Why be in a bind, Farin? The solution is simple. Turn around and run away. Then wait a while until the idiots have disappeared and go into Gerlunda’s house.
With a sigh he decided to leave that strategy to the next life, assuming there was one, that is.
One desperate attempt to use an old tactic to make progress, a tactic that hadn’t worked successfully in the village for centuries, namely the tactic of reason. "I really don’t have much time. I’m sure you’ve heard that old Gerlunda has died. Your father brought her to me."
Not a bad idea to mention Peat’s father, the village alderman, that might get him a modicum of respect.
"I heard that alright, gravedigger’s son. And no doubt you stripped the old dear and played around with her. Was it fun?" asked Peat.
His three cronies roared with laughter and slapped their thighs with glee.
So much for respect and reason. Neither were traditional in Heap.
The next breath took longer than normal.
Don’t let yourself be provoked. There are four of them: ruthless, hard-bitten and much better when it comes to fist-fighting. You probably wouldn’t stand a chance against one of them.
And so Farin knew what his best move would be: keep his hand in his pockets, clench his fist, and then really try to get as much distance between him and them as possible. What to do with his fist? He thought of a good place for it. He took a step forward and slammed it into the middle of Peat’s face. Yes, that’s where it belonged.
Peat merely shook his head for a moment – he could absorb a lot. In the next instant the four of them were on top of him. Farin felt the full force of their fists everywhere – his nose cracked, warm blood ran down his lips. He collapsed to the ground, only a minor mercy that his enemies’ fists weren’t raining down on him. The tips of their boots had taken over the role. He curled up in an effort to protect his lower body, held his hands in front of his face. The kicks hurt unmercifully. They kicked and kicked, his entire body was hurting now, and he was beginning to accept the fact that they were going to beat him to death.
A moment later and they stopped.
"That’s enough!" ascertained Kaal with satisfaction.
"Crawl back into your mud-hole. See you later, gravedigger’s son," said Peat, bidding farewell.
They left Farin, groaning behind them. He listened to his body. How many ribs had he broken? Where did it hurt the most? What should he do now? Maybe just lie here and die. Naw, he wasn’t good enough for that. He couldn’t even manage a decent death.
It took a while, but finally he managed to pull himself up. He couldn’t walk properly anymore, his knee hurt when he bent his leg, so he had to drag it behind him. He gingerly felt his ribs. What was the point? Everything seemed pointless to him. He stood there for an eternity, absorbing all the pain like a sponge absorbs dirty water, and tried to get rid of some of it through breathing.
For some unknown reason he proceeded towards Gerlunda’s hut. Was it obedience, custom, habit? Part of his aim in life, retrieving pickaxe and shovel from the witch’s hut? He had to laugh. Clearly, it was – what else could it be? He couldn’t think of any better reason.
Get the tools, Farin, and then home like the wind to father.
He slipped through the gap in the blackberry bushes with a groan. Everything looked the same as yesterday, except the door was half-open. Had they forgotten to close it? He hobbled into the house and looked behind the door. Pickaxe and shovel, the gravedigger’s tools, his symbols of fate, gawked back at him. Instead of feeling relief, he was filled with rage – rage at the injustice of it all and his inability to change it. He’d already toyed with the idea of leaving the village several times. And then? How would he live? Gravedigging was the only thing he knew. And he was under no illusions – his skills would only earn him contempt and repulsion in other places too. For how much longer could he put up with his fellow human-beings" haughtiness?
The shocking state of the hut, which had appalled him so much yesterday, seemed almost normal to him in the light of day. Farin looked around at the chaos dispassionately – the bloody crosses on the walls and the garlic hanging from the ceiling. Was the old woman scared stiff of vampires? She seemed to have lost all grip on reality. He didn’t believe in vampires. Or in werewolves or other shape-changers – all rubbish. Figments of people’s imaginations, so they could find something worse, more horrible and bloodthirsty than themselves.
