The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  The alderman lavished him with praise. "Idiot!" he said. "Then go and get a shovel and make it snappy!"

  Even if he ran, it would take almost an hour to get there and back. Would the knight be happy about waiting so long?

  "Father has one in the tool shed," said Blossak, tuning in with unusual quick-wittedness.

  Georig nodded to him, and Bloss ran off.

  Why am I standing here stammering? Even the innkeeper’s son is coming up with good ideas and has raised his game.

  Farin was unhappy with himself. He looked up. Never before had he imagined a fresh mound of earth could be of such interest, the congregation of mourners staring at it with complete reverence. The world stopped – only the thunder clouds were moving, the rain was easing off.

  The alderman could bear the silence no longer. "We feel truly honoured that Sir Knight has granted upon our modest little village the honour of his visit", he said in an oily voice.

  He has it down pat, thought Farin.

  "Beadle, the only thing that interests me in this shithole Heap is Gerlunda."

  If there was anything at all lacking in the legendary knight it was a certain finesse in his way of expressing himself. Although – any deficit in high-flown language and pathos was compensated for eloquently by clarity and directness.

  This was how the alderman saw it too. "Of course, sir."

  In the meantime, Blossak had run back with the shovel. "Here!" He shoved it into Farin’s hands with a look of disdain. "Dig'er up!"

  It had to be clear to even the most menial of knights where Farin stood in the village pecking order. Not to worry, he wasn’t ashamed. Farin set to work like a rabid mole. The earth was loose but lumpy and heavy due to the rain. Notwithstanding that, he swung the shovel skilfully and elegantly. His work had never had such a large audience before. Everyone looked at the hollow in the earth, gaping deeper and deeper, while the pile of earth beside it grew higher and higher. He was hardly down a yard when he hit something soft. He carefully dug around it.

  "The lad can dig most delicately, can’t he, sir?" Hamak was trying to present the village community and its alderman in the most positive light.

  Farin could hear furrowed brows crackling underneath the plate helmet. "What’s delicate about that earth-poker? Spare me your drivel."

  These words struck home with Farin too. He immediately stopped making such an effort – nobody valued his handiwork. What had he expected anyway? His place at the butt-end of society was carved in gravestone. He hit the burial shroud and gently exposed its outlines.

  "Can’t you go faster?" grumbled the knight.

  "Hurry up, you scoundrel!" said the alderman, motivating him.

  Farin wondered if he should take a break first and yawn loudly, but his respect for the knight caused him to reject the idea. And so, he bent down and pulled the cloth along with the rest of the earth from the body. That was the plan – but Gerlunda of all people had put a spoke in his wheel. She was gone. There was no body under the cloth.

  Stunned, Farin looked up out of the grave and into the faces of his equally dumbstruck audience.

  The knight’s voice thundered across the graveyard. "WHERE IS THE BODY OF THE OLD TOAD? I’ll flatten this village, you losers, if you don’t show me Gerlunda’s corpse!"

  Farin began digging more furiously, but he noticed that the earth was only getting hard. There was more chance of finding gold here than Gerlunda.

  The knight slammed his visor up. "What have you done with the old woman?" His voice sounded like a tensed catapult.

  "She…she has left us," stammered ratface, holding on firmly to his new, expertly broken-in pipe. He never saw the back of the hand coming. The thorns on the upper part of the plate gloves ripped his right cheek and nose. There was a cracking sound as his cheekbone broke.

  "Living people leave, the dead stay lying where they’ve been put." The knight was on a roll now. "You are complete idiots. A disgrace that such a collection of suckers are breathing the same air as me. But I can change that."

  The knight slammed his visor down. He pulled out his sword wrathfully. The metal made an unholy hum as it slipped out of the scabbard. "YOU THERE!" He pointed the tip of the sword at Georig. "WHAT HAPPENED HERE?"

  Farin had never seen the innkeeper look so helpless. He stammered in a hoarse voice: "I…I…don’t know."

  Everyone was arguing amongst themselves, protesting their innocence, coming up with wild theories, muttering about desecration of graves and body-snatching, apologising again and again for their own inadequacies, kneeling down and pissing in their pants.

