The Scribe

by Garrido, Antonio

  At first she thought she could endure the cold, but when her feet started to freeze, she decided to light a campfire. She arranged some firewood under a handful of tinder before striking her steel against the pieces of flint. The tinder ignited, but just as easily as it caught fire, it also extinguished before the branches could start to burn.

  She knew that the damp wood was the problem and she would have to position the drier branches on top of the damp ones. She restacked the firewood, placed another little pile of tinder upon it, and repeated the operation, with the same result. Distraught, she saw there was only enough tinder left for a couple more attempts. Perhaps if she used it all at once instead of little by little, she might have a chance.

  She pulled out the flask of oil and poured a little onto the branches. Once they were soaked, she put the tinder onto a piece of leather and stamped on the little box until it was shattered into pieces. Then she arranged the splinters under the tinder and prayed that they would catch.

  For the third time, she struck the flint, which spat out sparks as if by magic. On the fourth attempt the tinder caught. She quickly blew on the flames that licked against the splinters. For a moment they faded until they had almost died, but gradually they began to gain strength until they spread to the oiled branches.

  That night she slept peacefully. In the warmth of the fire she imagined her father watching over her. She dreamed of her family, of her work as a parchment-maker, and of Hoos Larsson. She pictured him noble, strong, valiant. At the end of the dream, he was kissing her.

  The storm woke Theresa just before dawn. She gathered her belongings and ran to take shelter under a nearby oak tree. When it stopped raining, she felt like the cold would return. But gradually the clouds dispersed and the sun timidly cast its rays on the mountain peaks. She took it as a good omen.

  Before setting off again she prayed to God for the good health of her father and her stepmother, and also for the soul of Hoos’s unfortunate horse. She also thanked him for allowing her to live another day. Then she wrapped herself in her cloak, bit into a piece of cheese, and started walking, still wet from the rain.

  Three miles later, she began to wonder whether she had taken the right route. The tracks had narrowed to footpaths, appearing and disappearing in the endless white surroundings. Yet she went on undaunted, on a course that appeared to lead to nowhere.

  At midday she came across a fast-flowing stream that blocked her path. She walked along the bank for a while, looking for somewhere to wade across, until she reached a section where the water had formed a large pool. There she stopped to admire the scenery, the fir trees and mountain peaks reflected in the clear surface of the water as though it were a mirror, doubling their beauty. She was captivated by how the trees bunched together like a vast army, with snow dotting their olive-green foliage. The water gurgled peacefully and the intense aroma of resin mixed with the cold to clear her lungs.

  Hunger growled softly in her stomach.

  Though she knew she would find nothing, she rummaged through her bag once again before deciding to do something she had sometimes seen the village boys do: She looked for a shady bend in the stream and lifted up some rocks until she found a seething mass of worms. Then she made a hook by taking a clasp from her hair and bending it over a branch before threading a couple of worms. She tied one end to a string of wool that she pulled from her dress and cast it as far into the water as she could. If she was lucky, she would be having roast trout for lunch.

  No sooner had she cast her line, she saw something unsettling. Half-hidden in the undergrowth, a few paces away, she noticed some sort of grounded craft. Hoos wouldn’t have bothered to mention something like that to her, but no doubt it was one of those ferries used to transport goods back and forth over the river.

  She pushed aside the thicket and jumped onto the boat, which creaked under her weight. Near the bow she found a pole, resting on a rope that formed a bridge from one bank to the other. She thought it was probably used to prevent the current from dragging the ferry off during loading. After checking that the hull was intact, she decided to use it to cross to the other side of the bank.

  Walking around to the grounded end, she pressed her back against the stern and pushed with all her weight, her feet sinking into the mud. The ferry didn’t budge. She attempted it several more times, until her legs and arms were trembling. Exhausted, she finally fell to the ground, crying bitterly.

