The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  L azy good-for-nothing!" Father’s loving voice woke him. "Where’s the shovel, moron?"

  His endearing visage loomed over Farin, punctuated by grey stubble, red nose, droopy eyes, the ubiquitous smell of warm beer.

  Seldom had the gravedigger’s son been so happy to see this familiar face, to smell the familiar smell, to hear the familiar words. What horrible things he had dreamed about. Of blood, murder, voices in his head, and of the most melancholic thoughts a person could think of. Sleepily he straightened himself up on his straw mat. Arms and back complained of considerable stiffness.

  Did the aching not spring from considerable lugging?

  His right hand felt along his neck of its own volition. His fingertips felt a hemp cord and then touched the smooth circular metal of the amulet. Relieved, the gravedigger’s son sat upright. He had plainly and simply dreamed he’d thrown it from the Anvil deep into the Cleft. Ha-ha. What nonsense! It got even better – on that occasion he’d discovered the bodies of Gerlunda and Pater Amen lying at the foot of the chasm. No, it had been the terrible voice in his head that had made him aware of the dead bodies. What a horror – even the memory of the whoever-or-whatever-you-are wiped the smile off his face.

  "Amen is lying in the shed waiting to be treated."

  "What?" Farin was now standing wide-awake on his straw mat. "Amen is dead?"

  His father looked him up and down indignantly. "What are you asking, muttonhead? Didn’t you get him out of the chasm yesterday and bring him here. The alderman, his son and yourself."

  Holy shit – where did the dream stop, and reality begin? He clasped his head with a sigh. The longer he thought about it, the less he knew which was worse and more real: the nightmare or the life he had just woken up to. He pulled on his linen trousers awkwardly. His shirt was stinking of sweat, he pulled a fresh one over it. To be precise, his other linen shirt, ripped in several places, for he only possessed two, an old one and a new one. As soon as he stepped outside the house, he smelled him too – the dead priest on the workbench. A white, floppy figure consisting of dead meat. His right arm hung twisted downwards as if Amen wanted to touch the ground. Farin was struck by the two glittering rings on his fingers.

  His morning routine always led him to the stream. Once there he would piss against his favourite beech tree, then he would wash his torso, face and shirt, and clean his teeth as usual.

  Why actually? There hadn’t been much to chew yesterday.

  He urgently needed to get his thoughts in order. What had really happened the previous day, what had he imagined, what had he dreamed? He studied his image intently in the stream. A young man with high cheekbones, round eyes and sharp teeth was examining him studiously. Should he smile at him? Naw, better not, he wouldn’t be able to bear it if he didn’t smile back. But he could talk to his mirror image – he mustered up all his courage. "Are you still living in my head, you whoever-or-whatever-you-are?"

  Silence – the best answer of all. He must have imagined that bit, especially as the amulet wasn’t lying somewhere deep in the Cleft but was still hanging around his neck.

  Halfway reassured Farin stood up from the water’s edge and trotted back home. Doubts were still gnawing at him – was the incident on the plateau nothing more than a figment of his imagination? Even if that were the case, it didn’t bode well for his state of mind.

  Getting Pater Amen ready for a decent funeral was going to take him half the day. Before he started there was breakfast – two chunks of old bread and a sliver of old bacon, as wide as his little finger. Farin thought over what he should do as he chewed. The biggest problem facing him was the open skull – nobody likes having their heads looked into, especially not when everyone is standing around you.

  His father came shuffling out of the cottage with his usual hangover and held his hand over his eyes to protect them from the blinding daylight. He joined Farin at the workbench and commented expertly on Amen’s condition: "Nice mess."

  "We’re going to need a headpiece," said Farin.

  "Hm!" The gravedigger stepped towards his son. "I’ll bring his tasselled hat later, the one he often used when he was giving sermons."

