Breath (9781439132227)

by Napoli, Donna Jo

  “You risk your soul,” says the piper.

  “That’s the one thing I don’t risk. My name is Salz.”

  He pushes his bottom lip forward in confusion. “They named you after food salt?”

  “Not originally. I was christened Siefried.” I wipe the sweat that remains on my brow and hold out my hand. “Lick it.”

  He pulls back slightly in surprise. But then he licks. He wrinkles his nose. “You could salt a vat of gruel.”

  “The priest at Höxter renamed me. He says it’s better to face your afflictions than to pretend they don’t exist. So I’m S-A-L-Z. S for soul’s salvation; A for activity and ability; L for loyalty and light heartedness; Z for zeal in making money. The letters A, L, and Z are wishful thinking. Other children salty like me die before they’re useful. But the letter S was in my christened name too. It belongs to me.” I wipe my hand on my smock. “So you see, my soul is guaranteed salvation.”

  “I don’t know anything about letters,” he says softly, “but I pray you’re right.”

  I step closer to him. “Play your pipe for me. Please. Let me hear a little melody.” I smile in a way I hope is winning, for I am warming to him more and more. “A simple tune.”

  “Best to change my tune,” he says, and this time I’m sure of the intent of his pun. He picks up the pipe and tucks it in at the waist of his trousers. He slips his shirt on over his head. “If you pass through Hannover on your way to Magdeburg, listen for me.”

  “I might,” I say, a little hurt. “But I won’t stop.”

  He laughs. “If you hear me, you’ll stop. I’ll be playing people music this time. No one will be able to resist.” He throws his sack over his shoulder and walks through the forest, out of sight.

  Meal

  Großmutter rolls the dough half a fingernail thick and twice the length of the pan. I take one end, she takes the other, and we lift it like a sheet, lining the pan, snugging it into the corners. The ends hang over the sides of the pan. It overlaps on both ends by an equal amount. The center sits empty, waiting for the filling.

  Großmutter minces fennel and lovage, leeks and dried apples, while I work on the birds. I pluck them good and rinse them in the basin of cold water. They are spring fat. I slit the belly down to the anus and stick in my finger. I scoop out the liver and peel away the little sack from its side, careful not to rip it, or the bitter green bile will taint the meat. The sack goes in the waste bucket, and the liver goes back inside the bird.

  There are eighteen birds in all: seven jays, six sparrows, and five starlings. Three consecutive numbers. That feels right. My own hand got these birds—with nothing more than a rock. I’m the best birder in the family; I throw hard and accurate.

  I arrange the birds in the pan, tucking their heads under one wing. They look like they’re sleeping. Großmutter adds poppy oil to the spiced filling and spoons it in all around. Then she hands me the knife again.

  This is my favorite part. I pinch the two long sides of dough into wing shapes. Then I cut at a slant along the bottom edges and separate the dough, so it looks like the feathers of a hawk. I fold the dough wings over the center, making a top crust for the bird pie.

  While it’s cooking, the wind picks up. Rain comes. It sounds dull on our steep straw roof, but I can tell it’s pelting already.

  Father and my brothers are out in the fields getting the ground ready for sowing. It’s hard labor even here in Weserbergland—the Weser hill country—where the fields are more arable than anywhere else in God’s creation. That’s why I’m not out there with them; I’m no good at hard labor. But I did my share—I sprinkled the brew with Großmutter. I prayed for the fertility of the earth. I wish our coven could have danced, like we did last spring, when we still had our piper. But our chants were longer and louder.

  I climb the stairs and grab four blankets off the beds. Then I rush back down, just in time. They come in the door, dripping and stamping their boots. Großmutter and I wrap them in the blankets and rub their backs.

  There’s a warming oven in the common room, but they come into the kitchen instead, lured by the smell of the bird pie. They line up in front of the fireplace.

  “See how fast we got inside,” says Father. “Warmth and comfort just minutes from the field.” He stretches his hands toward the fire.

  Bertram, my oldest brother, says nothing, though Father’s remark is directed at him.

