I am grateful to this unwitting smith and the beautiful virgin mare. They present the answer I sought: Now I can go off to buy the goods for Zel’s birthday surprise. The flash of worry that crossed Zel’s face when I suggested she stay alone at the smithy soothes my heart; my daughter will not stray. She is as bereft without me as I am without her.
I cut through the edge of the market. After thirteen years of living on the alm, I am unused to the press and smell of human flesh. I feel foreign from the crowds, almost invisible.
I ease around a barrel of eels and find myself looking at the translucent eyes of newly dead fish. The fishmonger extols their virtues: The whitefish bring intelligence; the bream ensure healthy livers; the chub give vibrant skin. Our Aare River and Thuner Sea yield in abundance, and I am appropriately respectful.
The sound of wood slapping wood jerks me away. An old man has just been locked into the stocks behind me. A small crowd gathers. I listen. The man is called Wilhelm. His crime? Playing cards. The church police are foolish indeed, that they don’t understand how evil comes in more subtle guises than card games. My neck prickles. It is as though a spider crawls slowly up my spine.
I walk quickly out of the square onto a narrow street. A wise dog sidles out of my path, glancing at me cautiously over his shoulder. I pass the public bathhouse and go up the second street on the left. Music wafts from the instrument maker’s shop. He tests a new lute. I imagine its pearlike body, the belly pierced with holes in the pattern of a rose, the neck lined with brass frets. I gasp at its imagined beauty. My fingers itch to create—with needle and thread, with bow and fiddle. My mouth is dry with want. This lute captivates. A woman will buy it for her daughter who will give it to her daughter who will give it to her daughter. Just as my mother gave me my fiddle and as I will give the fiddle to Zel someday. The lute will have a history, as my fiddle does. Beauty will prevail.
I climb a flight of stairs and walk across flowered terraces that serve at once as footpaths in front of the second level of shops and as rooves of the shops below. I go directly to the house of the scribe.
“Ah, good day, madam.” The scribe squints. Recognition flashes; his eyes glint with greed. “It’s good to see you again.”
I have every intention of satisfying his greed. There is no one else in the room, so I can look carefully before I choose.
The scribe moves immediately to a large stack of paper sheets. He holds his thumb and index finger apart the distance of a plum. “This much?”
Usually I buy a stack only the thickness of a grape. The scribe is trying to lure me into being extravagant, the absurd little man. Perhaps business is bad. But today he needn’t work at tricking me. I respond to my own compulsion. “Twice that.”
“Very good.” The scribe takes even more than twice and sets it on the scale. He puckers his lips as if to whistle, then looks quickly at me. He writes down the price of the paper in silence. “And ink?”
I am already standing before the enormous jars. I close my eyes and will myself to see: The mare blows hot and soft on Zel’s cheeks. The girl is happy and safe. I open my eyes. The scribe stands before me, holding a small empty bottle, ready to fill it. I point, not anticipating my own words, but content as they come out. “That, and that, and that.”
The scribe’s hands rush to the task. He is so excited at the sale of three bottles, when he expected the usual single one, that he almost spills.
I spy goose quills on the upper shelf. Normally Zel finds quills and sharpens them herself. But these are large, strong and supple, cut to fine points. I can already hear her delight. “And a quill. A tall one.”
Everything fits snug in the bottom of my cloth bag, and there is still plenty of room. The scribe accompanies me to the door, half hunched over, an almost friendly curve to his mouth. Such crass people, whose warmth can be bought with a coin.
I come out of the scribe’s hurriedly and am knocked hard. My cloth bag falls to the ground.
“Forgive me.” The young man picks up the bag and hands it to me. He is dressed in expensive clothes—a noble, for sure. “Are you all right?”
I take the bag. I don’t like his handsome face and tight trousers. And I’ve never liked nobility. The days of nobility are past. The peasant revolution made sure of that. Towns have elections now. And why am I thinking like this? First I thought about the church police. Now I think about civil governance. Town is seductive. Dangerous. I catch my breath and slow my heart. This youth’s blow has not fazed me. I have nothing to do with these people. Zel is my only focus. I dismiss him with a nod.
