But nothing is as marvelous as stained glass.
“I take it you’re pleased,” says Pater Michael, smiling. “The glassmaker just finished them yesterday. Describe them to me.” He squints upward. “Help me see them.”
My heart almost breaks as I realize how much he misses because of his eyes. “My words could never be equal to their beauty,” I say honestly.
He smiles. “A response judicious in its humility, Salz. Then, give me just a hint of one window. Start at the left.” He interlaces his fingers and looks vaguely toward the leftmost window.
“That glass shows a huge tree. Seven branches end in seven giant leaves. Small tendrils crisscross one another all over the place and end in flower clusters. A man with a crown has sliced through the bottom of the trunk. His sword is bright yellow—gold, really. The roots of the tree fly, as though the blow of the sword has ripped them from the ground.” I pause for breath. “Why has he cut the tree?” I ask.
“That’s King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, dreaming of his guilt.”
I don’t know this Bible story, and I don’t want to ask now, though guilt is a matter I care about. For now all I want is to bask in the light that filters through the stained glass.
“Thank you,” says Pater Michael when he realizes I’m not going to add anything else.
I turn in a circle. The rest of the church seems dark and drab now, the ceiling flat and plain. Nothing compares to the stained glass; nothing pierces my heart like the stained glass.
I look once more and find I’m holding out my hands toward Nebuchadnezzar’s tree. I feel lifted, weightless, my lungs seem clear. My hands are red and yellow and green.
I think of Melis talking about the colors of the fire last night. He spoke reverently.
Pater Michael and I walk back out to the market square.
“The lords are having stained glass put in every window of the church,” says Pater Michael.
I imagine the church during a Mass, all the people red and yellow and green. “Every window. Why?”
“You do your part with stones. I’ve heard how you kill the rats. They’ll do their part with stained glass. Maybe the true Lord will notice the attempts of these worldly lords.” He smiles again, a sad and tired smile.
I don’t know if the true Lord will notice. But I understand why the lords of Hameln town have to try.
And I know that if the people will only look up at that stained glass, they’ll find relief, because for one moment they’ll be transported away from everything else. Reverent.
“Come into the church whenever you like. Stand before the windows.” Pater Michael elbows me gently in the shoulder. “And I wouldn’t mind if you’d bring a jug of that homemade beer now and then.”
I think of the monastery. “You don’t care that we’re using hops?”
“Of course I care. You use more than anyone else.” He winks. “That’s what makes your beer so spicy. I’ll be looking forward to it.”
Beer for a glimpse of glory. It’s a good trade. I’ll bring Melis with me. And Ava. I’ll hold her out over the altar so she can feel the red and yellow and green light on her face and arms. So she can be weightless in the light of God.
Death
Bang, bang, bang.
I sit up in bed and Kuh jumps off my chest. Ava is nestled beside me, and I try not to jostle her, but I’m coughing. And I thought I heard something.
Bang, bang, bang.
It’s the door, and it’s much too late for our usual evening visitors—the ones who come for potions.
Bang, bang, bang.
Ava moans and curls into a ball on her side, asleep still. I have to hurry. No one else is likely to answer it. Not after what’s been going on in this house for the past week.
I race down the stairs. Then I stop. What if it’s a wild hunt? What if the hateful ghost that favors Ava and me, and that has turned our lives upside down, has brought a host of other spirits to haunt us? It’s early for a wild hunt—they don’t usually happen till nearly Christmas. But anything could happen these days. Anything.
“Open!” comes the cry. “For goodness’ sake, open.” I know this farmer’s voice.
I lift the locking log and open a small bit to make sure it’s not a ghost trick.
“We need your grandmother. Now, boy. My wife’s in labor, and it’s coming out wrong. And there’s no one else to help us.”
Wrong. Everything’s coming out wrong these days. I run back up the stairs and shake Großmutter. She opens her eyes, and by the light of the moon I can tell that she’s clearheaded again, thank the heavens. “It’s Judith’s time. Come fast.”
