The Fairytale Keeper: Avenging the Queen

by Andrea Cefalo

  “No one,” Ivo and I say at the same time.

  “Is it that priest everyone keeps cursing? Perhaps God is thinking of a really good punishment for him, Addie. I know I’m in big trouble when Mutti says she has to think about it,” Levi says before he runs off again.

  Ivo and I cannot help but smile at Levi’s innocent wisdom. Perhaps, God is thinking up a good punishment for Soren right now. I pray it is so.

  ***

  By noon, more than a hundred people have come. They share their woes of losing loved ones and friends, and we soon discover that only a few of the victims of the fever had been served last rites. Barely any were given a proper burial. The villagers speak of their anger toward our heartless church and also of vengeance.

  My memories of the first funeral shall never go away, but I now I have a new memory, a better memory that brings me peace. This is the kind of funeral every good person should get. If the church shan’t make it so, then at least we know the people of Cologne shall.

  17 March, 1247

  It is cold enough to see my breath again. I squirm cautiously from the bed, careful not to wake Galadriel. The chill slithers down my spine and I shiver. I snatch my cloak from the floor and swiftly wrap it around my shoulders. I rush to the window that looks upon Filzengraben to see if the people of our borough, Airsbach, would keep their promise.

  “SCRAWH!” Father’s snoring startles me. I hang my head over the edge of the loft and pain shoots through my neck. It is strained again from sharing my little bed with Galadriel who takes up too much space and most of the blankets.

  What a pitiful sight, I think. Father’s spent the night hunched over the table again. He hasn’t gone back to his bed since the second funeral.

  I wonder if I should wake him and try to get him to his bed. I tiptoe down the ladder and toward him. Shadows ring his eyes and I wonder what time he came home last night. He smells of ale, but it is a Sunday morning. He always partakes in too much drink on Saturday nights.

  It is probably best to let him sleep. I pull the hood of his cloak gently over his head to keep the sun from his eyes and wrap my own cloak around his shoulders. Surely last night’s liquor still warms his blood, but I don’t want him to catch cold. I want to hug him and breathe in the ale-smell that reminds me of our normal Sundays. My shivering hands pause above his shoulders as I worry that I’ll wake him, but he sleeps like the dead when he’s drunk so I wrap my arms around his waist, rest on his back, and take in a deep breath.

  I start the hearth fire then tiptoe up the ladder. The cold pricks at my skin and I rush to Galadriel’s trunk, wrapping myself in one of her riding cloaks. I share my bed, so the least she can do is share a cloak, I think as I toss it over my shoulders.

  I open the shutters to my window again, and sit on the edge of the bed looking down on Filzengraben. I could not wipe the grin from my face if I tried. Sunday mornings are typically a somber parade, but no one walks to church yet.

  I stay perched at the window and stare until the church bells chime eight, but no one is out except for a few drunkards and beggars. One might think every last person in Airsbach had disappeared overnight, but I know better. The men at Mother’s funeral agreed not to attend St. Laurentius today, and, perhaps, never again. The message spread Saturday to those who did not come to the funeral and it appears that no one, at least no one who lives on Filzengraben, has gone. Now Soren shall know how much we hate him. My cheeks burn from grinning for so long.

  I imagine Father Soren sitting in a room behind the chapel waiting, angry because his altar boys are late. He sits, slouched in a fine chair with a hand squishing his fat face, the other hand tapping his desk, waiting impatiently for someone, anyone, to show up and tell him what is happening, to explain where everyone is. But as the hours pass, it is not just the altar boys who do not show. The church is almost empty. When realization finally arrives that no one is showing up, his fist slams down on the table. Gripping the table for support, he stands and shakes his fist in childish rage. His hideous roar echoes throughout the building. He grips his chest and gasps for air, then falls to the floor and dies.

  A satisfied sigh escapes from my lips.

  I feel a little less angry with God today for He punishes Soren with humiliation. Soren deserves much, much worse than this, of course, but perhaps more punishment is to come for him. I should be at Mass today singing God’s praises for He has answered my prayers, so I thank him in my prayers this morning. I imagine we shall attend the cathedral from now on and I will pray especially hard next week.

  The blankets rustle as Galadriel stirs. I find I am secretly growing more displeased with her presence each day. I want to be alone to mourn. I want to work without interruption or the need to entertain her. I want to sleep alone in my bed. I cannot help but fear that Galadriel is trying to weasel her way into our lives in a desperate attempt to replace my mother.

