The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  Threats instead of thanks. Hamak really was petty-minded. Farin was almost shocked at this realisation. After all, next to the priest that bloke was the most important man in the village.

  The alderman followed the others into the tavern.

  His father shook his head wearily but said nothing.

  The silence hit Farin with more force than a roar or a clip across the ear.

  I know, father, dead is dead. Questions only hurt business. Everybody dies because their heart stops.

  Without knowing any better, Farin had broken the gravedigger’s code, and played the smart aleck. Father was pissed off. Hamak was pissed off. The latter had forgotten in no time how his life had been in great danger.

  Farin sighed.

  the hayloft

  A RRROSsssssssssss!!"

  It was exactly the same spluttering sound as when the disgusting gruel boiled over on the hearth. No wonder – the matron herself was boiling with rage. "If I catch you, I’ll rip your ears off!"

  That sounded dangerous. Faster than a fleeing fox Aross flitted out the back door of the kitchen and into the yard. Without her ears she’d look like a pumpkin with her round head and short hair – like a reddish-brown pumpkin if she were to wash it. But without ears her old felt cap would lose its practical stoppers left and right, which naturally prevented it from slipping down and over her eyes. And who knows what other uses her lugs had. The matron would have calmed down by the evening and would proceed to her favourite routine. She would flog Aross on her hands and fingers with the cane. Not pleasant either, especially as the back of her right hand was still black and blue from the last time.

  "Stay there, you damn rat!"

  "Wouldn’t you just love that, you damn torturer," she muttered to herself in a low voice, not wishing to provoke her persecutor any further.

  The rat reached the dilapidated barn with impressive speed. It served as a henhouse now and was situated opposite the orphanage. Up to a few months ago a donkey and two goats had also been resident here. The birds clucked irately as Aross stormed in like a fury, passing a haystack on her right before throwing herself at the rails of an old ladder. Fleet-footed and at a speed which suggested she had four legs, she climbed upwards, shoved open the hatch into the loft, and slipped through it before finding at least temporary refuge at an altitude of four yards or so. The matron wouldn’t follow her up here, not least because the brittle rungs wouldn’t bear her weight. The fat, greedy turnkey only had herself to blame.

  "Nothing to eat for you tonight, you good-for-nothing. Twenty of the best instead. I’ll be expecting you in my room," she cursed after the girl, before turning away from the barn door empty-handed and disappearing back into the kitchen, where she proceeded to hurl commands at the two maids.

  "Woah!" gasped Aross, sitting on her knees. The loft was so low that not even Aross could stand upright. She leaned against one of the crossbeams and buried her bare feet deep into the extra straw that was still stored up here.

  The orphanage in the town of Hubstone had been her home for as long as she could remember. And for as long as she could remember she had been the target of regular beatings by the matron. An arrangement that was both simple and predictable.

  It had all started barely fourteen years ago. An infant, only a few weeks old, was discovered by a maid on the steps before the front door of the orphanage. Half-starved, half-frozen, half-covered by rags in a half-rotten wooden box, it lay there conspicuously inconspicuous. And it refused to do what infants normally do so well and do so frequently in such a situation – it refused to cry. Not a peep did the little waif utter. Instead, she stared defiantly up at the heavens. The word AROSS was branded on one of the crate boards. And so that was what she had been called ever since.

  Consequently, Aross knew neither her birthday, nor exactly what age she was. That wasn’t really the point, though. What was more important to her was how much longer she would stay alive. A strange thought for a young girl, but recently almost every new day had been crashing in on top of her with increasing force, bruising not only her body but also her soul, to the point that she was asking herself how much longer it could go on like this. There were only two options: either the day would get damaged or the young girl. And today’s beating had already been on the cards since early morning. Just because she’d wanted to steal a slice of bread. She’d earned the beating, not because of the bread, but because she’d allowed herself to be caught by the matron. And she wouldn’t cry, no matter what happened. The thing with the meal wasn’t really that annoying, seeing as how the portions in the orphanage were little bigger than a small heap of mouse droppings. And tasted no better. In the mornings you got gruel with water, and in the evenings, water with gruel. That was both cheap and quick to prepare. Watery gruel would have been on the menu in the middle of the day too were it not for the fact that the matron had thought up an even cheaper menu – nothing.

