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The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

Page 10

by Sam Feuerbach


  The king prodded him on the shoulder; he’d almost forgotten his mission. "Oh, Grachy, me of course, Vigo, the principal knight of the House of the stone dragons." He gave a friendly wave to down below.

  The castle residents cheered encouragingly while the opposing champion’s ferocious glare left no doubt as to the carnage he had already inflicted.

  "Who will step into the ring on behalf of your house?" asked Ekarius.

  "Aaargh! I am Torrremmm, the principal knight of the house of…er.."

  Grachus whispered something.

  "…the house of the peregrines!" he thundered persuasively.

  "So shall it happen," shouted Ekarius joyfully. "Tomorrow at the tenth hour before the gates of the citadel the fate of the city and its inhabitants will be decided by the combat between the champions of the houses of the peregrines and the stone dragons."

  Another tumultuous cheer. What, precisely, were the people cheering about? Oh yes, some fool had volunteered to gut the fish for them.

  Another question was bugging Vigo. "What else do we need to find out about the principal knight down there? Do we know his fighting style?"

  King Ekarius turned to his principal advisor. "You yourself travelled to his last duel, the one for the city of Crossford, and you watched him. Tell our champion what you discovered."

  Wineview’s chest swelled up like a bellows. "The principal knight of the peregrine house is an enemy to be reckoned with. His tried and tested weapon is the two-handed sword, and so he fights without a shield. He does, however, generally wear chainmail for protection. He fights in the classical style, nothing spectacular, nothing you can’t handle."

  Vigo had picked up all this information already with one glance at his opponent; nevertheless, the king seemed satisfied. This advisor served his own interests principally and did so magnificently.

  King Ekarius, Wineview and Vigo strolled back to the main building. The king’s consort approached them in the courtyard.

  Vigo bowed graciously before her and kissed her outstretched hand. "You become more beautiful every time I see you, Your Majesty."

  "I get fatter every time you see me, principal knight."

  The queen was expecting, and it could only be a matter of days before the house of the stone dragons would announce a new princess or prince.

  As if being able to mindread, the queen continued: "Of course we are hoping for a son, an heir to the throne. Guess what his name could be."

  "Your Majesty, it is a privilege for your humble principal knight to be honoured with such a question." He struggled to think for a moment. "I…I would hazard to guess: Ekarius, the sixth."

  She turned to her husband in surprise. "My dear king, have you been slipping him information?"

  Vigo hurriedly tried to dampen her suspicions. "My dear queen, I merely made a lucky guess, Your Majesty."

  She smiled with satisfaction.

  That was enough courtly drama for one day as far as Vigo was concerned. "With your permission, Your Majesty, I shall now withdraw!" It was more of a statement than a question.

  "Where do you want to go?" asked His Majesty.

  "To bed! I must rest before tomorrow’s combat," answered the champion, failing completely to hide a mischievous grin.

  Undoubtedly, King Ekarius was thinking the same thought. Vigo saw, out of the corner of his eye, the king give an order to the captain of the watch. From now on he would be under increased protection – or under heightened surveillance. It had happened on more than one occasion that the principal knight of a kingdom had done a runner at the eleventh hour before a duel. In such cases the coward would be ostracised and hunted to the end of his days – and duel, castle and honour were invariably lost.

  It was very decent of King Ekarius the Fifth that he wanted to protect Vigo from the fates of banishment and persecution. Completely unnecessary, of course! As if he would flee from someone like "Torrremmm". There was nothing and nobody he would ever run away from.

  He entered his bed chamber in high spirits.

  His beloved was waiting for him with pouted lips. Had she been pulling that face the whole time he was gone? "You were gone a long while, Vigo."

  He kissed her pursed lips. "But I have time now until the tenth hour tomorrow, my love." With nimble fingers he loosened his armour and disrobed.

  He heard soldiers marching up to the door outside.

