The Antiquarian

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According to Conrad Lycosthenes’ wife, who was a foreigner, the women of her country used to lay eggs like hens. Conrad killed her and on her deathbed found a yellow egg and through a crack in the shell saw a sleeping face that was identical to his own. Ramihrdus of Cambrai was born of a virgin hen and they killed him: 1076. Gherardo Segarelli preached to the wise men in the barn and they killed him: 1300. Fra Dolcino bred chickens and roosters and they killed him: 1307. This is what I hear: Jan Hus made Peter crow thrice and they killed him: 1415. Jacob Hutter disemboweled his disciples and they killed him: 1536. Anne Askew quenched the thirst of her chicks with her own blood and they killed her: 1546.

This is what I’ve been hearing for an indeterminable period of time. I open and close my eyes and then I open them again. I don’t know if minutes, hours, or weeks have gone by. In the penumbra, as in the light, I hear the same list unraveling: Nicholas Ridley’s feathers were plucked for being the king of the Jews and they killed him: 1555. Gioffredo Varaglia bought thirty hens from Judas and they killed him: 1558. Bernardino Conte named his first child Magdalene and they killed him: 1560. From time to time, a gruff, stammering voice cuts in and out, and I open my eyes to see the room I am in. On certain occasions I notice that night has fallen, or perhaps that dawn has already come. I then reach the realization that I am in a hospital. And I listen: Diego López founded his church with the effigy of a sparrow-hawk carved in stone and they killed him: 1583. I fall asleep, and in my dreams I recognize that I am in another hospital, one that’s larger and ever bustling. And I recognize that it’s my own voice that I’m hearing.

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