  Which was why Aross was constantly on the lookout for additional sustenance; otherwise she’d have starved to death in the old house long ago. It was only up here that she had stashed a few secret provisions, and she was sure there was a wrinkly old apple on one of the roof beams. While her eyes were squinting upwards into the gable in search of the wizened fruit, her attention was drawn to a noise coming from below. She lay down in the straw on her stomach and peered down into the barn through the gaps between the boards. All she could make out was Wolf, the old hunting dog, who had made himself comfortable in his corner. The mutt’s best days were long behind him; his hips had become stiff and he could only move with difficulty.

  "Hey, Aross! What have you been up to? Pilfering food as usual? Or did you piss in the matron’s wine again?" A young boy appeared at the foot of the ladder; he was peering in all directions in a halting, awkward manner. It was Grim of all people, the matron’s pet, looking up at her with his sticky-out ears and his brown locks of hair – not brave enough to climb up to her. The boy was one of the most repulsive people in the orphanage. He had actually managed in all these years not to give the matron even a single reason to give him a beating. What a shame!

  "None of your business, Grim. Piss off! And be quick about it!" she ordered him brusquely. If he as much as dared to enter into her kingdom, she would slam the hatch down on his head or push him off the ladder, something she’d done once before. She’d been happy to pay the price of twenty of the best that time. Grim was at least two years older and two heads higher than Aross but she still had no respect for the little shit. Because of her state of destitution there were some things she simply didn’t have. Shoes and respect were two of them.

  "You’re going to come to a bad end."

  She thought she was hearing things. Grim sounded like the matron, only a hundred years older. Wow, did he sound sensible!

  "Spare me your stupid talk. Now piss off and go wash your feet!" That was Grim’s speciality. His feet always looked as pink and as fresh as a new-born baby’s. His buckskin boots helped, of course, and she had no idea how he’d come by them.

  He looked up at her scornfully. "You are reprehensible and...and contemptible".

  The words he knew – she really couldn’t keep up with him. "And you’re a little shit, Grim. Piss off".

  "I hope the matron gives you a right beating."

  "She’ll have to catch me first, dimwit."

  "I should catch you and bring you to her. Then maybe I’ll get a reward."

  "You’ll have to get me first, dimwit."

  "Really? Why? You’ll have to go to her this evening and pay for it anyway. Otherwise she won’t let you into the dormitory anymore, and then see where you’ll end up."

  Unfortunately, he was right. Aross clenched her little fists. She knew that Grim had to be taken seriously when it came to close combat. No conscience, but broad shoulders and strong arms with hands like vices that wouldn’t let go once they had you in their grip. The swine had more than enough strength – no wonder, as he seemed to be the only child in
the orphanage who always got enough to eat. Another reason for hating him.

  Grim’s face twisted itself into a sly and vicious grimace.

  "I’ve just thought of how I can tempt you down."

  The boy went over to the old hound and kicked against his long muzzle, which the tired animal had placed between his forepaws. Wolf yelped loudly. Partly because of the shock and partly in pain. Crouched, and wagging his tail furiously, as if he had done something wrong himself, he stood in front of Grim, licking his bloody nose. And to cap it all, Farin could see that his hips were hurting him terribly.

  The mutt was even more stupid than Grim.

  He prepared his right boot for a second kick. "Come down or I’ll kick him to death!"

