The Cole Trilogy: The Physician, Shaman, and Matters of Choice by Noah Gordon Page A

balls and left the stage, seeking refuge behind the curtain in the wagon. He was gulping for air, his heart pounding. He could hear Barber, who was not perceptively short of breath, speaking of the joys of juggling as he popped two balls. “Do you know what you have when you hold objects such as these in your hand, Mistress?”
    “What is that, sirrah?” asked a trull.
    “His complete and perfect attention,” Barber said.
    The reveling crowd hooted and yelped.
    In the wagon Rob prepared the trappings for several pieces of magic and then rejoined Barber, who consequently caused an empty basket to blossom with paper roses, changed a somber kerchief into an array of colored flags, snatched coins out of thin air, and made first a flagon of ale and then a hen’s egg to disappear.
    Rob sang “The Rich Widow’s Wooing” to delighted catcalls, and then Barber quickly sold out his Universal Specific, emptying the three baskets and sending Rob into the wagon for more. Thereupon a long line of patients waited to be treated for numerous ailments, for although the loose crowd was quick to jape and laugh, Rob noted they were extremely serious when it came to seeking cures for the illnesses of their bodies.
    As soon as the doctoring was done, they made their way out of Bridgeton, for Barber said it was a sink where throats would be slit after dark. The master was obviously satisfied with their receipts, and Rob settled into sleep that night cherishing the knowledge that he had secured a place in the world.
    Next day in Yeoville, to his mortification he dropped three balls during the performance, but Barber was comforting. “It’s bound to happen on occasion in the beginning,” he said. “It will occur less and less frequently and finally not at all.”
    Later that week in Taunton, a town of hardworking tradesmen, and in Bridgwater, where there were conservative farmers, they presented their entertainment without bawdiness. Glastonbury was their next stop, a place of pious folk who had built their homes around the large and beautiful Church of St. Michael.
    “We must be discreet,” Barber said. “Glastonbury is controlled by priests, and priests look with loathing upon all manner of medical practice, for they believe God has given them sacred charge of men’s bodies as well as their souls.”
    They arrived the morning after Whit Sunday, the day that marked theend of the joyous Easter season and commemorated the descent of the Holy Ghost upon the apostles, strengthening them after their nine days of prayer following the ascension of Jesus into Heaven.
    Rob noted no fewer than five unjoyous priests among the spectators.
    He and Barber juggled red balls, which Barber, in solemn tones, likened to the tongues of fire representing the Holy Spirit in Acts 2:3. The spectators were delighted with the juggling and applauded lustily, but they fell silent as Rob sang “All Glory, Laud and Honor.” He had always liked to sing; his voice cracked at the part about the children making “sweet hosannas ring” and it quavered on the very high notes, but he did fine once his legs stopped jiggling.
    Barber brought out holy relics in a battered ash-wood chest. “Pay attention, dear friends,” he said in what he later told Rob was his monk’s voice. He showed them earth and sand carried to England from Mounts Sinai and Olivet; held up a sliver of the Holy Rood and a piece of the beam that had supported the holy manger; displayed water from the Jordan, a clod from Gethsemane, and bits of bone belonging to saints without number.
    Then Rob replaced him on the bank and stood alone. Lifting his eyes heavenward, as Barber had instructed, he sang another hymn.
    “Creator of the Stars of Night,
    Thy people’s everlasting light,
    Jesu, Redeemer, save us all,
    And hear thy servants when they call.
    Thou, grieving that the ancient curse
    Should doom to death a universe,
    Hast found the medicine, full of grace,
    To save and heal a ruined