Loving Luther

by Allison Pittman

  I loved him a little bit at that moment, for knowing the exact nature of my question but refusing any precision in his response.

  “Well, then,” I said, tucking myself closer, “what an honor it is to be trusted with such a task.”

  “It is, indeed.”

  By then we could hear the jangle of the harness behind us, and we picked up our pace. The air was cold and sharp, making conversation uncomfortable. All the more as we left the road and headed into a clearing. Luther went ahead of me, dragging his steps to make somewhat of a path for me to follow.

  “Perhaps this is the point where we should have let the horse take the lead,” I said, struggling with my skirts.

  “And let him get all the credit? I think not.” He turned back to Albert and shouted through cupped hands, “Wait there! We’ll go in and bring you when we’ve found it.”

  Albert, looking unconcerned, lit a pipe and leaned against the long-suffering animal.

  Luther and I continued, becoming swallowed by shadows as the forest closed in from all sides.

  “You’re not worried we’ll get lost?” I asked, betraying the fact that my only experience with forests came from childhood tales.

  “I think we’ve left an impressive set of tracks to follow,” Luther said, indicating the chaotic rut behind us. “That will make it easier for the man to find the tree we’ve chosen, at any rate.” He indicated a need for one not too tall, as it must stand beneath the ceiling, and not too wide, as it must fit through the door. “Something with character, as it is going to be invited in to dwell among us.”

  “Shall it have a name? As must all good pets?”

  “That, we will leave up to Elsa. We are only fulfilling her bidding.”

  Battling underbrush and wading through snow proved effort enough, so we talked very little as we moved farther in. The air around us was flat and cold, the greenish-gray of old stone, and the few words we did speak traveled only as far as the steam of our breath. Never before had I felt so utterly alone with another human being. Always there were people on the other side of a wall, or down a corridor, or inside the house behind windows aglow with candlelight. Here with Luther I felt secure, as I had in the evenings after Mother died when I sat by the fire in Father’s lap. Here, too, was the same companionship I’d enjoyed with Jerome in all our hours together. If these moments were to stretch to encompass the rest of my years, I would count the time well spent in good company.

  He talked, mostly to himself, allowing me the benefit of listening. Everything within reach seemed to bring him such delight. He commented on the purity of the snow, the precision of the rabbit tracks, and the story they told. He stuck his tongue out, tasting the pure snow on the pine needles, declaring it a sweet winter’s treat. He hummed parts of tunes, interspersed with lyrics, allowing the song to trail away the moment he became taken with another point of beauty. I followed, listened, learned. It occurred to me that Luther might behave exactly the same whether or not he had me as his audience, or any audience at all. Rather than this making me feel inconsequential, however, I felt like an important, integral part of his life. But Luther was not a father, not a lover. He was, I realized, a friend. The dearest I had.

  “I believe this is the one.” Luther stood in front of a snow-tipped tree, diminutive compared to its forest brothers, but looming well over his head.

  “Are you going to cut it down?”

  “Heavens no, girl. I’m not one to shy away from labor, but I’m more adept at reading Scripture than wielding an axe.” He took a scrap of cloth from his pocket and tied it to a branch. “So we don’t lose sight. I’ll go fetch Albert and the horse, now that we can make a straight path for it. Do you want to come with me? Or wait here, save yourself a trek?”

  My breathlessness led my answer. “I’ll wait here. Are you sure you’ll find your way?”

  “Our tracks may not be as precise as the rabbits’, but they’ll do to bring me back.”

  He wasn’t long out of my sight before I regretted my decision. I could have followed our trail the same as he, but with so little experience in the wilds of nature, I dared not venture beyond what Luther instructed. A new silence settled, heavier and more complete than any I’d experienced at Marienthrone. If it had been the aim of the abbess to instill an environment for meditation and reflection, she should have brought us out here. Left us in the deepest forest, where all sounds save for prayer were swallowed in the wet white batting.

