“Not yet,” she said, holding Nettie back.
“But she’s—” Nettie said.
“Fine,” said Mrs Stanley. “We know what we’re about.”
The knocking continued, rising then dropping away, replaced by words.
“Your low magic tranced my feet, dragging me through field and thorn, and now you poison me with smoke and soil.”
“Do you have the caul?” said Jonty.
A coughing answered, “On my person.”
He knelt down, knees cracking, and tapped on the bottom of the door.
“Pass out the bag and I’ll open the doors.”
With a flower of smoke a bag appeared. Jonty gripped it tight and passed it to Nettie.
“Now you need to take what’s yours, and run it across your skin. Let the luck recognise you again.”
Nettie did as the old labourer said, feeling the softness of the caul lift the the ache from her bones and mirror the gaze of luck back to her. Mrs Stanley lifted the door bar, letting Temperance out into the early morning sun. She removed the ribbons, crystals of salt still encrusted on Temperance’s cataract eyes, soil still gritting her teeth.
Mrs Stanley stood with her hands on her hips.
“The only low magic here is yours, Temperance, and I think it’s time to herd it back to your own place.”
***
Over the next few days the luck started to return to Nettie. Her hair became brighter, the colour returning with the glow of each dawn. The cracked and worn skin slew off like an adder leaving an old body to be born afresh.
Nettie did not take the boy back to her bed, and she never married. Yet others came to her cottage, with gifts and riches, and when she wanted to be held while she slept, there was always a lover for her to take to her bed.
Palace of Rats
Anna Sykora
Deep in the forest of the Harz, sunset was burning through the dry trees when at last we reached the gate of Our Lady of Sorrow. Fida, my terrier, cocked a ragged ear; for hours we’d seen not a wagon, not a miner, while she trotted beside me patient as a friend. Why were we stopping here?
“We need this work,” I told her, unshouldering the pack of gear. My back ached; Bishop Bonifatius says I must be about 40, an old man. The bishop’s plump as a piglet, with hands like a lady who just sits inside. Men of the church eat well these days, but they can read and write.
When I pulled the gate’s chain, a bell tolled like a warning and Fida whined. “Bread or meat, you get a quarter of my feed,” I vowed, and we waited for a while like hopeful fools, sniffing the wind for cooking smells. I was just reaching for the chain again when a slide in the oaken gate grated open.
“What do you want, so late in the day?” demanded a lean old nun.
“I’m Franz Durr, with a letter from the Bishop of Halberstadt.” I held up the roll of vellum with his seal, and she snatched it like a goose grabs a crust.
“I am Sister Sieghilde, and this is an enclosed community. You must wait outside for our abbess to answer.”
My stomach growled. “For pity, Sister. We’ve trudged all the way from Wernigerode and we’re hungry as farmers in a famine. Won’t you let us inside your walls?”
“Well, we were not expecting you.” Bang—she shut the slide. I settled down on a rock to wait, and Fida stuck her damp nose in my cheek.
“Here’s a fine welcome,” I complained. “You’d think they’d show their bishop more respect.” The sun was slipping under the world. What if we had to sleep in the woods? Wolves and bears still prowl the Harz. Why had I jumped to the bishop’s bidding?
God forgive me, I knew why: other men heap up coins, but I spend my wages, liking strong drink more than water from the stream. I like pretty women too, though they don’t like me because of my trade. With this job at the convent I’d earn more coins before winter sank its fangs into me, the winter of Anno Domini 1348.
The farmers swore it would be a fierce one, the rabbits in the fields already skin and bones. Plus I’d heard rumors of a new plague killing folks in the south like flies. What if these forest nuns turned me away? I could freeze like a man by the side of the road, but what about my dog? I’d trained Fida from a pup to help me, and I’d rather keep her than a sturdy young apprentice. Lately I’d sold my cart and pony, but before I sold Fida I’d sell myself to the Devil and his grim crew.
Suddenly the heavy gate creaked open, and out stepped Sister Sieghilde, black habit sweeping the ground and white of her wimple none too clean. Mean-mouthed, she looked like a witch, I swear, and Fida—who’d led me down a hundred drains as if we hunted meek mice for sport—backed away like a skittish girl. I grabbed her studded collar.
