The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  Just as the day before he yanked the amulet from his neck and squeezed it in his fist. He crawled out from under the workbench with steely calmness. This time he was going to get rid of it once and for all. The work on the priest would have to wait, the salvation of his soul was his primary concern now. Salvation of his soul? Hadn’t the voice demanded his soul yesterday?

  "You want my soul? Isn’t that what you said?" Farin strode out of the shed and marched off – not towards Heap but towards the great lake.

  I know what you’re planning – I know, it smirked in his head.

  With lips pressed firmly together Farin increased speed, he was almost running now.

  I’ll save the bother of pretending to be shocked, we went through all that yesterday.

  Now the gravedigger’s son was running along the path at a gallop. He saw the surface of the water glistening in the distance.

  Listen to me, worm. What you’re planning is going to be useless. It’ll be hanging around your neck again tomorrow.

  "I don’t believe a word of anyone I can’t see in the eye."

  But you believe in your God?

  "He never spoke to me before."

  No surprise there.

  Gasping, Farin arrived at the side of the great lake. The name was an enormous exaggeration because great it certainly wasn’t; however it compensated by being deep and muddy. First, he ripped the hemp cord off the amulet and threw it on the ground. With his toes already in the cold water he placed one foot forward, wound himself back and then flung the purveyor of misfortune with his outstretched arm towards the centre of the lake. An unremarkable splash…and the amulet sank to the bottom.

  Do you feel better now?

  "Just leave me in peace." His fear of the man in black and his two companions, his concern about the events, about the future, even about the alderman were preoccupying him. And then the outrageous phantom in his brain. Or phantasm. Or whatever you liked to call it. He trudged back, his head hanging.

  What a dog’s dinner. Where to now? Should he return to the gravedigger’s yard and wash Amen in preparation for burial? Or run to Heap and tell the alderman everything? No, better not. Hamak was in danger himself and might hand him over to the man in black in order to save his own skin. The men wanted to ride to Hubstone – to this "boss". Hubstone, the capital of the kingdom, lay at the very south of the Worldly Kingdom. Mother had told Farin of the city. He couldn’t hear enough stories about it, especially about the royal castle, the harbour and the sea. Ten thousand people supposedly lived there – he could hardly imagine it. Mother had assured him that one day he would see the capital city with his own eyes. His father had intervened with a grunt. "Don’t be putting wild ideas into the boy’s head. Hubstone is more than twenty days away on foot, even a rider would need nearly ten days."

  Which meant that the men wouldn’t be back for three weeks at least. That’s how much time he had then – before they would chase him down, catch him and slice him open.

  hundred years

  F arin spent the rest of the afternoon washing and making up the body. He carefully rubbed all of the priest’s body parts clean using plenty of water. The activity soothed him – it provided him with meaning and an objective for a brief moment. How would his life go on once he had finished this work? He couldn’t just ignore the threat of the man in black and his accomplices. Should he flee? Where to? What did he want to achieve in his life anyway? To survive was the first thing he needed to do, he thought. But why?

  I’d like to rise in the villagers’ estimation – just a little. I want to kiss Annietta. I want to see the sea for the first time. Maybe I should be wishing for things that are easier to achieve – flying through the air like a falcon, for example.

  The obnoxious voice in his head remained silent. But this time Farin sensed that it was still there, skulking and waiting for the opportunity to break forth and mock him. When did it foist itself on him and make itself important? When he was agitated and thought aloud. So, the best thing to do would be not to get agitated and to think silently. Easier said than done since Gerlunda’s death. A little agitation was in order if he was hiding a few inches away from men who wanted to kill him. A little tincture of deadly danger certainly invited a certain liveliness and vigour – not to mention the voice. It wanted his death, seemingly. Or his soul? Something bad had slipped into him. Shit, shit, shit! If only he’d never found that damned amulet. Farin didn’t know much about body, spirit, soul – but decided it would be best to investigate them further.