  The hatred in his voice was unnecessary. Aross screamed loudly, slid through the hatchway and in one leap jumped down the ladder and landed on top of Grim. She’d often leaped down here onto the big pile of hay, but always for fun and not filled with hate nor onto a person. With her arms stretched in front of her, her fingers bent like claws, and her eyes and mouth opened wide in rage she landed on top of him. The sheer force of the impact knocked him backward and she managed to ram her knee forcefully under his chin. Grim’s lower jaw crunched, his teeth slammed together, and his eyes rolled backwards. It was clear he had never expected an aerial attack from a height of over two yards, in which Aross could have broken her neck. Her little fists pounded away at Grim’s face until bright red blood was flowing from his mouth and nose. Aross knew that every surprise attack was over just as swiftly. She disengaged from him quickly and climbed up the ladder again. Her knee was hurting a little, but the feeling of having been hammering into the bully’s gormless head gave the pain a sweet taste.

  When it came down to it, nothing had changed. She was still up high, and he was still down low. Except that Grim was now lying on his back, groaning and bleeding. Wolf, terrified, had retreated as far as possible into his corner.

  As if asking Grim for a favour, Aross said in a sweet voice, "Now, listen to me Grim. If you ever hurt Wolf again, I’m going to kill you".

  The dog pounded the floor with his tail when he heard his name.

  "You’re crazy. Totally crazy," whined the boy. He slowly got up to his feet and wiped the blood from his face with his sleeve.

  Aross was pretty certain he wasn’t going to snitch on her by going to the matron or anybody else. It would be very embarrassing if it ever came out that the small, skinny and worthless girl had beaten up the powerful Grim. A bloodied face was looking up at her. His eyes were blazing hatred towards her, but another emotion had won the upper hand. Fear! The powerful Grim was afraid. Not of Aross, but of her incalculable self-sacrifice. Aross didn’t know if she could really kill him. She had never killed anyone up to this point and she had no desire to do so. She hated weapons like daggers and swords. But Grim didn’t know that – and that was the point. The idiot straightened himself with a groan and looked at Aross out of the corner of his eye, with his lower lip protruding. Slowly and trying to maintain some last semblance of dignity he shook the dirt and straw off his clothing and left the barn without saying another word.

  Once Gram was out of sight, Aross leaned her upper body down through the hatch. "Now listen to me, Wolf. The next time don’t just accept everything that happens but give the swine a good bite in his leg."

  Wolf wagged his tail and licked his grey snout as if in agreement.

  But Aross wasn’t convinced. "Believe you me, wagging your tail isn’t enough in this world. You have to bite, bite, bite", she grumbled at the dog. Her strong conviction more than made up for her high-pitched girl’s voice. Wolf seemed quite impressed anyway and crouched behind his forepaws.

  Happy with her victory over Grim, Aross stretched out in the straw. She would gladly spend the rest of her life up here, but her experience told her she would have to pee sometime and get herself some more food supplies. And anyway, the matron had threatened that one day she would set fire to the ground floor of the barn under the girl’s backside. The two fat spiders who were busily spinning their webs between the roof beams wouldn’t be too happy about that either. Aross had christened them Tip and Tap because they were constantly tipping and tapping with their many legs.

  She stuck a piece of straw in her mouth, tilting it alternatively up to between her eyes and then down until it slapped her chin. The old bag of a matron would even complain about that. "Women don’t chew straw!" Aross stuck her tongue out scornfully, artfully keeping the straw stuck to it. Women could only do things that were no fun. Women didn’t climb up into haylofts – but rats were allowed. As if to confirm this, there was a rustling behind her in the straw. Aross peeled her eyes in search of a pointy nose, beady eyes and a long tail but could see nothing. Aross would never be able to do right by the matron, not in a hundred years; not so long as her tormentor seemed to enjoy walloping her.