“Rat-catcher, you’ll sleep at our gardener’s cottage, right up the path. Tomorrow you trudge back to Wernigerode. We do not have an infestation.”
“But the bishop said—”
“Men of the church say what they please.”
“But he paid me a third of my fee, in silver, and promised to pay the rest when I’m done.”
“Then keep what he gave you, for your pains. We’ll ask our gardener to feed you tonight for the love of God.”
“For His or my own, as you wish,” I jested, and she cast me a look to shrivel an oak. “Come along, Fida; at least we’ll dine.” And I hoisted my heavy pack.
***
The sun’s light had faded to thin gruel when we reached the odd stone cottage set into a hill. No larger than a shepherd’s hut, it had no windows, and smoke puffed from an upside-down flowerpot capping the buried chimney. I crossed myself and rapped on the door.
A bent greybeard with matted hair opened it, peering up with kindly eyes: “Guten abend, son. The sisters said you’d share my humble home tonight.” How could he be expecting us? We’d seen no messenger on the path.
“I’m Franz Durr, of Wernigerode. Rat-catching is my trade.”
“Is that so? I’m Hans Memel, born in Halberstadt.” He shook my hand and didn’t complain when Fida followed me inside. She lay down before his hearth and shut her eyes. The pot in the tripod over the fire steamed meat stew, and I licked my lips.
“Hungry?” asked Hans.
“Sure. From Wernigerode it’s all uphill.” He had me lean my pack against the wall and offered me a low stool. His one smoky room boasted no table, just a lumpy sleeping sack, and garden tools glinted along the walls. He ladled stew into a wooden bowl and handed it to me carefully; I gulped it and burned my mouth.
“This is delicious,” I mumbled. “Tastes like rabbit raised in a hutch.”
Hans only smiled and served himself. “Hunger’s the best cook, they say.” I stared at the middle finger stumps on his left hand. “A mining accident,” he said calmly. “For twenty-five years I toiled like a mole, chipping out silver ore.”
“A nasty job. Miners miss the sun.”
“And you grab at rats with your bare hands and stow them in a cage.”
“I’m used to my work. I’ve been at the trade for nigh on twenty years.”
“Ever been bit?”
“Many a time.” Pushing up my sleeves, I showed off my scores of scars and missing pinky tip.
“Working does eat up a working man.” He slapped his knee with his maimed hand.
“I’m grateful the world has nests of rats, so I can work and eat.”
Hans tipped back his head and guffawed at this, revealing blackened teeth. I had only four rotten ones, and felt a glow of warmth for the man.
“You know, rats aren’t so bad. They want the same things people do: a warm hole to nest in, food to spare, safe company and plenty to drink.”
“Never thought of the critters that way.”
“Plus, rats fight you fair. They don’t come sneaking up in a horde; they fight to defend their nests and young. Oh, I’d rather live in a rat-eaten hut than with the worst rogues I’ve met.”
“Say, Franz, would you like a taste of my mead? I brew it with honey from the woods.”
“You ma
y think me a fool, and many do, but I’ve sworn a vow to give up drinking. It’s hard drink has kept me poor all these years I’ve worked like an ox that turns a mill.”
“More stew, then? I can spare another bowl.”
“I’ve got some groschen here; I can pay.” I jingled the bishop’s silver in my purse.
“Save your money, son; let the sisters pay me. They can afford it,” Hans said firmly, plopping another dollop in my bowl. While I gobbled half, he sat stroking his beard.
“This bit’s for my dog. She earns her keep.” I set the bowl near Fida, who was snoring like a man. “Hans, aren’t our nuns supposed to be poor? And here, deep in the forest of the Harz...”
“Son, don’t always believe what people say. I’ve got a pair of eyes; you too.” He peered around his snug nest then, as if to find a stranger. Fida moved her paws in her sleep as if she trotted beside me. “Other men have visited Our Lady of Sorrow,” Hans whispered and winked. “I’ve never seen them leave.”
“How’s that? This is a convent.”
