A Column of Fire

Del epílogo de la muy recomendable novela de Ken Follett A Column of Fire (2017), protagonizada por Ned Willard, agente de inteligencia para Isabel de Inglaterra en el siglo XVI, inmerso en las guerras de religión de la época, la matanza de San Bartolomé, la Armada, y el Complot de la Pólvora. No queda muy claro cuál es la "columna de fuego"—el fuego de las batallas, claro, pero también quizá el mundo en sí, la vida misma que al final se consume en sí misma. 

Aquí vemos a Ned ya anciano en 1620, con un nieto puritano a punto de partir para América:

At the age of eighty, Ned spent a lot of time sleeping. He napped in the afternoon, he went to bed early, and sometimes nodded off after breakfast in the front parlour of the Kingsbridge house. 

The house was always full. Barney's son, Alfo, and Ned's son, Roger, both had children and grandchildren. Roger had bought the house next door and the youngsters treated the two houses as one home. (...) The family had grown like a spreading tree, and Ned and Margery had watched its progress together, until her life had come to a peaceful end three years ago. Ned still talked to her sometimes, when he was alone. 'Alfo has bought the Slaughterhouse Tavern,' he would say as he got into bed at the end of the day. Or again, 'Little Eddie is as tall as me, now.' It hardly mattered that she made no reply: he knew what she would have thought. 'Money sticks to Alfo like honey on his fingers,' she would have said, and: 'Eddie will be after girls any day now.' 

Ned had not been to London for years, and would never go again. Strangely enough,  he did not pine for the excitement of tracking down spies and traitors, nor for the challenges and intrigues of government. It was the theatre he missed. He had loved plays ever since he saw the story of Mary Magdalene performed at New Castle on that Twelfth Day of Christmas so long ago. But a play was a rare event in Kingsbridge: travelling companies came only once or twice a year, to perform in the yard of the Bell Inn. Ned's consolation was that he had some of his favourite plays in book form, so he could read them. There was one writer he particularly enjoyed, though he could never remember the fellow's name. He forgot a lot of things these days. (...)

Jack was saying: 'Although James will continue to be our king theoretically, we hope he will take less interest in how we choose to worship, since it will be impossible for him to enforce his rules at such a distance.'

'I dare say you're right. I wish you well.'

'Pray for us, please.'

'I will. Tell me the name of your ship, so that I can ask God to watch over it.'

'It's called the Mayflower.¡

'The Mayflower. I must try to remember that.'

Jack went to the writing table. 'I'll note it down for you. I want us to be in your prayers.'

'Thank you'. It was oddly touching that Jack cared so much about Ned's prayers.

Jack wrote on a scrap of paper and put down the pen. 'I must leave you now—I've got so much to do.'

'Of course. I'm feeling tired, anyway. I may take a little nap.'

'Sleep well, Grandfather.'

'God be with you, beloved boy.'

Jack left, and Ned looked out of the window at the glorious west front of the cathedral. From here he could just see the entrance to the graveyard where both Sylvie and Margery lay. He did not look down at his book. He was happy with his thoughts. They were often enough for him, nowadays.

His mind was like a house he had spent his life furnishing. Its tables and beds were the songs he could sing, the plays he had watched, the cathedrals he had seen, and the books he had read in English, French and Latin. He shared this notional house with his family, alive and dead: his parents, his brother, the women he had loved, the children. There were guest rooms for important visitors such as Francis Walsingham, William and Robert Cecil, Francis Drake, and of course Queen Elizabeth. His enemies were there, too—Rollo Fitzgerald, Pierre Aumande de Guise, Guy Fawkes—although they were locked in the cellar, for they could do him no more harm.

The pictures on the walls were of the times when he hae been brave, or clever, or kind. They made the house a happy place. And the bad things he had done, the lies he had told and the people he had betrayed and the times he had been cowardly, were scrawled in ugly letters on the wall of the outhouse. 

His memory formed the library of the house. He could pick out any volume and instantly be transported to another place and time: Kingsbridge Grammar School in his innocent childhood, Hatfield Palace in the thrilling year of 1558, the banks of the Seine river on the bloodstained night of St Bartholomew, the Channel during the battle with the Spanish armada. Strangely, the character of Ned that lived in those stories did not remain the same. It seemed to him sometimes that quite a different person had learned Latin, someone else had fallen under the spell of young Princess Elizabeth, another character had stabbed a man with no nose in the graveyard of the church of St-Julien-le-Pauvre, and yet another had watched the fireships scatter the galleons off Calais. But of course they were all just different versions of himself, the owner of the house. 

And one day soon the place would fall down, as old buildings did, and than, quite quickly, it would all turn to dust.

With that thought he drifted off to sleep.

 

—oOo—