The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  His father asked immediately: "What’s wrong with you? You’re moving so strangely."

  "I stumbled and fell." Farin pointed at his bloody knee and his battered face.

  The onlookers looked down at the diggers without pity, but with plenty of contempt.

  "You’re lying," breathed the stranger in a hoarse voice.

  Only Farin could hear him. The members of the celebratory pipe smokers’ society were slapping the priest heartily on the back in expectation of their drinks.

  Farin was glad he could concentrate on his gravedigging as if he had heard nothing. What did the stranger mean? Lying about the piece of jewellery or lying about his injuries? Amen felt safe and sound surrounded by his flock, and so he raised his arms high into the air. "My dear people, before we drink to Gerlunda and treasure her beauty in our memories, just as she was, we must go through the bureaucratic formalities."

  Somebody shouted: "But make it snappy, my throat is dry from mourning!" The others cheered sorrowfully.

  Pater Amen spread out his arms. "As there is no last will and testament, the land and house now pass into the ownership of the village community, and thereby into the safe hands of mother church, who will know how to administer these worldly goods in a way that is best for the general good. Amen." Blinded by his own sanctimonious sanctimony, Pater Amen closed his eyes in satisfaction.

  Farin was deeply impressed by Amen’s ability to bear the double loads of priest and judge.

  The man in black seemed impressed too. "Son of a bitch. You’re almost as unscrupulous a bastard as I am. But only almost. And I never forget!"

  The rain was easing off, although the shivering on Farin’s spine was increasing. They were all standing very close together now. Hamak, Amen, father and the man in black.

  The priest turned to the stranger. "I already asked you before the funeral service what your relationship to Gerlunda is. You stressed that there is no family relationship and you laid no claims. May I enquire precisely after your wishes?"

  "You may enquire." The stranger’s mood was plumbing new depths. His face left no doubt but that Amen would spend the rest of his opulent life waiting for an answer.

  The man in black ground his teeth. "The gravedigger was in her hut!" It was as if Farin had been stabbed with the stranger’s dagger. How could an accusation be so calm and cold and yet sound so wrathful? Having heard these words, there was nothing Farin wanted more than to lie beside Gerlunda and ask father to quickly cover the grave.

  Pater Amen turned to father. "What were you doing in the old woman’s hut, gravedigger?"

  "Huh?" his father stared back, his glassy eyes uncomprehending, and he scratched his head.

  Keep your mouth shut, father, Farin prayed silently.

  It all seemed a bit too much for the old man, having already consumed a few too many warm beers.

  "Not him! Him!" The man in black pointed at Farin.

  The wrath of God, manifested through Pater Amen, bore down now on the correct person. "What have you to say for yourself, gravedigger’s son?" Only the thunder and lightning were missing – at least it was beginning to rain again.

  Farin stopped his work and leaned on his shovel. He needed to come up with a good explanation, calmly and self-confidently. A credible, reasonable explanation. When it came down to it, he wasn’t an idiot, he was bound to come up with something. His mouth opened and he began to blurt. "Um…well…" and he stopped. The only thing swirling around in his head was the truth: I wanted to steal a love potion. One of those "c’mon then" escapades with Blossak. I mean – I’m still only eighteen.

  Oh boy!

  A voice spoke: "I sent him there. He was to collect a nice clean dress for Gerlunda. You can’t imagine the pitiful state of the clothing she was wearing when the Lord called her home."

  These words of salvation, this simple and ingenious explanation came from the gravedigger. Perplexed, Farin glanced at father, who was looking steadfastly and with tremendous righteousness at the man in black. This event was among the very few moments when Farin could sense why his mother had made an honest man of the gravedigger many years ago.

  The alderman too came to his aid. "Her dress stank unmercifully, full of faeces and urine." He dramatically scowled to the point of being unrecognisable.

