The Gravedigger’s Son and the Waif Girl 1

by Sam Feuerbach

  "Rubbish!" Farin leaped up and hopped scornfully here and there. "Who are you? What do you want?"

  The laughter reverberated between his ears. Then there was silence. Farin too kept his mouth shut – he no longer wanted to talk, wanted to hear neither insults nor lectures. He walked quickly into the hut and examined the oven. He couldn’t see the amulet among the embers – had it melted perhaps? He couldn’t make out any remnants of metal – had it really penetrated inside him? The voice’s observations sounded convincing. They explained the sudden appearance of the piece of jewellery on the preparer of poison’s chest. It had been in her body, in some form or other. And the raven and his two friends had simply slit open Gerlunda and Pater Amen in their quest to find it.

  How were things to go on? He squeezed his hands into fists. I’m not going to give up. Hundred years old, yes sire! I have to find out more about this chimera. About daemons, evil spirits, black magic.

  the sea

  L ying prone on a little jetty, Aross enjoyed the gentle lapping of the waves. Hubstone was somewhat quieter during the late afternoons, especially towards the rear of the harbour where only rowing boats and small single masters were moored. Lost in thought, she held her right hand in the seawater and tickled it with her fingers – caressing it almost tenderly. The saltwater thanked her with its healing powers. The wounds hadn’t become infected, the swellings had gone down, and no bones seemed to have been broken. The dear old torturer must have stopped beating her once Aross had lost consciousness. Clearly, the matron took less pleasure out of tearing strips off an insensible girl.

  Twenty of the best with number five is close enough to butchery, thought Aross as she continued to move her hand in the water. Her forefinger hurt particularly badly – she couldn’t bend it fully yet.

  Dear day, let’s call a truce for a short while.

  For the past while Aross had gone out of her way to avoid beatings. Stolen no food, given no smart answers, performed all her chores dutifully and not scuffled or argued with the other children. Dead boring, then.

  Pure survival instincts had determined Aross’s actions ever since she’d become acquainted with the ecstatic, lecherous look in the matron’s eyes. The woman would thrash her to death some day. As tragic as it was traumatic, nobody would be particularly concerned. One waif girl less in the world. So what? Jennie and Mattilda had disappeared too. So what? Aross had searched the harbour, especially pier four, in vain every day.

  She drew her hand out of the water with a sigh and dried it off on her linen dress. She had to go back to the orphanage. Today it was her turn to serve at table, it would be wise not to be late.

  Even at some remove, when she saw the grey silhouette in the distance, she sensed that something was wrong. True, the silhouette was always grey, even in the bright spring sunshine, but today the grey was swallowing everything good – venomous and vindictive it lay in wait like a snake before its lethal lunge. Aross approached carefully, looking all around her as well as up and down, because the unease was pressing in on her from all sides.

  What was wrong?

  The sun was already sinking behind the horizon – was that why the shadows seemed endlessly long to her? As if being drawn by a string, the first thing she did was look in the chicken coop, just a quick glance. She smelled it, heard it before she saw it. Her eyes misted over with tears. It took her a moment to fully comprehend what she was looking at.

  Wolf was lying in his usual place in the corner. Normally a rusty, three-pronged pitchfork hung on the wall opposite. But not today. The fork was stuck into the body of the dog, so deeply that the animal was skewered right through. His tongue was lolling, and his eyes bulged in their sockets. Fat flies were buzzing and scrabbling everywhere. Everything smelled of blood and wickedness.

  Aross staggered. Who could do something like that? The answer came to her, short and simple: Grim.

  The girl wiped a solitary tear from her cheek with her sleeve. Only one – what good was this shitty sobbing anyway? It never changed a single thing.

  She ruffled the dog’s fur one last time. You never bit, Wolf. Now you’ll never even wag your tail again.

  Noises from outside the barn.

  "There she is! She just stabbed the poor dog to death!"

  The words echoed across the yard. Aross couldn’t make sense of it but it sounded like Grim’s voice. Rage and pain made her feel sluggish, her head had the same jellyfish texture as the orphanage gruel.