“Good day.” He races off.
I open the bag and check. The bottles of ink are intact. I close it and pick my way carefully, on the alert for rushing youths. But that one appears to have been alone.
The cloth merchant’s shop is busy. A woman and two girls who look to be her daughters cut and fold material. I walk behind the customers, peering over shoulders.
I have decided to make Zel a new dress for her birthday, which comes in but four days. The girl’s body is already changing, and the dress must be cut to accommodate the changes as they exaggerate themselves. The cloth must be of the right color, the right feel, the right swing when she twirls.
By the time it is my turn, I have made my selection. The sleeves will be emerald, like our lake in autumn; the bodice and skirt will be yellow cream, the color of the first saxifrage blooms; the apron will be emerald again, tying behind. The clerk makes approving remarks. I don’t need her approval, yet I am glad she can see the value of my choices.
I spy cotton lace. I finger it gingerly.
“Perfect,” murmurs the woman.
It will grace the bodice and skirt. Yes. I take extra to make bows for Zel’s golden braids. Next I pick out the threads. They are of many colors, but mainly emerald. Emerald is the color of life and hope. Zel is these things.
“Is this for your daughter?” The woman gives an ingratiating smile as she wraps my purchases in burlap.
I know she makes conversation only because she wants my future business. Yet I am glad she has guessed. I nod, knowing my pride shows.
“A young lady, no doubt? Turning twelve?”
Is the woman a mind reader? “Thirteen.”
“Ah. So there’s a man in the picture now? She’ll be wed within the year, is that it?” The woman’s voice is oil in water. “The stars favor weddings this year. You are wise.”
I blanch. Zel will not be wed within the year. No. She must not leave me. This dress-to-be is perfect. Why has the clerk tainted my gift with her mundane talk of marriage? I am filled with elation at the thought of Zel’s beauty in this dress and dread at the thought that anyone other than me should appreciate that beauty. The contradictory emotions merge hatefully, indiscretely, so that I cannot pick them apart.
I would hiss at the clerk, as I hissed at the crazy goose. I could whisper to her of berries that turn poisonous as they roll into her mouth, of greens that catch in her throat and choke. But I don’t. She says no more. She will never know Zel. Her talk of marriage will never fall on Zel’s ears.
I half glide from the shop, heady with the fineness of my purchase. I will go to the candy shop for the colored sugar balls with anise seed centers, the ones Zel loves. Then I can run to Zel and let her lead me through the rest of the marketplace. I will watch where her eyes light; I will indulge her small desires. Treats bring a glow to her cheeks. I will bask in that glow.
We will be together. Mother and Zel. Forever.
Chapter 3Zel
el walks closer to the skittish horse. Its coat shines from recent brushing. Its legs are slender, unlike farm draft horses. It is framed by the four posts, with ropes attached to each post, as though begging for eyes to admire it. The white splotch on the horse’s chest makes Zel think of stars.
The smith files a rear hoof, throwing his weight into each movement. The horse is large and could give him a kick he wouldn’t forget for weeks.
She’s a
mare, but she seems as spirited as a stallion. There are two other horses waiting to be shod. Their chests are wide from pulling, their mouths thick from the bit. Zel can sense their docility. This mare is different.
Sweat drips into the smith’s eyes, but he doesn’t take the time to wipe his brow. He works quickly, anxiously. The mare makes nervous, rapid movements.
Zel is curious about the tension in the air. She moves like the mare, from foot to foot. The mare throws back her head. Zel tips back her head. The mare breathes heavily. Zel steps softly—close, so close that her own breath comes heavy on the mare’s muzzle. The animal grows quiet. Zel places her hands on the mare’s bony head; then she touches her own face, fingering the bones of her eye sockets. She thinks of how alike they are.
The smith finishes that hoof and walks to the water barrel to refresh himself before starting on the next. “Oh.” He looks at Zel with surprise on his face. “Don’t stand so close. You’ll spook her.” But his words lose their force even as he speaks, for it is obvious to anyone that his words are false.
