by Helen Grant
“Unshockable Hans?” said Stefan. “What kind of name is that?”
He and I were sitting on the overstuffed sofa in Herr Schiller’s living room, sipping coffee so strong that it almost took the enamel off your teeth.
“They called him that because he wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone,” answered Herr Schiller, his tone very faintly reproving. “He lived in a mill in the Eschweiler Tal, long ago, before your grandparents’ parents were born.”
“The Eschweiler Tal. We’ve been there with the school,” said Stefan.
“Then you will know, young man, that it is a very quiet place. Lonely even, especially in winter,” said Herr Schiller. “Now, that mill had a bad reputation. A ghost mill, they called it, infested with all sorts of witches, phantoms, and monsters. It was as though the very timbers of the mill had soaked up the unearthly forces that seethed and thronged in the valley, like the wood of a wine barrel takes up the stain and scent of the wine.”
Stefan shot me a glance at this extravagant piece of narrative. I ignored him.
“No one had ever succeeded in staying in the mill for any length of time-not, that is, until Hans moved in. Previous inhabitants had been chased out; hardworking, unimaginative men who had invested most of their life’s savings in the mill had fled from it like frightened children, their faces as white as milk. It was not that Hans was too insensitive to feel or see the things that swarmed around the mill; it was simply that he did not fear any of them. He could walk through the mill at night, when the building was full of furtive scratching noises, and malevolent eyes glinted redly in the darkest corners, and he would be as relaxed as a visitor wandering through a greenhouse full of tropical butterflies. And perhaps because he was so totally unafraid, it seemed that none of these creatures could touch him.”
“Cool,” said Stefan.
Shut up, I telegraphed at him with a furious glare.
“The phantoms waited eagerly for Hans to flee like the others,” went on Herr Schiller. “When he didn’t, they redoubled their efforts. Things with far too many spindly limbs and leathery wings articulated like the spokes of an umbrella would dive upon him as he strolled through the mill after sunset, and tangle in his flour-dusted hair; grotesque faces would leer up at him out of the water butt outside, or from the corner cupboard where he kept his knife and plate. At night the creaking of the mill’s timbers mingled with groaning and wailing that would have made anyone else’s hair stand on end. Hans endured it all unmoved.
“Well, at last the things that infested the mill grew angry. At night the creaking of the beams sharpened to shrieks, and by day the great cogs of the machine seemed to move more slowly, as though working against some unseen resistance. If Hans cared about these things, he gave no sign.
“However, one day late in April he left the mill and walked into the town. When he returned he had a little package in the pocket of his breeches, carefully done up in a clean handkerchief. Intrepid as he was, Hans knew that in two nights it would be Walpurgis, the eve of May Day, when the witches gather for their Sabbath. The unseen foes with whom he was struggling for possession of the mill were certain to make some kind of attack.
“The last day of April was cloudy and overcast, and a chill wind was blowing. Night came in early and inside the mill it was dark, the light from Hans’s one little lantern hardly penetrating the deep shadows. Hans ate his solitary dinner of rough bread and cheese, said his prayers like the good Catholic he was, then put out the lantern and lay down on the pallet that served as his bed. Hans always slept well, caring nothing for little scuffling footsteps on the floor of the mill, or tiny clawed feet running across his blanket in the night. Tonight he slept on his back, his face turned boldly up to the ceiling and his beard quivering gently to the rhythm of his snores.
“For several hours his sleep was undisturbed. The oppressive atmosphere that had haunted the mill for days seemed to have lifted. The wind outside had dropped, the clouds had parted and the full moon shining through the little window above Hans’s rough bed outlined the few sticks of homely wooden furniture and the parts of the mill machinery in glowing silver.
“Perhaps it was the light that woke Hans up. At any rate, he opened his eyes and looked about him. Was it his imagination, or had he seen two twin lights, hot and red like the glowing embers of a fire, winking at him from a corner? Yes; there it was again-blink-blink, as if something were watching him, but shutting its eyes lazily for long seconds. Hans coughed gently, as though to show his unconcern, and was about to turn over and pull his blankets around him, when he saw a second pair of lights glowing from the top of a cupboard. Again they seemed to glint for a moment and then blink out.
