“Blue,” says Ludolf. “Blue music.”
Annoyance makes the back of my neck burn. They shouldn’t make fun of me with Ava watching. I wrap my arms around her and squat in front of Melis. “This is the worst drivel I’ve ever heard.”
“Get out of the way. Whatever your name is.”
“You know me,” I say.
“Of course I knnnoooow you. You’re my brrrrrother.” Melis’s words get more and more slurred. “You’re the sick one. I knnnoooow you. I just don’t remember your name. Or the name of that burrrrr that sticks to your side—that weed. Move. Both of you. I want the colors.”
I stand and walk away. Ava twists in my arms, looking back at Melis.
Bertram gets up from the chair. He goes straight to the fire and swipes a hand through it.
“What are you doing?” I shout.
He reaches both hands now. He holds them there. And he screams.
I set Ava down and pull him back quick. “Are you crazy?”
He pushes me off him and screams from pain the instant his hands touch me.
“What’d you go and do that for?” I say. “You’ve ruined yourself.”
He looks at his bright red hands. They blister already. He’s laughing. And Ludolf laughs, eyes still shut. Melis’s eyes are on the fire, unchanged; to him nothing happened.
Ava’s cheeks are tear streaked, but she makes no sound. I gesture for her to go upstairs. She doesn’t move; she’s never gone upstairs without me before.
I look at Father. He should be smacking Bertram on the back of the head for doing such a stupid thing. Bertram will be good for nothing until his hands heal.
But Father’s standing now, splay legged, staring at the wall. “Don’t you come at me,” he says to no one. “Don’t you dare. It’s what I had to do.” He grabs a fire poker and shakes it threateningly at the wall. “Stay back, I said.”
Who’s he talking to? “Father.” I put my hand on his shoulder.
He spins around and cracks me on the head with the poker.
Someone screams high and sharp.
I fall to my knees and wrap my arms around my aching head. Blood drips on the floor. My hair is sticky wet. I want to grab Ava; we should run before he swings again.
He’s already swinging, though. This time at the wall. He’s smashing the poker over and over against the timber.
My brothers are watching, their faces blank.
Großmutter stands in the kitchen. She’s watching too. And she’s swaying, with a silly smile on her face. A smile.
I don’t know what’s going on. My family’s possessed. What ghost has come to punish us? I have to get that poker out of Father’s hand.
Ava’s in the corner, whimpering and clutching Kuh. “Go upstairs,” I hiss at her, and I grab a goblin cross from above the door and run outside for rocks, looking over my shoulder and every which way for the ghost. I hold the cross high in one hand so evil spirits can see it. When I come back, Father’s still beating at the wall. “Stand still,” I shout.
And he does. He actually obeys me.
I throw a rock hard at his hand.
“Aiee!” He drops the poker. Then he looks at me with such confusion I think he might cry. Only he doesn’t. He comes rushing at me.
I throw a rock at his forehead. He falls, unconscious.
Every part of me shakes. I felled my own father.
Ludolf and Melis are lying on the floor, eyes closed, making little noises. Großmutter has sunk into a heap on the floor as well. She’s laughing softly to herself, her chin on her chest.
Bertram’s the only one who looks at me. Bertram and Ava, who still crouches in the corner. They’re the only ones who saw.
I felled my own father.
What will he do when he rises?
Bertram holds his hands out in front of him. “Mother loved me. That’s the truth. And Johannah loves me. That’s the truth.”
His words don’t reproach me. He’s not even thinking about what I did. The sight didn’t register on his eyes. He doesn’t know.
Tears stream down his face. “They’re the only ones.”
“We all love you, Bertram,” I say. I would go to him, put my arms around him, cling for the comfort we both need now, but for the fear that he’d beat me.
“No.” His voice cracks. “They’re gone.”
“Johannah’s going to get better,” I say, hugging myself. Immediately I wish I hadn’t said it. I don’t know if she’ll ever get well. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, as much to Father as to Bertram.
He screams as his tears sear his blistered hands.