  Grim stormed into the barn, followed by the matron. "The poor animal never did anyone a bit of harm!" The unhappy lad struggled to fight back the tears. "Why did you kill him, Aross?" he sobbed. His chest was heaving with anguish.

  "You’re going to pay for this, rat!" The matron waited for neither an explanation nor an answer. She started laying into Aross with a cane like someone possessed. With number five!

  The girl held her arms protectively over her head and cried out: "IT WASN’T ME! I’d never ever hurt Wolf!"

  "And she’s lying!" called out Grim, outraged. "I saw it with my own eyes, how she…with the pitchfork…" Now round tears were really rolling down the boy’s round cheeks.

  Stunned, Aross realised that she’d lost already, she just didn’t want to believe it. Lost comprehensively.

  "Admit it at least, Aross." Grim was bending down towards her. And with a furtive wink and a grin, which only she could see, he confirmed to her the nature of her total defeat.

  The matron believed what she wanted to believe, and Grim had done the groundwork for her. The cane whipped through the air, catching her with a zing on her throat, on her ear, on her temple. So this is the day, then. The matron is going to beat me to death. I have to save myself. I have to escape!

  Aross scrambled to the ladder up to the hayloft. Clamber up, then over the roof, onto the beech tree and run away. Only death awaited her in the orphanage. She had to do it. It wasn’t far. Two paces exactly. But, to her misfortune, the damned Grim had anticipated her move. Crocodile tears dry quickly. Just as she was about to grasp the ladder, Grim grabbed her right wrist. "You’re not going to just run away. First, you’re going to get your rightful punishment, you animal torturer."

  How had she got herself into such a hopeless situation? Very simple – she’d made a simple, naïve mistake – she’d underestimated Grim. The boy’s fear of her had only made him more dangerous, more unscrupulous and deceitful. He was getting his revenge so rigorously and systematically that she would never hit back again – and that was by destroying her.

  He held Aross firmly in his vice-like grip while the matron laid into her, her eyes sparkling. A lascivious expression played around her mouth. Aross collapsed helplessly at the foot of the ladder and curled into a ball. Grim let go of her wrist – there was no more possibility of escape. She shielded her face with both arms, but what was the point in that? Her body provided enough surface for assaulting, beating and whipping, ensuring that number five always found its target.

  She didn’t scream – pressed her teeth and lips together. Not a sound. Out of the corner of her eye Aross saw the cane, glowing hot. Everything hurt, but not so badly as a few days earlier in the matron’s room. Clearly her torturer wasn’t hitting quite so hard so that Aross wouldn’t lose consciousness, and the enjoyment of all involved would last longer. Or maybe it was simply that Aross was coming to terms with her life ending shortly.

  Congratulations, day. You’ve had your victory. Once and for all.

  The long cane continued whipping Aross. It almost smashed her forearm.

  Not a word!

  "Harder!" called Grim, merrily.

  Thirteen strikes to kill a rat. How many then for a queen?

  Suddenly she shrieked. Shrilly and hysterically.

  It took all her final strength for Aross to pose the question. Had she really fulfilled her torturer’s desire and screamed? No, she hadn’t! Only now did the penny drop.

  It wasn’t Aross who was screaming, but the matron. And her screami
ng had turned into a bestial shriek. The blows stopped. Aross could only see out of one eye – her other socket was full of blood. She sensed it. A thousand little feet were scrabbling over her body, over the ground, over the hay. Yellow teeth were attacking the matron from all sides. Rats, countless rats. They disappeared under her long skirt, ran up her legs, over her stomach, onto her shoulders. And yet more rats. One of them jumped down from the hayloft directly into her hair.

  "GET AWAY! MAKE THEM STOP, AROSS!"

  The rats were biting and biting! They were really good at doing that – after all, their teeth could nibble their way through wood, stone and even metal. And the rats knew that their teeth, unlike people’s, grew back again. Which was why they bit unscrupulously, recklessly and mercilessly, although it had to be said that the soft matron-flesh really didn’t present much of a challenge.

