The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  The three men reacted quickly, yanked their horses around and galloped around the bushes after him.

  "THAT MUST BE HIM!" heard Farin behind him among the thundering of horse hooves.

  One of the riders was upon him within moments. Farin could see out of the corner of his eye that he was swinging an axe around over his head. They wanted to kill him.

  The first rocks. Farin managed to jump with a great leap onto a rocky projection. This gave him a slight advantage as the horses were forced to veer around in an arc. He jumped at full speed from one rock to the next. His pursuers cursed loudly.

  The Cleft, I have to make it to the Cleft!

  He knew it like the back of his hand – the terrain offered plenty of escape routes, especially as the horses would be useless to his enemies. The entrance to the chasm was like an enormous, inviting gate to freedom. His lungs were screaming for a rest, but it was too soon for that. The men rode with great skill around the rocks and were still hot on his heels.

  The panting of his breath beat out the pace of his steps. Only another hundred yards. Then his pursuers would have to dismount and could forget their horses. The sun had dried the rocks, otherwise he would surely have slipped on the smooth stone and fallen. As nimble as a mountain goat he reached the entrance to the chasm. The raven wouldn’t catch him, not today.

  Other rules applied in the Cleft, Farin’s rules.

  And I’m going to introduce them to you, you bastards. How about an avalanche of boulders as a surprise?

  The walls of rock narrowed. He was almost there. Farin raced towards the saving chasm. Something hard hit him on the back of his head – a missile. He bit his tongue. The unmistakable taste of iron filled his mouth. Now he was bleeding yet again because other people wanted it, for reasons he didn’t understand.

  Only ten more paces to the narrowest point.

  He hardly felt the stinging in his skull. His pursuer mustn’t have hit him full on. Farin ran on.

  Only five more paces.

  He only managed three more paces before his knees buckled. He stumbled forward, the rocks spun around him – where was up, where down? He felt no pain as he hit against stone. Was that the ground at all that he had fallen on? He could only see a black hole.

  "That’s him! We have him!" sounded a voice triumphantly above him.

  Then his hearing and feeling darkened too, Farin sank down into nothingness.

  The world wobbled, shivered, rocked! And it was black and smelled of turnips. His stomach and back muscles ached and screamed for release. It took a while – a minute or a week – hard to say, before Farin understood. He was lying on his stomach, hanging across the back of a horse and they had covered his head with a rough hemp sack. Bits of earth were tickling his face. It was difficult but he was getting air, which meant he was alive. Intentional or accidental? Maybe that wasn’t important as he would die shortly anyway. The human body didn’t take it too well if its skull were opened and its chest folded open from the neck to the bellybutton like the shutters of a window.

  Quite apart from the fact that Farin had never learned how to ride a horse, this position induced torture, especially if the horse was trotting. He hopped about and up and down in a completely uncontrolled manner on the horse’s bony back, his stomach feeling as though it had been run over by a cart and four. His head too.

  Hopefully, I’ll lose consciousness again.

  Of course, unconsciousness never came. Farin decided to strike the word "hopefully" from his vocabulary, at least for what remained of his foreseeable life.

  Its place was replaced by naked fear, along with its companions: bad reproaches and good intentions.

  Why didn’t I flee much earlier? Fate had given me the opportunity after I’d overheard this unscrupulous man in black. The riders were coming from the gravedigger’s cottage. What had they done to father? Why didn’t I say something to father and warn him?

  The men spurred their horses into a gallop. Farin’s pains eased a little. The movements of the horse’s back at the faster pace felt like a gentle rocking in comparison to the previous trotting.

  Should he scream? Make them aware that he had woken up and ask them to pull the sack off his head? How naïve – in all probability they’d kill him on the spot.

  The back of his head droned and pounded. No wonder – he was lying upside down and the blood was streaming in. Too much of a good thing, it was flooding his brain, he was getting dizzy.

