Whether he wanted to or not, Farin had to admit that the chimera had saved more than his teeth.
How about a "thank you’? That would do me for starters.
"Thank you. But that’s all. I still can’t stand you because this body belongs to me – to me alone. There’s something sinister about you, so I think you should scarper now, preferably for ever."
Farin’s episode with the ropemaker’s dog fitted in with this description. Of course – Growler had sensed the change in him and had expressed what he thought of it in no uncertain terms. "Not even Growler likes you, he almost bit me – no, you. Because you’re disgusting."
Dogs traditionally don’t like daemons, except hellhounds, of course.
"I never know when you’re being serious or when you’re being sarcastic. But I definitely notice when you’re being mean because you’re like that all the time."
Neither of them spoke for a long time. The gurgling of the stream soothed Farin. His thoughts settled down. "Now tell me who you are."
No answer. Farin couldn’t sense a presence – he was beginning to develop a feel for when the voice was moving in his spirit without saying anything, or when it had disappeared. Things were becoming weirder all the time. With the basket in his hand he stood up from the rock and headed for the market. He wanted to re- run his errands before Peat and his four friends had dragged themselves back to Heap.
The baker gave only a brief quizzical look before she sold him more bread, which he stuffed into his basket. He bought a new clay jug from the farmer with the goat’s milk, and then had it filled. On his way back from Heap to the gravedigger’s cottage he stopped at the exact point where the four morons had ambushed him. How had he defeated the four men using so few movements? Confused, he continued on his way with his laden basket. He just wanted to go home, no matter how dilapidated and squalid the cottage was. And apart from that he was really looking forward to the meal, for such a feast was a rare occurrence. When he arrived at the gravedigger’s, he unpacked the goods, filled a cup with goat’s milk and swallowed it down in deep draughts.
His father stood near him and looked at him sceptically. "What happened to your ear?" And your forehead? Don’t tell me you fell again?"
"Not worth talking about. I’m fine."
"Hm!" The old man took a loaf of bread and broke off a piece. "Why did it take you so long?"
"Peat and his friends held me up."
"Don’t tangle with them. Just run away."
"Easier said than…"
The gravedigger roared: "LISTEN TO ME! Run away! That’s the only thing that works against them!"
"Wise words. I’ll do that, father."
"Good!" The old man calmed down. "I’m going to the tavern now."
Oh, right.
"It’s Georig’s birthday today, so it’ll be on the house. He’s paying for the first three rounds." The gravedigger puckered his lips in joyful anticipation of the liquid refreshments and left the cottage.
It took a while for Farin to realise he was alone. And he realised quickly that he didn’t want to be alone. Should he follow his father? Peat and his cronies rarely set foot in "The Warm Beer", so that wasn’t an impediment. Still, he put off the decision until later and bit heartily into the fresh bread. The cheerful chewing clearly inspired his decision-making abilities and he decided to follow his father to the tavern. What was the point of sitting around here, thinking unpleasant thoughts about chimeras and murderous men in black?
The sign on the wall outside the tavern squeaked invitingly. Although it was still early afternoon, he could hear the sound of laughing voices before he opened the door. The gravedigger was sitting at his traditional table directly at the entrance – literally, on the margins of society. Farin’s heart was sore to see the old man sitting so alone while only a couple of yards away the merrymaking was in full swing. He nodded silently to his father in greeting. He sat down opposite him.
"You didn’t get a beer yet, father?"
"Look after your own beer, son."
Farin looked over at the innkeeper sourly, who was drinking and joking with the locals in the main taproom and clearly didn’t give a tinker’s curse for his gravedigger guests. Just as Farin was about to stand and give him a piece of his mind, Georig came over and planted two tankards of beer in front of their noses.
"Felicitations on your birthday," said father.
"Best wishes on your birthday from me too. May your beer never be cold," said Farin in congratulation.
The innkeeper considered for a moment. "Thanks, should I take the beers with me again?"
"Don’t you dare!" Father smirked and held onto his tankard firmly with both hands, throwing his son a reproachful look. Drinking was no laughing matter for him, especially as he had drunk away most of his pride already.
Georig nodded to them both and disappeared behind the counter. The tavern was filling all the time with villagers – both men and women. The company struck up a song, and of course it could only be "The Wise Pipe Smoker". The text wasn’t wise at all, so asinine in fact that Farin had forgotten it completely. Unfortunately, the singers brought it screeching back to life.
"Our life is just a joke
Without our pipes to smoke."
Torture! It was a matter worthy of the king’s clemency! He leaned back and imagined somebody else, whose lips might not only close in on his mouth but also close his ears. The door opened, and Annietta stepped in! Beaming sunshine. Farin stared at her yellow linen top. She’d tied it at her waist, highlighting her shape. A white undergarment peeked out at her feet. Her long hair tied into a plait made her look as she had years before. Like the girl Farin had rescued from the dragon. Her eyes searched the room – presumably she was looking for Blossak. Farin knew he wasn’t present. His heart was hammering like the knight at the tavern door. Annietta was almost beside him at the door. At which point her eyes fell on the table of the untouchables.
He just blurted it out: "Bloss isn’t here, Annietta."