  A surprisingly constructive idea – his old man’s day had clearly got off to a good start. Farin felt emboldened to share his thoughts with his father. "I…I had wild dreams. Of a strange voice in my head, yesterday on the Anvil plateau. A mean, nasty…"

  "You should have gone and got the shovel and not climbed up the mountain. What did you want up there? Do what you’re told and then nothing like that will happen."

  The old gravedigger continued in a more conciliatory tone: "Don’t worry about it. I experience the same thing every night when I’m coming home from Georig’s." his father laughed wheezily. "Don’t talk now but get down to work. We’ll take the coarse flax yarn for sewing up the chest, nothing else is strong enough. We’ll do it together, because one of us is going to have to hold the abdominal wall together."

  "Yes, father. We also need to stabilise the neck and head before we sew up the cut on his throat."

  "Right. It won’t be nice if he loses his head in the middle of the funeral ceremony." Father rummaged through the firewood and pulled out a stick almost half a yard long. "We’ll stick that into his gullet with a nail as a barbed hook at the top."

  "Why was he so brutally mauled?"

  "Son, don’t you worry about that. The priest died because his heart stopped. Full stop! Our guild isn’t interested in anything else. If somebody wants to clear up what happened, be my guest. We, on the other hand, don’t uncover. Quite the contrary, we cover up and put them under the earth." His short laugh turned into a long coughing episode. The gravedigger soothed his throat with a draught of water. "I’ll be going to Georig’s later anyway, then I’ll bring the shovel back."

  Farin was almost suspicious of all this understanding and willingness to help coming from his old man. Would today actually turn out to be halfway peaceable for a change?

  "Come on, now, we have to stitch him up before washing him." The gravedigger gathered up the requisite utensils.

  Father and son spent the whole morning preparing the body of the priest for burial. It took a masterful performance to get him looking reasonably presentable again. The gravedigger even whistled a song as he worked away. They had the donkey work done by midday. Washing and make-up were left to do. Amen lay peacefully on the work bench, his double chin alone pushed his mouth shut, his hands lay prayerfully on his chest. A golden ring glistened merrily. Only one? Farin sucked at his upper lip. Where was the other one? He squinted over at his cheerful father.

  "Where’s the other ring?" Farin asked forcefully.

  If he’d expected his father to feign ignorance, he was to be sorely disappointed. "Don’t go on as if you don’t know full well. We’ll be able to live well off it for six weeks. At least."

  You can booze well of it for six weeks, thought Farin. He wondered why he was disappointed in his father – after all, it was far from the first time.

  "Nobody’s going to notice", snorted the gravedigger.

  "Apart from the fact that even the alderman can count to two, it’s not a question of whether anyone will notice it or not. It’s not…right, it’s theft. They can chop off your hand for that, father."

  "Now don’t you take the high moral ground, Your Majesty. What do you mean by talking to me like that? It doesn’t suit you. You’re a nothing, just like me."

  "Put the ring back on him."

  "Since when do you boss me around? I will in my arse. We need the money to live, to feed and dress ourselves. It’s late autumn now and you’re still running around in bare feet. I’m buying us boots tomorrow at the market, and that’ll be the end of our money. Then we’ll need to stock up our coffers. Get that into your thick skull."

  Pointless. Of course, Farin was in urgent need of boots and a fur coat. Still, he refused to become a thief in the process. He turned away with a sigh, a gesture that clearly provoked his f
ather. "You think you’re something better, don’t you? Listen to me: You’re a gravedigger and nothing else. Nobody in the village gives a toss about you, just like me. Just do your work." With a fierce look he pointed at Amen and then disappeared into the hut, only to come out a moment later. "I’m going into the village. I’ll collect the body with the alderman’s horse and cart in the late afternoon. He’d better look alive by then. Preferably very alive."

  Farin didn’t utter a word.

  "He just has to be washed still", his father opined patronisingly. A short time later and he’d disappeared around the bend in the path.