“Hans considered for a moment, then he pulled the blankets around his shoulders and closed his eyes. Hans being Hans, he would actually have managed to fall asleep again, but just as he was drifting into slumber there came the sound of velvet feet padding softly across the earthen floor of the mill.
“This time, since Hans was lying on his side, he had only to open his eyes to see the source of the sounds. A large cat was strolling across the room, a cat with inky-black fur that shimmered like taffeta, and great green eyes that glowed phosphorescently in the darkness. Abruptly it stopped, settled itself on its hindquarters, tail curled elegantly about its haunches, and regarded the miller with its luminous eyes.
“For several seconds Hans and the cat stared at each other. Then Hans said, ‘Ach, pussycat-I’ve no milk for you.’ And he turned his back, pulling the blanket with him. Then there came a hissing, like an intake of breath, and another cat came padding out of the darkness, and then another. They wound their way through the patch of silver moonlight on the floor; they weaved in and out of the legs of Hans’s solitary chair; they sprang onto the sacks of grain and perched on the stout timbers of the mill. They slipped like quicksilver through the chinks between the planks of the door and slid knifelike between the stones of the walls. They oozed like viscous honey from the cracks about the window frames.
“If Hans had opened his eyes, he would have seen some of them come right through the walls, stretching as they did so, pulling their hindquarters after them. But Hans did not need to see this to know what they were; they took the form of cats, but his nocturnal visitors were witches, assembling for their great Walpurgis Night meeting in the place where they always met, and determined to turn this audacious mortal out.
“At last, when the whole floor was packed with furry bodies, the cats began to cry. They howled and screeched together in an unearthly chorus. At first Hans put his fingers in his ears, but it was no use: the sound that the cats made was not heard only by the ears, you understand; it could also be heard by the soul. It was a song of damnation, evoking the milling pit of lava into which the tainted soul must fall and shrivel to a crisp, but stay eternally and exquisitely conscious, ever burning, an immortal ember in the sluggish lake of fire. I think if you or I had heard it, we would have lain right down and died.”
I shivered. “That’s horrible.”
Herr Schiller continued, unperturbed. “But Unshockable Hans was made of sterner stuff. Since the diabolical song could not be ignored, up he sat and looked boldly about him, as though the sounds were nothing more than the normal yowling of a queen cat come into heat. ‘Himmel!’ he exclaimed. ‘How is a man supposed to sleep with a racket like that going on? Be quiet, the lot of you, or you’ll go out, even if I have to take each and every one of you by the scruff to do it.’ And so saying, he lay down again.
“For one second there was silence. Then there began a screaming that was like tortured metal, as though all the fiends of Tartarus were bursting through its iron gates and streaming forth, devouring everything in their fiery path. Then with a screech that overtopped them all, the largest and wildest cat, an enormous tom muscled like a bull, with fur the color of jet and blazing yellow eyes, made a mighty spring onto Hans’s chest, and sat there like the demon Nightmare, snarling into his face with its wicked fang
s.
“Up sprang Hans at once, grasping the creature with both hands so that he felt the terrible strength of its sinews and bunched muscles under his fingers, and flung it from him, as far as he could. Then he reached under his pillow and drew out the little package that he had brought back with him from the town. Tearing off the wrappings, he revealed a rosary-a plain wooden rosary with polished brown beads, which Hans had received from the hands of the holy Fathers.
“With a great cry, he threw the rosary straight at the snarling creature that had attacked him. ‘By the name of all that is holy,’ he cried at the top of his voice, ‘I order you to leave-now!’ And as the last word fell from his lips, every one of those diabolical cats vanished and he found himself standing alone, breathing hard, in the dark and silent mill. He had won. The pests had been routed, and the mill belonged to him. Then at last Hans lay down and slept the sleep of the righteous until morning came.”