I don’t know how to make Großmutter’s poultice for burns. But I can fetch cool water. And I have to do something—I can’t just stand here afraid of everything. I take the bucket and run outside again, swinging the goblin cross over my head and saying loudly, “Stay at bay, evil spirit. Stay at bay.” I fill the bucket at the little brook and run back to the house, shouting at the spirit the whole way.
Bertram is on the floor sobbing.
I set the bucket beside him. “Put your hands in here.”
He flops his arms into the bucket with such force the bucket knocks over. He screams from pain. His pants are soaked now. He vomits all over himself.
There’s no choice. I run to the brook and fill the bucket again. It’s a miracle no spirit nabs me. This is the third time I’ve tempted it.
But what a stupid way to think. If there’s a ghost, it’s in the house, not outside.
By the time I get back, Bertram is asleep. I lug him across the floor to a corner and prop him up. Then I put both his hands in the bucket of cool water. I don’t even know if this is the right thing to do.
The common room stinks of vomit.
And Melis and Ludolf are still making little noises.
I stand in the middle of the room and watch over them. It’s pointless because there’s nothing I can do against this ghost. But I stand there anyway till I’m sure they’re all asleep.
I gather Ava into my arms, for she, too, has fallen asleep, and climb the stairs to bed, my head wound thumping with each step. My skull wants to split from this thumping. I stare into the black, a rock clutched in each fist, Ava and Kuh breathing steady on my chest. Sweat pools under me.
Stained Glass
Miracles exist. Miraculum, indeed, for in the morning none of them remembers the night before. Or none of them admits to remembering. And Ava doesn’t talk. Whatever ghost swept through, it’s gone now. We mutter prayers that it won’t come back.
And I’m praying something else, too. I’m actually praying this was a ghost. And I know the rest of my family is praying the same. Better it should be a ghost than the first evidence of the ailment that curses our livestock and the folk of Hameln town. Better it be a ghost than the arrival of the death that took Ava’s mother.
But it has to be a ghost. It has to be, because no one’s complaining of tingling feet. No one’s hands are trembling. We’re all quiet. And sad. And tired, even before the day begins.
I don’t offer explanations for Bertram’s burns or Father’s wounds. And no one asks explanations of me, for I, too, have wounds. Blood cakes in my hair so thick it’s like a cap. I’m glad, so glad, at this salvation. I don’t want to face Father’s wrath at my hurting him. And, even more, I don’t want anyone to know the ghost left me clear headed; I don’t want them to know the ghost favored me.
I’m marked.
It’s not fair. Being salty is enough; it’s not fair this ghost should favor me. Only a wicked ghost would make men grab at fires and attack walls.
And the ghost made me sick again, in spite of how many hours I’ve been standing on my hands every day for weeks. My chest filled overnight. I’m coughing this morning. I stand on my hands, but the rush of blood aches my sore head so bad I get dizzy. I right myself and work to breathe. Ava pounds her fists on my back like Großmutter taught her. Her blows are light, but quick and continuous. I think they help break up the muc
k. I pray.
Großmutter puts a poultice on Bertram’s hands and winds a fresh bandage around to keep it in place. She boils a brew for head injuries and makes Father and me drink it. Melis and Ludolf repair the wall as best they can and wash the vomit and blood from the floor.
We sit down to breakfast glumly. Großmutter feeds Bertram, for tears come to his eyes if anything touches his bandaged hands. Everyone’s appetite is off, though. Everyone’s but Ava’s and mine. They hardly eat anything. They don’t even drink beer—that delicious new beer. But Ava and I eat like we’re starved. What a sly ghost, to weaken them by stealing their appetite.
Something clatters upstairs. Rats must have knocked over a candleholder. That sort of thing happens a lot these days. But Father doesn’t send me to kill them. His eyes show no energy. Only Ava reacts; she stiffens in fear. Maybe she’s heard the talk that rats brought the illness that killed her mother. After all, everyone calls it the rat disease now. I lay one hand between her shoulder blades to calm her. My hand seems huge on her slight back.
I finish quickly and we two go outside. By now Avas got a good eye for rat stones. She runs back and forth, dropping them in a pile. We take them inside and tuck them here and there around the house, out of sight. Just in case. Ava seems to think hiding the stones is a game. She actually smiles. She puts several stones behind the spinning wheel because it’s her favorite object in the house.