  As the gravedigger’s son cleaned the priest’s feet and marvelled at his long, unkempt toenails (God, it seemed, didn’t look too closely at feet after all), he asked himself whom in the village he could trust. There were only very few villagers who would listen to him at all reasonably.

  The sun was already touching the forest treetops when he washed his hands in a bucket of fresh water and the alderman rode into the yard on his horse and cart. The gravedigger was sitting beside him and looking remarkably sober. Before jumping off the cart he flung a tasselled hat to his son, and Farin ran to the priest with it, before pressing the headpiece down on the open skull.

  Hamak stood before the workbench, his legs as widely splayed as his nose was fat. Having been aware of the body’s sorry state before the extensive work carried out by the gravedigger and his son, he seemed genuinely impressed by the expert reconstruction done. "Good work", he said despite himself.

  Hamak’s gaze ran the length of the priest’s body. Farin held his breath. Father stood there calmly with arms folded.

  If he remembers the missing ring, things are going to get difficult.

  It took an eternity before the alderman completed his expert examination of the body. "Let’s load him up!" he said.

  Using all their combined strength, the men lifted Pater Amen onto the bed of the cart for his final earthly journey. "We’ll inter him tomorrow at the eleventh hour. Be punctual!" Without another word Hamak tapped the reins, clicked his tongue, and horse and cart moved off.

  Father’s self-satisfied grin annoyed Farin no end. He looked ugly when greed and malice distorted his features. A common thief and proud of it too. Farin began tidying the shed to distract himself. He decided against another try at explaining the voice in his head to his father.

  That night Farin tossed and turned for hours on his straw mat. The multitude of unpleasant events and future prospects prevented him from sleeping – they lurked in the background only to prod him awake every time he was about to fall asleep. He realised with mixed feelings that it was his father’s snoring of all things that calmed him down. He simply counted the snores and when he got to one hundred and twenty-four, he dropped off.

  Farin’s body snapped upward like a hinge. Something fell from his chest onto his lap. He instinctively felt for it and touched circular metal. The amulet, this time without a hemp cord, was sitting in his palm.

  Shit – how can it be? Throwing it away doesn’t work then – I’ll have to destroy it.

  The village blacksmith could put it on his anvil and smash it to pieces. And he might bump into Annietta. But then he’d be showered with questions. Especially regarding the origin of the piece of jewellery, and above all, why he wanted to destroy it.

  What other possibilities were there? Throwing it into water was useless – what about fire? Exactly – the next chance he got, he’d surrender it to an inferno. For the moment he’d store it in his belt pouch beside the mandrake.

  A cursed, bewitched amulet is what I’m carrying around with me, which the cult of the Necorers and an imposing knight called Emicho are hunting down. And let’s not forget the most sorcerous root of the Worldly Kingdom. You really are something special, gravedigger’s son.

  Half dead because of the raven and half maddened because of the voice, but never mind. How boring life would be without these things. He clung to his plan – the amulet must burn.

  Farin decided to get up. The grey shadows of the waking morni
ng pushed their way through the window. His father was still snoring. Should he wake him with the motto: "The cock has finished crowing and you’re still asleep’?

  Better not – father never understood jokes at his own expense. Naw, he didn’t get jokes at all. The last time he laughed was probably when he was still in his mother’s tummy. As though aware of his son looking at him, the old man’s eyes opened. "You’re awake already?" He sat up with a struggle.

  Farin became aware for the first time of the certainty that there would come a point when his father would never stand up again. A man stooped from years of digging and drinking who had forgotten the point of his existence many years ago.

  "Rest for a bit longer, father. We have plenty of time until the eleventh hour."

  Farin ignored the gravedigger’s bemused look.

  His father said nothing, just collapsed again in the corner. "Just another bit", he grunted quietly.

  So far, the funeral was going without a hitch, it wasn’t even raining. All bar a few of the Heapers had gathered in the little graveyard behind the church to honour Pater Amen.