  I pushed my hands deep into my pockets, encountering the hazelnuts, but opted to save them for later. Irrational fear made me believe that the slightest scent of food would entice some woodland predator my way. Between the weight of my wet skirts and my impaired balance with my arms wrapped tight around me, walking—even a short pace—proved ungainly, so I stood quite still, imagining myself frozen in place. A statue waiting for spring.

  My theory of the noiselessness of the forest, that any uttered sound would be trapped beneath the snowy canopy, proved false, once I heard Luther’s unmistakable voice threading through the frosty space. An unforgettable tune, and lyrics that told the story of Christ’s birth.

  He who made the starry skies,

  Sleeping in a manger lies,

  Ruler of the centuries.

  My mother had sung it to me, not only during Advent, but throughout the year, even on hot summer nights, and I pictured two tableaux in my mind—the soft profile of my mother in the darkness and the image of a sweet baby, swaddled and suckling at his mother’s breast.

  Luther sang it now, and to my surprise, at the end of one phrasing, another voice took up the next line. A deep, throaty bass to Luther’s pure tenor, and they came together with still a third, harmonizing on the refrain.

  Lully, lully, lully

  I felt quite on the edge of a dream, cold from kicking off my covers, trapped in an unfamiliar place, my mother’s voice traveling through on a masculine trio. I hadn’t thought of this song in years—longer since I’d heard it. I took my hand from my pocket and clutched the icy cold metal of my necklace, bringing the locket to my lips.

  “Sweet mother.”

  A new pang struck as I realized how long it had been since I’d taken time to miss her. It seemed God brought me from one life to another, with barriers built up to keep me from returning. Once given to the Church, I could not go home. Leaving the Church, I could not go back. At that moment, wrapped in snow and cold, fragile as frost, I wondered what new wall he was building.

  Luther burst into the small clearing, with him the mysterious second and third voices. One, the less steady, was Albert, carrying axe and saw and rope. The other, the bass, was Nikolaus von Amsdorf, holding an impressively low note. Finally, Herr Reichenbach, silent but looking more jovial than I’d seen since summer.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” I said, offering applause. “What a lovely trio you make. If I only had a piece of silver to give you.”

  von Amsdorf offered a bow, and Albert’s face turned as red as his nose.

  “You do not sing as well, Herr Reichenbach?”

  “Let’s get this tree back to the house, and then my wife will let me know if I’ve anything to sing about.”

  The men all laughed, while I made weak protest. After, Albert, von Amsdorf, and Herr Reichenbach studied the tree, divining the best way to fell and drag it from this place to the horse and travois waiting at the forest’s edge.

  “If you don’t mind, gentlemen,” I said, “I believe my usefulness here is done. I’ll take my leave of you now and see to it a hearty batch of mulled cider awaits your return.”

  “Go with her, Luther,” Herr Reichenbach said, distracted by the task at hand. “We don’t want to risk the tree falling and breaking that important head of yours.”

  “Is my head so much less important?” von Amsdorf asked, feigning offense.

  “Not less important, just a trickier target, being so much smaller.”

  Even Albert joined in the laughter at that, with Luther’s loudes
t of all.

  We departed, the sound of the axe striking the trunk thudding behind us. A good two hours must have passed since we left the house, and the light had turned to a darker gray. It would be past dark before the other men would return, and when I voiced this concern, Luther assured me they had light and strength enough.

  “Well,” I ventured, taking a handful of hazelnuts from my pocket, three for me and four for him, “I must say I was happy for your return.”

  “Did you have any doubt?” He popped the first hazelnut in his mouth and spoke around it. “Did you think I would leave you in the woods? Did you think I lured you there to meet your fate?”

  “No.” I was smiling by the third question. “But I had reason to be frightened, didn’t I? Aren’t there wolves?”

  “My girl, there are wolves everywhere.”

  “True enough. Why did you bring me?”

  “I thought you would enjoy the excursion. While we must be faithful in giving thanks to God for his provision of a roof and fire to protect us from the harshness of winter, we must also take opportunities to walk out among it.”

  “In short, a distraction?”

  “Yes, but a healthy one.”

