by S. Jae-Jones
“Then I’d be the most powerful person in the world,” Käthe remarked, “for I have wishes aplenty. I wish we were rich. I wish we could afford whatever we wanted. Just imagine, Liesl: what if, what if, what if.”
I smiled. As little girls, Käthe and I were fond of What if games. While my sister’s imagination did not encompass the uncanny, as mine and Josef’s did, she had an extraordinary capacity for pretend nonetheless.
“What if, indeed?” I asked softly.
“Let’s play,” she said. “The Ideal Imaginary World. You first, Liesl.”
“All right.” I thought of Hans, then pushed him aside. “Josef would be a famous musician.”
Käthe made a face. “It’s always about Josef with you. Don’t you have any dreams of your own?”
I did. They were locked up in a box, safe and sound beneath the bed we shared, never to be seen, never to be heard.
“Fine,” I said. “You go, then, Käthe. Your Ideal Imaginary World.”
She laughed, a bright, bell-like sound, the only musical thing about my sister. “I am a princess.”
“Naturally.”
Käthe shot me a look. “I am a princess, and you are a queen. Happy now?”
I waved her on.
“I am a princess,” she continued. “Papa is the Prince-Bishop’s Kapellmeister, and we all live in Salzburg.”
Käthe and I had been born in Salzburg, when Papa was still a court musician and Mother a singer in a troupe, before poverty chased us to the backwoods of Bavaria.
“Mother is the toast of the city for her beauty and her voice, and Josef is Master Antonius’s prize pupil.”
“Studying in Salzburg?” I asked. “Not Vienna?”
“In Vienna, then,” Käthe amended. “Oh yes, Vienna.” Her blue eyes sparkled as she spun out her fantasy for us. “We would travel to visit him, of course. Perhaps we’ll see him perform in the great cities of Paris, Mannheim, and Munich, maybe even London! We shall have a grand house in each city, trimmed with gold and marble and mahogany wood. We’ll wear gowns made in the most luxurious silks and brocades, a different color for every day of the week. Invitations to the fanciest balls and parties and operas and plays shall flood our post every morning, and a bevy of swains will storm the barricades for our favor. The greatest artists and musicians would consider us their intimate acquaintances, and we would dance and feast all night long on cake and pie and schnitzel and—”
“Chocolate torte,” I added. It was my favorite.
“Chocolate torte,” Käthe agreed. “We would have the finest coaches and the handsomest horses and”—she squeaked as she slipped in a mud puddle—“never walk on foot through unpaved roads to market again.”
I laughed, and helped her regain her footing. “Parties, balls, glittering society. Is that what princesses do? What of queens? What of me?”
“You?” Käthe fell silent for a moment. “No. Queens are destined for greatness.”
“Greatness?” I mused. “A poor, plain little thing like me?”
“You have something much more enduring than beauty,” she said severely.
“And what is that?”
“Grace,” she said simply. “Grace, and talent.”
I laughed. “So what is to be my destiny?”
She cut me a sidelong glance. “To be a composer of great renown.”
A chill wind blew through me, freezing me to the marrow. It was as though my sister had reached into my breast and wrenched out my heart, still beating, with her fist. I had jotted down small snatches of melody here and there, scribbling little ditties instead of hymns into the corners of my Sunday chapbook, intending to gather them into sonatas and concertos, romances and symphonies someday. My hopes and dreams, so tattered and tender, had been sheltered by secrecy for so long that I could not bear to bring them to light.
“Liesl?” Käthe tugged at my sleeve. “Liesl, are you all right?”
“How—” I said hoarsely. “How did you…”
She squirmed. “I found your box of compositions beneath our bed one day. I swear I didn’t mean any harm,” she added quickly. “But I was looking for a button I’d dropped, and…” Her voice trailed off at the look upon my face.
My hands were shaking. How dare she? How dare she open my most private thoughts and expose them to her prying eyes?
“Liesl?” Käthe looked worried. “What’s wrong?”
I did not answer. I could not answer, not when my sister would never understand just how she had trespassed against me. Käthe had not a modicum of musical ability, nearly a mortal sin in a family such as ours. I turned and marched down the path to market.
