SCOTT MACKAY THE SAGES OF CASSIOPEIA ON A CLEAR COLD NOVEMBER night in 1572, near the town of Knudstrup in Denmark, Tycho Brahe, one of the last great naked-eye astronomers, stood on the west tower of his uncle's abbey, Herritzvad, gazing up at the sky. He took his eye away from his sextant and glanced at his brother Magnus. Magnus swept the stone floor, his mongoloid eyes staring at the dying embers in the grate, his breath frosting over in the frigid air. "Magnus," called Tycho. "I've discovered a new star. Come see for yourself. It outshines Venus." Magnus didn't look up. His idiot brother continued to sweep the same spot of stone floor, his red hair shaggy over his flattened skull, his eyes good-natured but dull. If only he would do something useful, like build the fire, fetch some warm spiced wine, or empty the chamber pot. I have studied at Copenhagen, Leipzig Rostock, and Augsburg have given lectures by royal command to King Frederick and his court. And I ask myself, can this unfortunate dunce be my sibling? Tycho turned back to his sextant and looked up at the newly luminous object shining brightly among the murkier stars of Cassiopeia. How far is this new star away from the earth? Is it part of the great cogwheel of planets that rolls around the earth, or is it perched somewhere between the moon and the sun? Tycho lifted his quill and made a notation. Position unchanged. How to explain this phenomenon? Was it something that might confirm his own careful notion of the universe, that the sun revolved around the earth, that the planets revolved around the sun, that together the sun and the planets rolled like a big wheel through the sky with earth as its hub? Behind him, Magnus stopped sweeping. Tycho put his quill down and turned around. Magnus leaned the broom against the wall and lumbered over to the fire. He lifted the iron poker and stirred the embers, showing unexpected initiative, took a few small pieces of firewood and piled them in an intricate cat's cradle. Tycho dropped his quill and took a few steps forward, forgetting about the new star. Was this his brother, the same unfortunate soul he had to feed and clothe every morning the same dullard who had never spoken an intelligible word in his life, and who didn't have the manual dexterity to fit his own cod-piece? Was this Magnus, building this well-designed and thoughtful palace of wood? Magnus leaned forward and blew on the embers, coaxing the flames. Was it a miracle? Magnus stirred the embers again, turning them the way a baker folds currants into a pudding his fingers, for the first time ever, nimble and careful. The fire sprang up, licked the fresh wood, then cracked and popped. The light of the fire played over Magnus' freckled face, danced in his mongoloid eyes, rippled through his carrot orange hair. Was this God's fair hand at work, a divine intervention turning a fool into a sage? Tycho put his hand on his brother's shoulder. Magnus looked up at Tycho, and in the idiot's eyes the mist of stupidity lifted, and a brother's recognition, love, and devotion took their rightful place. Tycho leaned forward. "Magnus?" he said. Magnus got up, straightened his shoulders, stood to his full height, and walked, not lumbered, to the sextant. With unexpected delicacy he put his eye to the instrument. Tycho stood back, his blood running lightly through his body, tickling his heart with anticipation. The idiot worked his lips back and forth. Then he looked at Tycho, his eyes bright with discovery. "Venus?" said Magnus. His brother's first word; so fitting it should be the name of earth's sister planet. Tears came to Tycho's eyes. This was a miracle. Nothing like this had ever happened in Knudstrup before. "No, Magnus," he said. "Not Venus. A new star in the Cassiopeia constellation. But you will learn, dear brother. You will learn everything I know." Tycho sat on the hard uncomfortable chair across from Bishop Anders, feeling out of place in these holy chambers, uneasy, as if the mounted stag's head above the large and never. extinguished fire watched him. Despite the bright day and unseasonable warmth, the shutters remained closed. The bishop wore his heaviest black robe. Tycho was here to show the old man his latest astronomical notes. The bishop was an important man, the king's envoy in this province of Scania, and if Tycho could please the king through Bishop Anders, his work would continue unhindered, and with royal sanction. The bishop pushed the sheets aside, his brow knitting. He got up, ambled over to the fire, and stirred the embers with the poker. The fire danced from the ashes, casting unruly shadows on the rafters. So prudent to please the court, and more importantly, the Church, even after the Reformation, especially because he was a Lutheran in Catholic territory. But what, exactly, pleased