  The priest spoke soothingly: "That’s that clarified, then! The gravedigger’s son is a good lad. A little slow in the head, but he does his work diligently." Amen pursed his lips in a Godly manner. "Esteemed sir, can I help you in any other way?" Amen looked as if the last thing he wanted was to dedicate another second of his life to the stranger.

  "I know she carried it on her body," snarled the man. Aggression was blazing from his eyes.

  The members of the Heap pipe smokers’ society were standing in the rain getting wetter and wetter.

  "What happens now, Amen?" pressed ratface.

  "We’ll go in now. The first three rounds are on me," called out the priest.

  "And what about the other ten?" another one wanted to know.

  The man in black suppressed his rage. "We’ll talk again, priest." Then he turned to Farin and whispered: "I watched you yesterday evening when you were washing the old one. You were afraid of something. Of what?"

  "Oh, that was you. I felt that somebody was watching me."

  The dark eyes of the stranger didn’t blink. Had the man even blinked once during the funeral?

  "And I don’t believe you called into Gerlunda’s house looking for a dress. There’s something not right about you, lad. You’re hiding things." The stranger’s smoky voice was positively smouldering.

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about." Farin attempted to put on an innocent expression. The amulet hanging from his neck was heavier than a millstone.

  The man in black leaned forward, his mouth nearing Farin’s ear. "First, I’ll take care of the son-of-a-bitch-priest, then the village alderman. And guess who’s next on the list after that, my friend?"

  The goose bumps made Farin shiver. The man in black left without another look or another word.

  Pater Amen was looking after him ruefully too. Thoroughly irritated, he turned around to Farin’s father and gave his order smugly:

  "Gravedigger, deal with that grave. And tell your son not to be late the next time."

  The indignation had a warming effect. He wasn’t being treated like scum now, but even worse – like air. And the air had no idea of how it should respond.

  Pater Amen remembered that he had to fulfil his promise of booze at the bar. "Then let us mourn." He called his little sheep together and they disappeared in the direction of "The Warm Beer".

  Hardly was Farin alone with his father again when he began to feel better. He could still feel the injuries inflicted on him by Peat and his friends, but the coldness was gone. Lost in thought, he continued digging.

  "That’s some arsehole!" scolded his father.

  "Who?" asked Farin. That distinction was a toss-up between the stranger and Amen.

  "The stranger, of course." Father spat. Just beside Gerlunda’s grave. Then he reached forward and struck Farin on the face with the flat of his hand. "You’re even more stupid than I thought."

  It wasn’t just his burning cheek that turned red. He really had to suffer a lot of beating today – his father hadn’t dared to beat him for at least the last two years.

  Too perplexed to get angry, Farin asked: "Because…because I went to Gerlunda’s hut?

  "Ah, not at all. I couldn’t care less about that. Because you never thought of a convincing explanation beforehand in case you were caught. That’s why!"

  When it came to cunning worldly wisdom, father was way ahead of him. Farin felt pathetic; he was ashamed of his naivety.

  It was nice when a son could look up to his father – or had to.

  The gravedigger looked at him. "Keep digging and don’t forget to tramp down the earth. Then off home with you. I’m going to drop into Georig’s. And don’t forget the tools."


  Farin’s sigh was deeper than any grave he had ever dug.

  What a day.

  the mole

  H ey, Farin. You know I fancy Annietta," said Blossak.

  Sure. How could I forget it? And I fancy punching you in the face, thought Farin, sitting opposite the innkeeper’s son.

  Still, Bloss had gone over to him at the outcasts’ table. And so, they were socialising together in "The Warm Beer", drinking warm beer and talking about women. In the main taproom the Heap society of pipe smokers were practising their art.

  Shrouded in a cloud of smoke, Farin forced out a wimpish "and, what about it?" through his constricted throat.

  "Can you help me to get the message through to her?"

  "Whaat? I…I…" He, of all people, was to deliver a message from Bloss to the goddess Annietta?