She throws on a cloak and leaves with the farmer.
I go back to bed. But Ava has stretched out now, her arms and legs extending every which way. There’s no room for me unless I move her. And it isn’t worth risking waking her, for I can’t sleep. It’s not long till morning anyway. I sit on the edge of the bed and stroke Kuh’s ears. Coughs come again. I stand on my hands and the coughs stop. But I stay there, upside down. Shadows form gradually on the walls and ceiling as dawn light creeps in.
Thinking is somehow easier for me in this position. I think about the ghost. I go methodically through everything I know—everything that might be part of this nightmare. I search for clues.
Soon enough Ava wakes. She’s seen me on my hands many times. She stands in front of me and bends and twists her neck till her face is in front of mine, looking at me eye to eye, nose to nose. Her hair seems to float out around her, like rays of sunlight. She giggles. After all the hideous things that have happened in this house, she giggles. I kiss her cheek in gratitude and right myself. When the others wake, we go downstairs.
“The ghost has left,” says Father loudly, walking through the common room on thudding feet. “Good riddance. With any luck, he won’t return.” He said those same words yesterday morning too. And the morning before that. My father is a wishful man. Or maybe he thinks just the force of repetition will eventually prevail.
My brothers are clearheaded again too. Like they were yesterday morning. And the morning before that. Like they are every morning. They follow Father in silence. No one’s talking about what happened last night—what’s been happening every night. But no one pretends not to remember anymore. The whites of their eyes have turned gray; the bruises they’ve inflicted on themselves or one another range from red to blue black; both Bertram’s top front teeth are broken from the night he ran in ever expanding circles until he crashed into the two-handled pot.
The common-room furniture lies helter-skelter. Father walks around the room setting each piece upright. “Ludolf, help me.”
Ludolf runs to him. It’s no surprise that Father calls on Ludolf. Besides Ava and me, he’s the one who’s acted the least weird. And Father has always preferred him to me.
Still, all of us are alert the moment Father speaks. His mood has been rotten since the ghost came. He works into a frenzy in seconds. We won’t risk angering him.
Father stares at a chair. He kicks it. “Find a way to weight down this chair,” he says to no one in particular.
I’m surprised at this concession to the possibility that the ghost might return and cause him to toss it again. And I’m disheartened, too. It would be better if Father stayed wishful.
I’m wishful. I keep seeking remedies, but of a different sort from those Father seeks: I’ve been putting Pater Frederick’s lessons in logical thinking to new use. My initial attempt depended on the power of words. The night the ghost first came, we talked about beer, not about Hameln’s disease. We were happy and carefree in the middle of everyone else’s misery. The next night we did the same. And we didn’t even admit the terrible things that had happened in our home the night before. The ghost must have been enraged at our lightheartedness, even if feigned—any evil force would have been. So he came again, and the second night was worse than the first.
On the third morning Großmutter and I whispered in the kitchen,
looking for differences in our lives—changes that might have invited the ghost into our family at just this moment. I told Großmutter my idea about the ghost’s rage. She counseled Father. And that night at the dinner table when the drink was served, the whole family ignored the good taste of the beer and talked of nothing but the rat disease. We listed every ailment of beast and person that we knew of. We lamented the loss of our own hogs and cows. We were appropriately woeful. But the ghost came back that third night anyway.
He comes back every night.
Something else must lure him, something besides our talk.
Bertram stands at the foot of the stairs, looking at his hands, crying. His bandages are crusted with blood because he grabbed Ludolf last night and danced with him around the room, screaming from the pain but not stopping anyway. He has ripped open his scabs every day since he first burned himself, and always by doing something senseless. He’ll never heal, the way he acts.
“Change his bandages,” Melis says to me.
“You’ve watched Großmutter do it as often as I have,” I say. But I’m already going to the kitchen and taking out clean cloth and the bowl of herbs for the poultice. Ava is beside me, crushing dry leaves between her palms. Her lips are pursed in concentration. She’s observant and smart.