The rage in his stomach outweighed Farin’s aches and pains. He looked around. His eye was caught by a sight in the corner of the room – like a sausage is caught hanging from a hook. There was a cold hand on the nape of his neck – at least, that’s what it felt like. The shelf with the crucibles filled with powder, ampoules and vials had been emptied, the glasses with the spiders, worms and beetles were smashed on the floor. Somebody had frequented the hut after he and Blossak had been there. And they must certainly have wondered at the pickaxe and shovel behind the door.
His first thought was: Just get out of here. But then he felt the rage again. What exactly he was enraged at, he couldn’t say. Enraged at Peat? At himself? Why should he be afraid anyway? Afraid of what? What did he have to lose?
Shaking his head, Farin went out of the hut through the low back door. His eyes fell on the mandrake, this magical plant with its roots full of mystery, poison and danger. His rage and bitterness boiled over.
Then let’s see what this superstitious crap all means. He groaned, his maltreated body made bending difficult; he ignored the pain, dug his fingers deep into the earth and yanked the mandrake out with one pull. Easy as pie, like plucking a daisy.
Ha! No wailing, no howling, no nothing. Just what I thought! As if plants could scream the place down! Only people scream like that. No vampires, no werewolves, no magic, no howling flowers, no devils, no angels… for a moment he stopped in silent shock. And no God? He didn’t want to think about that too closely, not now, because his doubts concerning His omnipotence were pinching him all over, as if he were rolling in nettles.
And what do I do now with the mythical mandrake?
He shook off the remaining earth from the plant and with a little crack broke the root off, whose forked shape reminded him of a miniature person. The mandrake had made no other sound apart from this crack. Farin stuffed the root into his belt pouch. He tossed the star-shaped leaves behind a clump of thistles at the edge of the fence.
Just as yesterday he left the property by the back. The stream flowed nearby, and so he washed the blood from his face and cooled his wounds. And his temper.
The church bells rang at half-volume and half-speed – Gerlunda, the preparer of poisons, was making her final journey.
Whether he wanted to or not, Farin listened to the music of his guild of craftsmen: a percussive, resonating song of complaint, consisting of two tones. Not merely the ding, but also the dong, asked for his presence. What now? Should he answer the call and head for the graveyard, or shuffle home and spend a week lying on his straw mat. His body ached, his soul asked for peace, his obligation demanded work. It was his job to cover the grave again afterwards. Moving loose earth, a task simply and quickly done – at least, if he were in his normal bodily condition. At that moment he remembered the amulet on his chest. He had intended giving it to Gerlunda’s family. But no-one had turned up until now. Would he manage to get to the graveyard in time with his damaged knee? He had nothing else to do, and before he could succumb to self-pity again, he decided to make his way there. And anyway, he had the shovel – father would be standing there uselessly if he didn’t turn up. He hobbled towards the church with its adjacent graveyard, the pickaxe across his shoulder, and the shovel more a crutch than a walking stick. Groaning, Farin limped over the grass behind the house of God towards the graveyard. He could hardly bend his knee. From afar he could see only four people standing at Gerlunda’s grave: Alderman Hamak, the priest, the gravedigger of Heap – his distinguished father – and also a man he didn’t recognise,
wearing a black cloak.
The village priest, whom everybody simply called Amen, had already begun the funeral oration. The dark robe with the white collar really suited him. His voice boomed in Farin’s direction. "And so once again a warm-hearted, goodly member of our village community has departed from us."
The first thing Farin got was a fright. Had somebody else died? The next moment he was ashamed of his own naivety.
Silly fool, of course Amen was talking about old Gerlunda. He’d never talk like that if the preparer of poisons could hear him. He belonged to the tradition where the dearly departed were practically canonised after their death.
"About time you came. And be glad you brought the shovel, you good-for-nothing," his father hissed in greeting. "Have you been beaten up?" he looked at his son’s face with a scowl.
But Farin’s eyes were glued to the stranger. There was something unnerving emanating from this figure – involuntarily he sensed the smell of burned earth in his nostrils. The cloaked man was staring into the grave; now he seemed to sense he was being watched, so firmly were Farin’s eyes fixed on him. The stranger slowly raised his head. Their looks clashed together like two swords. The stranger’s eyes swallowed an endless amount of light, his pupils were as big as lumps of coal, no hair peeked out from under his hood, and his nose hooked from its centre, so that its tip almost divided his thin upper lip in two.