Großmutter hangs a little bag around each of our necks, for protection. I press it to my nose. Parsnip, hemlock, poplar leaves. I can’t tell what else. Just the smell makes me dizzy again. Or maybe that’s the result of my head wound.
I refuse to ask myself if this is safe magic or dangerous magic. That sort of question can’t matter any longer. I’ve seen people who were strong and healthy a month ago barely able to drag themselves along today, their feet have become so useless. Albert the Great didn’t see that when he made his list of acceptable and unacceptable folk practices.
And anyone who hasn’t seen shouldn’t talk.
Father and Bertram rest in the common room. Father vows he’ll be fine before the end of the day, but his voice is listless. Bertram says nothing. Pain contorts his face.
Thin Ludolf puts on a soft cap. The top comes to a point that hangs down over one of his ears. He shoulders the ax and heads for the woods without anyone telling him to. It’s time to start building up our stockpile of firewood for the cold weather, true. But Ludolf rarely does a chore without being told. His steps are big, and the rise and fall of his head as he walks away makes me think of water. There’s a floaty quality to his movements. Like when we gently bob on the surface of the lagoon on hot summer days.
The image of the candles floating in the bowls of water when we buried the cow alive comes unbidden. I hate myself for remembering; it feels dangerous. Memories can invite trouble, and we have so much already. I bend over and bury my nose in Ava’s hair. She turns and throws her arms around my neck. There are good things to think about; there’s a girl child who smiles at hiding stones, who sits patiently beside Kuh as he eats. A girl child with a high, sharp scream that begs a ghost not to come between us.
Großmutter and Melis and Ava and I drive the wagon into Hameln town to sell the beer. We’re floaty at first too—dreamy. But the bumping over the rough ground seems to wake us fully. We pass by herds that have half the number of cattle they had last spring. The wrongness of it makes my teeth clench.
At the gate to town an official stops us. “Beer, is it? Where’s your license?”
“We dont use flavorings,” says Melis. The spunk in his voice surprises me after the way he’s been acting so tired. “We don’t need a license.”
“It can’t taste very good, then,” says the man.
“Ha.” Großmutter gives a disdainful snort. “You know it tastes better than any other beer you’ve ever had, Wirnt. You’ve been drinking it all your life, since seven years after I delivered you.”
The man called Wirnt doesn’t look the least abashed. “Magic charms are against the law, even when they make the beer taste good. Offenders will wind up in the Hundeloch”
I go hot. The Hundeloch, the dog’s hole, is the dungeon under the Rathaus, the town hall. People say it is the worst place on Earth. I cough.
But Großmutter just sits up taller. “Magic? Is that what you call hops?”
Wirnt rubs his hands together. He looks triumphant, like he’s tricked us into an admission. “The monastery doesn’t like others using hops.”
“Is that why they wasted your morning, making you wait here for us?” Großmutter slaps her thighs. “I never thought a child of Elisabeth’s would become a monk’s lackey. I imagine she’s turning over in her grave now.”
Color creeps up Wirnt’s neck, but he doesn’t budge. “They’re talking about passing a law. Only monasteries will be allowed to use hops.”
“Between talk and deed lies a field of weed.” She smiles with her lips closed. “Kindly step aside.”
Wirnt moves out of our way begrudgingly.
“Better come buy some extra jugs,” Großmutter calls to him as we go through the gate. “Because if that law passes, you can wager you’ll be paying a lot more for monastery beer before long.” Her tone is sassy.
I don’t feel sassy, though. I don’t like the fact that the monastery will be angry with us. I dont want anyone being angry with us. Not these days. Not with the way things are now.
I remember being in the crowd and how the widow’s hand closed around my wrist when I started to tell what Pater Frederick had taught me about the rats. If Großmutter acts wrong, I’ll have to be the one to close my hand around her wrist. We’ve all got to take care of one another.
We drive the wagon to the very edge of the market square, across from the Rathaus. People approach us already. Großmutter takes the money while Melis hands out the jugs.