  I offered him another hazelnut, which he took but did not eat. Instead, he held it up in scrutiny. “These are roasted, yes?”

  “Yes.” An odd, shy pride crept into my reply. “These were one of the few treats we had at Marienthrone. We’d sit, silent, the only sound the cracking of the shells. And we’d watch each other so closely, lest one of the sisters try to sneak some away. For all the days of Advent, the kitchen and refectory smelled of roasting hazelnuts, and at Christmas we’d each get a little bag with our supper.”

  “Did you roast these here yourself?”

  “I did. The one contribution I’ve made in the kitchen. I purchased them myself, too, at the market. Also the spices. But I’ve been saving them to give at Christmas.”

  “Not all of them.” He ate it and immediately extended his hand for more.

  “I’ll be sure to give you a double portion. On Christmas.”

  “Fair enough.”

  By the time we’d returned to the main road, my pocket was empty of hazelnuts, my toes numb within my boots, and my lungs stinging from so much laughter in the winter evening’s air. In a rare lull following a particularly rollicking story, I heard the familiar sound of a horse’s hooves up the road. My first thought was that the men had worked swiftly, indeed, getting the tree strapped to the travois. But then, the horse was traveling at a pace far beyond what the burdened farm animal would be able to keep.

  Luther began another story, speaking louder than necessary, and quicker, too, but I found myself paying no heed to his words. Instead, I was fixated on the sound of the hooves. I knew that sound; I’d trained my ears to hear it every day this summer. The pace was in my pulse, and rising up from the disappearing horizon, Jerome’s black steed came into view. Like a nightmare, shadow emerging from shadow, the rider thundered past. I recognized his silhouette, the broadness of his shoulders high in the saddle, never mind that his face was obscured by his hood. I should have pulled mine closer to hide my own. Should have looked away, or kept my eyes trained to my steps. I might have done all of those things, if my feet had not turned to lifeless stumps, stopping me in the slush of the road. If I stopped, surely he would stop too. He was coming from the direction of the Reichenbachs’ house. Had he been to see me? Had he been told of my errand? Who else, then, could this cloaked woman on Luther’s arm be?

  He did not stop.

  He did not even slow his pace enough to keep from splattering us with the slush kicked up from the horse’s hooves.

  Luther had stopped talking.

  “Did you know?”

  “I suspected.”

  Tears—born of anger or sorrow, I couldn’t say—pricked cold upon my cheek. “And you said nothing?”

  “I had no reason to suspect anything good.”

  I turned my head, watching him disappear. More than disappear. Escape.

  CHAPTER 25

  “OUR TREE,” as Luther insisted on calling it, filled the great hall of the Reichenbachs’ home with its fragrance and its presence. Red ribbon had been laced through the branches, scraps of fabric fashioned into bundles and tied to the ends of the limbs. Nestled in the branches were small, oval-shaped ornaments—white-washed wood, decorated by the Reichenbachs’ children. For each day of Advent, I asked the children to paint a small picture to represent Jesus Christ in every way that we knew him. As a baby, yes, but also a Shepherd, a Light, a Word.

  “Someday,” I told them, “you will be able to read the words of Jesus in the Gospels as easily as you read your primers. And you’ll be able to thank Herr Luther for that.”

  Later, when I shared this with Luther, including the children’s less-than-enthusiastic response at the prospect, he gently reminded me that I must not be so quick to give him praise.

  “Better men than I have died in pursuit of the same goal,” he said. “If I am to be branded a heretic by the Church, at least I’ve escaped execution for the sake of it.”

  In the days after that walk into the woods to find our tree, I’d had very little to say at all—to Luther, to the children, to anyone. Ten days had passed, and with each one the tree grew more festive, and I more despondent. I convinced myself that Jerome hadn’t seen me, given the pace of his horse and the element of dusk. I told myself he wanted to see me alone, not with Luther on my arm, or by my side, or anywhere near enough to monitor our conversation. I told myself he’d been waiting here, at the house, pacing the hall, impatient for my return. I attributed the swiftness of his ride to his frustration, and I pictured him waiting, and planning, for the perfect moment to come to me again.

