The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  Come on! Jump, you loser! Do the right thing for once – just this once!

  His head was pulsating like the veins on his neck. Overcome again, he closed his ears. He was close to tears.

  Bawl away! And then…JUMP! I can feel your pathetic soul in my hands already. It despises you. It wants to get away from you! The Cleft is calling you!

  Closing his ears didn’t help a whit. After all, it was happening inside his head. The voice was scolding him. Or was he scolding himself?

  Farin heard a faraway whisper: "What’s happening to me?" He recognised it with a shiver. The thin, self-pitying, shaky little voice was his own. Who was he asking? Himself?

  He continued to sit there, shivering, as if frozen on the plateau, his chin on his knees, terrified of invoking the voice again through the tiniest movement. It was quiet for a while, enabling Farin to gather together all his strength, his thoughts and his courage. The horrible voice had called him a loser. He couldn’t accept that.

  God, give me the strength to object.

  GOD?

  It boomed in his head again.

  Oh my God! Oh my God! First, he cries for his mama and now for his Lord Almighty. Pshaw! A crumb from the table has more worth than him.

  "Who are you?" asked Farin loudly into the wind.

  I’m not going to tell a crumby worm who I am. My name bespeaks might, magic and mystery. A person must earn the right to learn my name.

  Farin was startled. He could have a conversation with the voice.

  "What do you want from me?"

  Your soul, you wormy loser. Your pathetic soul.

  "It…it belongs to me", squeaked Farin.

  How could this lousy day, when he’d been forced to watch Annietta fall for the phony braggart Blossak hook, line and sinker, and even kiss him, get any worse?

  He summoned up all his courage. "I’m not going to give you my soul. Get out of my head."

  If it weren’t for his voice sounding whiny, Farin could even be a little proud of his clearly expressed message.

  Sad! But only a matter of time when all’s said and done. You were so close to doing it, mama’s boy.

  "Why are you scolding me all the time?"

  Because you’re the most pathetic worm I’ve ever had to slip into.

  "How? You mean, you “had to” slip into me!" He emphasised "had to" – that felt good somehow.

  Yes, you hardly think I’d willingly seek out a wimp like yourself, do you?

  "I don’t understand…"

  Exactly, you don’t understand. One of your main problems.

  The thoughts behind Farin’s closed eyes were swinging like a pendulum in his head.

  Have I gone totally mad? Who am I letting myself be insulted by?

  In a low but firm voice he concluded: "If somebody is forcing you to slip into a loser like me then you’re not all you’re cracked up to be."

  Oho! Not bad. A cheeky crumby worm.

  "What are you? Where do you come from?"

  Think about it. I’m sick of having to explain everything. People are always looking for explanations. Why? How come? Wherefore? Sickening! Just act – then no explanation is needed!

  As if pulled by puppet strings, his right hand wandered towards his chest. With two fingers he fished the simple amulet out from under his shirt, held it close to his eyes and squinted at it. It had to be connected to this. A strange explanation to be sure, but the only possible one. Who knew where the enchanted trinket came from?

  And about time.

  A scornful snort confirmed that he should have thought of this a long time ago.

  The gravedigger’s son asked in a whisper: "You’re hiding in the damn amulet. And judging by what you’re saying, you’re not human."

  Almost right. And thank you for the praise.

  Farin leaped up. He had no idea where he got the strength from. He yanked the hemp cord and amulet forcefully from his neck and strode towards the abyss, his lips pressed firmly together.

  Oh, you do want to jump? Good lad.

  "I’m sick of having to explain everything – to whomever. Right then. This unadorned adornment wants to jump."

  First a short silence, then: Oh no. Don’t do it.

  For the first time this insulting, patronising, arrogant voice sounded uncertain, almost pleading.

  "Oh, yes. Who’s the whiner now? I don’t want you! Whoever or whatever you are."

  He’d let so many opportunities for getting rid of the amulet slip through his fingers already. He could simply have given it to the priest, the alderman, the knight, but no, an inner voice had stopped him every time. And now he wanted to get rid of this different inner voice as quickly as possible.