  Farin remained silent. He clambered out of the grave and observed the tumult. He too had proper respect for the knight, but it never crossed his mind to crawl about on the ground. Now, as he saw the fear written on the faces of the men around him, he understood how serious and dangerous the situation was. And so, he prepared to become afraid. Only the fear didn’t come. Quite the contrary. He enjoyed standing up straight in the midst of the bowing and scraping villagers.

  "You!" The sword-tip wandered to under the point of the alderman’s chin and left a little spot as if from a red paintbrush. The knight swung his mighty sword as dexterously as he would a dagger.

  Hamak’s eyes bulged forward – he stared like a flatulent frog.

  "Let’s start at the beginning. Were you present at the burial?"

  Hamak couldn’t nod unless he wanted to plunge his chin directly into the sword. "Yes, yes, yes, sir."

  "Who else was present?"

  "I…I…" The alderman rolled his eyes. "…eh, the gravedigger and the gravedigger’s son." He pointed to Farin, delighted to divert attention away from himself. "There! Him there!"

  The helmet turned mercilessly with a little squeak in his direction. The knight observed him as if he were a well filled chamber pot. His face bruised, sweaty and grimy, his legs and arms caked in the remains of the dark earth, Farin stood beside the empty grave, leaning on the shaft of the shovel. One enormous step and the giant was standing directly in front of him, his sword pointing directly up at the gravedigger’s son’s nose. Farin could well and truly smell the steel, the blood groove of the flashing blade was two fingers wide. But he never even thought of flinching back, instead he went into gravedigger mode – slow, sad, stubborn. After all, what did he have to lose?

  The knight mistook his unwavering courage for unwavering stupidity. "BEADLE! You’re presumably the chief of this village. Why did you refer me to this moronic mole?" thundered the knight.

  Too true, thought Farin. At the same time, he was annoyed – and his annoyance increased, the longer he thought about the "moronic mole".

  "But…he was there," said Hamak defensively, wiping away the blood from his neck with his sleeve.

  The knight snorted like his horse had done earlier. "He’s the only one of you lot who hasn’t said a word yet. Can he talk at all?"

  It took a while for Farin to realise that "he" referred to himself. Of course, he could talk, and as far as he was concerned, he was remarkably articulate for a gravedigger’s son. That was thanks mainly to mum. But Farin was still mulling over the derogatory word "mole". He decided to swallow his pride regarding the mole and show the knight what he was made of.

  He pluckily opened his mouth. "Eh! Ehmmm! Aah!"

  He didn’t sound like a moronic mole, more like a silly sheep. Unfortunately, he hadn’t impressed. Against Farin’s will, all his blood was rising up to his head.

  The knight looked at him in disgust and sighed at so much simple-mindedness and stupor. He became increasingly enraged. "I’m going to stick all your stupid pipes up your arses – and the wrong way around to boot!"

  Farin failed miserably in his attempt not to imagine that.

  "I’m going to cut the brainless skull off each and every one of you if you don’t tell me what happened here. AND I MEAN IT!"

  A shudder ran through the crowd. For the first time the knight was speaking at his normal volume, and
they sensed he was being blood-thirstily serious. "AND I MEAN IT!" left little room for interpretation.

  "You first, beadle! On your knees – don’t worry, I only need to slice once."

  "No! Sir! I’ll do whatever you want." Hamak’s bloodless face glistened with sweat.

  "ON YOUR KNEES!" The giant raised his sword. The alderman’s life wasn’t worth much now.

  "Wait, Sir Knight!" Farin’s voice croaked a little but it rang loud and clear.

  "Mole?"

  "There was a stranger present at the burial. In a black cloak with a hood. Dark eyes, hooked nose. He wore a dagger on his belt. This stranger is the…murderer."

  Alderman Hamak interrupted him. "Yes, exactly, sir, a stranger with a hook nose and…"

  "Shut your trap and let mole finish what he’s saying."

  "But, sir, he’s only the gravedi..."