  What now? She could go to the harbour and steal fish scraps. And she’d heard that Mattilda was now working on pier four. Aross considered the girl to be something like her friend. At least they’d grown up together in the orphanage until about a year ago when the matron had given Mattilda and another girl called Jennie to the whorehouse. A man had arrived that time with a fat stomach and a fat moneybag and then he’d left again with a fat stomach and a thin moneybag. He’d used the occasion to cart the two girls off like hens. Jennie and Mattilda were one or two years older than Aross, and so she reckoned that she would suffer the same fate next year at the latest. The prospect of an overflowing purse as well as the money from the town coffers for every child in the orphanage were the only reasons the matron hadn’t beaten Aross into an early grave long ago or sent her packing. Although the latter would probably have been a better fate.

  Slimefoot

  A ross decided to check if everything was alright down at the harbour. She pulled herself up onto a beam, pushed her way through a hole in the rotten roof shingles, skipped along the ledge to the branch of an old beech tree, and Bob’s your uncle, a long branch bent under her weight onto the ground, and she jumped off lightly. Aross ran off – rats always ran. Just keep going? How would that work out? Aross knew every street and every gutter – the narrower, the more despicable, the better. After all, the town orphanage was situated in the middle of the old town – a term which suggested tradition and the preservation of the tried and tested. This was what the unexperienced traveller coming from afar might think, but nothing could be further from the truth. Lowlife, filth and sewers were the only things to be found in the old town. It made no difference if the chamber pots were emptied out from the houses onto the streets or not. It mattered not a jot if all types of rubbish landed in the gutters or not, or in the town moat, or in the town streams. Mouldy wooden boards crossed over stinking rivulets. Dirt attracted dirt, and so tanners, dyers and knackers had established themselves in the old town. It smelled abominably to strangers, homely to Aross. Here, in the middle of filth and lowlife, was where Aross had grown up, up to nearly five feet tall – without shoes. She always ran barefoot through the dross. Did rats wear shoes? Feet black to her ankles – dirt was the best protection. Aross Slimefoot, queen of the rats, one of the nameless boys called her once. A name like that had to be earned. She took it as recognition. After all, it wasn’t the king who ruled the town, but the rats. They scampered everywhere – in the gutters, in the cellars, the canals, the ditches. There were a hundred rats to every person, and the crawling creatures were unspeakably tough. It takes thirteen blows to kill a rat, so they said. The sewers had no effect on the animals, as opposed to the people, who perished in their own filth. Aross didn’t know how many people had fallen victim to the polluted state of the old town. A good many anyway. Lots of her fellow-orphans constantly had diarrhoea and were always throwing up. Bitter experience had taught her early on never to drink from the well in the old town. How could it be in any way clean if it was pumped up through the middle of excrement? The ultimate proof lay with the genteel m
atron: she wouldn’t touch water from the old town’s well. For these reasons Aross hid her water-skin in the back corner of the barn under the straw. She’d nicked it barely two years ago from the market. Here she had water from the upper town, right beside the artisans’ district.

  It wasn’t long before she reached the harbour area. The large market hall was snug against the castle wall; it was a rectangular tented structure of planks and waxed canvas. The fishing boats had moored earlier in the day and now their catch was being sold. Aross loved the deafening shouts of the stallholders. This was when the fish was fatter, fresher and cheaper than any time until tomorrow at the same time. Aross pulled her old felt cap further down her face, making her look older. She pushed her way through the mass of people with many small but sharp digs of her elbows, occasionally knocking people sideways, even some who were twice as big and heavy as she was. All a matter of momentum, of technique, and most importantly, strength of mind.

  "Brazen hussy!" cursed a woman behind her.

  Exactly – brazenness was part of it too.

  "The fattest Northern Sea eels!" a fisherman touted his catch; rusty eel pots were stacked up behind him. "My good lady, only five coppers for four – just for you."

  A woman with a colourful plumed hat, clearly a noblewoman, examined the display. For some inexplicable reason she hadn’t sent one of her servants, making her own way here instead. She seemed undecided and inexperienced – the ideal victim for the streetwise fishmonger.

  "My dear man, I fear your offer may not be commensurate to the value."

  Aross rolled her eyes. Did she really say, "my dear man’? There was no such thing here. And what did she mean by, "not be commensurate’?