  This will be the safest place in the Worldly Kingdom until tomorrow, thought Vigo.

  the Anvil

  D ays passed by in Farin’s life as did the dark autumn clouds above his head. He found it hard to keep track of the hours; it was the same repetitive monotony, the same greyness when he woke up in the morning and the same vapid grey aftertaste before he went to sleep at night. The man in black and the knight slowly disappeared from the villagers’ conversations and so from their heads. They were replaced by their growing concern regarding their priest Amen, as not even his attendants had news of his whereabouts. Farin’s mood was darkened by other matters. He constantly thought about Gerlunda, especially as the peculiar amulet he wore about his neck reminded him of the preparer of poisons every time he washed himself in the mornings. The jewel tugged at his nerves – there was the never-ending danger that father or somebody else would spot it and ask awkward questions. His thoughts concerning the murderous man in black were even more disturbing – the raven, as the knight had called him. Were the stranger and the knight really both on the hunt for the same unremarkable piece of jewellery? His thoughts went round in circles, and in the middle was always the amulet. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, he rubbed its smooth metal surface. Completely innocuous, a coin without an impression. He shoved it back under his shirt.

  I’ll just bury it behind the house – this was his plan for the afternoon, once father had retired to "The Warm Beer".

  The highlight of the day was the fact that father had left the shovel at innkeeper Georig’s and had sent the forgetful Farin off to get it post-haste. Father placed great value on tradition. And so, the gravedigger’s son made his way to the tavern.

  The autumn sun was strong and cheerful for a change, as though it wanted to make a good impression before wilting in the winter months. Farin particularly liked looking across the wheat fields at this time of year, the ripened ears swaying gently in the breeze. Like a gentle golden sea. A yearning came over him. Or was it wanderlust?

  Halfway along his journey he saw the village ropemaker approaching with his dog. The ropemaker wasn’t a member of the society of pipe smokers, which in Farin’s eyes was something in his favour. He was approaching fifty, had friendly eyes and not a single hair left on his head. Farin envied the man a little because of his trade. He was respected in the village and regarded highly as a craftsman. Using horsehair, hog’s bristles, flax and hemp, he made ropes for tillage, nets for fishing, lines for washing and hemp cord for tying up chins or for threading into dubious amulets that hung around your neck.

  What was the ropemaker’s name again?

  The dog consisted purely of hair, in contrast to his owner, which made him seem even bigger than he really was. The enormous mop stormed towards Farin, letting out deep barks and jumping up at him.

  "Growler, you old mop," said Farin in greeting and went down on his knees to stop himself from being knocked backwards.

  The mop swept his enthusiastic, rough tongue all over the boy’s face, and whipped his tail against his leg. The dog loved him and didn’t give a hoot about his profession. If Growler had his way, Farin would be village alderman at the very least.

  "Good morning, ropemaker," said Farin and smiled as the dog licked his hands. Luckily, you could address anybody in the village by their trade, no bother.

  "Good morning, gravedigger’s son," answered the ropemaker in a halfway friendly manner, without returning the smile.

  Farin ruffled the animal’s fur with both hands. The dog was now wagging his whole hindquarters gratefully.

  "Has our priest
turned up again?"

  "He’s still missing as far as I know." The ropemaker called his animal to heel. "Come on, Growler. We need to get something to eat."

  "Good luck with the fishing," he said to the ropemaker, who was carrying a long fishing rod on his shoulder and was taking the path to the great lake.

  He bade farewell to the dog by tickling him between the ears and received a final lick right across his face before Growler stormed after his master.

  Farin strode on towards the village. When he reached the little wooden bridge, he heard voices echoing from the riverbank, but could see nothing on account of the bend in the river. There were much more suitable places than this part of the stream for washing clothes or bathing. He crossed the bridge and, curious, he made his way through the vegetation on the riverbank until he spotted two people sitting on a rock beyond the bushes. They were facing away from him, but he knew who they were immediately. Blossak and Annietta. He scowled in spite of himself.