  There was a horrible crack as the knight’s iron fist connected with the alderman’s temple. Farin gawked down at him in shock. He was reassured when he saw Hamak’s chest moving up and down.

  "So, the mole can speak. What else do you know? Go on!" demanded the knight.

  "The…the stranger is Gerlunda’s murderer. He strangled her."

  Deathly silence! As was befitting a graveyard. Every pair of eyes was boring into the gravedigger’s son.

  An unnerving hissing whisper emanated from the plate helmet. "How do you know that? Were you there when it happened?" The knight was focused only on him – he and his sword were threateningly close to Farin again.

  He was in too far to bottle it now – there was no going back. "Gerlunda had bits of skin under her fingernails. And I spotted scratches on the stranger’s face that were concealed with make-up." And suddenly Farin’s submerged self-confidence dug itself free – after all, when it came down to it, the gravedigger’s son knew what he was talking about. "Also, Gerlunda had strangulation marks with a thumbprint on the left side of her throat, so obviously caused by a left-handed person – the stranger wore his dagger on the right, like all left-handers. He pushed the larynx towards the spine with only one hand."

  For a moment nothing moved; not the leaves on the trees, not the villagers standing around the grave, the very clouds themselves remained still. But, yes – there was movement. Slowly, almost lovingly, the knight slid his sword back into its scabbard. With a movement of his arm he took off his helmet. He had dark-brown hair and bright blue eyes with bushy eyebrows peering over them which almost had a life of their own. His wide chin moved from side to side like a ruminant’s. With an expression as inscrutable as heaven and earth he looked at Farin. Then something happened which nobody had expected. The knight laughed. A resounding laugh like an army on horseback.

  "What’s your name, mole?"

  He almost replied: gravedigger’s son. "Farin."

  The knight looked at him steadfastly with his bright eyes. "Where are you from?"

  "Heap is my home village, sir," he said and was annoyed at his feeble voice. Now he was almost sounding like the alderman.

  "Alright, then!" Suddenly, the knight seemed mollified, especially as he was showing no inclination to chop off any heads.

  Farin glanced around at the villagers. The alderman, who was still lying in Gerlunda’s grave, opened his eyes. Blood was running down his temple over his ear. Although Farin had just saved his life, he threw him an accusing look, as if the gravedigger’s son was the cause of all his misery.

  "With the exception of him over there…" the knight’s index finger clanked again as he pointed at Farin, "…the rest of you are exceptionally dim-witted." He snorted in disgust. "Now I believe you that you didn’t hide the old toad from me." He thought for a moment: "Who found her body?"

  Hamak scrabbled out of the open grave with a groan. "That was me, sir. She was lying dead on the floor of her hut."

  "Did you find anything near the dead woman? On her body, I mean – a ring, a bracelet or a chain?"

  "No, definitely nothing, sir. She was only wearing a simple dress without pockets. No jewellery, nothing."

  "That would have surprised me anyway." His voice was sounding edgier again. "If the man in black killed her and found it, then God have mercy on us all."

  Overwhelmed, the villagers looked at each other. This enchanted amulet was spinning around inside Farin’s head again like a carousel. Should he mention it, or was there too great a risk of provoking the unpredictable knight again?

  At that moment the knight turned around and stamped over the meadow back to his charger. The horse greeted him with a friendly whinny. It was the gravedigger’s son, of all people, who ran after him.

  "Sir Knight – one more question, please."

  The giant affixed his heavy plate helmet to the saddle with a familiar movement. "What do you want?" he growled.

  "You know who the man in black with the hooked nose is, don’t you?"

  The knight’s blue eyes looked him up and down. "Believe you me, the less you know about that guy, the better."

  "He was looking for something Gerlunda had on her or had in the hut – twice. Who is he?" asked Farin, with a just a tad too much enthusiasm.

  "And didn’t find it, or he wouldn’t have dug the corpse up and taken it with him. Which gives me some hope."

  "Who is he?"

  At first Farin thought the knight was going to strike him dead as the giant’s powerful armour-plated hands bore down on his head.

  "Pull! Help me get these gloves off."

