crime to take anything from the cathedral. Floris said again that there must be some mistake, not to worry and he would go straight to see Nicodemus to hear what he had to say and that the men were to come back at the same time the next day and he was sure there would be a good explanation.
The men went back to their friends and told them what Floris had said. Then everyone was a little bit afraid for Nicodemus. He had stolen from the cathedral. He had lied to Floris. He had broken the law. What would his punishment be? It would have to be something terrible. Imprisonment, exile, or something worse.
The next day, for the fourth time, the men went back to the bishop’s house. Floris came to see them and said that he had spoken to Nicodemus and there had indeed been a serious mistake. He had forgotten to tell the men that the city’s laws, which were always written by the Bishop, had been changed. It now was no crime for the Bishop or anyone who was a canon at the cathedral, to take anything they wanted from the cathedral. At any time and for as long as they wanted. Nicodemus had reminded Floris of this, so now there was clearly nothing to worry about. And, indeed, Nicodemus was going to the cathedral to see what else he might want to take to his house as an exercise for his poor eyesight. Probably the silver crucifix to see if it looked okay in Nicodemus’s house.
And yes, that night, Nicodemus took the crucifix. And two tapestries and three goblets. And came back the next night for four paintings. And the next night, Nicodemus took the pyx.
But the men were neither happy nor convinced. The people they told were neither happy nor convinced. Worse than that, the cathedral now seemed very different. It seemed like a place that did not represent beauty and justice and truth and love and safety any more. In fact, it seemed like a place that laughed at those things. A place that reminded everyone that those things could be taken away at night and never be brought back. And the worst was that the cathedral had been built on a hill in the centre of the city so that everyone who lived there, when they opened their door or their window in the morning, could not help but see the cathedral and understand better what their life had now become and what it meant, as they began each and every day.
People were sick at heart. More people every day. And it seemed like the city itself became sick. Strange green and black mould started to grow on the honey coloured houses. It crept up the walls and along the roofs and then, one day, it started to grow on the golden walls of the cathedral.
People didn’t see Floris or Nicodemus often now. Floris had preached a sermon each evening at 5 o’clock, but he stopped doing that saying it was because of the sickness. And people rarely went into the cathedral anyway. Now the cool had turned to damp and at nights a fog gathered in the air inside the cathedral so that the ceiling was obscured and no-one could see the frescos anymore.
Then one day the news spread that Bishop Floris had left the city. Archbishop Maffias from Moscow had said that he was going to visit Floris but, for some reason, Floris left for a country across the ocean before Archbishop Maffias could arrive. Servants who worked for Floris noticed that the bishop’s supply of wine had left the city with him.
But more seriously, before Floris left he had written a proclamation that Nicodemus was to become Bishop in his place. When Nicodemus heard this, he set a date for his coronation in the cathedral as the new Bishop. He summoned everyone in the city to attend.
Most people didn’t like Nicodemus and they didn’t really want to go to the coronation, but Nicodemus threatened them with the bishop’s armed guard, so they knew they had to go. In the taverns on the night before the coronation, everyone agreed they had to do something to show that they didn’t want Nicodemus as their Bishop, even if it was just a small thing and didn’t really do any good. So they came up with an idea.
The day of the coronation arrived. The people trudged up through the streets past the houses with their walls thick and dripping with mould, into the damp, dingy cathedral that was dark and filled with a grey fog and smelt of rotten eggs and unwashed socks. But two of the townspeople stayed outside to watch the cathedral’s doors.
When everyone was sitting down inside, the ceremony started. Music played. Nicodemus stepped before the altar dressed in his olive green and black robes and with the Bishop’s crown in his hands. He said a few words and then lifted up the crown to place on his head, chanting ‘I, Bishop Nicodemus…’.
And that was the signal for the people to act. As Nicodemus put the crown on his head, everyone stood up, the men outside opened the doors wide to let the light in and everyone turned their backs on Nicodemus, faced the fresh air outside and shouted out all together so that their voices rang through the streets, ‘You are not our bishop.’
And at that exact moment, a strong wind blew through the open doors and the sun came out from behind the clouds and shone as bright and as warm as anyone could remember. Fresh, warm air flooded into the cathedral, the damp fog disappeared, the bad smells vanished, the walls of the cathedral and all the walls of the houses in the whole city dried out, the green mould evaporated in the blink of an eye and the old colour of honey shone from all the buildings right through the city. People gasped and gazed and, from behind them, heard a small bubbling sound. Everyone turned round and saw, where Nicodemus had been standing, a small puddle of thick, green and black liquid was bubbling and steaming. Nicodemus was nowhere to be seen and the crown was rolling around before the altar like a discarded toy.
The sickness never came back to the city. Floris never came back to the city. Nicodemus never came back. And the people of the city all lived happily ever after.