  Uncontrollable rage towards the innkeeper’s son filled Farin. Jealousy tortured his already battered self-esteem, shovelling salt and pepper into the wound. Reason meekly tried to intervene, attempted to explain that he really wasn’t entitled to these feelings of rage and jealousy – after all, Blossak knew nothing of his fervent veneration of the girl. Not to mention Annietta herself being completely oblivious to it.

  So what! Such trivialities were tossed aside by his overwhelming emotions. Their bright laughter echoed in his ears – every giggle felt like a knife wound. There was nothing amusing about Bloss – he was boring and ugly. How could Farin’s goddess stoop so low?

  Unaware of his own movements, he crept closer along the embankment towards them. They didn’t hear him, being so wrapped up in each other’s attention, and now he could hear what Blossak was saying.

  "Just imagine, the knight ordered Gerlunda’s grave to be opened. And the two gravediggers were standing there without a shovel between them. Luckily, I remembered the spade in father’s tool shed."

  Annietta chortled quietly.

  Were they laughing about that "gravedigger halfwit’? His heart was ready to burst out of his chest, it was shaking and pounding so much. Incapable of rational thought, he stood there dumbstruck although he really didn’t want to hear anymore. It took a while until he absorbed more of Blossak’s words.

  "Anni, just imagine. It was such a dangerous situation. Just as the knight was about to behead the village alderman – I could do nothing else."

  Then I just let it out, pissed in my pants so much that my feet were completely clean afterwards – only my pants stank. That was just how Farin remembered it, and that was exactly how he expected the story to continue.

  Blossak nonchalantly revealed a different version of events. He began speaking in a somewhat deeper voice than was his norm. "I had to step in. I called out loudly: Stop, Sir Knight! I know what you want." He paused dramatically.

  "Tell me more, Blossi."

  "Everybody looked at me, awestruck. And I explained: Sir Knight! 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. I actually managed to distract the knight from killing Hamak."

  "Are you sure that’s how it happened?"

  "Of course I am. How else?"

  "Then you’re a hero", announced Annietta.

  "Come on now. I couldn’t allow our village alderman to be beheaded." He clicked his tongue. "It got even better, because from then on the knight was only interested in me. I said this to him: The stranger is Gerlunda’s murderer. He strangled her with only one hand."

  "Dreadful." Annietta put her hand before her mouth. "How did you know that?"

  "Powers of observation and ability and deductive reasoning, Anni. Gerlunda had strangulation marks on her throat. Right…or…left? Hang on, let me think." The hero was faltering. "Eh...the man in black carried a weapon…eh…and…eh…the marks were…"

  "You were clever and brave, Blossi."

  Oh. I see. Farin’s intellectual capacity was suspended momentarily and dark desires rose up within him. His hands became sweaty with rage. There was a roaring and pounding in his head. Would he be able to strangle a person with one hand too? The innkeeper’s son was very inviting just now. Why had he bothered to eavesdrop?

  Anni leaned over to the clever and brave Blossi and kissed him on the cheek.

  Farin died a little death at that moment. There was nothing left of his fury against this injustice. He retreated with his last remaining strength. The two were too engrossed in their billing and cooing to notice anything.

  "You were clever and brave," she had said. It was he who had earned those accolades, not the lying good-for-nothing Blossak. He felt robbed, undervalued and cheated. The innkeeper’s son had basked in his words and his deeds. Farin slowly gathered himself together. Should he turn around and take Blossak to task? Would Annietta believe him? Would she want to believe him? All these thoughts weighed heavily on him. Farin’s head hung low like the branches of a weeping willow. What did he himself think? The blacksmith’s daughter would never accept him anyway, never think of him as a real man. Him, the gravedigger’s son. The sheer pointlessness of his existence was clearer to him now than ever before. Why was he going to the village anyway? Oh yes, to collect the shovel. Why was he collecting the shovel anyway? The shovel could go hang. He didn’t want to see another human being – ever again.