“What did I say?” My sister hurried to catch up with me. “I thought you’d be pleased. Now that Josef’s going away, I thought Papa might—I mean, we all know you have just as much talent as—”
“Stop it.” The words cracked in the autumn air, snapping beneath the coldness of my voice. “Stop it, Käthe.”
Her cheeks reddened as though she had been slapped. “I don’t understand you,” she said.
“What don’t you understand?”
“Why you hide behind Josef.”
“What does Sepperl have to do with anything?”
Käthe narrowed her eyes. “For you? Everything. I bet you never kept your music secret from our little brother.”
I paused. “He’s different.”
“Of course he’s different.” Käthe threw up her hands in exasperation. “Precious Josef, delicate Josef, talented Josef. He has music and madness and magic in his blood, something poor, ordinary, tone-deaf Katharina does not understand, could never understand.”
I opened my mouth to protest, then shut it again. “Sepperl needs me,” I said softly. It was true. Our brother was fragile, in more than just bones and blood.
“I need you,” she said, and her voice was quiet. Hurt.
Constanze’s words returned to me. Josef isn’t the only one who needs looking after.
“You don’t need me.” I shook my head. “You have Hans now.”
Käthe stiffened. Her lips went white, her nostrils flared. “If that’s what you think,” she said in a low voice, “then you’re even crueler than I thought.”
Cruel? What did my sister know of cruelty? The world had shown her considerably more favor than it had ever shown me. Her prospects were happy, her future certain. She would marry the most eligible man in the village while I became the unwanted sister, the discarded one. And I … I had Josef, but not for long. When my little brother left, he would take the last of my childhood with him: our revels in the woods, our stories of kobolds and Hödekin dancing in the moonlight, our games of music and make-believe. When he was gone, all that would remain to me was music—music and the Goblin King.
“Be grateful for what you have,” I snapped back. “Youth, beauty, and, very soon, a husband who will make you happy.”
“Happy?” Käthe’s eyes flashed. “Do you honestly think Hans will make me happy? Dull, boring Hans, whose mind is as limited as the borders of the stupid, provincial village in which he grew up? Stolid, dependable Hans, who would keep me rooted to the inn with a deed in my hand and a baby in my lap?”
I was stunned. Hans was an old friend of the family, and while he and Käthe had not been close as children—as Hans and I had been—I had not known until this moment just how little my sister loved him. “Käthe,” I said. “Why—”
“Why did I agree to marry him? Why haven’t I said anything before now?”
I nodded.
“I did.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “Over and over. But you never listened. This morning, when I said he was boring, you told me he was a good man.” She turned her face away. “You never hear a word I say, Liesl. You’re too busy listening to Josef instead.”
Mind how you choose. Guilt clotted my throat.
“Oh, Käthe,” I whispered. “You could have said no.”
“Could I?” she scoffed. “Would you or Mother have let me? Wh
at choice did I have but to accept his hand?”
Her accusation gutted me, made me complicit in my own resentment. I had been so sure that this was the way of the world that I hadn’t questioned it. Handsome Hans and beautiful Käthe—of course they were meant to be together.
“You have choices,” I repeated uncertainly. “More than I ever will.”
“Choices, ha.” Käthe’s laugh was raw. “Well, Liesl, you made your choice about Josef a long time ago. You can’t fault me for making mine about Hans.”
The rest of our walk to the market continued without another word.
COME BUY, COME BUY
Come buy, come buy!
In the town square, the market stalls were laden with goods, their sellers hawking their wares at the top of their lungs. Fresh bread! Fresh milk! Goat cheese! Warm wool, the softest wool you’ve ever felt! Some vendors rang bells, some rattled wooden clappers, and still others beat an erratic rat-a-tat-tat on a homemade drum, all in an effort to bring custom to their tables. As we drew nearer, Käthe began to brighten.
I never did understand the prospect of spending coin for pleasure, but my sister loved to shop. She ran her fingers lovingly over the fabrics on sale: silks and velvets and satins imported from England, Italy, and even the Far East. She buried her nose in bouquets of dried lavender and rosemary, and closed her eyes as she savored the tart taste of mustard on the doughy pretzel she had bought. Such sensuous enjoyment.