  Outside was the clattering of something heavy, powerful. It stamped onto the wooden step, which creaked in protest, threatening to snap in the middle. Instinctively, Farin mentally closed his ears. Not a moment too soon, for in the next instant the door flew open, was lifted straight out of its hinges, and crashed against the wall before landing with a clatter on the floor. All eyes focussed on the doorway as if through a burning lens. An enormous silhouette prevented all daylight from getting in. The new arrival had to duck his head as he stepped over the threshold. Struggling to regain his composure, Farin slid his chair backwards until it could go no further – he pressed its back against the wall, his back against its back, top lip pressed against bottom.

  What in the name of God is that? Or rather: Who is that?

  The wooden planks creaked piteously under the stranger’s steps. The plate boots suited the rest of the armour: the plate greaves, the plate gloves, the plate chest armour, the plate gorget, the plate helmet.

  Farin’s eyes were like plates as he stared at the visitor: it was a knight, a real knight.

  Farin’s eyes couldn’t open any wider. He’d only ever seen a knight once before – in the distance, riding by on his charger. Just then he heard a horse snorting loudly outside. Not that it meant much – after all, the door lay wide open on the floor.

  A knight and his warhorse.

  Farin had dreamed of being a knight himself more than ten years ago, serving his king and performing countless heroic deeds. He had dreamed of rescuing virgins in distress from the claws of murderous dragons, just as he had freed Annietta from the most impossible of situations, always in time and always with his trusty sword, Windswipe. Father had laughed him out of it. "Finding a dragon – that’s possible", he’d opined. "But a virgin?!" His father had been doubled over with laughter all day. At the start he had laughed too without knowing why.

  Until now Farin had never imagined that the smashing in of doors was considered another example of knightly heroic deeds.

  The knight pushed up his visor with the same nonchalance as he had knocked down the door. His eyes took in the two young men in the corner as well as the pipe-smoking villagers and the innkeeper behind the counter. It all took no longer than the blink of an eye. The hinges on his full-fingered gloves clanked quietly as his forefinger pointed at Hamak. The knight’s other hand rested lightly on the handle of his belted sword.

  Farin had completely forgotten to breathe. What a hilt! You could easily fit five hands between the pommel and the cross guard.

  "YOU!" roared the knight to Hamak.

  The clay jugs rattled on the wooden shelf.

  The colour drained from the village alderman’s face. He bowed, then knelt, then bowed again, his head almost hitting the floor.

  Impressively flexible, this alderman, when necessary.

  "What…what can I do for you, sir?" Hamak bowed and scraped like crazy. He looked like a cat, there on the floor and would be meowing in no time.

  "WHERE IS SHE?" The deep voice caused the floorboards to vibrate.

  "Eh..what? Who…do you mean, sir?" asked Hamak, his lowered pate towards the wooden tavern floor.

  And what a ridiculous question. It was obvious who the knight was looking for. Obviously. Gar…Gir…God above, what was the preparer of poison’s name again?

  "GERLUNDA!" roared through the tavern, extinguishing the tobacco in the pipes.

  Exactly, that was her name.

  Strangely, none of those present made a complaint about this disruption. With their finer instincts the villagers sensed that the new arrival didn’t hide within him a contemplative pipe smoker and might be miffed were he to be criticised regarding their quenched instruments.

  "Ah, you mean Gerlunda sir. But of course. Yes of course, sir. She died and I…eh…took care of the matter, sir. I organised a dignified burial, sir. Her grave – a really wonderful grave – is directly behind the church, sir."

  Farin had counted "sir" five times there.

  And the sir stood there, quite alone, and seemed decidedly unimpressed.

  "Take me there, beadle."

  Beadle was really not a very pleasant title for the village alderman, who reacted, however, as though the knight had said "Your Majesty" to him.

  Admittedly, respect towards the newcomer was certainly advisable – after all, knights served the king, functioned as his right hand and executive power. Consequently, Hamak nodded vigorously and answered almost euphorically: "But, of course, but immediately."