Questions raced through Farin’s head. Where does the stranger come from? What does he want? Is he related to Gerlunda? Why is there such a morbid coldness all around him?
"Why is he only coming now?" asked the man in black hoarsely, staring at the pickaxe and shovel in Farin’s hand as if he wanted to bite through their shafts. He looked Farin up and down with the same destructive fury.
The village priest paused and scratched his double chin which perfectly reflected his two functions. He couldn’t stand being interrupted during his sermon or when he was passing sentence. Whether by coincidence or design the priest also acted as the village judge. Therefore, he sealed every judicial verdict with a cheerful "amen", which only God could refute – and that had never happened yet. This position in the village presented many advantages, particularly for Amen himself. It made him mightily mighty and almightily self-confident. And rich and gluttonous. Farin wondered if the upper or lower chin belonged to the judge part of the priest. Probably the lower one, serving the earthly laws, while the upper one followed the heavenly commandments.
Pater Amen pragmatically took up God’s thread again. "And so, we bid farewell and praise the uniqueness of the Lord’s creation." He threw a glance over at Farin and preached on with a reproachful undertone. "The gravedigger’s son too has joined our funeral congregation."
The blackness in the stranger’s eyes widened. "You…prepared the deceased’s body!" Even his voice sounded black – an ominous whispering, which nevertheless sounded as clearly as if he had spoken loudly.
"We wish to pay our beloved Gerlunda our last respects, and so I would ask you to wait until the end of my sermon before clarifying this matter." There was one thing Amen hated more than being interrupted once during his speeches. Being interrupted twice.
"Then hurry up and finish, priest – or I’ll give you a hand." The stranger bared a couple of black teeth, pushed his cloak backwards a little and placed his left hand on the handle of the dagger hanging from his belt. Black sparks spewed from his eyes.
"Are you threatening me?" Pater Amen’s double chin wobbled.
"Of course, I’m threatening you, man of the cloth. You’d want to get on with things because it’s only me standing between you and your dear God." The man in black sneered liplessly. "You’re closer to Him than you’ve ever been before."
Amen was clearly considering how to react to this provocation. On the one hand, he couldn’t allow himself to be spoken to in this way, especially as other villagers were standing around and watching what was going on. On the other hand… The moment he could have flown into a rage passed. He had elegantly evaded this potential problem. Farin could see it written on Amen’s face. He relished his too pleasant, too comfortable, too satiated existence, to risk it all on account of a cockroach who’d just crawled out of the woodwork.
And so, he concentrated fully on his devotions. He abandoned any attempt at making his voice sound compassionate. "That which is sown – turns to dust – rises again – incorruptible. And so, we give Gerlunda’s body to the earth and her soul to the mercy of God. Amen."
This was the first time Farin had time to look at the dead woman. The burial shroud had been pulled back, revealing her face. Dear God! Yesterday’s rain had caused the charcoal to run down from her eyebrows and lashes and into her eye-sockets, so that they looked deeper, darker and bigger. The rouge on her cheeks had run too. A grim skull sneered out of the hole in the ground into the faces of the living. Scornful and truculent, embittered and care-worn, with a hint of triumph as if it wished to say: It’s all behind me now – but not you, you who are doomed. Farin didn’t have much time left. He looked away from Gerlunda as the stranger walked around the grave and positioned himself directly beside the gravedigger’s son. The man’s hooked nose neared his face in a dangerous manner, as if it were about to hack out his eyes. The man’s stare weighed at least as much as the church bell. He grasped Farin’s upper arm with his spindly fingers, and immediately ice-cold water streamed through the gravedigger son’s veins.
He spat the words out: "Give it to me, boy!"
The world slowed down. Farin felt his heart stopping – this universal cause of death – but amazingly he was able to remain upright. And as long as he could use his own strength to stay standing, he was still alive, he was certain of that.
The stranger’s grip continued to suck the heat out of his body as a tick sucks blood.
