The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  The candles in the little room in the south tower burned long into the night. Farin sat on his bed, legs tucked up, and sketched. A small board served as a base for the parchment. He’d succeeded in sketching what he wanted at his first attempt. He held it in front of him with arms outstretched and examined his work from a distance. It looked completely unspectacular, but its accuracy was what pleased Farin. He drew a circle under it which contained a pentagram with a flame within it. He could hardly wait to tell the lord of the castle of his discoveries. He would ask to speak to Knight Emicho tomorrow at noon. At last he could prove he was of some use, offer his expertise and earn a bit of recognition. He thought over everything he had been considering and kept coming to the same conclusion. It took him forever to fall asleep he was so excited.

  Directly after breakfast the next morning Farin made his way to the lord of the castle’s scriptorium. One of the two guards standing at the closed door said: "The lord of the castle is unavailable today."

  "But it’s incredibly important," blurted Farin.

  The man sighed: "For the last twenty years I’ve been dreaming of the day when somebody will turn up and say: “I only have rubbishy stuff for the lord of the castle, pretty boring and less relevant than a pubic louse. Should I come back again in two weeks?"

  "Oh, right. How about tomorrow?"

  "His lordship will be travelling the next three days. Come back in four."

  Farin turned around sullenly and went back to his tower room. Did the knight not take his squire on trips? On the other hand, swordplay training with Drogdan was beginning this afternoon – maybe that was more important to the lord of the castle. Farin knew that he was never going to be a master swordsman, but he wanted to improve as much as he could in the short time available before the tournament. No, he wanted to be even better than that! His misfortunate fight against the boy on the training meadow still gnawed at him.

  Drogdan, leaning lazily against the wall, was already waiting for him in the stables. "Here, I brought you this." He handed Farin a belt with a sword in its scabbard.

  "Are we not practising with wooden swords?" he blurted out fearfully.

  "Listen to me! You’re too old to be spending the next couple of years brandishing a kid’s sword in the air. So, we’re starting directly with genuine steel. And count yourself lucky if you pick up the fundamentals in the next few months."

  "Yes, Drogdan," nodded Farin enthusiastically. Then he put on the belt and drew his sword. "Boy, but that’s heavy." He looked at the blade with a mixture of delight and unease. Metal forged by human hands for only one purpose: to kill other people. The sword had no decorations, no blood groove, no signature – pure, functional steel, pointed at the tip and sharp on the sides. He lovingly caressed the hilt covered in thin buckskin. He tightened his fingers around it so that his knuckles became white. He would never again deliberately drop a sword.

  A quick glance was enough for Drogdan. "Don’t grip it too hard and cramped. Loosen your fingers, grip it a little higher and now strike and stab holes in the air. Let your hand and arm get used to the weapon. And give the sword a chance to get used to you."

  Farin spent the next hour defeating countless enemies. Innumerable, invisible enemies – which had the advantage that he wasn’t wading knee-deep in their blood and the floor of the stable still looked pretty unsplattered. Drogdan watched him impassively as he progressed with his butchering.

  Following a few more victories Farin asked: "And? Drogdan? What do you think? Am I a natural talent?" Then he swung around, skewering three more spirits of the air.

  "You are blessed. We just have to refine your leg positions, as well as the way you stand on your feet, the way you roll off the soles, your grip, the coordination of shoulders and arm, the correct way of swinging the weapon, the position of your torso, the way you observe, and allied to that, the way you turn your head, and of course, your arm and hip-work."

  Farin stopped dead in his tracks. The spirits of the air breathed a sigh of relief. "Is there anything I can do well yet?"

  "Of course. A lot of things, in fact. Let me think now…for example…gosh, why can’t I think of anything now?"

  "Very funny. I’ve been getting lessons in sarcasm all my life."