  Well, hallelujah. Just has to be washed…

  Farin examined the body with furrowed brows. The face was barely recognisable with the sheer volume of dried blood, cerebral matter and dirt. Not a shred of naked skin on the body; arms and legs that didn’t look like arms and legs. Farin decided to collect two buckets of water from the stream first and trotted listlessly to his favourite place. This time, however, he couldn’t bring himself to enjoy it. He knelt down, filled the buckets and then slowly carried the heavy loads back towards the yard.

  Life consists of nothing but lugging things.

  Halfway back he put down the buckets with a groan; exhaustion was threatening to overcome him.

  You can’t go on like this, he scolded himself. It’s all a matter of attitude, he encouraged himself. He forced his back into action, still weary from its exertions of yesterday.

  I’m not hauling, I’m carrying, he comforted himself. Now just deal professionally with Amen and then you can have a rest.

  Filled with fresh joie-de vivre, he bent down to the water buckets and as if by a miracle they actually felt a little lighter.

  And I’ll get more muscles this way, he thought, sugar-coating his situation even more.

  Reaching the shed, the gravedigger’s son put the water down in front of the workbench. He heard hooves in the distance. Were the alderman and his father coming already? No, he heard the galloping hooves of a few horses approaching. His experiences over the last few days, not to mention the dormant fears within him enabled Farin to act without giving things too much thought. He ducked down, crawled on all fours under the workbench and waited. From where he was, he had a good view of the yard, at least up to knee-high. Three riders came into view as they brought their horses to a stop. Two of them jumped off, and four legs stretched and shook themselves off. They clearly had a long ride behind them.

  "Anyone home?" a voice called out.

  What do they want in our yard? Maybe just to place an order?

  The two men in brown leather trousers stepped towards the shed.

  "HELLO! Gravedigger!"

  Farin didn’t recognise the voice. What now?

  Act like a man, crawl out from under the workbench and enquire after the gentlemen’s wishes.

  Embarrassing – how was he going to explain why he’d crawled into a hole like…like a mole.

  The third rider dismounted his horse, so that Farin could see his black leathered legs. His black cloak didn’t completely hide them.

  It became just as black in front of Farin’s eyes. Please no! Could that be the raven? He felt a rising sense of panic. If so, why exactly did the murderer come to their yard? They wanted to collect him, just like Pater Amen.

  Stay calm, Farin. Black trousers aren’t that rare. Maybe it isn’t the raven at all.

  He was filled with hope.

  The dark legs came directly towards him. The scabbard of his dagger clattered against the edge of the workbench.

  "The fat priest is really lying here. They found him faster than we expected."

  His hope evaporated. Leave naïve hoping well alone in future, he scolded himself.

  The unmistakable smell of soot and scorched earth filled the gravedigger’s son’s nostrils. If he stretched out his hand, he’d be able to touch the man’s feet.

  "The man of the cloth knew nothing and wasn’t carrying anything in him. Either the alderman or the gravedigger’s son must have the object of desire", the voice wheezed, "either through the medium or already in the body."

  What in the name of all that was holy did "object of desire" mean?

  "Why must? Couldn’t it be anywhere?" asked one of his companions.

  "Only three people had contact with Gerlunda’s body after her regrettable demise: the priest, the alderman and the gravedigger’s son."

  "And what about you?"

  The raven laughed humourlessly. "Yes, me too, it was me who strangled her after all." The hoarse voice became more aggressive. "Only I don’t have it, you moron. Because if that were the case, we’d possess it now and we wouldn’t have to be looking for it."

  This clearly enlightened the moron.

  The gravedigger’s son could make out the sound of hands being rubbed together. "We’ll take a closer look at the alderman and the gravedigger’s son then."

  "We will indeed!" answered the raven. "More at their inside than their outside."

  Sweat was dripping from Farin’s forehead, his whole body itched. If they caught him now, they’d open up his head and slit open his chest and stomach – while he was living – he could feel it already.

  Oh God, please make the murderers go away. Preferably, without looking under the workbench first.

  God? God yet again? Whining and whimpering. If only you’d jumped, you worm.