I trailed behind, lingering over wreaths of dried flowers and ribbons, thinking I might buy one as a wedding gift for my sister—or an apology. Käthe loved beautiful things; no, more than loved—reveled in them. I noted how the sour-lipped matrons and stern-browed elders of the town gave my sister dark looks, as though her thorough delight in small luxuries was something obscene, something dirty. One man in particular, a tall, pale, elegant shade of a man, watched her with an intensity that would have ignited me, had he but glanced my way.
Come buy, come buy!
A group of fruit-sellers on the fringes of the market called in high, clear voices that carried over the din of the crowd. Their silvery, chime-like tones tingled the ear, drawing me close, almost against my will. It was late in the season for fresh fruit, and I marked the unusual color and texture of their offerings: round, luscious, tempting.
“Ooh, Liesl!” Käthe pointed, our earlier argument forgotten. “Peaches!”
The fruit-sellers beckoned us with fluid gestures, holding their wares in their hands, and the tantalizing scent of ripe fruit wafted past. My mouth watered, but I turned away, pulling Käthe with me. I had no coin to spare.
A few weeks ago, I had sent for a few of Josef’s bows to be re-haired and repaired by an archetier before my brother’s audition with Master Antonius. I had hoarded, scrimped, and saved what I could, for repairs did not come cheap.
But now the fruit-sellers had caught sight of us and our longing glances. “Come, lovely ladies!” they sang. “Come, sweet darlings. Come buy, come buy!” One of them tapped out a rhythm on the wooden planks that served as their table, while the others took up a melody. “Damsons and apricots, peaches and blackberries, taste them and try!”
Without thinking, I began to sing with them, a wordless ooh-oo searching for harmony and counterpoint in their music. Thirds, fifths, diminished sevenths, I played with the chords beneath my breath. Together, the fruit-sellers and I wove a shimmering web of sound, haunting, strange, and a little wild.
The vendors suddenly focused their eyes on me, their features sharpening, their smiles lengthening. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end and I let the melody drop. The touch of their eyes was a tickle on my skin, but behind me I could sense the gaze of an unseen other, as palpable as a hand caressing my nape. I glanced over my shoulder.
The tall, pale, elegant stranger.
His features were shadowed by a hood, but beneath the cloak, his clothes were fine. I noted the glint of gold and silver thread on green velvet brocade. Seeing my inquisitive expression, the stranger stirred and folded his cloak about him, but not before I caught a glimpse of dun-colored leather breeches outlining the slim shape of his hips. I turned my face away, my blush heating the air about me. He seemed familiar, somehow.
“Brava, brava!” the fruit-sellers cried once they had finished their song. “Clever maiden in red, come take your reward!”
They waved their hands over the fruits on display, their fingers long and slim. For a moment, it seemed as though there were too many joints in their fingers, and I felt the brush of something uncanny. But that moment passed, and the merchants picked up a peach, offering it to me with open hands.
The fruit’s perfume was thick on the chill autumn air, but beneath the cloying smell was the tang of something rotten, something putrid. I recoiled, and it seemed to me these sellers’ appearances had changed. Their skin had taken on a greenish tinge, the tips of their teeth were pointed and sharp, and instead of fingernails, they seemed to have claws.
Beware the goblin men, and the wares they sell.
Käthe reached for the peach with both hands. “Oh yes, please!”
I grabbed my sister’s shawl and yanked her back.
“The maiden knows what she wants,” said one of the vendors. He grinned at Käthe, but it was more leer than smile. His lips seemed stretched a little too far, his yellowed teeth sharp. “Full of passions, full of desire. Easily spent, easily satiated.”
Spooked, I turned to Käthe. “Let’s go,” I said. “We shouldn’t tarry. We need to stop by Herr Kassl’s before heading home.”
Käthe’s eyes remained fixed on the array of fruit laid before her. She looked sick, her brows furrowed, her bosom heaving, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and feverish. She looked sick, or … excited. A feeling of wrongness settled over me, wrongness and fear, even as a hint of her excitement roused my own limbs.