  Since fleeing Würzburg, she had lost count of the times she had cried. Wiping away her tears, she thought about giving up and wondered if she should return and beg Wilfred, God, or whoever necessary for mercy. At least then she could be with her family, and perhaps with their help she could prove that she had not caused the fire. However, she remembered the dead girl and shuddered. Her idea was surely deluded. She decided that if she were to make any sort of life for herself, it would have to be on the other side of this river.

  Dismayed, she looked around until she found a medium-sized pebble, which she threw with all her strength toward the opposite bank. The stone flew a quarter of the way across the pool before sinking, so she estimated that it was around a hundred paces wide. In that cold water she would never make it across by swimming. She thought there might be a bridge farther on. But just as she was about to continue on her way, it occurred to her that if she hung from the rope, perhaps she could claw her way to the other side. On either side of the bank the rope was knotted to a tree, and the trees seemed secure enough to support a man’s weight. She could also see that, though the rope dipped halfway across, at no point would she be entirely submerged.

  Persuaded by the idea, she waded into the water. The cold made her flinch, but she kept going. When she started to lose her footing, she swung up onto the rope and maneuvered herself until she was hanging belly-up. She advanced toward the other side by stretching and contracting like a caterpillar.

  She completed the first stretch without difficulty, but a third of the way across, the rope dipped, dropping her dangerously close to the water. When the water finally touched her back, she dropped off and started swimming, holding on to the rope as a guide. When the rope started to rise again, she pulled herself back up. That was when her bag came open and the steel fell out. She tried to grab the little box, but the current dragged it down until it disappeared under the water. Swearing, she pressed on, until at last, after what seemed like an eternity, she reached the other shore.

  As soon as she arrived, shivering, she pulled off her wet clothes, in order to wring them out. As she was doing so, she noticed a strange glimmer that seemed to come from an indeterminate point nearby. She thought it might be the steel she had just lost, and though it was highly unlikely, she quickly dressed anyway and headed toward the spot. However, as she approached, she could see that it was a mass of crayfish, swarming over the disfigured body of a dead soldier. She assumed it was a Saxon, though it could also have been a Frank.

  Theresa noticed the great gash running from the soldier’s left ear to the base of his neck. His face was worm-eaten and blood had accumulated under the skin, turning it purple. His ankles seemed dislocated and from under his clothes, his stomach protruded, swollen like an old wineskin. She noticed that the glint she had seen came from the scramasax that he wore on his belt. She briefly thought about taking it, but then gave up on the idea, for everyone knew that the souls of the dead kept vigil over their bodies for three days.

  She stepped back to watch the spectacle, repulsed and astounded. And she imagined what the crayfish would taste like once they had been roasted over a fire. Then she remembered that she had lost her steel and wondered whether one could be found on the body. Using a stick, she flicked aside several crayfish, but all she found underneath were entrails and more creatures.

  As she became absorbed rummaging through his clothes, someone suddenly grabbed her from behind. Theresa screamed and kicked as if the Devil himself had seized her, but a hand was pressed over her mouth. In response she sunk her nails into
the arm with such force that she thought they would come clean off. Then she received a blow to her face and was shaken like a rag doll.

  “Damned bitch! Scream again and I’ll tear out your tongue!”

  Theresa tried to scream, but she was unable to with his hand still covering her mouth.

  The figure before her seemed more like a creature from Hell than a human. The old man’s face was mouse-bitten and devoured by rot. His thin hair revealed several bald patches dotted with wounds and grime, and his menacing gray eyes seemed to stare right through her. Her gaze fell on the fangs of the dog that accompanied him.

  “Don’t worry, lass, Satan only bites people who ask for it. You alone?”

  “Yes,” she stammered, immediately regretting her response.

  “What were you searching that dead man for?”

  “Nothing.” She bit her tongue at such a stupid answer.

  “Nothing, eh? Well! Get those shoes off and throw them over there,” he ordered. “What’s your name?”

  “Theresa,” she answered, following his instructions.