  The terrible shock caused Farin to flinch, almost slamming his head off the underside of the workbench. His head was booming appropriately. The loud voice had surely revealed him.

  The six legs carried on as if they’d heard nothing.

  They haven’t heard anything, so the voice is only in my head, Farin clarified to himself. The voice! No! Yes! It’s there again! At this impossible time. I have the choice: go mad or die.

  "You look in the house! According to my information the old man goes into the village in order to booze at this time; his son must be hiding here somewhere," opined the raven.

  Two legs disappeared in the direction of the cottage.

  They’re going to slice me open, they’re going to slice me open, hammered in Farin’s head.

  Pshaw! Stop taking yourself so seriously! The slicers are only doing that because they want me.

  Oh, right. Well then.

  Is the voice able to read my thoughts?

  That had never occurred to Farin up on the plateau.

  Only when you’re in a panic and are thinking particularly loudly and slowly. So, almost always. A merry grunting laugh followed.

  I’m allowed to panic a little when I’m in fear for my life, explained Farin to himself as quietly and as unobtrusively as he could.

  "Two years it’s taken us to track down this witch, Gerlunda. This time we have to get hold of it – once we have it, our rage will be boundless and our cult unconquerable. You’ve seen what the unutterable is capable of. Imagine what both daemons together can achieve."

  Did he really say, "the unutterable’?

  Be quiet, voice! Farin pressed his shaking body against the wall behind him, his fear of being caught nibbling away at every bone in his body like a worm nibbles its way through an apple. Hm, he should really cross the word "worm" out of his vocabulary.

  The third man stepped out of the hut. "Looks like a pigsty in there, but there’s no pig in there. I’ll go look in the privy."

  The legs disappeared again. "No-one here!" shouted a voice in the distance.

  The raven ground his teeth: "My instinct is telling me that the gravedigger’s son knows more than he let on. And this more will help us significantly."

  Can that really be true? The unutterable is here? rumbled in his head.

  Be quiet, thought Farin loudly. He kept feeling the whole world could hear the voice.

  "Should we go check out the alderman?" suggested the third chap.

  "I think we’ll deal with the gravedigger’s son first. Pity we missed him. You realise we have to be careful for the time being and we shou
ld avoid attracting too much attention. Emicho turned up here a few days ago."

  "So what? What’s so special about this Emicho?"

  The raven responded impatiently. "The fact that nothing is special about him. A man of his abilities should have become principal knight a long time ago. He isn’t though, and that’s what makes him dangerous."

  "Don’t get you."

  The raven’s voice lost its hoarseness and cracked like a whip. "Which is why I do the understanding. And the thinking. We’ll pull back for a few days, especially as I’ll involve the boss. We’ll nick this little snip of a delver eventually. Right then, off to Hubstone!"

  The black leather-legs returned to their hooved four-legger and disappeared. The two other men mounted their horses too and galloped away.

  Farin remained frozen under the workbench as if dead, although silence had been reigning for some time now.

  Are you going to stay lying here to the end of your days?

  Beat by beat his heartrate slowly returned to normal. The men were hunting the object of desire. And that was to be found in his head. But why?

  "What will happen if I give them the amulet? Will they leave me in peace afterwards?" he whispered.

  That won’t satisfy them, they want me. The amulet is only my medium. They’ll rummage around in little Farin in order to be sure.

  "I don’t understand a word. Why would they do all that?

  Because I’m inside you, pure and simple. You needn’t worry – they’re going to frisk you and turn you on your head, before opening you up.

  "If I give them the good-for-nothing piece of jewellery, I won’t have anything left expect empty pockets. What are they hoping to find?

  Are you really that stupid? They’re going to search through your head and the inside of your body. After which you’ll resemble the fat one lying over us, before your father and you sewed him up. The voice chuckled cheerfully.

  "I thought you’d gone. I’m going completely mad."

  Farin would only too happily follow the voice’s advice and stay lying here for the rest of his days. Why should he bother coming out into all this shit?

  Every worm crawls out of his hole sometime.