  The alderman gave an unforgettable eulogy. Unforgettable because he’d only managed about eight sentences and it had taken him half the afternoon. "And…so as the Lord…um, well…giveth, and..uh" Hamak faltered and considered if the Lord also tooketh, "…um, welllll…"

  Don’t say welllll, just get to Amen, thought Farin.

  The gravedigger’s son stood in the third row and sensed the amulet in the pouch on his hip. Had the preparer of poisons infected him with her black magic just as the pestilence seven years ago had galloped from one person to the next? As soon as the funeral ceremony was over, he’d turn his attention to the piece of jewellery. He spotted Annietta in the row in front of him. Farin slowly pushed himself forward, perhaps he could stand beside her. And then? Somebody was pushing his way forward from behind. Blossak shoved him roughly aside and planted himself beside Annietta. Right, that was all he needed. The innkeeper’s son’s hand, down by his hip, unobtrusively stroked Annietta’s fingers, and she returned his little gesture of endearment. Farin couldn’t look any longer – jealousy again burned in him like a fever.

  If only I were an innkeeper’s son!

  The villagers were throwing handfuls of earth into the grave, one by one. How fast things could change: the wealthiest and most important man in the village one minute, in the grave the next. Heap would be needing a new priest now, not to mention a new judge.

  Father and son closed up the grave in the early afternoon. A dark mound of loose earth remained; the stonemason would deliver the gravestone in the next few days. Farin gently pressed the earth down with his feet – it was disrespectful to stamp heavily on a grave.

  "Hurry up!" ordered his father, who was leaning on his shovel looking on. "No-one’s looking."

  "I’m looking." Farin said no more.

  His father was silent but threw him an angry look.

  When he was finished, the gravedigger headed for Georig in the tavern. Farin headed for home with the shovel. His steps became quicker. At last he was going to rid himself of this burden, this millstone, this sorcery. Once he arrived in the cottage, he filled the stove with twigs. It was basically a cast-iron basin for wood or coal with a vent. Farin created sparks with the flintstone. Dried mushroom served as tinder, and soon he had a cheerful fire burning. He added two logs and watched the greedy tongues of flame.

  Yes, I like your appetite. Gobble up the cursed amulet.

  He took it out of his belt pouch and turned it around in his hand. Innocuous and innocent it looked, just a simple little thing, no engraving, no flaw, no scratch. He almost dropped it in shock. He saw something in the light of the fire – the outline of a pentagram appearing on its surface. He turned it over. Shapes were appearing on this side too, outlines of…flames, the picture of a fire. In amazement Farin turned the amulet towards the daylight, the pictures disappeared on both sides. The firelight ensured they reappeared.

  Ha, proof! Fire is the answer to the puzzle. I’ll get rid of it for ever by burning it, he rejoiced.

  No, don’t do it! You can’t reverse it again. On no account throw it into the oven!

  I see! Either the voice is having a laugh at my expense like on the Anvil, or it’s really worried this time. It made no difference – both possibilities strengthened Farin’s determination. Without giving it another thought, he flung the amulet onto the flames. It hissed quietly, like water on the hob. The piece of jewellery now lay in the oven, the pentagram was brighter than the flames around it. He stared into the fire as if hypnotised, then sensed how his head began to expand, as if it were going to burst. The heat was drawing his eyeballs into the flames, his eyes were smouldering, his skull burning, he’d be unconscious in no time. Molten metal was flowing through his veins, his heart was blazing in his chest.

  Noooooooo! You pathetic, unworthy worm, you!

  The voice sounded distraught, but hadn’t it said once its favourite pastime was tricking people? Farin crawled away from the oven, he could bear the heat no longer. He made his way out into the yard on all fours and lay on the ground on his stomach.

  Done! I was right to throw the amulet into the fire.

  Man! You’ve sealed the deal. You should never, ever have thrown it into the fire.

  The palms of both his hands were pressing hard against his temples, something he only noticed when his arms began to ache.