  It’s an ongoing battle between them. Bertram desperately wants us to move to town. Our farmstead is one of the few remaining outside the town walls. Most other farmers now live in narrow town houses and have to walk sometimes up to an hour just to get to their fields.

  “It doesn’t usually rain this bad,” says Melis. “This spring is wetter than most. Normally, a nice walk home from the fields on a spring or summer evening would be welcome.”

  I’m surprised. Melis is but a year older than me. He usually keeps his mouth shut. But Bertram is looking at his hands in his lap, avoiding Father’s face, so I get it: The brothers have conspired. They’re ganging up on Father.

  And he knows it. He looks at Ludolf. “What have you got to add?”

  “Did you hear that the bakery in town opens twice a day now?” Ludolf swallows, and his Adam’s apple moves visibly; his neck is so thin you’d think he was twelve like me, rather than fifteen. It’s funny to hear Ludolf talking with enthusiasm about food; Großmutter’s always nagging him to eat. She says he eats too little for his height. “They’ll keep it up till the summer heat,” he says. “You can eat fresh bread at daybreak and fresh bread at night, and never have to use your own oven.”

  Father doesn’t look at me. But I won’t be left out—I’m one of the brothers, whether Bertram includes me in his schemes or not. “And you can go in the church any spare moment, without a long walk.” I look to Melis for support—he’s my only brother with an interest in the church. If I were strong enough to work in the fields, he’d be the one studying to become a cleric, not me. He hates farmer’s work.

  “Piss posing as beer—that’s what those arguments are,” says Father with a laugh. He sinks into a chair at the table. “A nice long walk after a day in the field, ha! And visits to the church more than once a week—that’s a good joke. All I want after a day in the field is a full plate and a dry bed.” He shakes a finger at us. “And no one’s bread is better than Großmutter’s. Don’t forget that.”

  I feel suddenly disloyal. I look quickly at Großmutter’s face to see if she took offense.

  She’s busy scraping mold off a round of cheese; it doesn’t seem she’s heard at all. She looks up at us, at this unexpected attention. “We’ll eat this cheese tonight. I fear the mold will get the better part of it by Sunday.”

  Tomorrow’s Friday. We don’t eat meat, fowl, lard, eggs, or dairy products on Friday or Saturday—or on church holidays or during Lent or before saints’ holidays, for that matter. Großmutter observes fasting rules strictly. That’s why I caught the birds today. Thursday’s dinner is always meat, to keep us from getting too cranky by Sunday

  Großmutter puts the cheese on a board with a knife and sets it in the center of the table.

  “Our arguments would be a lot better if you’d let us talk about the danger of living out here,” says Bertram.

  “Danger? You’re back to danger again. Hogwash. You think Germany is off to another Crusade, and you boys will go be soldiers, so the rest of us will need the safety of town?” Father pulls the cheese toward him and rips off a hunk. “The only Crusade that wasn’t a total disaster was the first one—the only one our good emperors had no part in. Germany’s sick of failure by now. We won’t be marching off to Africa or Asia Minor again. We can leave the dirty Arabs to themselves.” He takes a big bite of cheese.

  “There are smaller battles all the time,” says Bertram. “Wars against the heathen Prussians.”

  “That’s way in the east,” says Father, chewing large. “Nobody’s threatening Saxony. We don’t need to squi
rrel away behind walls.”

  Bertram takes the chair across from Father. Melis and Ludolf sit now too. I place wooden spoons in front of everyone, and at the spots for Großmutter and me too.

  Bertram grabs the cheese off the board and picks at a blue spot that Großmutter’s failing eyes missed. “Even the cheese mold is on our side.”

  Father holds his spoon by its throat and rubs his thumb inside its smooth bowl. “How do you figure that?”

  “It keeps raining. Mold’s growing on everything,” says Bertram. “I can’t remember the last time it was sunny. Melis is right: This is a strange year.”