  “Good. Give me that,” he said, pointing at the bag she had on her shoulder. “May I know what you’re doing here?”

  Theresa did not respond.

  The man opened her bag and inspected its contents. “And this dagger?”

  It was the knife she had stolen from Hoos Larsson. “Give it back.” Theresa snatched it from him and stuffed it in her dress.

  The man didn’t protest, but continued to rummage.

  “What’s this?” he asked. He had already pulled out the stylus and wax tablets.

  “What?”

  “Don’t play the fool. This parchment that you were hiding in a secret compartment.”

  Theresa was surprised. She imagined that her father, for some reason, had hidden it there.

  “A poem by Virgil. I always keep it protected so it doesn’t get dirty,” she improvised.

  “Poems,” he muttered as he returned the parchment to her. “What sentimentality! Now pay attention,” he continued. “This place is crawling with bandits, so I don’t care what you do, where you come from, whether you’re alone or what you were searching that body for, but I warn you: If you try to scream or do anything silly, Satan will tear your throat open before you know what’s happening. Got it?”

  Theresa nodded. She would’ve tried to escape, but without shoes it would’ve been stupid. She presumed that was why he had told her to remove them. She took a few steps back and examined the old man. He wore a threadbare cloak tied around his waist, revealing long, bony legs. When he had finished rummaging through her bag, he bent down and picked up a stick with a bell hanging from one end. Theresa looked at his wounds more closely and realized he was a leper.

  With this realization, she didn’t give it a second thought. As soon as the old man glanced elsewhere, she turned and ran, but before she could even take a few steps, she lost her footing and slipped. No sooner had she hit the ground, she felt the dog’s breath on her back. She waited, stock-still, for its fatal blow, but the animal didn’t move. The man approached and held out a scab-covered hand toward her. Theresa moved away.

  “You’re frightened by my sores?” he laughed. “So are the bandits. Come on, get up. It’s just dye.”

  Theresa examined the ulcers, which close-up looked like blotches, yet even so, she did not trust the man. Noticing this, the man rubbed his hands and the wounds disappeared.

  “See? I’m not lying. Come now: Sit there and stay still.” He gave her back her bag. “You won’t get far with what you have in there.”

  “You’re not a leper?” she stammered.

  “Of course not,” he laughed. “But it’s a disguise that has saved my skin more than once. Watch carefully.”

  The man took a fistful of sand from the river, draining the water from it. He then took out a flask of dark dye and poured it on the sand, making a uniform mixture. He added another substance and applied the poultice to his arms.

  “I mix it with a paste of flour and water so that it sticks to me when it dries. The bandits fear a leper more than any army.” He glanced at the dead man. “Except this one,” he said nodding at him. “The bastard tried to steal my furs. Now he can try to thieve from the Devil. So… since when have you been robbing corpses?”

  As Theresa was about to answer, the old man bent down and—ignoring the crayfish—he searched the body. He found a bag tied inside some sort of sash. He smiled upon seeing its contents and stashed the bag in his clothes. Next he pulled necklaces with strange, dark stones off the man’s throat. Then he picked up the scramasax, sheathed it next to his own, and, finally, turned over the dead body. Finding nothing else of interest, he left it lying among the pebbles.

  “Well, he won’t be needing it anymore. And now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

  “You killed him?”

  “Not me. It was this,” he said, touching his knife. “I suppose he had been watching me for some time. He must have been an imbecile because instead of dispatching me he went straight for the furs.”

  “Furs?”

  “The ones I have back there, in the cart,” he said, pointing.

  Theresa turned to where the old man indicated and the sight of it cheered her: If there was a cart, there had to be a road.

  “A wheel’s broken and I’m going to see if I can repair it. But you should get away from here. I doubt this man was traveling alone.”

  He gave Theresa back her shoes. Then he turned and walked off toward the woods.