  "AROSS, IT WAS ME THAT RAISED YOU! I LIKE YOU VERY MUCH! MERCYYYYY"

  Wow – all of a sudden.

  Aross had never heard such sounds before. Cracking, gnawing and nibbling on all sides. She didn’t avert her eyes – calmly observed the proceedings. The matron’s screams grew louder and higher.

  "NOOOOOooo!" The voice died away with a gurgle.

  Trying to hit the rats in her panic, she was whipping herself with cane number five – on her head, her arm, her chest. Blood ran down her face and saturated her skirt. The rats ran over the body of the girl again and again, but she wasn’t bitten. Aross sat herself up with a groan and leaned against the ladder. Grim stood stock-still beside her. A look of horror had spread across his face, his eyes were threatening to fall out of their sockets. Then Grim simply fell over, just as Aross had done in the matron’s room during the last flogging. The rats spared him too, they were only interested in the matron. The woman wasn’t defending herself anymore but now she was clawing with both hands at a rung of the ladder. Her knees gave way, her legs hit the floor, her head cracking against one of the ladder rails. The next instant her tormentor was buried under a sea of rats. A deluge of pink feet, long tails and yellow teeth. The sea became red, the little feet and the tails became red, the ground became red. The matron’s puddle of blood intermingled with that of Wolf. Thousands of teeth tore the woman to ribbons, even partially gorging on her.

  A few minutes later and it was all over, the rats disappearing as fast as they had arrived. Aross was still sitting with her back against the ladder, groaning and observing the mess in front of her. It was almost impossible to distinguish clothing from human flesh; bloody bones were jutting in every direction. The matron’s face was completely gone, and enormous holes gaped on her arms. Cane number five lay beside her right hand, which was missing two fingers.

  Aross had outlived the matron, at least for the moment. Laboriously getting up onto her legs, her back against the ladder, she slowly pressed herself up, rung by rung. Grim lay on the ground, unscathed and motionless.

  This swine is to blame for everything, which is why I’m going to kill him now, thought Aross.

  She looked at the three-pronged pitchfork in Wolf’s body. Then she wearily shook her head. However much she hated the lying coward, she’d never be able to bring herself to finish him off, to simply skewer him to death. The soles of her feet were sticky, blood was lapping against her toes.

  "What happened? Matron?" one of the other orphan children called from outside.

  What now? She couldn’t stay here. She listened in to her battered body. Nothing seemed to be broken though her skin was split in many places; there were bloody wounds in her head, but her legs were managing – she could stand. She was being drawn to the sea. What had helped her hand would also help the rest of her body. She limped laboriously out of the barn. Some of the orphan children were standing outside the house, having been attracted by the matron’s screams.

  One of the two serving maids called out: ’Aross, what’s been going on?"

  The queen of the rats didn’t respond but left the orphanage yard. Nobody stopped her. She wanted to run. Rats always ran, but the pain in her legs and her muscles wouldn’t let her. Step by step, more dragging than limping, she neared the harbour. Some figures looked at her in the semi-darkness with furrowed brows before quickly turning their heads away. People had their own worries in the old town. They probably thought she was a whore whose protector had "motivated" her, and nobody interfered in such a case. Best never to tangle with the turners and the reapers.

  It took her an eternity before she reached the sea even though she hadn’t taken the detour this time but the direct route to the shore. Racked with pain, she pulled her long linen dress over her head, laid it on a stone and waded up to her knees into the cold water. Subdued by the jetty, the sea only lapped the shore with small waves. Aross went in deeper, step by step, her skin was burning all over her body. She imagined she was stepping into a magic pool with tremendous healing powers. Her body was standing in flames, and despite the cold water, she felt herself to be sweating as she never had before. After a short time, the burning eased off, and she carefully washed the blood from her face, as well as her arms and legs. She could hardly recognise the wounds on her body in the semi-darkness – nevertheless, it was dawning on her that she had been lucky.

  Is that how I should describe it? Lucky? Lucky that my life goes on?