  So, of course, I didn’t leave the house. Not for another bracing walk in the snow at the invitation of von Amsdorf, not for supper at the nearest neighbor’s home, even though I was flattered at the invitation. I went only where I thought Jerome might be. To church on the Sunday before Christmas, where Luther read from the Gospel of Luke in lyrical German—the first I’d ever heard it in my native tongue. And to the market to help Cook with the necessities for our Christmas supper and celebration the Eve before. Here, I thought, Jerome might be on such an errand. Or perhaps, like Luther who tagged along, he’d want to witness the good-natured bustling at the shops and carts that lined the street. All manner of meats roasted on spits, making the very air smell like a king’s smokehouse. And there were cakes and breads and sweets like none I’d seen before. This outing nudged my tongue, and I questioned the vendors, learning of all the decadent ingredients of their wares. I was reminded of something Luther said at the beginning of the summer—how, if he saw me in the marketplace, he would think me a fine-looking girl. Somewhere, lurking in the loss and loneliness for Jerome, I wondered if he thought so still.

  Jerome’s persistent silence and absence made me wonder if he hadn’t been a dream. A frozen mirage. But Luther had seen him too. And like a true friend, said nothing of it since.

  Whatever social sin the Reichenbachs had committed in hosting me and encouraging my unworthy pursuit was obviously forgiven, if the crowd gathered in their home on Christmas Eve served as any indication. Their summer parties, resplendent with food and music, paled in comparison to the feast offered this evening. Because there were too many guests to sit at the table, all chairs had been removed and lined the walls. We roamed free, sampling from platters, tasting the days of labor from the kitchen. Mugs were dipped into massive vats of mulled wine or tipped to barrels of ale. One set of musicians played in the dining hall, where the floor was cleared for dancing. In the great hall, where the tree stood in its magnificence, guests sang carols with reverence or gusto, depending on the song and the drink at hand. Brightly wrapped candies had been strung on the lower branches, and the children—too many to count—made a great show of sneaking them away.

  Welcomed into the celebration as a guest rather than
a servant of the house, I found a moment when I became truly lost in the levity. von Amsdorf proved himself a perfect dance partner, going through the steps with the stamina of a man half his age. Luther was attentive with food and drink, and Elsa tugged at my ear more than once to offer gossipy insight. By ten o’clock, the revelers who weren’t red-faced from drink were sated with food, and laughter filled the house with a solid mass of mirth.

  Despite the frigid air outside, Herr Reichenbach kept the windows open. Not wide and welcoming, but inches each, to allow a bit of cold to cut through the heat of the blazing fires and cool our faces. Winded from dancing, I went to stand near the breeze, refreshed instantly. The tendrils of hair set free from my complicated, looping braids turned to icy strands against my face, and I gulped the air the way I would water.

  All at once, the break in the music filled with the sound of welcoming cheer as a new arrival entered the room. My stance had taken me away from its center, tucking me close to the edge, so at first I could not see the object of the gathered guests’ warm reception. I craned my head, finding a path of vision, and grasped the windowsill for support.

  Herr Baumgartner, looking as sleepy as he ever did; Frau Baumgartner with her bulging eyes scanning the crowd; and behind them, Jerome. He wore a doublet of black velvet, embossed with ornate gold stitching, and a silk hat with a brim that touched the top of his left cheek. If he’d meant the hat to mask his identity, he’d wasted its purpose. Even from this angle, with half of his face obscured, I could see well the strength of his chin, the bearing of his body. The dark curls full at the nape of his neck. His hands—one resting on an ornamental sword—called my senses to attention, bringing heat again, despite the chill of winter on my skin.

  Elsa and Herr Reichenbach made their way to offer greetings, a kiss to each cheek, and I burned watching Jerome bend to Elsa. While Frau Baumgartner continued to survey the room, Jerome looked nowhere but straight ahead. If he’d turned, just a portion of a degree, our eyes would have met. As it was, I had only the fortune of meeting his mother’s gaze, and nearly withered in its triumph.