  He had forgotten "sir" through sheer excitement; Farin hoped the knight would let that pass. Although it was raining, Hamak left the tavern without a mantle, turned around and said cravingly: "If you would be so good as to follow me, sir."

  The knight stamped over the door and outside. Silent, pale men watched him leave. Farin was still sitting stock-still on his chair, slowly absorbing what he had just experienced. Blossak looked just as stunned with his mouth gaping.

  The elemental steel-plated force turned around once more. "Pipes, come with, all of you."

  The men jumped to their feet, one of them calling: "Of course, sir!"

  The innkeeper Georig asked: "Me too, sir?"

  "How much room for interpretation is there in the word “all”?" asked the knight, his voice sounding like a war drum.

  The innkeeper hesitated for a brief moment, then joined the procession.

  When Farin left the tavern, he stared at the charger as if it were a unicorn. Never before had he seen such an enormous horse. Its nostrils were steaming, its mighty chest rose and fell under the broad straps that held the jousting saddle. Farin’s gaze travelled in amazement from the mighty rump armour to the embroidered saddle cloth with its royal coat of arms. He could easily fit his head into the enormous hanging stirrups. Unfortunately, there was barely time to give the charger its proper attention as the group walked over towards the church.

  "We miss her already, the good Gerlunda," said Hamak sorrowfully.

  "Nobody misses that ugly toad!" roared the knight.

  Such demeanour was not at all to Farin’s taste. He had always thought until now that knights exhibited the best of manners and treated ladies with politeness and respect. Although, if he were honest, ugly toad described Gerlunda better than fair maid.

  "Yes, she wasn’t particularly beloved." In the blink of an eye Hamak had learned how to adjust in the most flexible manner to the higher echelons of society, and how to handle them. He had rediscovered his courage, after all – when it came down to it, he was the village alderman. He strode onwards manfully. "We have to go behind the church, sir."

  Within a few moments the group was standing in mourning around the preparer of poisons’ grave. On a crooked wooden sign written in charcoal with ungainly lettering was "Gerlunda".

  "This is where she lies interred – a lovely grave." Hamak’s enthusiastic, encouraging nodding made the resting place almost more beautiful.

  The knight stood in front of the grave, his legs apart and planted firmly in the ground, looking monumental – an impressive statue with a commanding charisma. His stony demeanour was suggestive of a gravestone.

  The rain was
coming down harder and there was a flash of lightning.

  The knight slammed down his visor. "When did you bury her?"

  "Five days ago, sir."

  "Who was in attendance?"

  "Me and eh…" The alderman thought hard. He pointed to the gravedigger’s son. "…and him and…eh…" There was a momentary delay before the Godly insight manifested itself. "…our Pastor Amen, of course."

  For a moment Farin could only see the whites of the knight’s eyes through the slit in his helmet.

  "It’s been brought to my attention that it was the priest who found the dead woman, is that right?"

  "Very true, sir."

  What the knight said was not only true, but very true, noted Farin to himself.

  "Let the priest be brought here immediately!"

  Hamak stammered: "That…that’s not possible, sir. The priest is nowhere to be found. He…he left the village three days ago."

  "Your priest has disappeared then." The tone and urgency in the knight’s voice had sharpened.

  "We…we believe he’s on some sort of business trip."

  "You believe." This new information too, didn’t seem to improve the knight’s first impression of the village and its inhabitants to any great extent. The patience of the exalted visitor was wearing thin.

  "EXHUME!" thundered across the graveyard, causing Farin to duck.

  "Sir, you mean…?" Hamak bowed his head and his face looked as obsequious as possible.

  "Dig’er up, muttonhead."

  Everyone turned their heads towards him.

  "Exhuhu…eh…dig'er up, you…scoundrel" said the alderman to the gravedigger’s son.

  "Eh…!" What Farin wanted to say was that he needed a shovel, but he didn’t manage to even get one comprehensible word out. Instead of which, he spread out his arms helplessly so that everyone could see he didn’t have any suitable equipment to hand.