"What…what do you mean, sir?"
"What you found at the witch’s place, damn it."
Had he really said witch’s? Had he really said damn it?
The amulet was burning on his chest. The amulet on his chest twitched. The amulet on his chest bit. He felt it digging into his skin, he felt the hemp cord tightening around his neck like a hangman’s noose.
The pressure on Farin threatened to squash him. He was about to say "Oh, you mean this here" and pull out the piece of jewellery when he noticed the make-up on the stranger’s left cheek. And particularly the gouge underneath it. Farin bit his lower lip, he could hardly feel it for it was numbed through the cold – it was colder than Gerlunda lying in her bed of earth at his feet. But the last scintilla of resistance rebelled. Madness was controlling the man in black, an unmistakable villain, one who had come directly from the sagas and fairy tales. A sorcerer, a conjurer of black magic, an evil magician – almost too weird to be real. And it was just this superstitious mumbo-jumbo he was using as his trump card.
You’re not going to frighten me. I’ve just plucked a mandrake – with my bare hands. Me, the gravedigger’s son. So, have some respect. And I know what you’ve done – you can’t fool me.
"What do you want from me? I don’t have anything! The alderman brought Gerlunda to me, she was just wearing a dress." Farin spread out his hands in front of him innocently, shaking off the ice-cold grip as he did so.
"That’s right, sir," said Hamak in confirmation. "She was wearing a dress without pockets. And no jewellery, not even a hair clip. I don’t think the deceased deserves any closer attention."
The man in black’s thin lips became even thinner. No, they disappeared, completely. Obviously, he’d paid enough attention to Gerlunda’s appearance for now; at least he didn’t bother looking into the grave again. And strewing the earth three times into the coffin didn’t interest him either, his black eyes were focussed completely on the gravedigger’s son.
Farin felt scorn and suspicion being strewn on him by the man.
He doesn’t believe me.
"Who found the body?" The stranger’s voice sounded grating.
"That wa
s me," explained Pater Amen. "She had nothing with her."
With a jerk, the sinister man’s mouth shot up again, remaining closed, nonetheless. Even his silence was threatening.
"Have you any more questions?" It sounded like an accusation, and that had been the intention. Pater Amen didn’t bother hiding his distaste for the stranger standing opposite him.
This didn’t put the latter out one iota – he was undoubtedly used to the reaction. "Who else had contact with her after her death?"
"The alderman, the gravedigger’s son and my humble self – and nobody else," explained Amen.
The stranger’s nose almost imperceptibly hacked the air three times.
The gravedigger asked: "May we close up the grave now, Pater?"
Farin noticed immediately that this didn’t suit the man in black one little bit. The murderous look in his eyes made Farin shiver. With a slow movement the stranger’s hand moved towards his hip, his cloak, his dagger. Just at that moment all the members of the esteemed pipe smokers’ society came loudly around the corner of the church, bearing down on the graveyard – fifteen of them, give or take. After the funeral there was generally a funeral meal or at least drinks in honour of the deceased, and even more importantly, at the priest’s expense. With cheerful merriment they had come to pay their respects.
Pastor Amen was acutely aware that something was troubling the man in black. Now he took the opportunity to show the stranger who was in charge here. With a triumphant undertone and a commanding hand gesture he announced: "Close up the grave!"
The man in black paused in silence, his lower jaw grinding the upper one liplessly until the picture he presented was that of a leering skull. The similarity to the deceased woman at his feet was remarkable.
Father jumped into the grave and closed the burial shroud over Gerlunda’s face. She was being tucked in for the last time in her life. The gravedigger scrambled out of the grave with a groan and gave a similar commanding hand gesture to Farin. The work had arrived at the final link in the chain of command. And so, the gravedigger’s son dug the shovel into the earth and began closing up the grave. The preparer of poison’s body slowly disappeared under the dark soil. Farin continued to dig in a strangely stiff manner; he didn’t want to bend over too much for fear of the amulet slipping out above the neckline of his linen shirt – and added to that, his back was aching from the beating he had suffered.
The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1 Page 4