Chapter Nine
Herr Schiller fell silent. The hand that had mimed the casting of the rosary at the demonic cats dropped to the arm of his chair, patted it lightly, then moved to his pocket, fumbling for his pipe. There was a long silence while he lit it, puffing gently, little wisps of white floating up like smoke signals.
“Well, I don’t think that was very scary,” said Stefan eventually. I shot him a furious glance; if his chair had been closer to mine I would have aimed a furtive kick at his legs.
“You don’t think it was scary?” repeated Herr Schiller. I was thankful to notice that he did not sound annoyed-more amused. If Stefan had offended him, it might have been the last visit to Herr Schiller, in which case I would never have forgiven Stefan. Our newfound alliance would be dissolved, even if I spent the remainder of my schooldays playing and working all on my own.
“No,” said Stefan, quite casually. When Herr Schiller said nothing, but his bushy white eyebrows went up, Stefan was encouraged to continue: “I don’t think there’s anything frightening about a bunch of cats.”
“But these were not really cats, were they?” probed Herr Schiller in a conversational tone. “They were witches.” He smiled faintly. “You should never judge by appearances, young man.” There was a hint of reproach in his voice.
“Well, I thought it was a brilliant story,” I cut in defensively, trying to signal my annoyance at Stefan. Who did he think he was, criticizing like that?
But Herr Schiller appeared not to have heard my comment. He raised a hand in the air in an admonitory fashion, his piercingly blue eyes still fixed on Stefan. “Of course,” he conceded, “there is nothing very alarming about an ordinary pussycat, lounging in the sunshine or washing itself on a windowsill. But imagine what it would have been like several hundred years ago, when the night was unbroken by electric light, and outside the little circle of your candle flame everything was endless black. And then if suddenly you were to see a pair of eyes glinting at you, where a moment before there had been nothing… and if you knew that this was not really a cat, but something much, much worse, which had assumed this innocent domestic form so it might slip unnoticed into your house while you slept…” Herr Schiller’s voice had sunk almost to a whisper, so that both Stefan and I involuntarily leaned toward him. “A thing so horrible, so horrible-”
“Aaaahhhhh!” screamed Stefan suddenly, so loudly and unexpectedly that I almost jumped out of my skin. Stefan had gone the sickly color of feta cheese, his face almost blue in its whiteness. He seemed to be attempting simultaneously to climb over the back of the leather armchair he had been sitting in and to point over Herr Schiller’s shoulder at something that was just coming into view.
“Scheisse!” I squealed, forgetting for once that I was in the presence of one of my elders.
Herr Schiller’s house was a traditional Eifel house, dark and gloomy even in broad daylight. It was now early evening, and the corners of the room were sunk in darkness. Out of one of these pockets of blackness there appeared first the silken head and then the sinuous body of an enormous tomcat, blacker than the shadows, and with great yellow eyes like headlights.
I realized later that the creature must have been sitting on the sideboard behind Herr Schiller’s armchair, but at the time it was like some uncanny materialization. My heart thumped wildly, and it was several moments before my eyes connected with my brain and I realized what I was seeing.
“You dope, it’s Pluto,” I almost shouted at Stefan. “Sit down, you idiot-it’s Pluto!”
Herr Schiller, who had been arrested midsentence by Stefan’s scream, pipe frozen between hand and lips, now jumped as though someone had touched him with a cattle prod. He was on his feet faster than I remember seeing anyone of his age ever move before. His face was a mask of horror.
“Out, out!” he was shouting, gesticulating at the cat, which spat derisively, its back a jagged arch. But the street door was closed; there was nowhere for the cat to bolt even if it wanted to. With considerably greater daring than I could have shown, Herr Schiller reached over and grasped the creature by the scruff, hauled it swinging and scratching to the front door, and cast it out into the street. The slam he gave the door afterward must have rattled that old house down to its foundations.