He tapped his lips with a grubby finger. “That’s all I’ll say; I’ve a safe home here, growing cabbages and carrots for the sisters... Now let’s rest our bones.” He wanted to loan me his straw-stuffed sack, but I helped him arrange a rush mat with a blanket near the fire. As soon as I lay down next to Fida she woke and started to whine. I offered her the leftover stew, but she trotted to the door and scratched at it.
“I’ll let her out to piss,” I said. “She’s always comes right back.” When I opened the door she scooted out, and a light snow was falling, like flurries of sawdust. Meaning to wait up for her, I lay down again before the crackling fire.
Dreaming I stood with a taper in my hand beside a moss-clotted grave, a grave marked only by a bare wooden cross. “Mother, I’ve been a wastrel,” I told her, “I’ve spent all my wages and most of my strength, with no wife or child to call my own, no hut, not even a chicken. I had to sell my rig to pay my debts, so I carry my gear like a wandering peddler.”
Magda’s grave breathed smoke as she whispered: “Have a care, my son. I lived and died a scullery maid, scouring pots in the houses of other women, and all for a wage of crusts and slop a sick pig wouldn’t swallow. Franz, use your eyes, before it’s too late.” But the taper in my hand hissed out, leaving me the world of dark.
Now I heard barking: Fida? Was I dreaming her too? When I forced my eyes open the room lay still as a grave, the fire just a child’s handful of embers.
“Hans?” I whispered but he didn’t stir. Getting up I opened the door a crack, and saw the half moon drifting over the trees like the wreck of a sailing ship. I heard another fit of barking far off, and out I rushed without my cloak. What was Fida doing, hunting rabbits in the woods when I needed her safe and strong! “Fida,” I howled and waited. “Fida!” She didn’t come running back to me. I waited till I couldn’t breathe in the bitter cold.
Hugging myself, I prayed to St. Jude to please look down and save my dog. He’s the saint who always protects us; I got his cult from my mother’s use. He’s the kind who doesn’t drop you when you let him down; and now I’d lost the work the bishop promised, and my best ratter too. Why did Fida run away? Had she fallen in with a pack of wolves? Feeling grieved, and cold to the bone, I stumbled back to the gardener’s hut.
Soon as I got the door open again I gagged at the slaughter-house reek. Plucking a splint from the basket of kindling, I lit it on the embers and held it up—and there lay poor Hans, sprawled on his bed-sack like a broken toy, his throat torn open, his face a dead howl, shirt torn to rags and one foot bare. Creeping closer I saw the marks in his flesh I know too well. What if I’d stayed inside with him? Would I have woken up quick and saved him?
In all my years of catching rats—with dogs and nets and traps and hands—never had I met up with a pack that mobbed a sleeping man. Rats like our food, and they love our garbage; they’ll gnaw on leather or carrion too; but for live prey they mostly pick on critters smaller than themselves. Wouldn’t you?
I pulled a patched blanket over the body. “Lord, have mercy on his soul,” I groaned. I felt sick to my stomach, but getting hot like a taunted bull. This old miner was kind; he didn’t deserve such a painful death. Oh, I’d find the burrow of these rats; I’d root them out and slaughter them. What man or beast in the German lands could do a better job?
First I had to tell the sisters how they lost their gardener.
***
I kept pulling on the gate’s chain, and the deep bell tolled like the end of the world. Wrapped in my cloak I stood shivering in the murky light before dawn. Yes, this winter would be cruel, even if the new sickness I’d heard of stayed in the south.
“Stop it.” Sieghilde glared through the gate. “Why are you alarming our community?”
“I need to speak to your abbess, sister. Rats ripped out your gardener’s throat.”
“And what have you been drinking, rat-catcher?”
“Sister, I know the bite marks in his flesh. I swear by the Holy Cross.”
She pursed her lips as if she’d swallowed vinegar. “Come along, man, and mind your manners.” The gate creaked open, and in the wan light Our Lady of Sorrow lay before me: a crescent of newish, half-timbered houses, most linked to a chapel of grey stone. Beyond the low chapel I saw neat gardens, and an orchard heavy with late apples.
“Follow me,” croaked the sister and strode towards the finest house, which stood higher than the chapel’s cross. Tagging along I heard women’s voices singing sweet and high, but I couldn’t understand one word; their tongue didn’t sound like Latin—or German.