Zel runs her hand again down the hard center of the horse’s head to the spongy lips. The mare’s lips open and close, and with a quick toss of the head she eats the aster Mother wove into Zel’s braid. Zel laughs. She feels the smith’s stare. She turns and smiles at him.
The smith dips a cup into the water barrel and splashes his face. “Have a way with animals, do you?”
Zel is pleased and embarrassed at the praise. “Do you have a carrot? Or an apple maybe? She’d really like one.”
The smith laughs. “I’d be a poor man for sure if I fed every creature I tended to.”
Zel thinks of the garden they have at home. There is no lack of carrots. And of the orchard. There is no lack of apples, even now in early July. Everything thrives under Mother’s quick and knowing hands. Next time Zel comes to market, she’ll have to bring some of both. It will be winter then, but carrots and apples will still be fragrant and sweet, wrapped in dry leaves and stored in the small cave they use as a cellar.
Zel gives a quiet nicker. She pulls the slice of brown bread from her pocket. The mare’s nostrils quiver; she stamps a forefoot.
“She’s restless this morning ’cause she’s not used to me.” The smith settles himself on a stool behind the mare. “My brother’s the one as generally tends to her. But he got called away to a foaling.”
Zel speaks a bit more firmly. “I think she’d like bread.”
The smith grunts in reply. Then he sings to himself and goes back to work on the other hind hoof.
“Bread is for people,” comes a new voice.
Zel jerks her head sharply to the right. A youth of maybe fifteen or sixteen has entered the stable. There is nothing decorative about his clothing. Still, the cloth of his shirt, though opaque and of an ordinary cream yellow, is so tightly woven it looks as though it were one piece, like the thinnest sliver of cedar bark. He hasn’t the look of one who has ever skipped a meal. Yet his words suggest hunger. “Would you like some?” She holds the bread out toward him.
“You’re offering me peasant bread?” The youth takes it without touching her fingers. He breathes deeply of its pungent aroma. He breaks off a corner, chews slowly. “You made this?”
“I helped Mother.” Zel did some of the kneading, after all.
The youth takes another bite. “It’s not bad.” He looks Zel up and down.
Zel shifts uncomfortably under his gaze. The mare presses against her chest, asking to be petted again. Zel leans into the pressure of the mare’s head, grateful for the excuse to give the horse her attention. She scratches the honey-colored coat with vigor, her hands moving upward.
The mare throws her head with a loud snort.
“Be careful,” says the youth. “Meta’s left ear hurts.”
Zel drops her hands. Meta. A fine and proper name.
“The hind hooves are finished,” says the smith, his voice gruff. He comes around the horse and sees the youth. He clears his throat. “The forehooves can wait, sire.” He leans the large file against the water barrel.
“Take a look in this ear.”
“It might be best to wait for my brother.”
The youth shakes his head. “I came back now just to tell you about her ear.” He glances at Zel, then back to the smith. His voice grows strained. “Take a look.”
Zel watches this exchange in wonder. The youth owns the horse named Meta. So he is definitely a youth of means. But the smith is old enough to be his father. Zel has seen young and old interact. She knows that youth shows deference to age. Who is this youth who orders the smith around?
“As you wish, sire.” The smith rubs his hands on a cloth. He pulls a short rope and a wooden peg from his pocket. The rope is much finer than those that hold the mare to the posts. He threads the rope through a hole in one end of the peg and ties it into a loop. Then he grabs the mare’s top lip and slips the loop around it. He turns the peg, tightening the loop. The mare’s lip bunches together and protrudes over her now bared teeth.
Zel understands immediately: This way the smith can look in the mare’s left ear, knowing pain will stop her from moving her head even the slightest bit.
Still, the horse is clever. She stomps with her left forefoot. She will not yield gently.
The smith hesitates. And Zel can see the problem: How will he be able to work on the mare if he must use one hand to hold the peg? His Adam’s apple moves up and down as he swallows. “This is my brother’s type of task. Your horse knows my brother’s hands. Tomorrow would be a better day.”