  “Wait,” said Theresa, pulling her shoes on and running after him. “Are you going to Fulda?”

  “I have little reason to visit that city of priests.”

  “But, do you know the way?”

  “Of course. As well as the bandits.”

  Theresa didn’t know what to say. She followed him to the cart, observing his walk: He had the gait of a younger man. Then she saw his teeth, which though large and crooked, were gapless and extraordinarily white. She thought he might be her father’s age. He bent down near the split wheel and started to work on it. Then he stopped and looked at Theresa.

  “You haven’t answered me. What were you searching for on the body?” Then before she could respond he looked down at himself. “Damnation! Look what you’ve done to my arm,” he said as he cleaned the scratches from Theresa’s fingernails. “Did you think the Devil was coming to get you?”

  “I was on my way to Fulda.” She cleared her throat. “I saw a dead man and I thought he might have a steel. I lost mine when I crossed the lake.”

  “Crossed the lake you say? Let’s see… pass me that mallet. So you came from Erfurt?”

  “That’s right,” she lied, handing him the tool.

  “Then you must know the Petersohns. They run the bakery just a few buildings down from the cathedral.”

  “Of course,” she fibbed again.

  “How are they? I haven’t seen them since summer.”

  “They’re well… as far as I know. My parents live some way from the town.”

  “Is that right?” he said, grimacing. He hit the wedge hard and the wheel came away from its axle.

  Theresa gave a start, thinking maybe he didn’t believe her.

  “Now comes the difficult part,” the man continued. “See this spoke? It’s split. And so is this other one. Lousy damned timber! I’ll change the most damaged one and repair the other with a couple strips of wood. Take this. Hold it—and when I hit it, ring the bell. If the bandits have to hear us, then let them hear the music of the lepers, too.”

  Theresa noticed that the old man had unhitched the horse and arranged several rocks under the cart to stop it from toppling. He pulled a stick out from the back, which turned out to be a spare spoke. He kept talking, saying that he always carried one with him because carving oak was very difficult. He compared the new spoke to the broken ones before adjusting the end with an adze.

  “Will it take long?”

&
nbsp; “I hope not. If I bothered to do it properly, I’d be here all night: I’d have to take off the iron rim, remove the four surrounds, and replace the spokes. It’s not difficult, because the surrounds are of ash, but then you have to mount the pivots, the tongue, and the ends of the spokes.” He stood back to look at his work. “A devilish job! I’ll saw the ends and adjust them with the mallet. Now shake the bell.”

  Theresa swayed the stick until the bell jingled. The hammer blow resounded all around the forest. The young woman tried to drown out the echo by shaking the bell harder, but try as she might, the blows could be heard all morning.

  They talked. He said his name was Althar. He was a trapper who lived in a log cabin in the woods with his wife and their dog, Satan. In winter he hunted and in summer he sold the furs in Aquis-Granum. Theresa said that she had fled a marriage of convenience and asked for his help to reach Fulda. But he refused, and when he had finished mending the cart, he said farewell.

  “You’re going?” Theresa asked.

  “Yes, I’m going home.”

  “What about me?”

  “What about you?”

  “What will I do?”

  Althar shrugged. “What you should have done from the beginning: Go back to Erfurt and marry that man you say you hate. I bet he’s not so bad.”

  “I would rather go to the Saxons,” she said, with such conviction that she admired her own acting skills.

  “You can do whatever you want as far as I’m concerned.” Althar hitched the horse to the harness and began removing the stones that held the cart in place. “But hurry. There might be more bandits looking for him,” he said, pointing at the dead man. “I’ll lead the horse to the river. After she has drunk, I’ll be off like the clappers.”

  Theresa walked off. As she went, she saw the forest as dense and cold as a cemetery, and tears came to her eyes. She stopped, knowing that if she continued alone she would die. Althar seemed like a good man, for he had done her no harm. Besides, he was married and knew the Petersohns. Perhaps he would allow her to accompany him.