She looked at him in shock. "How do you know I’m looking for him? Did he tell you we’d had a row?"
Ten thoughts, a hundred words, a thousand emotions, and ten thousand times helplessness.
I wanted her attention. And now? How should I answer her?
In order to say anything at all, he started: I…um…err." Instead of sounding manly and seductive, his voice squeaked. Instantly, he realised his contribution hadn’t sounded fully convincing and so he swiftly upped the ante. "I…I haven’t seen him since Pater Amen’s burial."
"How do you know about us?" she whispered, coming very close to him in the process. She smelled of flowers, of womanhood, of secrecy, of seduction – even better than fresh bread.
If the man in black doesn’t manage it, this woman is going to kill me, thought Farin.
He pressed his hands on his thighs to stop his shaking, there were a thousand butterflies in his stomach.
Is our worm flustered? Or even excited? It was laughing in his head. She asked you how you know about her hanky-panky with this Blossak. You’d better answer.
Of course – he was excited, differently to when he was in mortal danger, but certainly enough for the obnoxious chimera to make an appearance.
Farin concentrated. "Bloss and I…we’re good friends. He told me everything."
Stunning answer. She’ll investigate that the next time she meets Blossak, and then you’ll be left standing there as a pathetic liar.
Indeed, Annietta didn’t seem completely convinced. "Really? Are you sure about that?" Her eyebrows went up, her eyelashes closed once, then rose again, it felt like a slap and a caress, bowling him over.
"Err…um", said Farin, trying to sound casual.
"Should we go outside?" asked Annietta, glancing quickly at the gravedigger.
What a stroke of luck. She interpreted his taciturnity on the presence of his father, who was hearing everything although not showing much interest in the conversation.
"The t
wo of us alone…outside?" His voice was shaking. He could hardly believe it.
She placed her hands on her hips. "Don’t be afraid. I’m not going to do anything to you. And if a dragon appears, I’ll defend you."
After hearing these words all his blood rushed up to his head as if on command. How could a grown man blush so deeply?
Most beloved. A glow-worm!
That was all he needed! How was he going to deal with the chimera while at the same time paying appropriate attention to Annietta?
Stand up, anyway, Farin.
Politeness had called for that long ago. Success – he managed to get up out of his chair without further embarrassment. Annietta opened the door, and Farin followed her out. Just at the right time too, because tolerating the singing required immeasurable fortitude.
"Our life is just a joke
Without our pipes to smoke."
The closing door partially dampened the racket.
"So, what did Blossak tell you?" She tapped her foot lightly.
"He…well, he didn’t tell me directly. I saw you in the graveyard at Amen’s burial. And…then I knew."
Annietta smiled as crookedly as the song in the tavern. "That’s the way, then! And what business is it of yours?"
Now! Show interest in her. Ask her who taught her how to dance. Then, why she fought with Blossak. Tell her that her charm is beguiling you…
"Sorry! None of my business." He lowered his eyes.
Oh boy oh boy! It chuckled with laughter in his head, as if he had an attack of hiccups.
"Farin, is there anything else you want to tell me?"
Had she really said Farin? His name had never sounded so nice before.
Come on! She’s giving you a second chance only she doesn’t know it.
"I…I’d like to ask you out."
A bit better, but hell, worm, you’re shooting for the moon with that one, sighed the voice.
Clearly Annietta was of the same opinion, for she whispered: "You…you are the gravedigger’s son…"
Oh, I see, said the voice, followed by a hiccup.
Annietta looked even more beautiful perturbed. What should he do now? "I…I…" The blood collected in his head again. He could find no words, could barely breathe.
The delicacy and grace of her face would have taken any dragon’s breath away. She needed no knight to save her with his sword Windswipe.
She clearly saw things the same way. "I can’t go out with you. If my father catches me with you…" Her tone of voice sounded snippy, which didn’t however take from the gentleness in her eyes. "We’ve been standing out here long enough. I have to go, Farin."
She turned, twisting elegantly, the movement reminding Farin of her dance at the midsummer festival. Without dignifying him with another look, she whooshed away.
What remained was a whiff of her and a whiff of lonely Farin. The sign for "The Warm Beer" above his head squeaked rhythmically in time to the snatches of song.
The voice in his head clicked its tongue. It sounded like the slapping of a flat hand on a forehead. I can’t tell you why, but she likes you. And I understand something of women. But you missed your chance.
"Shut your trap!"
The sun sank, all hope sank, the world sank. Unable to move, Farin started reproaching himself. All the things he could have said. All the things he shouldn’t have said. Five extraordinarily heavy words weighed him down like a millstone around a neck. "You are the gravedigger’s son!" Still, she had called him Farin in the end.
Accept the seal on your fate, gravedigger’s son.
Stuff and nonsense! Seals are there to be broken. Fate is its own most terrible enemy – it always wants to be fought against. Otherwise, everything that could happen would be fate. Just a shrug of the shoulders, an excuse of the weary, the inflexible, the cowardly. Listen to me and never bother me again with your fate!
"Fate, fate, fate", murmured Farin.
You’ve persuaded me, worm. Climb up on your Anvil and jump at last.