Bertram comes in and holds out both hands like a beggar.
I unwind the old bandages. As I get to the layer that touches his skin, I have to tug. I do it as gently as I can. He screams and elbows me sharply in the chest. I fall backward and slam my head against the oven.
Ava claps both hands over her mouth to hold in a scream.
“Melis,” shouts Bertram.
Melis runs into the kitchen.
Bertram shoves his hands toward Melis. “You do it.”
Melis shakes his head.
“Do it!” shouts Bertram.
I grab a mug and fill it with beer. “Drink this. And another.” I put it on the table. “You’ll feel the pain less.”
Bertram snaps his head toward me with bared teeth. Then he seems to relent. He sits in a chair and lowers his face to the brimming mug.
But I snatch it back at the last moment. “No, you need a straw.”
“Dont be a dolt,” says Bertram. “The hulls are still good to chew.”
“But that s a difference,” I say. “The ghost came with the new beer. Before that we were using straws. Maybe that’s the difference that matters.”
Bertram sneers. “No one uses straws with new beer. No one ever has, and ghosts haven’t come before.”
“This year is different.” I reach for a fresh stalk of oat and cut off the ends clean to make a strong straw. “We’ll all use straws, and Ava will weave that many more goblin crosses.”
“There’s your difference,” says Bertram. “Ava.”
“No!” I shake my head so hard I have to clench my teeth to keep them from chattering. “Ava was here for days before the ghost came. Five full days. And nothing bad happened.”
“She’s it,” says Bertram, but his voice lacks conviction. He’s saying it just to torment me.
Still, I can’t take chances. If Father heard Bertram talk like that, anything could happen. “You didn’t go to Mass last Sunday. That’s a difference.” I hate myself for being so mean, but I don’t know what else to do. “You didn’t go to Mass and the next day the ghost came.”
“Johannah was too sick to go. I was helping her.”
I have nothing to say to that. I’d never dare suggest anything Bertram did with Johannah was wrong. “Think about it, Bertram,” I say gently. “The trouble started when we opened the new beer and stopped using straws.” The more I think about it, the more it seems right: The straw pentagrams keep the ghost away—but only from those who used them. That’s why the ghost favors Ava and me; we use straws every day.
It makes sense.
Still, I can’t explain why the ghost cares this year when he didn’t care in past years. “This year’s different,” I say again lamely.
“You don’t know anything,” says Bertram. He stares at the beer. “So, what are you waiting for, dolt? Give me that straw. It hurts to pick up the blasted mug. And the more my hands hurt, the more I want to smash you.”
I put the fresh straw in the beer, my hand moving strong with hope.
Bertram drinks it. And a second. He reaches a bandaged hand down into the mug and swipes like a bear. Then he licks the hulls from his fingertips and sits back, chewing.
Melis holds him from behind, around the middle. “Do it fast,” he hisses to me.
I point, and Ava goes under the table and crouches there obediently. After that first night of chaos, when Ava was immobilized with fear, we talked about how she has to do what I say, and fast. She understands now.
Does she understand that Bertram accused her of bringing the ghost? But I can’t look at her face now. I can’t give her a reassuring smile. Bertram’s waiting.
I pray Melis is holding firm. I rip off both bandages.
Bertram shrieks. His hands bleed.
I’m stepping from foot to foot. I have no stomach for this sort of thing.
“Just get it over with,” says Bertram. “Finish, you greasy dolt.”
I stir the mess for the poultice. Großmutter usually applies it thinly. But I don’t want to take that much time; Bertram’s still crying. I plop a spoonful on each hand and spread it as fast as I can with the back of the spoon. It’s thick, but at least Bertram isn’t screaming. I wind on fresh bandages.
Melis lets go and Bertram slumps forward. He talks to himself, mumbling things that don’t make sense.
Ludolf and Father come sit down too. Everyone’s ready for breakfast. But no one’s really hungry except Ava and me. They haven’t been hungry during the day since the ghost came.