  If you’re heading for the Cleft anyway, why don’t we all jump together?

  "No! Out of the question!"

  Just one little hop, that’s all.

  Farin stepped towards the abyss, the amulet held tightly in his fist.

  "Good riddance to bad rubbish, you creep". He raised his closed hand in preparation.

  Don’t throw it away. Please!

  It was wailing woefully in his head.

  "Find yourself somebody else – whoever or whatever you are." With an almighty throw of his arm, Farin flung the amulet into the chasm.

  NOOOOooooooooo.

  The whoever-or-whatever-it-is-you-are’s voice caused Farin’s body to shudder violently with its ear-splitting sound, which gradually faded away to nothing.

  He was suddenly possessed with a new clarity – he felt better. Nobody would believe this story. And who could he tell, anyway? Relieved, and unburdened of this load, his thoughts became more carefree. How did that piece of jewellery end up on Gerlunda’s body? Why did the man in black and the knight desire it so much? Great that he was able to get rid of it so easily. He looked into the depths again. It was lying down there somewhere and would eventually rot.

  Stop dawdling and jump, you worm!

  He heard the rough voice behind him.

  Hahahaha!

  The laughter almost pushed him over the edge, but instead he fell backwards onto his backside.

  Did you really believe you could get rid of me just by throwing the amulet away, you birdbrain?

  "But…but…" Farin remembered the voice’s woeful wailing only too well. Then the penny dropped. "You fooled me."

  That’s one of my favourite activities – fooling people.

  The voice sounded pleased with itself.

  "PISS OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!"

  "Alo-alo-alo-alone" echoed the chasm gleefully in all directions.

  There’s nothing I’d rather do, worm. You’re even more useless than the old toad. But we’re going around in circles. There’s nothing I’d like to do more than to rip out your gullet, but my hands are your hands for the time being. And I’m afraid you wouldn’t do that for me now, would you? That would be even better than jumping. I couldn’t leave you alone even if I wanted to.

  Losing his mind, Farin stood before the Cleft and was completely at a loss, not knowing which way to turn.

  Now that we have neared the wonderful abyss again – you’re not thinking after all of…? The voice sounded unashamedly hopeful.

  "NO! ARSEHOLE!"

  "Hole, hole, hole", sang the echo.

  The voice groaned dustily. Even the Cleft is mocking you. Now that we’re both enjoying the view together, turn your attention to the east, down below to the very left, there where the three birch trees are growing between the two boulders.

  Farin didn’t want to, but his eyes began travelling obediently in the direction described. "I don’t see anything. What’s supposed to…" He became silent – he really had to look more closely. He looked down the Cleft to the indicated location and stared. Two people were lying there. They looked as small as thumbs from up here. But even from this distance he could tell – they were dead. A shapeless dark shadow surrounded the bodies – he couldn’t make out what is was. If he climbed down to them, they would be as
big as him, but still dead.

  Two bodies are there already. Come on now, jump, worm. Another one will hardly make a difference. Death is a righteous friend. The great leveller.

  That unashamedly hopeful undertone again. Then he heard the question in his head: What do you think now? Whose corpses do you reckon are lying there?

  Farin’s brain did its duty through gritted teeth. "Gerlunda’s and our Pater Amen’s."

  Those are the first words you’ve uttered that, with a lot of benevolence on my part, might lead one to conclude that there is indeed a life-form, whose intelligence may be enough, after many thousands of years, to enable it to shit into a ditch.

  Farin could only ask: "How can I be free of you?"

  Jump.

  "Absolutely not."

  Do it.

  His rebellious streak was giving him strength. With a scowl he decided to simply ignore the chatter in future. A difficult undertaking, because the voice echoed insolently and relentlessly in his head.

  He blurted it out: "YOU PATHETIC SOMETHING! Can you not just leave me in peace? Can’t you just manage that? And if you get bored, just piss off. You don’t even need to ask. Don’t let the door hit you your arse on your way out."