Tramping ahead, my guide ignored me, and suddenly the strange singing ceased. Had I dreamed it, another nightmare? Only my belly’s grumbling proved I still walked in the land of the living.
“St. Jude, I beg you,” I mouthed, trotting after Sieghilde up a flight of stairs. “Please preserve me and my dog.” When the gaunt sister stopped at a pointed arch and knocked on a varnished, oaken door, a strong voice called out, “Enter.”
I stepped after the lean nun into a hall all hung with blooming garden tapestries. How had I landed back in July? Those fruits and berries looked good enough to eat, and I smelled a cloying sweetness. How could woven things smell sweet?
A shapely woman rose from behind a desk and nodded at me like a queen. Fleshy as a pampered house cat, she wore a black and white habit like Sieghilde’s but neat and clean. A silver crucifix hung on her breast, and her face and hands looked pale and smooth; oh, she must have servants to tend her. Abbess Meine was very beautiful, with eyes of jewel green and dark, full lips like overripe cherries.
“Guten Morgen,” she said, and I echoed her; and Sieghilde glared at my torn cap, so I plucked it off and stood twisting it in my hands. “So you’re the rat-catcher from Wernigerode?” From a gilded cage, a red-crested bird piped up, “Rat-catcher!” startling me—and before I could catch my breath, a golden monkey, little as a lapdog, flung itself into the abbess’s arms. Toying with her crucifix, it peered up at me with blood-red eyes until I shuddered like a frightened lad; I couldn’t help myself.
“You put him away.” The young abbess handed her pet to Sieghilde, who strode from the hall with a sour expression. Waving me to a wooden chair, she resumed her cushioned seat. Three tomes lay open on her trestle desk, with sheets of written vellum and a sharpened goose feather. Oh, she was a scholar too, and now she studied me like a two-headed calf.
“The bishop—” I began boldly.
“I’ve seen his letter, man.”
“Reverend Mother, you do have a plague of rats here. Last night they bit your gardener to death.”
“So I hear, rat-catcher.” Slowly she straightened her silver chain, while I tried not to stare at her generous breasts. I should just run for the woods tonight, run all the way back to Wernigerode. What about poor Fida, though? And what about the bishop’s silver?
“I’d like to do the work our bishop sent me for,” I
said at last. “I need this work.”
She smiled like a freezing waterfall. “Then be my guest. When can you start your useful work?”
“Right away, if you like.”
“How long can you stay with us, rat-catcher?”
“Until the job’s done right and proper. I’ve never needed more than three or four days.”
“You’re quick as sin.” Her upper lip curled. Was this a jest?
“Please understand, I never guarantee to kill you every single rat. They’re cunning devils, and I’m no magician to make them follow me by piping them a tune.”
“What a pity. Rat-catcher, are you are worth your wages?”
“Sure. Your bishop’s paying me.”
“Then you may stay on at our gardener’s cottage. I’ll have it purified, and each day we’ll send you food and drink.”
“That’s good; that’s a decent bargain. Can you tell me anything to help me? Where could your rats be nesting? I’ve never known big packs to breed in the woods, and all of your buildings look so new.”
“These hills are riddled with old mining tunnels.”
“That’s where your rats must be hiding, then. They do love the warmth of the earth.”
Silently the abbess laughed at me, her nostrils flaring like a winded horse’s. Blushing, I wrung my cap and wished I’d stayed in Wernigerode, even if I had to beg my bread at the church door.
At last she said, as if prompting a child, “Why don’t you start by poking around in the gardener’s hut?”
***
Feeling downcast as I trudged back there, I kept wailing Fida’s name. Maybe hunger would drive her back to me? If she was still alive.
I cursed the bishop for his silver; if he hadn’t tempted me with his upfront payment I’d still have my dog. On the other hand, if I did this work I could add to my reputation: “Rat-catcher Durr clears forest convent of rats that murdered a sleeping man.” I’d pay a scribe to write me this handbill, as soon as I got back to Wernigerode. I’d nail it up across from the church, and people who could read would praise my exploit. Maybe a minstrel would write me a ballad? They’ll write you a song for a coin, I’ve heard.
Arcane II Page 12