  Farin grasped the metal edge of the right glove using all his fingers and pulled it off the man’s hand. The knight took the other one off himself.

  "Uncomfortable pieces of shit. And as for these damned boots", he grunted and looked down at them.

  "Why do you wear them then?" asked Farin without thinking.

  "Because of their effect on clodhoppers like you lot."

  A yearning Farin had never felt before overcame him. This man fascinated him, stirred something in him, gave him an insight into the world beyond Heap. He stammered: "Sir Knight, I…could you imagine, having me as…"

  "Spare me your babbling. I have to go."

  Tight-lipped, Farin swallowed his disappointment. If the knight thought that he was going to cave in or eat humble pie just because of his standing in society and the constant insults he endured, he had another thing coming to him. He folded his arms in front of his chest and said in a firm voice: "You still haven’t answered my question. Who is the man in black?"

  The knight put his hands on his hips. "You’re the most impertinent mole I know. Haven’t you noticed that I don’t want to answer the question?"

  This knight was still calling him a mole, and his terribly dismissive tone did for the rest. Farin exploded: "You are a knight. I thought knights stood up for justice. I helped you, and you won’t even tell me who this man is."

  The other villagers were standing in front of the church looking over suspiciously, but nobody dared come closer.

  Silence for a moment.

  "You’re more annoying than a wife," stated the man. "Scram."

  Farin stood there with his arms folded, looking accusingly. The knight ignored him at first and continued preparing for his journey. His brow was furrowed. Their silence spoke volumes.

  With a swift movement he took Farin’s chin between his thumb and forefinger. "Listen here, gravedigger. You’re almost too chipper." His voice was becoming more threatening. "You didn’t happen to find anything on Gerlunda? A piece of jewellery like a ring, a bracelet or a pendant?"

  Farin felt again the amulet on its hemp cord burning a hole into his chest. He thought he could already get the smell of charred skin. For a moment he actually considered confessing everything and handing over the necklace with its pendant. But something rebelled inside him. Anger at the ungrateful knight? Instinct? Or stubbornness, truculence, obstinacy?

  "No, I didn’t discover anything like that", he uttered, and it even sounded halfway believable.

  The man looked at him
severely, shook his head and fastened his plate gloves to his saddle. Then he loosened his leg armour and stored that too.

  "Farewell, mole." The knight swung up onto his horse and looked down at him. "You’re interested in the black lad. Very well, then. You had the honour of meeting the raven, one of the leading lights of the Necorers. An unscrupulous murderer, which means the next time you meet him, don’t talk but run for your life. I’m surprised that he actually spared you lot. Presumably he didn’t want to leave any obvious evidence behind."

  "What do these Necorers want?" asked Farin.

  "Your curiosity is only outstripped by your audacity, boy", muttered the knight, but then continued: "They’re a well-organised cult, dedicated to death. These fanatics have already razed a number of villages to the ground in the south of the kingdom because the people refused to renounce God. The Necorers drive men, women and children into the church, barricade the door and burn down the house of God."

  "There must be something behind it all," suggested Farin.

  "I think so too. Forget about it – it’s out of your league."

  The knight spurred his horse. Without looking back, he rode out of the village towards the south.

  Farin stared after him, open-mouthed. What did he mean by the raven? A murderer? Of course – the man in black had transmitted danger and shiftiness through every pore of his body. He had threatened Farin – he remembered the words of the man in black only too well: "First I’ll take care of the priest and the village alderman. Then I’ll come after you."

  Amen had disappeared three days ago. Coincidence? Farin prayed that the priest really was gone on a business trip. From time to time he would travel in his carriage, the only one in the village, to the nearest big town.

  Now that the knight was no more to be seen, the Heap society of pipe smokers retired back to the tavern. They swaggered past Farin without giving him a second glance. They walked through the empty doorframe into "The Warm Beer" as if nothing had happened.

  Only his father and the alderman remained standing there, the latter holding his hand to his bloody temple. "I think you deliberately held back with your conclusions so you could put us in a bad light, gravedigger’s son", grumbled Hamak, obviously grateful that Farin had saved his life. "I won’t forget that."