  Farin left the road. He battled his way through bushes and boulders towards the Anvil. That was the name of the only mountain far and wide, whose outlines in the distance gave the impression of an anvil. There was no path to its summit – you needed a certain dexterity to be able to snake your way between the rocky spurs, holding onto the correct stones or branches and hauling yourself up. As a child he’d climbed up here a hundred times and the route was still familiar to him. He reached the peak of the Anvil, which was far from peak-like, hardly losing breath. An airy plateau with an impressive panoramic view was the reward for his efforts, but this wasn’t why Farin was up here. He was swimming in a sea of self-pity up on top of the mountain. Swimming was something he did well – his mother had taught him.

  "Mother!" he sobbed into the wind. He missed her terribly – even still, despite long having become a young man. She was gone for more than seven years now.

  How can you be thinking of your mother in your melancholy mood?

  Farin slowly approached the Cleft. That was what the chasm was called, which dropped to a depth of thirty yards. A myth had grown up around this place. Long, long ago, a giant supposedly had an argument with his wife and swung his axe mightily, creating an enormous fissure in the rock. He really must have been annoyed at her.

  Farin’s feet kicked against some small pebbles that clinked and tumbled over the edge and into the abyss. Misty-eyed, he watched their journey until they disappeared out of sight in the depths below. One more step and he’d be following them. Then it would be over – at least with this life, who knows, maybe every life would be over.

  He leaned forward, becoming lost in reverie at the maw of the chasm. Below were only rocks, which ensured that anyone who jumped here would certainly be dead when they hit the bottom.

  One more step. Then only air…and rocks – the thoughts raced through his head.

  What was he doing here? Farin noticed he was feeling dizzy. He, who had climbed every tree to the very top, who had stood at the edge of the chasm on the Anvil countless times before. What was happening to him? Were fear or temptation infecting his mind? One more step? No more steps! Gripped by rapture, he inched defiantly towards the drop.

  Just so I can look down properly.

  Again, he thought of his mother. And the promise he had made to her as a little boy. Or had she with foresight wisely drawn it from him?

  "Promise me that you’ll never give up on yourself", she had said. "No matter what happens."

  "Of course, mama. I’ll never give up on myself", he’d answered light
-heartedly, without fully understanding what she’d meant.

  And now he found himself here, standing on the edge of death again.

  The wind was strengthening, and Farin spread out his arms like a scarecrow.

  "Of course, mama. I’ll never give up on myself. And I’d really love to see the ocean."

  Come on now, jump!

  Behind him he heard the scratchy voice of a man. And Farin jumped. With fright. Not forwards, but backwards, spinning around on his own axis at the same time. Although this was his only movement, he landed on both feet in a squatting position, gasping for air and with burning lungs just one yard away from the fatal drop. He stood up straight and peered around. But there was nobody there except for a totally confused gravedigger’s son.

  You’re a loser. You’ve already let go of your soul for a moment. Give it to me – completely! commanded the voice.

  The plateau on top of the Anvil was just about the most open area Farin could imagine. There were no trees, no hollows, no rocks, nowhere for hiding. Who was talking to him?

  Come on, jump! And bequeath me your damn soul, you pathetic worm!

  Farin rubbed his temples with both hands. Was it possible? Was this voice coming from inside his head?

  Hahahaha!

  The booming voice made him stumble, leaving him sprawling on the ground. He quickly sat up, pressed his ears between his hands, wrapping his legs in his arms. He listened tentatively. It reminded him of the tall amphora outside the church. He’d often stuck his head into it as a child and laughed loudly. The voice he’d heard a moment ago was just as loud and powerful.

  It was all too late now – madness had afflicted the gravedigger’s son. It was cold comfort that it would hardly bother anyone. Time passed. Farin sat huddled in the autumn wind on top of the Anvil plateau and only slowly calmed down. His sobs tasted of bile. He sought to explain the inexplicable. Had his mental derangement led him to imagine everything? A terrible daydream in the midst of his despair?

  Just as he was beginning to accept these unlikely yet comforting thoughts, it came again.

 

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