Bishop Anders? Bishop Anders preached frugality and sacrifice from the pulpit, yet lived like a prince and allowed the brothers of the order to eat red meat every day. How was one to reconcile the stag's head mounted on the wall with the figure of Christ on the Crucifix next to the window? Truly a puzzling man, an unpredictable and unpleasant man, a man who had always envied the house of Brahe. The bishop turned from the fire. "Circles and numbers and endless observations," said Bishop Anders. "A truly meticulous account of Our Lord's universe." He walked to the table and shuffled through the sheets. "But this here," he said, pointing, "where you mention Kopernik of Cracow. Why must you do that? Everyone knows he was damned as a heretical fool. His work is no better than the scrawl of a madman." "Your Holiness, I mention Kopernik because of the discrepancies he discovered in Ptolemy's system. Certainly he was misguided to claim the sun resides at the center of the universe, but perhaps you haven't fully understood my final calculations," said Tycho. "You'll see that I've explained Kopernik's inconsistencies while keeping earth in its true and proper place." "I don't care about your calculations, Lord Brahe," said the bishop. "I care about your soul. And I sometimes fear the way of science leads directly to the Devil. Is it not better to behold and worship God's miracles? Everything you need to know is written here." The bishop tapped the thick Bible on the table. "Let us not question God's wisdom in putting the earth in the center of the universe. Let us not question this new star in the sky, for there was once a star over Bethlehem with the same benign radiance. Let us not question how your brother has gained reason or how the widow Huitfeldt's Peder has been touched with intelligence. These are miracles, Lord Brahe, and to pursue them with scientific study shows ill judgment and a temperament hardly attuned to the truer course of prayer." The Brahe brothers walked through the village of Knudstrup, Tycho on his mare, Magnus leading the horse by a rope. As they neared the canal, the village bullies emerged from behind the embankment and pelted Magnus with mud and cow dung, laughing, shrieking with cruel glee. "Be gone with you, wretched curs," cried Tycho, drawing his sword. Much to Tycho's surprise, Magnus darted away from the horse. The boys stood there with terror in their eyes. Magnus grabbed two of the biggest, dragged them kicking and screaming to the embankment wall, and, using his ox-like strength, pitched them into the canal. The others scattered like wheat chaff in the wind while the two wet culprits sputtered for breath and pulled themselves up onto the muddy bank. Magnus turned to Tycho. "A chilly immersion for these we'er-do-well knaves," he said, laughing. "For all the cripples they've stoned and all the idiots they've scoffed." "Dear brother, are you truly Magnus ?" "Of Herritzvad Abbey, the simple sibling of the great Tycho. My beloved Tyge, who knows the secret clockwork of the stars." "Yes, but not as simple as before. The Holy Father has blessed me, Magnus. I've found a new star, and I've found a new brother." They walked past the village common, where the grass had turned brown and the hoar-frost bearded the brambles in the far thicket. Magnus strode along beside the horse, a new man, refashioned into the brother Tycho had never had, his eyes quick, full of purpose, his face rosy in the morning cold. Off to see the widow Huitfeldt, because she, too, had been blessed by this miracle. Tycho had to see it for himself, had to know that the widow Huitfeldt's idiot son Peder had been touched by the same hand of reason. Tycho had to see it because if the light of intelligence had finally come to Peder Huitfeldt, then Tycho could embrace, without secret doubt, the miraculous transformation of his brother. "Then it is not Venus, Tyge?" asked Magnus. And yet was this intelligence, to pick up the strain of a conversation days old, with no proper reference, to dive right in and expect the listener to follow? "No, Magnus, not Venus. Venus roams across the sky and this new star is fixed. What we see each night in the constellation of Cassiopeia is not only a new star, but a new kind of star." "But why doesn't this star move like Venus, Mars, or Jupiter? Why must it be shackled to the sky like a prisoner, and not free to roam like its brothers and sisters?" "Magnus, I believe this new star must make its home in the celestial globe, beyond the endless round of the sun, the moon, and the planets, and that it is affixed to this globe like all the other stars." "Brother Tyge, perhaps this new star is not a star at all; perhaps it floats just beyond the ether and watches us. Perhaps this silve...
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