A lake of sadness and Farin was swimming in the middle of it. Masses of water were crashing above his head. Why was he what he was and not who he was? He didn’t have the strength to step back into the tavern and let his father know. It took him over two hours to get back to the cottage, on account of his tired shuffling. The chimera left him alone, a peculiar day was coming to a close.
Exhausted, Farin lay on his straw mat in the corner. The moonlight shining in was as cold as this world. He closed one eye tightly – a vain attempt to make it look only half so bad. It was pointless.
Close the other eye as quickly as you can.
turnips
T he first frost came in the night. It liked to slink in under cover of darkness, surprising the people in the early morning with its wrathful biting. The smell of burnt wood tickled Farin’s nostrils when he awoke. Father had already lit a fire in the oven, something he only did when the cold unapologetically demanded it.
Farin shed no tears when winter broke. On the contrary, he loved it when his breath puffed forth white dragon-fire in the cold air. He loved it when the great lake froze over so that he could skate across the ice. And he was also hoping he might gain a time advantage – there was a possibility that the raven might be put off by the cold and delay his journey back to Heap. A vague hope that nevertheless gave him a vague courage.
Nobody had died in the last seven days, not even through their heart stopping. This happened from time to time when people weren’t killing each other. So, there was no additional work for the gravedigger and his son. It was enough if one of them spent an hour or two a day maintaining the graves. Mostly Farin. Pay was paltry if there was any at all. In the past Pater Amen would press a few coppers from the collection into the gravedigger’s hand after the Sunday sermon. At the moment there was no priest and hence no Sunday service and hence no coppers.
Money or no money, he gathered the leaves together with a rake made from beech twigs. The graves directly behind the church and near the altar were the most desirable – or rather, the most extravagant. Pater Amen’s grave was one of those final resting places, of course. He had made himself comfortable in the shadow of the church steeple. This was of no concern to the trees whatsoever. They divided their falling leaves fairly, with the help of the wind, over the whole graveyard.
Nature is incorruptible, thought Farin, so long as people don’t upset it too violently.
He looked at the remaining leaves on the beech tree with a critical eye. There were less than a quarter left hanging there, red, yellow and brown among the thin branches.
I’ll be raking those leaves tomorrow.
His work was done for today. He passed by Gerlunda’s grave with mixed feelings. Two days after they’d transported Pater Amen from the Cleft, the alderman, his father and himself had headed off to bring the preparer of poisons back. She was unceremoniously dumped back into her grave, and the old gravedigger had shovelled it closed.
Lost in thought, Farin left the graveyard and took the path for home. He hadn’t heard or seen any more of Annietta – the woman seemed as far away from him as the moon. Her whispered "you are the gravedigger’s son" echoed in his ears. That said it all – good that she’d reminded him of that fact. Let her be happy with Blossak – although he hadn’t caught sight of him for some time either. The days were becoming colder and darker, which was why people spent more time huddled away in their houses. The voice was right in one respect – nobody in the village had mentioned his brawl with Peat and his three fine friends yet. The monotony of the day did Farin good. His mind came to rest, which clearly meant the voice rested too. Did chimeras hibernate, like hedgehogs and squirrels?
Father had kept his word and bought peasant boots made from goatskin for them both. Had he sold the ring stolen from the priest for this purpose? More likely not, because he would have had to travel to a town far away. This dilemma bothered him more than he cared to admit. Theft was theft and always wrong. Still, he wore the shoes. Be
tter not to find out what money father had bought them with.
The sun was shining, but the fresh wind was well and truly blowing past his ears. He thought with envy of the felt cap most of the villagers wore. He rubbed his hands together vigorously and then rubbed his ears. The warm oven in the cottage invited him, so Farin increased his speed. Warm up and eat something…and then? He didn’t know – his life was tottering aimlessly along, sometimes with him, sometimes without him, sometimes passing him by. Between fulfilment of duties and boredom, between morning and evening it gurgled along like the stream running past the graveyard.
Except that the stream eventually sees the sea.
He saw four riders galloping towards him from a distance. No, three riders and another nag. There was no need for warming up by the oven, Farin could feel a sudden heat, wherever it came from, shooting through his body. Three riders! Strangers! A quick decision and he was diving into the bushes by the side of the road.
Hopefully they didn’t spot me.
The strangers maintained their speed and it wasn’t long before they’d reached his hiding place. It seemed they hadn’t noticed him.
Strange sounds could be heard: "Mhrrmm, mhm, mhrrm!"
The next moment one of the men raised his arm. "Understood! Halt!" he called out in a high voice. The other riders brought their horses to a stop at exactly the same spot.
"Mmmh!" A man, not much taller than a child, pointed at his hiding place.
"There’s someone hiding there in the bushes and it seems he doesn’t want to be seen!" The speaker issued a command: "Come out of there whoever you are!"
How naïve again! They didn’t spot him, my eye! First, you’re taken in by appearance, then by hope. How many more times are you going to fall for things, Farin?
With a leap Farin threw himself out of the other side of the bushes and ran cross-country towards the rocky ground at the foot of the Anvil, an area impassable for horses. Once he reached there, he could shake them off.
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