  Drogdan gave a crooked smile. "You were positively screaming for sarcasm." He clapped his hands. "That’s enough for today. I’ll think up new exercises for you for tomorrow. And don’t feel down. After all, you didn’t do too much damage to the sword and you didn’t injure yourself with the blade." He pointed his forefinger upward. "Now put the sharp, long, keen blade very carefully back into its scabbard."

  Drogdan really knew how to cheer up gravediggers’ sons.

  At least he added a bit: "Take the weapon with you to your tower room – it’s yours. Bring it with you to all training sessions."

  "I…I thank you." Farin gave a deep bow. A sword – he owned a real sword.

  After this experience Farin decided to visit the library, at least the part he was permitted to enter. What had Markan said to him during his tour of the castle on the first day: The library is in a room in the great hall.

  At the end of a long, dreary corridor he arrived at a guard standing outside a panelled double door. The man blocked his way with an impressive halberd.

  "Entry forbidden!"

  Oh, I see.

  Always the same in this stronghold. Everything grey and depressing and any time it promised to become more colourful Farin failed at a closed door with a guard in front of it.

  "The lord of the castle has granted me permission to enter the library."

  "Hm! Anyone can claim that. Who are you?" The man’s face bristled with duteousness. Presumably it only happened once a month that someone requested permission to enter the library.

  "I…I’m the lord of the castle’s new squire. Farin is my name."

  "Hm. I don’t know you, and so I cannot grant you access." His eyes glimmered defiantly.

  Farin gave it another go. "You’ve more than likely heard of me already. The squire who drops his sword in every training fight with toddlers and grovels for mercy."

  "Well, obviously, news like that spreads like wildfire. So that’s you, then!" The guard seemed mightily impressed.

  "I never learned how to fight because I spent all my childhood buried in books. My kingdom is the library, entry to which Knight Emicho, Lord of Stormwatch has specifically granted."

  "I know nothing about that. Entrance denied!"

  "Must I really trouble the lord of the castle to come to you? He won’t be at all happy."

  "Entrance denied. I’m only doing my duty."

  This was typical in the grey castle. He stood there like an idiot facing the stubborn guard and would have to turn back without having achieved anything.

  The soldier tilted his head slightly and then mumbled: "Alright, then. I’ll let you in." His stubborn look was in stark contrast to what he’d said, but he raised the halberd so that it was vertical beside him and freed the way. "You may enter. But I’m watching you."

  Surprised, Farin pushed open the heavy double doors. Get in quickly before the guard reconsiders things. But why the sudden change of heart?

  He stood in a hall flooded with light from countless leaded windows through which the rays of sunshine streamed, lighting up every corner. Rows and rows of bookshelves wherever he looked, packed full of many thousands of bound sheets, folios, books both thick and thin. The racks seemed to soar into the heavens. Countless ladders enabled access to the writings in the higher spheres. Their tops were hooked onto rails enabling the ladders to be pushed effortlessly without fear of them falling over. Farin stood in front of all those towers of books, open-mouthed and wondering what he was doing here at all. Yes, mother taught him how to read, and he’d loved it. But he hadn’t mastered it properly, it sometimes took him half an eternity before he comprehended the meaning of a particular word. If he did nothing but read every day for the next forty years, how many books woul
d he manage in the first row of shelves? A tenth? A hundredth more like.

  Don’t lose courage, he thought to himself. You need to concentrate and pick a selection. Find the three books that will enrich your life, answer your questions, help you to understand the world better. Oh yes – and help you get rid of the chimera.

  After all, that had been his primary reason for visiting the library. Good resolution, but where should he begin? Bravely, he stepped into the first aisle, turned to his right and pulled out a book at random. The heavy leather cover without an inscription made him curious. He opened it carefully. Not one of the letters, drawn carefully in black ink, did he recognise. How could that happen? Slowly it began to dawn on him: here were books that weren’t only in his own language. And the book he was holding in his handy was definitely in another – the gobbledegook only made him dizzy

  Has the new bookworm of the stronghold bitten off a little more than he can chew?