The youth lifts his chin. Zel can see the muscles of his cheeks tighten.
She speaks on impulse: “I’ll hold her head still. It’s the lip rope that she despises.” Zel deftly takes the peg and untwists it before they can object. The loop slips off. The mare lowers her head and presses against Zel once more. Zel hugs both arms around the mare’s jaw and rests her cheek on the flat between the mare’s eyes. She wills herself to radiate quiet. The mare stands perfectly still.
“Go ahead,” says the youth.
The smith looks in the horse’s left ear. He pokes with one finger. His face goes blank. Then he looks relieved. He jams thumb and index finger into the ear and yanks. He holds the tick up, its legs wiggling in the air, so fat with blood that its hard outer shell shines as if it would explode. “Nothing but a tick, sire.” The smith exhales loudly. He walks to the forge and throws the tick into the coals. In an instant it is black. It pops.
“Good work,” says the youth.
The smith seems encouraged now, almost eager. “I suppose I could do the forehooves if you like, sire.”
The youth doesn’t look at the smith or the mare. His eyes are on Zel. “Yes.”
The smith goes to work.
Zel combs the mare’s forelock with her fingers. Ticks are hideous creatures. She’s glad to be rid of it. Yet its bursting unsettled her. She can hear Mother’s refrain in her head: She must toughen up, be sensible. But she’s all ajangle. The youth’s eyes unsettle her as well. She clutches the halter as though the mare has threatened to run off, but the mare has done nothing. It is Zel who has the urge to run off.
The youth is practically staring at Zel now. He blurts out, “I owe you something.” His hand goes to the coin pouch at his waist.
“What?” Zel brushes off her hands in amazement and steps back from the mare, who immediately stomps. The smith grunts. Zel laughs and steps forward again. She strokes Meta’s neck and looks at the youth. At his eyes. And she knows: Even in such giving words he is imperious. He treats her as he treats the smith. But she didn’t render a service for him; she did it for the mare’s sake. And she certainly didn’t do it for money. “You owe me nothing.”
“You give me bread, you enchant my horse, and you want nothing in return.” The youth rubs the back of his neck.
Zel likes his face. Almost against her will. His fine brow furrows and a muscle in his jaw twitches. Yes, Zel likes the face of thi
s spoiled youth very much.
“There must be something you want.” He drops his hand and looks at her intently.
His eyes pry. Zel shifts again in her increasing discomfort.
A small smile plays at the corners of the youth’s mouth. “Something.”
Heat rises in Zel’s cheeks. She needs to feel the cool wind of the alm in her face. She shakes her head.
His eyes twinkle. “Think hard.” His voice teases. As though he takes pleasure in her discomfort. Or worse—as though he knows her heart’s desires when she doesn’t know them herself.
Or does she? “Yes,” says Zel all of a sudden. She nods quickly. The idea is perfect. “Yes.”
The youth looks satisfied. “Name your price.”
Zel can hardly keep from shouting. “A goose egg.”
The youth comes a step forward. He cocks his head in disbelief. “A goose egg?”
“A fertilized one that is still warm from the goose.” She can carry it home inside her bodice. She can breathe hot on it. Then she can slide it under the goose. Won’t the lonely goose be overjoyed when the shell cracks and the gosling peeps? “It will make a goose I know very happy.”
The youth grins. “A warm goose egg. All right. I’ll be back shortly.” The youth leaves, almost at a run.
Zel watches him go. His calf muscles bulge. He must be a good climber, like Zel. She never tires of wandering.
The smith finishes the last hoof. He straightens up and rotates his shoulders. He looks at Zel circumspectly. “You don’t live in town, do you?”
“No.”
“Too bad.” He leans against a post. “Do you take care of your own donkey? Your own oxen?”
“We don’t have oxen or donkeys. We have goats. And chickens.” She doesn’t mention the rabbits. Everyone has rabbits.
The smith nods. “Tell you what. Whenever you’re in town, stop by. If I can use your help, I’ll pay you.” He jerks his chin toward Zel’s worn smock. “You could use the money, eh?”
Zel Page 2