  The gravedigger’s son was lying stretched out on the cold ground with his hands bound – still, at least someone had tossed a horse blanket over his body. He could sense warmth on his left side, and he could hear crackling. Farin slowly turned his head, he could see a brightness now. The three men must be sitting around a cosy fire.

  "I hate the cold!" cursed the man with the high voice. "Why does our little lord always give us these jobs in the middle of winter?"

  "Because he likes riding around in the summer. Just don’t let him hear you calling him little lord. You know what his punishments are like."

  "Don’t remind me. If you don’t tell him, he’ll never know. Stump will keep his mouth shut anyway. Isn’t that right, Stump?"

  "Hrm."

  A new voice said: "Thanks be to God! You saved our bacon by hitting the lad with the throwing axe. That chap could really run, nearly as fast as us on our galloping horses." For a while only the fire crackled. The same man asked thoughtfully: "What would have happened if you’d hit him with the sharp end?"

  "Dead, what else?" said the high voice.

  A shudder ran down Farin’s body.

  "We were supposed to capture him alive."

  "Listen to me now. If I want to hit him with the blunt side, then I throw the axe so that I hit him with the blunt side."

  That sounded logical and luckily it had worked out that way.

  "We have him, and he’s alive, and that’s the main thing."

  "So, no problem – he’s going to reward us!"

  "If only he wasn’t so unpredictable…"

  How could it be otherwise? Of course, the men were afraid of the man in black. The hook nose, the thin lips, the murderous eyes, there was nothing good about that guy.

  "Why does he want the young gravedigger? He can’t do anything."

  "Yes, he can. Run away like a hare. Maybe to use him as a beater in the hunt."

  "Ha-ha, as bait."

  Silence for a moment.

  "We’ll be back in the fortress tomorrow afternoon", said the man with the high voice, breaking the silence. "We only needed four days – he’ll be happy."

  "He’ll claim he would have done it in three."

  "Hm, possibly; probably true too."

  "Yup, more than likely. "Cos he’s the most hard-nosed dog I know. Sometimes it’s scary."

  "His rage spurs him on."

  "Exactly. And when is ever not enraged?"

  Farin’s fear seemed to have sloshed over to the men.

  "Stump, go over and check if our prisoner’s woken up", said the man with the high voice. He seemed to be the leader.

  Farin quickly slowed his breathing. These hombres shouldn’t find out that he’d been listening in the whole time. He felt cool, stubby fingers at his neck.

  "Mhmmmm," an indefinable voice called out.

  "Aha, he’s playing dead. Thinks he’s really smart, lying there listening in. A pity the unconscious can’t eat or drink. And they have to go on riding on their tummies too."

  "Do you think our little friend has stolen something from our boss, and he wants to punish him?"

  "Maybe. We haven’t had a decent execution in the castle for yonks."

  "Maybe he’ll have him hanged – in this cold weather he could swing in the wind until spring before he starts to stink."

  "He’s stinking already."

  Nobody spoke for a while. Then the hombre with the high voice asked: "What does our boss want with a gravedigger?"

  "Beats me. But there’s no doubt he wants hi
m – and once he has an idea in his head…"

  "Then nobody can stop him. For him there’s only one court of appeal in this world."

  "We’ll find out soon enough what he plans to do with the gravedigger. Make sure he stays with us tonight."

  What did that mean? Something rustled beside him. Out of nowhere a closed fist slammed into Farin’s left temple.

  He was never going to recover from this torture. Every time a hoof touched the ground the pains would shoot up his body. And on a long ride the horses did nothing else but touch the ground, again and again as they trotted along. Like yesterday, he was hanging across the animal’s back with the most fetching turnip sack over his head. No matter how hungry he might get, he would never eat turnips again. A hellish journey of hellish torture. Awake enough to feel the pain – unconscious enough not to understand what was happening around him.

  "We’re nearly there," said the high voice joyfully. "I’m looking forward to a hot bath."