  No answer. With furrowed brow Farin cocked his head in the wind – ready to hear at any moment the words of a total stranger drone in his skull. Silence. He slowly began to move. Silence. He had lost his mind. Silence.

  After a few moments he began heading back. Which meant he had a challenging descent and the path to the village ahead of him. He was starving and parched – no wonder – it was early afternoon now. The red-tiled church steeple ahead offered some comfort – perhaps it was the familiarity it radiated. Farin yearned for familiarity, for something he could hang onto. Now more than ever, now that the voice in his head had made him lose his mind. Should he tell the alderman of his experiences? Instinctively he listened to himself, but this time he only sensed the gravedigger’s son. A feeling of relief came over him.

  I am the gravedigger’s son and I never give up.

  a lot of lugging about

  W ith the image of the two bodies in his head, Farin entered the village of Heap. The man in black wasn’t just behind Gerlunda’s murder, he also had Pater Amen on his conscience. Farin had played in the Cleft as a child with the village children. Very few people strayed into the almost impassable terrain, which was clearly the reasons the bodies hadn’t been discovered. Whether for good or ill, Gerlunda had already been dead; the priest however had been in the best of physical and business health. Was that really Amen lying there? Farin couldn’t be absolutely certain from that distance away.

  He was sweating in spite of the cool autumn evening. The alderman’s house lay near the marketplace and not far from the church. A cast-iron ring served as the door knocker. He hesitated before using it. He would tell Hamak about the two bodies. Then they would be able to bring a stretcher on Hamak’s horse and cart as close as possible to the chasm, go the rest of the way on foot and then carry Pater Amen and Gerlunda back.

  What will I do if the sinister voice pops up in my head again?

  He thought of something. It had called the preparer of poisons an old toad, just as the knight had done. Coincidence? Anyway, the voice hadn’t made an appearance since leaving the plateau – maybe its dubious owner had fallen asleep, maybe it was just gone. Maybe it was only able to talk to him on top of the Anvil, the mountain shrouded in myths. Or maybe throwing the amulet into the chasm had really worked. The last thing in the world Farin wanted to do was to listen in on himself and make further enquiries. Let sleeping, impudent dogs lie, he thought. A quiet head – that was the main thing.

  Have I gone out of my mind? Should I wait a bit? No, I have to inform the alderman.

  Determined, he knocked on the door.

  Peat, of all people, opened. The lad looked straight past Farin and murmured: "Who could have knocked? There’s nobody here." He chuckled sleazily at his own corny joke.

  "Who’s there?" asked the lady of the house gruffly, as she pottered around at the hearth.

  "Gravedigger’s son," answered Peat.

  "What does he want? Send him away, he’ll only bring trouble!" bawled Peat’s mother, a large woman with fat arms and legs.

  "I have to speak to the alderman," said Farin.

  "FATHER!" shouted Peat over his shoulder. "The gravedigger’s son is standing here. Didn’t he put you in a pretty bad light when the knight was here? Will I beat him up?"

  "Leave it!" The alderman came to the door and shoved his son aside.

  "What do you want, you scoundrel?" asked Hamak in an unfriendly voice. "I already paid your father for the witch."

  "There are two bodies in the Cleft. Probably Gerlunda and…Pater Amen."

  "What are you telling me?" Hamak" s eyes opened wide with fear. "Show me the spot. Quick, before it gets dark. Peat, you’re coming too."

  They had ridden as closely up to the chasm as possible on the horse and cart. Now the alderman was following Farin on foot, Peat marching behind with the stretcher. It was basically two long poles made from ash wood connected lengthways by a sheet of strong linen. It probably wouldn’t have taken Hamak much effort to lift Gerlunda, but Pater Amen on the other hand was a man of the church, God’s messenger, not to mention the judge, and – which carried just as much weight – the richest man in the village.

  "The gravedigger’s son can haul the stretcher too," grumbled Peat.

  Farin didn’t like the idea at all, but his opinion wouldn’t count.