  You were tempting fate by thinking too much about Stinker, thought Farin, scolding himself. "I thought you only made an appearance when I was afraid?"

  It can also happen when you’re being asinine – in other words, just about always. Ever since you threw the amulet onto the fire I’ve been on standby. What you’re holding in your hand is a book with instructions on how to lessen pain during menstruation. That will really change your life.

  Farin looked at the black ink sceptically. "You could be telling me anything. Are you claiming that you understand the meaning of these words?"

  I’m not claiming anything, I’ve no need to do that. It’s Cartanesian, a language I speak fluently. You forget that I’ve been learning for the last eight hundred years.

  "How many languages can you speak?"

  Twenty-two.

  What a pretentious stinker!

  But then Farin hesitated and pursed his lips. He realised for the first time that it wasn’t just a shameless, rude, unbearable lout that had made itself at home in his head, but also an unimaginably deep and dank pool of knowledge and experience. Lost in thought he pushed the book back onto its shelf, went to the next aisle, pulled out a heavy tome at head height and opened it in the middle. On the left page he saw a large gadget that looked like an instrument of torture. The explanatory letters next to it were unfamiliar too.

  Condunesian, you have to read it from right to left.

  "You could be telling me anything at all…" He shoved out his lower lip suspiciously.

  Allow a part of your spirit to float, then let it go, and I’ll prove it to you.

  "You mean I should hand over control of my body to you? Never."

  You did it once before already when Peat and his friends wanted to knock out your teeth.

  "That was a mistake – after all, I was almost unconscious."

  Hah, bookworm – it was your idea to come here. Do you want to read what you have in your hands there? Then let me…enlighten this part of your dull soul a little. Otherwise, good luck.

  The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. That was all he needed – he couldn’t deny it: Stinker was right.

  Farin looked at the gobbledegook in his hands again. He held the pages further away from his eyes, the letters became a little blurry as he relaxed. What did he want? Oh, yes, to let go, float, create a space for new thoughts, new impulses, new ideas. Nothing changed, what had he expected?

  The gravedigger’s son decided to put the stupid tome back in its place, after all, the theme of instruments of torture didn’t interest him.

  "…even the tightening of the loom must be done with complete accuracy. Carpet manufacturing…figure 21: assembling the loom."

  Nobody in Heap possessed a carpet, even here in the castle there were less than a handful, so why would he need…

  Farin stared at the book, his eyes like burning lenses. Luckily, the old paper didn’t ignite. Goose pimples rolled along his back – first up, then down. He could read it, he could understand it. With furrowed brows, the gravedigger’s son looked at the title of the tome. "The Art of Carpet Weaving and the Variations between the Northern and Southern Lands." Another theme he wasn’t exactly passionate about, but he understood what was written there.

  "Stinker, that’s…that’s amazing."

  Sorry? I didn’t quite catch you there.

  "Yes, you did. I’m not going to repeat myself." Fascinated, the gravedigger’s son flicked through the old book. He never would have believed that someone from the weaving profession could have come up with such scholarship. Were there any treatises on washing corpses hidden away somewhere?

  "Tell me, daemon. Explain to me all that about letting go again. And what roles do body, spirit and soul play in the proceedings?"

  I’m not going to repeat myself.

  "I get it, you’re right. I was too stroppy just now. Explain it to me again, please."

  There was a grumbling in his head, but Stinker only hesitated for a moment: It’s humans that make such a song and dance when it comes to body, spirit and soul. Let’s start with the trivial: the body. That’s the impractical long thing that’s learned to walk on two legs, on top of which, crowning it all off, there’s a balloon – far too big, ugly and round. You can’t change them – humans: your body is your shell – look after it, keep it in good shape. You only have the one. Most humans are far too careless when it comes to taking care of it, which is why I was pleasantly surprised when I saw your morning teeth-cleaning ritual.

  Farin was dumbstruck.