  Voices from above, the clanking of chains, something heavy was moving, creaking, squeaking, with a lot of power. Could it really be? A drawbridge?

  The horse hooves echoed loudly a few times on wood before the ground became solid again. They drew to a stop.

  "Into the dungeon with him until I’ve found the lord of the castle."

  Several strong hands grabbed Farin and pulled him off the horse. They tried getting him onto his feet, but it was useless – he buckled every time.

  "That’s enough!" said the high-voiced leader. Two powerful hands grabbed Farin and tossed him over a shoulder like a sheaf of corn. Somebody toted him through passageways and stairwells. Less and less light made its way through the coarse texture of the sack.

  Would he ever see the sun again?

  He was dropped roughly and landed with a crash on a straw-covered stone floor.

  The man groaned. It was the hombre with the high voice. "The lad stinks like a boar and is as heavy as a cow. If he wants to hang ’im high, he’s going to need a strong bough."

  No problem – no hanging, just slicing, thought Farin.

  A door banged, and metal pushed along wood.

  There he was now, lying in a dungeon, far away from home, the damn turnip sack still pulled over his head, his hands bound behind his back. The straw smelled damp and musty, which had something to do with the fact that it was damp and musty. He could see nothing. Since when did dungeons bask in glorious sunshine?

  The only thing he had was fear. He didn’t want to die. Would crying be worth a shot now?

  Crying is pointless.

  To top it all he now had the chimera for company.

  I left you alone for a moment… you were absolutely adamant about it.

  "Leave me alone and stay away for ever," sobbed Farin.

  That would be easy. "For ever" seems to be a quite manageable timescale in your case. It doesn’t look as though you’re going to live to be a hundred.

  "Help me or piss off."

  What’s with the new tone now? All of a sudden I’m good enough to be allowed to help. My hands are bound just like yours. Oh yes – because my hands are your hands. And I can’t see anything either. The sack covering our head is interfering.

  "My head!"

  Alright, if that makes such a big difference now and is so important to you – your head, your hands, your feet, your problems, your death.

  "You’re still smarter, stronger and better in every aspect then me, can’t you think of anything that might help us?"

  I couldn’t agree more with the first part of your speech. The answer to your question in the rear end, I’ll answer with a simple no, because I won’t help you!

  "Basically, the man in black is on your heels. Doesn’t that bother you?"

  Not like you.

  "Because it’s not you who’s going to be sliced open." Farin’s despair was growing. He whispered: "Oh God, I’m terrified."

  Please stop calling on the gods. They’re not going to support you.

  "What do you mean, gods? Are there more of them?"

  At least two – obviously.

  "Not to me."

  It’s the logical explanation why God won’t help, no matter how often you invoke him.

  "You’ve lost me – are there one or two?"

  There have to be two, because the one is always relying on the other to take action. Which is why neither helps in the end.

  Farin quit these observations with a groan. Here he was in a dungeon arguing with the voice in his head over spiritual and secular matters.

  And the chimera wouldn’t give up its spiritual sagacity: Which is why you should primarily believe in yourself in such situations, and afterwards, as far as I’m concerned, in God.

  "That’s what I’ll do as soon as I’m out of here."

  Hm, which came first, the chicken or the egg?

  The gravedigger’s son’s eyes welled up with tears. The agony in body and mind was wearing him out.

  Let me repeat: Believe in yourself, in your abilities.

  Farin bawled out: "You’re disgusting! Stop laughing about it all. I am nothing, I can do nothing!"

  Naïve, this compassion towards yourself, and this self-pity. You should wean yourself off these things.

  If Farin had his hands free at that moment, he would have ripped off his head, chimera and all. Still, at least his rage against the sarcastic know-all helped him overcome his moment of despair. "My world consists of a turnip sack."

  That makes sense. To a worm, the world consists of an apple. Keep burrowing and think outside the crate.

  "You couldn’t wait to help me when it came to Peat and his three henchmen. You had great fun beating them to a pulp. Why won’t you do anything now?"