  "Oh, come off it! Just leave me in peace!" he gasped.

  It took a while for the voice to calm down. It’s too late for that now. Flames work as a catalyst for the amulet. Why do you think they were pictured on it? It penetrates your body by means of heat. We’re united now until you die. Congratulations.

  It echoed like in one of the caves at the foot of the Anvil. The ground was turning even though he was lying flat on top of it. Then everything went black.

  The smell of damp earth revived him. He was lying on the ground between the shed and the cottage. What had he gone and done now?

  Now you’ve gone and done it, worm! It took Gerlunda twenty-five years to come up with such a pathetic idea. The voice in his head was struggling to regain its composure: Man, you’re going to regret that.

  "Man" sounded like a curse word, coming from the voice.

  "Man" is the most shameful, disgusting, insulting curse word I know. There’s nothing worse.

  At least the smug tone was gone. It took a while for Farin to recover enough to say something. "Explain to me who you are and what you want."

  No answer.

  "Are you the devil?"

  Devil? You human imbeciles believe in good and evil, in God and the devil, heaven and hell. The voice cracked, it was so enraged. Of course not. Your limited understanding can’t comprehend who I am. Call it chimera or daemon for all I care.

  "How about arsehole?" asked Farin. He was getting sick of this performance in his head.

  Oh, yes, please let’s fight! I feed on strife, draw pleasure from conflict, lust after war. I lock horns with martial men, but not with a worm who gives up the contest before it even begins.

  "What sort of mumbo-jumbo are you spouting? What contest are you on about?

  Don’t you see?!

  "Explain that to me about the fire. What’s a cata…?"

  A sigh in his head. Fire is the catalyst. Have a look in the oven – the amulet is gone because you’re carrying it in your body now, and it will only materialise again after your death. So, what do you think of climbing up the Anvil and throwing yourself into the chasm?

  "Forget it! I’m not going to do that!"

  The raven is going to visit you again in three or four weeks. Let’s see how old you’ll get to be.

  Was it chuckling with gleeful anticipation in his head? How he hated this gloating, amused noise.

  "Can’t you just leave me in peace until then?"

  You’re making it difficult for me to pull back. You attract misfortune like a corpse attracts flie
s. Your life is a vale of tears, but the man in black will help you get out of it.

  "I didn’t do anything. You and that stupid amulet are responsible for my plight."

  Wrong, worm. Don’t push the responsibility for your life away from yourself. Nobody asked you to hang the amulet around your neck, to hide it, and – to crown it all – to toss it onto the fire. You slunk into Gerlunda’s hut of your own volition, of your own volition you’re chasing this Annietta girl, and…

  And now for the killer blow. Farin could sense the enjoyment growing in the voice.

  …of your own volition you dig graves and wash corpses.

  "Somebody has to do it! And I can do it well!" Frustration filled him.

  I’ll give you that. And there’s nothing wrong with it. But do it then and be satisfied. And stop the moaning and groaning!

  That was the limit. Farin felt he was being unfairly treated – it was simply too easy to have a laugh at him.

  "What must I do to get rid of you?" he asked through gritted teeth.

  Jump!

  "Out of the question."

  Die!

  "Out of the question."

  Come on – just the once.

  "That would suit you just fine. I’m going to live to be a hundred so I am, just to spite you."

  Why? Have a look at your pathetic existence. If I were capable of feeling something like pity, I’d be bawling the whole day long. Look at yourself, a lad who can dig most delicately.

  His mouth pinched, Farin still sat there on the ground in front of the cottage and talked to himself. Or with that which was hiding inside him. If the son of a bitch could quote the alderman, then he’d witnessed everything that had happened over the previous few days. This unbearable thought fuelled his rage. "I DON’T WANT YOU! What’s the possibility that you’ll disappear, and quickly?"

  Just listen! I’m in your spirit, in your head, in your body. A mighty power trapped inside a worm. That is my fate – until I find it. it’s not you who is the victim…