  "Take over, you scoundrel!" ordered Hamak.

  Peat grinned.

  And so, Farin shouldered the long poles – a wonder he hadn’t been forced to carry them from the start. They would only manage the journey to and from the chasm once before darkness. The rock faces narrowed towards each other. At one point the men had to really squeeze between them, then the chasm broadened again and in the middle there were even a few trees growing. Three sparse birch trees gripped the stony ground with their roots, just as the last few colourful leaves clung to their branches. The men could already see the scene from a distance – a sight they wouldn’t forget for the rest of their lives. Nobody spoke a word at first – words were hard to find that could express their horror. Suddenly Farin understood what had created the dark shadows he had seen surrounding the bodies when he’d looked from up high. Blood. And yet more blood.

  The body of the preparer of poisons, Gerlunda, lay on a rocky elevation, almost like his workbench. Ribcage and stomach had been cut open lengthways. Heart, lungs and some of her intestines were scattered around near her body. Her skullcap was missing, and her brain hung crookedly over her forehead, as if it were trying to crawl out of her head. A few yards away they discovered the village priest in a similar state, gutted like a goose. His stomach, fat once, hung down in loose folds, left and right. His arms disappeared behind his back – presumably he had been tied at the wrists. His skull had been opened by a single blow, and its insides resembled a bloody pulp. In recent years Farin had not only seen many dead bodies, but he had also prepared them for burial – bloated drowning victims, half-decayed human remains, crushed bodies, for example – but this opened up a new dimension, even for him. Only people did this to people. The alderman, glassy-eyed, did his best to avoid looking at the corpses, his puckered nose betraying his futile attempt at breathing though his mouth. Peat’s face took on the greenish-white colour of Gerlunda’s brain.

  Something about this place irritated Farin; he glanced around but couldn’t figure out what.

  "What the devil happened here?" The alderman was the first to speak.

  The three of them were standing by the body of the priest. Amen had never tolerated the devil being spoken of – now, he was silent. The gravedigger’s son placed his forefinger under Amen’s chin and raised it gently. A deep cut had almost completely severed his head from his neck, an almost perfect job. Only the neck ligaments held the skull and cerebral spin
e together. The cut ran along the neck from bottom-right to top-left. The manner and depth of the wound provided important evidence. The blade of a left-hander, of a murderer, of a leading light in the cult of the Necorers. And what else had the knight said: "The next time you meet him run for your life." The man in black must have succumbed totally to madness.

  The gravedigger’s son studied his surroundings again. If he ignored the corpses, the stench, the unspeakable crime, what else irritated him? His comprehension began to take shape – he had to think the other way around. What didn’t irritate him? What had the knight immediately called the man in black? The raven. The ravens, the crows and the flies were missing from this blood-soaked spot. What is too sinister here for even the birds and insects? Farin refrained from sharing any of his thoughts with the others. Hamak and his son Peat were so much cleverer and would draw their own ingenious conclusions.

  "I could puke", said Hamak just then, sharing his conclusion.

  As if he’d been waiting for the magic words, Peat turned away suddenly and bent over a rock. The splattering sound was accentuated by violent gasping, retching and spitting. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve when he was finished and mumbled: "It was just the smell, it’s such a horrible stink."

  "We’ll carry Amen’s body back to the horse and cart and ride back to the village", was Hamak’s response.

  "What will we do with Gerlunda?" asked Farin, placing the stretcher beside the priest’s corpse.

  "We’ll pick her up tomorrow – it’ll be dark soon."

  The three of them rolled Amen’s body onto the frame.

  "You at the front, us behind", ordered Hamak and grasped the right rod.

  Well, that’s a surprise, thought Farin, as he bent down and grasped both poles.

  Father and son shared the load at the other end. Even though Pater Amen had lost pints of blood and an organ here and there, he still weighed as much as an old nag. It didn’t take long before Farin’s arms and back were aching.

  Peat asked: "Should we swap?"

  What was wrong with him? A streak of humanity? In his confusion Farin almost forgot his exhaustion.