  Clouds cover us more days than not, year-round—but it’s true this spring has been rainier and chillier than usual. Still, I remember the last time it was sunny, and it wasn’t that long ago—just a couple of weeks. It was the day I met the stranger in the forest—the piper who was headed for Hannover. It was so warm he had his shirt off to rest, his red, red shirt.

  “Ack!” Großmutter jumps back from the bread bin.

  Two rats go skittering across the kitchen floor to an upright. They climb the timber fast and disappear into the flooring of the upstairs bedrooms.

  Großmutter presses her lips together in a determined line. She cuts the gnaw marks off the bread and puts the rest of the loaf on the table. “Rats,” she says with a little shiver. I can feel her disgust. She always says animals have no place in the house.

  I’m glad I left Kröte upstairs in his earthen pot, on a nice bed of wool, with a piece of milk-soaked bread beside him. Even my harmless Kröte annoys Großmutter. This is a new Kröte—I name all my toads Kröte, and I never keep them for more than a couple of days at a time. Longer than that is cruel. Tomorrow I’ll set this one free.

  “See?” says Bertram. “The rats are coming in out of the rain this year. When’s the last time that happened? You can’t make any decisions based on an odd spring like this, Father. In most years life would be better in town. A lot better.”

  “Help me, Salz,” calls Großmutter.

  I use my smock to protect my hands from the heat and lift the pan out of the oven onto the bricked area in front of it. The rest of our floor is wood and can’t take such heat. Großmutter squats beside me with a stack of wooden bowls. I make sure Father gets four birds, my older brothers get three each, Großmutter and I get two each. Three consecutive numbers again. And going down again. One lone bird remains in the pan. Bertram will eat it later, when Father’s not watching. I wish I had a way of knowing ahead of time which portion of the food would be left over for Bertram. If I did, I’d sweat on it and make it too salty for him to enjoy I’d get back for all the times he’s mean to me.

  We eat without talking, crunching small beaks and bones in our molars, spitting out larger ones. Except Großmutter. She picks out the bones with her fingers. She has too many molars missing for those that remain to be of any use.

  She goes to the windowsill and comes back with a copper bowl of wild strawberries, chilled by the storm. She hands it to Father and sits again. He takes a handful and passes it. I know she’ll pour the beer soon enough—that’s the daily beverage, mug after mug of beer. Then she’ll cut us hunks of the bread. This is how our meals always go: hot, cold, wet, dry. The right sequence restores the balance of the four humors in the body. Großmutter is careful about such things.

  “Tell him the real reason you want to move to town,” she says, picking between her front teeth with a bird bone. So she was listening after all.

  “The real reason?” asks Father, looking at Bertram.

  “A man needs a family of his own,” says Bertram quietly.

  “You like that Johannah, is that it? Well, that’s no problem. We can add another house to the farmyard.”

  “And what about when Ludolf takes a wife? And then Melis?”

  Bertram doesn’t say “Salz.”

  “There’s plenty of room here.”

  “Wives want to see their friends,” says Bertram. “They want to stand in the marketplace and walk through the shops.” He pushes his empty bowl toward the center of the table and sets his elbows firm in its place. “They want town life. They won’t leave it to go live on an isolated farmstead.”

  “If the girl talks like that,” says Father, “she gives herself airs. Your Johannah is nothing but a servant racing through town on errands others give her.”

  “What does that matter? It’s decent work. And her masters treat her well.” Bertram stands now. I’m shocked at the way his tone has changed so fast. He’s challenged Father often this past year, but never belligerently. “A wife who’s had that experience can’t be ripped from it.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” says Father, flapping his hand.

  Bertram drops into his seat, but his body is stiff. He’s ready to jump to his feet again in an instant.

  “Girls.” Father shakes his head. “It’s a good thing we don’t have any.”

  I suck in my breath in pain. From nowhere come the words that piper in the woods spoke: Some people dont deserve children.

  Father leans back. “Where’s my beer?”

  I look to Bertram. Has the discussion really ended?

  Großmutter sets mugs of beer on the table and sits.

  No one moves.

  Father lifts his mug and drinks long.