I stew apples anyway. The sweet aroma might stir their appetite.
Großmutter said she is going to make bread from this year’s grain finally. The way she talked about it, everyone’s mouth watered. She said that when my birthday comes, in less than two weeks, she’ll make cakes from fresh grain too.
The newly ground grain sits ready in a bin. But I don’t want to make bread now, even if it would get them eating again. Besides, all I could make in a hurry is fried bread, and it would feel like a sin to waste fresh grain on fried bread. So I cut the last of yesterday’s bread and put it on the table.
Bertram is still saying gibberish, only louder now. Maybe the pain makes him incoherent. Or maybe he’s drunk. Whatever is wrong with him, it can’t be the ghost. He used a straw, after all. We’ll weave that straw into a pentagram. I’ll ask Ava to weave it right after breakfast.
And it can’t be the ghost anyway, because it’s too early in the day for the ghost. The ghost comes in the evening—after the only meal anyone else seems to have appetite for. After they’ve eaten and drunk their beer and everything finally seems good for a moment, the ghost comes and shakes us all to pieces. So it’s not the ghost now.
I couldn’t take it if the ghost came in the morning, too. I couldn’t stand it. I’m the only one that does any work around here anymore. And it’s hard enough trying to keep them from doing destructive things at night. I couldn’t possibly guard them all day long, too. It can’t be the ghost. It can’t be.
The apples are soft now, so I ladle them into bowls and Ava helps me set them in front of everyone.
Father’s hand shakes as he takes the spoon. Ludolf and Melis have the tremors too.
But Bertram isn’t moving at all. He’s stopped talking. His mouth hangs open, slack jawed, and he looks at me like he’s seeing right through me, to the wall beyond.
“Eat,” I say to him.
Ava reaches as far as she can and puts a spoonful of apple in Bertram’s mouth. Her audacity stuns me. The food sits on his tongue. He may not even know it’s there.
Today is worse.
Oh, Lord. The straw didn’t work.
The floor is a mess of dried herb leaves. Großmutter sat on
this floor and arranged them in strange patterns last night. Ava gets on her knees now and gathers them all into a clean bowl. She’s right, of course. If they stay there, we’ll just ruin them underfoot. I’ll separate them later. It won’t be hard—I know all the herbs so well I could do it in the dark, by smell alone.
Ava follows the trail of herbs, then gets to her feet, sucking in her breath loudly.
I look. Behind the churn, crushed into the corner, is a black hen. Feathers and blood. I remember the churn flying through the air last night—the churn and the pot and the bread bin. Was there a squawk?
Großmutter comes in the door. “Judith’s baby was born dead.” She walks to her chair and sits without taking off her cloak.
She doesn’t glance at the corner. She doesn’t know—and I can’t bear to tell her now, when she’s so sad.
I fill a bowl with stewed apples and set it in front of her. So many babies die at birth. And almost a quarter of those who live die before they’re weaned, and another quarter die before seven, before the age of reason. Großmutter is used to this. But no matter how many times it happens, the deaths always leave her in gloom. I go to put my hand on her shoulder. Then I remember putting my hand on Father’s shoulder the first night the ghost came—I remember the poker coming down on my head. I stand there, stupid.
“It’s no ghost,” she says. “What’s come to us is no ghost.”
Father shakes his head. “But it’s not what the animals and the townsfolk have either. It’s not the rat disease.”
He’s got to be right. Even if the answer isn’t in the straws, what plagues us comes with the beer somehow, and the animals don’t drink beer.
Father taps his hand nervously on the table. “It’s not that disease. My feet are fine.”
And oh, Lord, now I can see he’s wrong. Because he’s lying. Yesterday I heard Father curse as he rubbed his feet. They must be going numb—like the feet of the townsfolk. He’s lying through his teeth because he’s so afraid. It’s not anything we’re doing wrong with the new beer. It’s the rat disease. It just took this long to finally get to us.
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