  "Yes, I was lucky!" she called out to the waves, making her hand into a fist while ignoring the pain in her forefinger. At that same moment something occurred to her. Something that she’d forgotten long ago because she’d wanted to forget it. She dallied in the sea. The words of Shewhoknows lapped in her mind like waves: "You bite and bite. Then I will ensure that you think of me in your hour of greatest need on the day of the thousand bites. I can only help you once, and then you are on your own. Remember everything we have spoken about."

  The old woman hadn’t been totally mad. How could she have known that? And what sort of protective magic had she put into effect? Crazy that the matron was dead and Aross was still alive. No longer did she want to suppress her meeting with the old woman. She rummaged around in her memory furiously. What else had Shewhoknows said? Aross waded carefully back to the shore and sat down on a rock. She wrapped her arms around her knees – she was hardly aware of her shivering and her pain, she was wallowing so much in the old woman’s metaforces.

  "Listen out for the witch’s peal, then you’ll understand that the time is right", she remembered that much, but where was the connection? And what had she said about teeth? And she’d mentioned a bone reader! Whatever that was supposed to mean.

  Aross slipped her grey dress over her head with a groan. Actually, calling the tattered piece of linen a dress was being flattering, but it was all she had.

  "Dear sea, thank you for your help!" she called out. Her skin was still burning a little, but she was feeling much better. She’d wash out the bloodstains on her dress tomorrow. The way things were looking, there would be a tomorrow for the rat girl. A new day she would cannon into and fight her way through. The next thing she needed was a place to sleep. The orphanage was out of the question; the town watch would be investigating the events – the matron was not a nobody after all and the circumstances of her death were suspicious. What was Grim going to tell them? Nobody would believe him that Aross had called a thousand rats to protect her against the matron.

  The girl knew under which bridge most of the Hubstone vagrants slept. That’s where she’d go and think over her next steps – in peace and quiet.

  white and red

  T he day began with getting up, going to the stream, washing. Same old, same old. Mind you, there was no voice harassing him – Farin was alone with his cares.

  Just don’t get agitated, and think quietly, he thought to himself. Just don’t wake any slumbering spirits. Just wait and see what the day brings, is my motto for today.

  Uneasily at ease he sat opposite his father at the table in the cottage and chewed on a piece of old bread. "The blacksmith could forge swords from this bread."


  His father looked up. "Just say, we need fresh bread, lad."

  With his mouth full of spittle to soften the crust, Farin refrained from commenting further. It took a while before he managed to swallow it without breaking a tooth. An idea bubbled to the surface. "Father, where’s the nearest library?"

  "What? What’s that?"

  "A room with an awful lot of books."

  "Don’t be cheeky! I know what a library is, boy. But what do you want to do there?"

  "Read books."

  "What a load of crap! People don’t need that. Look at me."

  Oh, right. Best not say anything, Farin.

  "I can’t even read," wheezed the gravedigger, and even managed to sound proud as he spoke.

  "Do you know the answer to my question?"

  The gravedigger scratched his stubble, reminding Farin of the noises in the sawmill. "There’s supposed to be a big library in Hubstone – your mother mentioned it once."

  "Have you never been to Hubstone?"

  "Naw, why would I bother? It’s far too far away, right down south. Here will do just fine."

  Oh, right. Best not say anything, Farin.

  "That’s enough talk, we need bread and cheese, milk from the goat farmer, and a knuckle of ham wouldn’t be bad either," said the gravedigger.

  That sounded very promising. Even just the sound of the words made Farin’s mouth water, which also helped the bread move along down his gullet and into his stomach without causing any long-term damage.

  Father untied his threadbare moneybag and laboriously rooted around in it. "Here, six coppers, that should do you."

  Farin stretched out his hand and took the coins. "I’ll head off now, father." A slight hesitation before he asked his next question: "Do you know what a chimera is?"

  The gravedigger shook his head wearily. "What sort of questions are you asking at all?" He raised his right forefinger. "Ah! You mean a kind of a mare? Of course I know what that is! It’s an old nag, like the rickety one belonging to the alderman."