  Tonight’s show is over. Despite myself, I feel sorry for Bertram. He has loved Johannah for two years now. I like her. She’s the most interesting girl I know.

  But then, I know hardly any other girls. We’ve kept pretty much to ourselves since Mother died.

  That’s another reason I feel sorry for Bertram now: Mother. Father’s words were about the girls—but any mention of girls brings the memory of Mother, too. So these words must have hurt Bertram as much as they hurt me. He was Mother’s favorite. He still leaves when anyone mentions her—and I bet he does it so we won’t see him tear up.

  In silence we eat bread and drink beer, all but me, that is. Children seven years of age drink beer—but not me. Großmutter won’t have it. She says beer presses on the lungs, and I’m not strong enough to breathe through that. Instead, I drink a cool tea of mint and juniper berries. It isn’t bad. And it smells sweeter than beer.

  Großmutter hands out oat straws to everyone, even me. This way I avoid the leaves and berries in the tea, just like they avoid most of the grain hulls in the beer. But mainly she lets me do it so I won’t feel too left out. Straws are fun. When we have enough used ones in a pile, Großmutter and I weave them into pentagrams—goblin crosses—that hang over the door to ward off evil. I smile at her now, small and quick. Her eyes crinkle and the corners of her mouth lift just a bit. But it’s enough. None of the others notice our exchange. It’s like a secret.

  I suck on the straw, then gnaw on the bread.

  Ludolf stops eating first. He puts the end of his bread on top of the half bird that remains in his bowl, pushes his mug away, and leans back. Bertram doesn’t miss a beat: He pulls the bowl and mug over and finishes them off.

  Father looks around, and the very sight of my face makes him remember. “Go kill those rats, Salz.” He takes his boots off and walks into the common room to sit by the warming oven.

  My brothers rise as well. They pull off their boots and stand talking by the fire. Everyone can easily see Father from here, but no one seems to want to go be in his company. Melis and Ludolf close in on Bertram from each side, like the hard shell wings of a beetle protecting the soft middle.

  Großmutter sits a moment, staring at the center of the table, at the empty strawberry bowl.

  I think again of what Father said. “Do you miss the girls?” I whisper. I reach out and gently tap the white lumps of her knuckles. “Do you miss my sisters?”

  She draws back as though I’ve uttered profanity. “Children are a nuisance. I’m glad your father sold them while he could. I couldn’t be bothered raising another brood.”

  Großmutter is holding the empty bowl like a chalice, fingers sprea
d to cradle it well. Her hands belie her words; she used to hold little Hilde constantly.

  I had two sisters—Eike and Hildegard. I was eight when Mother died—one year too old to be sold into slavery, though surely no one would have bought a child as sick as I was. Eike was six. Hilde was three—barely weaned. They went together with a traveling merchant to Magdeburg, where they work in the castle. That’s what I’ve been told, at least. If I do go to the Magdeburg town school next year, I’ll find them again. And when I get a job, I’ll buy them back. They’re my blood, after all.

  It’s strange thinking about them. I usually try not to. There’s no point thinking about what you can’t do anything about. And it hurts to think like that.

  I peek through the opening in the shutters. It’s pouring. I strip.

  “What are you doing?” Großmutter gets up from the table groggily. It’s the effect of the beer, for she drank extra tonight. I saw.

  “No point in getting my clothes wet,” I say, and I dash out the door, out from under the wide roof overhang, into the downpour. It takes almost no time to grab a couple of stones. When I run back in, she’s waiting, holding a blanket one of my brothers has cast off. She clucks angrily.

  My brothers are laughing.

  “Don’t encourage him,” she spits at them. “The rain will be the death of him if he doesn’t watch out.” She pinches my ear till I beg for mercy. “That’s from your mother’s spirit.”

  I climb the stairs quietly, with a stone in each hand, at the ready. The rats are gnawing at something. Something near my bed. A steady gnaw. I peer through the shadows, and now I see them. Blood makes their whiskers shine. They’ve killed Kröte! Idiot rats. They’d die of the poison in his skin if I didn’t kill them first.