“Let’s go,” I repeated. Käthe’s eyes were dull and glassy. “Anna Katharina Magdalena Ingeborg Vogler!” I snapped. “We are leaving.”
“Perhaps another time then, dearie,” sneered the fruit-seller. I gathered my sister close, draping one arm protectively about her shoulders. “She’ll be back,” he said. “Girls like her can never put off temptation for long. Both are … ripe for the plucking.”
I walked away, pushing Käthe ahead of me. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the tall, elegant stranger again. From beneath his hood, I sensed him watching us. Watching. Considering. Judging. One of the fruit-sellers tugged at the stranger’s cloak, and the man bent his head to listen, but I felt his gaze upon us. Upon me.
“Beware.”
I stopped in my tracks. It was another one of the fruit-sellers, a smallish man with frizzy hair like a thistle cloud and a pinched face. He wasn’t more than the size of a child, although his expression was old, older than Constanze, older than the forest itself.
“That one,” the merchant said, pointing to Käthe, whose head lolled against my shoulder, “burns like kindling. All flash, and no real heat. But you,” he said. “You smolder, mistress. There is a fire burning within you, but it is a slow burn. It shimmers with heat, waiting only for a breath to fan it to life. Most curious.” A slow grin spread over his mouth. “Most curious, indeed.”
The merchant vanished. I blinked, but he never returned, leaving me to wonder if I had dreamed the encounter. I shook my head, tightened my grip on Käthe’s arm, and marched toward Herr Kassl’s shop, determined to forget these strange goblin men and their fruits: so tantalizing, so sweet, and so very far out of reach.
* * *
Käthe shook me off as we drew away from the fruit-sellers. “I’m not a child what needs looking after, you know,” she snapped.
I tightened my lips, biting back my sharp retort. “Fine.” I held out a small purse. “Go find Johannes the brewer and tell him—”
“I know what I’m doing, Liesl,” she said, snatching the purse from my hand. “I’m not completely helpless.”
And with that she
flounced away from me, disappearing into the hustle and bustle of the crowd.
With some misgiving, I turned and found my way to Herr Kassl’s. We had no bow-maker or luthier in our little village, but Herr Kassl knew all the best craftsmen in Munich. During his long acquaintance with our family, Herr Kassl had seen many valuable instruments pass through his shop, and therefore made it his business to maintain contact with those in the trade. He was an old friend of Papa’s, insofar as a pawnbroker could be a friend.
Once I had finished conducting business with Herr Kassl, I went in search of my sister. Käthe was easy to find, even in this sea of faces in the square. Her smiles were the broadest, her blue eyes the brightest, her pink cheeks the rosiest. Even her hair beneath that ridiculous hat shone like a bird of golden plumage. All I had to do was follow the path traced by the eyes of the onlookers in the village, those admiring, appreciative glances that led me straight to my sister at the center.
For a moment, I watched her bargain and haggle with the sellers. Käthe was like an actress on the stage, all heightened emotion and intense passion, her gestures affected, her smiles calculated. She fluttered and flirted outrageously, carefully oblivious to the stares she drew like moths to the flame. Both men and women traced the lines of her body, the curve of her cheek, the pout of her lip.
Looking at Käthe, it was difficult to forget just how sinful our bodies were, just how prone we were to wickedness. Born unto trouble, as the sparks fly upward, or so saith Job. Clothed in clinging fabrics, with every line of her body exposed, every gasp of pleasure unconcealed, everything about Käthe suggested voluptuousness.
With a start, I realized I was looking at a woman—a woman and not a child. Käthe knew of the power her body wielded over others, and that knowledge had replaced her innocence. My sister had crossed the threshold from girl to woman without me, and I felt abandoned. Betrayed. I watched a young man fawn over my sister as she perused his booth, and a lump rose in my throat, resentment so bitter I nearly choked on it.
What I wouldn’t have given to be the object of someone’s desire, just for one moment. What I wouldn’t have given to taste that fruit, that heady sweetness, of being wanted. I wanted. I wanted what Käthe took for granted. I wanted wantonness.