  Sounds from outside the cell made him start. His pulse began racing. Bolts were pulled back, and the door opened with a squeak. Bootsteps neared. As he couldn’t see anything, pictures of the world were painted for Farin. They were dripping with horror and blood. The man in black was bending over him with his dagger and a look of enjoyment on his face, grinning horribly and considering what he should start with – the head or the chest. The next painting showed how he was picking away with his hooked nose at Farin’s entrails, like a flock of crows.

  Powerful hands reached under his armpits and sat him up.

  "Do it quickly," Farin wanted to say, but no sound came out of his parched mouth.

  ambivalent

  V igo lay on the clay floor of the arena like a lamb to the slaughter. The champion of the peregrines loomed over him like an enthusiastic executioner preparing for the coup de grâce.

  Zorrghorozza and Borghezza! Vigo is a complete idiot!

  A hopeless situation and thrown like a towel in the ring. He had to address the problem – should he defend himself?

  The pupils in Torem’s hideous, lascivious eyes gave the game away: the principal knight of the peregrines wasn’t going to be happy with a single strike, he was going to dismember the champion of the stone dragons using his enormous sword with great gusto, serve him in slices on a platter to his king. Like most people, Vigo bristled mightily at the thought of his own death.

  Understandable – they didn’t know what awaited them afterwards. People strove for certainty and as little change as possible. And although death was a certainty, it changed everything.

  "True power determines truth, which neither of us can contend with", Torem had said. First, he had behaved as if he couldn’t count to two, but then he’d started philosophizing. The giant’s arrogance irritated him. Another reason to kill him.

  Mock away, mortal being. Pour oil onto the fire of your own pyre. A lightning move by me will turn you to ashes.

  Should he really do it? One last time? But Vigo hadn’t earned it.

  There was no time left for thinking or talking, only time for living or dying. For killing or being killed. Controlled rage, born out of heat, created the breeding ground for overwhelming power.

  The two-handed sword came racing do
wn, he rolled to the side, an unspectacular sound as the blade thudded into the empty ground. Why was Vigo holding his weapon in his left hand? He pushed his sword into his right one. A bending in his shoulder – dislocated joint. A blow with his left fist and the humerus slotted back into its socket. An incredibly painful action for a normal human, a bat of an eyelid for him. He observed his enemy with eyes narrowed.

  Your soul is nothing more than black slime, a speck of dust floating in the air, fleeting as a fart, as irrelevant as a boar’s breath in a bora.

  Glares clashed into each other as sword and shield had done before. A light flashed across Torem’s eyes, betraying a spark of irritation.

  Irritation leads to doubt, and doubt breeds more doubt, and badgers self-belief.

  How could it be that the already condemned, moribund, presumed-to-be-dead man was standing opposite him again with a murderous look in his eyes?

  Torem was already winding up for his next deadly strike. Simple to avoid this one. One step back, half a twist left.

  You’ll catch a fly with your feet easier than you’ll hit me.

  A quick stab with the sword and he caught his opponent on his hip.

  I don’t know yet what I’ll do, but I’ll show you I can do it, mortal being.

  The weapon pierced through the armour, a hand’s span into the flesh.

  The dismay on the faces of King Ekarius and his advisor Wineview seemed genuine. Why dismay? Their champion had just risen from the ashes, yet they both looked as if they were being plagued by toothache. The penny dropped – so that’s the way of it, then. He’d studied those bearers of souls long enough so he wasn’t in the least surprised by their malevolent malice anymore. Only Vigo, the naïve champion, had noticed nothing – such an inadequate shell, such an inadequate intelligence! It made him furious.

  Vigo hadn’t deserved it, he hadn’t deserved him, how could the champion allow himself to be led such a merry dance? The fight, a real show, where it didn’t matter what was shown, but who was shown up.

  Look at your masters, Vigo. They’ve sold you short; they’ve sold themselves, and you’re but a poor pawn in this fix of a game.