As the sound died away, we all stood there, panting like racehorses. Stefan looked as though he was going to be sick. Poor Herr Schiller looked almost as bad; the sudden rush of adrenaline that had fueled his assault upon the cat had passed like a flash flood, leaving wreckage in its wake. I was afraid he might collapse and so I offered him my arm. He looked at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, then took my arm and allowed me to lead him back to his armchair.
“You are an idiot, Stefan,” I snapped, not adding, as I might have, You nearly gave the old man a heart attack. “It was only Pluto.”
Pluto was a well-known fixture in Bad Münstereifel, at least among those who lived in the old part of the town. A large, foul-tempered, and unsterilized inky-black tomcat, he had once made it onto the front page of the local free newspaper (admittedly during a quiet week as regards other news) after a resident of the town accused him of making an unprovoked attack on her pet dachshund. Describing him as “only Pluto” was rather like describing Baron Münchhausen as a bit of a fibber.
Still, I was annoyed with Stefan, not least because I was afraid that this piece of high drama really would spell the end of my visits to Herr Schiller. That evening my suspicions seemed to be confirmed, since Herr Schiller seemed suddenly tired and quite relieved to see us go. Normally he would stand on his doorstep watching me as I went off up the street, but this evening Stefan and I were scarcely on the cobblestones before we heard the door quietly click closed behind us.
I set off up the street at a fast pace, half wanting to leave Stefan behind. StinkStefan. I might have known he would mess it all up. I considered just running home at top speed without speaking to him, but as I reached the bridge over the Erft I heard him coming up behind me, panting with exertion, and I relented. Still, I was not going to make things easy for him. I stood on the bridge looking down into the shallow but fast-flowing waters of the river, and waited for Stefan to speak first.
“Why did you run off like that?”
Typical StinkStefan question. Like all those others: Why won’t you let me play with you? Why can’t I be on your team? Why won’t you be friends with me? This was not a good start.
“Because you nearly blew it. In fact you may have blown it. He’s never sent me off like that before.”
“I couldn’t help it,” said Stefan, brushing a strand of dirty blond hair out of his eyes. “That monster cat gave me the fright of my life.”
“It’s only Pluto,” I pointed out frostily. “You’ve seen him hundreds of times.”
“He made me jump, creeping out of the dark like that. And, anyway,” Stefan went on, “didn’t you think it was a bit weird, the way he appeared just as Herr Schiller was telling us about Unshockable Hans and the witches’ cats?”
“Not particularly,” I lied.
“Pluto gets into everything. Frau Nett said she found him in the kitchen of the bakery once, eating a bit of Apfelstreusel.”
Stefan’s face fell a little. “Well, all the same…” he said lamely. “I think it was creepy.” He looked down at the muddy waters below, thinking. “He certainly gave Herr Schiller a shock,” he said eventually. “Don’t you think that’s a bit strange?”
“Well, Pluto’s not his cat,” I pointed out. “He probably wasn’t expecting to see the old fleabag practically sitting on his shoulder.”
“Hmmmm…” I looked at Stefan sideways and could see a familiar expression on his face, one that meant wheels were turning. “Pluto belongs to Herr Düster, doesn’t he?” he said.
“Ye-e-es,” I conceded suspiciously.
“Well, don’t you think it’s odd that-”
“Oh, come on!” I snapped, cutting him off midsentence. “What do you think, that Herr Düster set Pluto on him or something?”
“I don’t know,” said Stefan, but you could see the idea had appeal. “I mean, those two hate each other, don’t they? Maybe Pluto didn’t get in there by himself. Maybe Herr Düster put him in through the window or something, to give Herr Schiller a fright. Maybe he was hoping it would give him a heart attack.”
“Nice idea,” I said untruthfully. “But who’s going to leave a window open in this weather?”
Stefan shook his head, as though he were an inspirational leader frustrated at the inability of his followers to see the bigger picture.
“It didn’t have to be the window. Maybe he put him in through that old chute where they used to put coal and stuff in the cellar.”
“Quatsch,” I said rudely. “That’s absolute Quatsch. And, anyway, how was Herr Düster to know we had been talking about Unshockable Hans and the cats? You think he’s psychic or something?”