I stand in the wagon and look across the square, searching for the traveling merchant who’s supposed to bring me medicine. My eyes scan every booth. He’s not here, of course. I knew he wouldn’t be. I look more out of habit than hope. Maybe he’s in Hannover, sitting in a square, enchanted by the playing of the colorful piper.
A woman pulls on my trouser leg and begs me to come kill rats. I don’t want to go, I feel so bad. And Ava would hate being on a rat hunt, but I don’t want to leave her behind. I don’t want to leave Großmutter, either, because she’s acting so willful. But Großmutter insists. And maybe it’s more dangerous not to go kill this woman’s rats. After all, the townsfolk are grateful that I’m a good ratter. We need that goodwill. I tell Ava to stay in the wagon, and I follow the woman.
But we don’t turn down any of the narrow side streets. We stop at a tall, gabled merchant house right on the market square. The front door has painted panels, and there’s a carved arch over the doorway. I’m told to keep my eyes down and led straight into the kitchen. Even with my eyes down I can hear what’s going on. I can hear men calling obscene words and women laughing.
Within minutes I kill a rat that I’ve roused from the churn. I search through the grinders and food bins. I beat a spoon on a copper plate that has some man’s likeness etched onto it. It rings loud. But no other rats show themselves. The maidservant is annoyed. She can’t fault the ratter, though; I’ve done all I could.
When I come out, I’m standing by the church that the lords and ladies use. The farmers and peasants have a different church, on the next square, so I’ve never been in this one. It’s wider than ours. And there are buttresses at the corners, and stone carvings of animals over the side windows.
Pater Michael stands but an arms length from me, talking with two men. He waves me over with strangely jerky movements. My stomach turns in fear: The rats have infected even him. Even this man of God.
I come forward hesitantly. I see the priest every week at Mass, and I stood across the circle from him that day he told the crowd to blame the rats for the towns disease. But he hasn’t seen me since the da
y our coven buried the cow alive. I’m careful not to come within his vision range. I don’t want to talk to anyone about that day.
“Salz, it’s you, isn’t it?” he says. “Pater Frederick tells me you’re developing quite an eye for beauty.”
It’s true. At my last lesson in Höxter we talked of architecture. Pater Frederick showed me drawings of cathedrals all over the Christian world. We agreed on which churches were the most beautiful, the most worthy expressions of praise to God. I nod assent to Pater Michael.
He picks at the crust of blood in my hair. It hurts, and I step away, coughing.
“Then, you’ll enjoy this sight. Come along.” He waves farewell to the men and goes through a side door in the church. I stand, stupid, watching the door close in front of me. But he meant for me to follow, he did. I reach for the brass handle on the door, the beautiful handle in the form of a fish whose back is curved perfectly to fit a palm. It’s smooth and cool to the touch. I almost caress it as I find the nerve to open the door to the airiness of the high-ceilinged nave.
“Dont dawdle, boy.” Pater Michael leads the way to the holy-water font. We kneel and bless ourselves. Then we walk up the center aisle. A rat skitters along the right wall. I wonder what draws it into the church. Maybe the Communion wafers? I’m glad Pater Michael can’t see this desecration of his holy church.
We stand at the front, before the pointed arches. The two side ones open to small chapels, but the middle one, the highest, opens onto the octagonal altar, beyond which the sun streams in colors through five windows in a semicircle. All hold images. The middle one is Jesus with his right hand up, two fingers extended in blessing. The light itself is red and yellow and green. I know about stained glass—Pater Frederick has told me—but this is the first time I’ve experienced its glory. I’m transfixed.
Illuminated manuscripts have made me gasp. Delicate carvings in columns have made me gawk. Paintings on the walls of the peasant church and on the walls of the chapel in the Höxter abbey have almost made me cry with how stunning they are: one of the apostles; one of the Lord on a throne, with a scepter in the right hand and a globe in the left; one of Samson and the doors of Gaza; and, oh, especially one of Saint Luke holding a sacred scroll, looking into the future at the dreadful things to come. So I have experienced beauty created by man through divine inspiration.
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