  How do you define your spirit? Herein you find the manifestation of your feelings, experiences and considerations, even beyond the limit of your own intellect. Your consciousness, your trust in yourself, your mindset, all determining the direction of your actions.

  "Don’t understand."

  Did I really say intellect? That’s because the limits of the aforementioned are pretty narrow in your case.

  "I understood that and don’t find it funny."

  The chimera seemed to be completely in its element. You act so that you feel as contented as possible. You strive by your actions and their consequences to keep things straightened out with yourself, in other words to bring your spirit and body into harmony.

  "Of course, yes. It’s all very simple. I act as smartly as possibly. And want to feel good in the process. I always do that."

  A sigh indicated to Farin that Stinker had a completely different opinion. That could be very easy, but it isn’t. Abstraction isn’t your strong point. A lot of the time your behaviour is the opposite of intelligent or rational.

  "Aha – your insults are starting again."

  Let me give you a simple example. Do you remember that incident in Heap when Peat and his cronies harassed you the first time?

  "Harassed is a good one, the tall moron, what’s his name again, made me trip over his leg."

  Kaal is his name. What would have been the correct decision for body and spirit?

  Profound silence! The many dogeared books around him listening intently.

  Are you listening to me or have you fallen asleep? What would have been…smart?

  One of the border posts in a corner of his narrowly confined intellect began to shake. Then it came, quietly and cautiously: "Run away?"

  Exactly, there’s still hope for you. Run away and quickly too. Your body was already injured on account of the fall, your spirit in the form of intelligence and experience made it clear to you beyond any doubt that you didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell against the four thugs. Your average daemon wouldn’t give it a second thought but would flee. Vamoose, and – hey presto! And what did the clever little worm decide on – in spite of any imaginable type of reason? He stays and plants his small, bare little fist into Peat’s gob. Little worm fights because he imagines he has to go through hell. And so he calls out, full of self-confidence: Come on with your punches and kicks, I’m not going to run away from you cowardly dogs, there are only four of you and you’re a hundred times stronger than me.

  Farin�
�s behaviour that time did sound pretty gormless, coming out of the chimera’s mouth. "They insulted my honour as gravedigger," he blurted angrily.

  Another sigh. Honour? Something was shaking in Farin even though he himself wasn’t shaking. Anyway, you didn’t run away. Also, so you could look at your bloody face afterwards in the stream. After eight-hundred years I still don’t understand the point of that kind of behaviour.

  Although the voice didn’t have its usual sarcastic and mean tone, Farin was feeling worse and worse. The daemon was shining a light on him from all sides, was turning him inside out and upside down. Any moment now and he’d be laughing at him gleefully.

  This pointer on the scales, that ensures balance between body and spirit, we call the soul. According to your measurements, your soul remained unsullied during this incident. In order to define the soul, clarify this: what does your soul good when your soul is talking to you.

  With surprising strength Farin said: "If I follow my instinct, if I trust my intuition, if it feels right. If it’s honourable."

  Hm – not bad. All that strengthens the ties between body, spirit and soul. All that results in harmony. Only the thing regarding honour is something that people play fast and loose with all too often.

  "Honour is important!" insisted Farin.

  Stinker felt provoked. Honour is a pennon in the wind. Honour is a matter of opinion. Your enemy kills you. Honourable. What is true honour then? People claim they have to search out honour. Rubbish! Honour come to you of its own free will. It finds you if you’ve earned it. But we’re digressing.

  "And what do you want from me now?" asked Farin, more harshly than he’d intended. The fact that Stinker of all things was mouthing off about honour and harmony was almost too much to bear.

  I’m interested in this unreasonable needle in the weighing scales. The soul is the most magical thing I’ve found in the human kingdom so far. I would have died of boredom long ago in your world without this phenomenon. But it’s the soul that brings the unexpected to light again and again. And yours is pure and strong.

  The words came across greedily.