  She runs errands, cooks, and cleans, just like a mother, just like a wife. It is kind of her and I try to convince myself it is completely innocent, but I cannot purge my suspicions. I hope I am wrong about her, but something tells me I’m not and I just wish she would go home.

  “Good morning,” Galadriel whispers in her bell-like voice.

  “Morning.” My whisper is not as gracious. “Sleep well?”

  “Very well,” she yawns and stretches. “It is kind of you to share your bed, you know. I hope I don’t disturb your sleep.” Her polite response is irksome. If she was rude, I’d feel less guilty for wanting her to leave.

  “Not at all,” I lie.

  Galadriel sheds her night shift and dresses in a drab dress. She descends the ladder and I listen as she starts the porridge.

  “URH!” Father’s groan roars through the house. I hurry to look over the edge of the loft. His head shoots up from the table, knocking my cloak and his to the floor. Sweat drips from his head and his chainse is soaked through. The fire has warmed the house quickly and I suppose he didn’t need a second cloak around his shoulders after all.

  Father squints and his eyes dart around the room, confused. For a moment, I know he has forgotten why he sleeps at the table. His face shows his thoughts: Did he upset Mother? Did he get home so late that he did not dare sneak into their bed?

  I wonder what his face shall look like when his memory drifts back past last night. The color quickly drains from his face and I know he remembers why he has slept at the table. Not because he was afraid Mother would be angry with him, but because she is dead and it pains him to sleep in his own bed. I imagine he must feel quite guilty for all those nights he’d spent at the Gilded Gopher, all those nights he worried her, that he could have spent beside her. I hate to see my father pained, but his guilt is well earned.

  “Good morning,” Galadriel says sweetly with a smile. Mother would have shot him a dirty look, and her “good morning” would drip with sarcasm. Father groans and puts his head in his hands.

  “Morning,” he grunts tersely. Galadriel continues to smile obediently. I can see in her eyes that his crossness hurts her. She turns back to the pot and continues stirring.

  Father looks up and sees me peering at them from the edge of my loft. I snap up quickly, toss Galadriel’s cloak to the floor, remove my night shift, and dress quickly before joining them by the hearth fire.

  I rest my cheek on the back of Father’s head and hug him tightly. “Does your back not wrench from sleeping that way?” I ask.

  “It’s nothing a little ale can’t fix.” He groans and stands to stretch, his bones popping like wet wood on a fire. He grabs a mug and fills it with beer from the barrel. I walk over to the window and open the shutter to see if anyone is in the street, but it is still empty.

  “Have my bed,” I offer.

  “I’ve slept long enough. Close the shutter. You’ll let the chill in.” He rubs the stubble on his face as he stumbles toward the window. “What are you staring at?” He steadies himself with his drinking arm anchored on the wall.

 
“An empty street,” I reply with a smile.

  An eyebrow arches in surprise. “Church hasn’t let out yet?” He leans over me. With one hand on the window sill, he looks into the street and his eyes narrow. He looks down at me for a moment and wraps his arm around my shoulder.

  “It looks as though Father Soren hadn’t a reason to start Mass today,” I smirk.

  “No one went?” he asks with surprise.

  “Filzengraben has been empty since sunrise,” I say excitedly.

  Grinning, he slaps the window sill and laughs. He sips his ale and stares out the window for a while. He glances down at me and my smirk seems to make his grin curl closer to his cheeks. But it quickly twists back to his pensive scowl and he lurches back to the table. What is wrong with him, I wonder. How can he not appreciate this? Oh well, his sulking shan’t ruin my morning. I try to pay him no mind, but I cannot. Wondering what upsets him rains upon my happiness at Soren’s humiliation.

  Galadriel watches Father, too. Her porcelain forehead crinkles with worry as she stirs the burning porridge. Even her worried face is pretty, though. She curses as she realizes her porridge is charred and apologizes. She squeezes out a smile as she plops several heaping spoonfuls into small bowls for each of us.

  Father reluctantly swallows one spoonful after another. He masks his disgust well, but Galadriel takes a bite and grimaces at the taste.

  “I ruined it.” She says.

  “It’s fine.” Father says.

  “No, it’s not. A whole pot of porridge and it’s ruined. I doubt we could feed it to pigs.” She says angrily and drops her spoon in her bowl. “I’ll throw this out and make another pot.” She sighs and reaches for our bowls to take them away, but Father grips his with both hands.

  “We don’t throw good food away.” He says.

  Galadriel’s face whitens and she releases our bowls. She sits in her seat and her face reddens with embarrassment.

  We eat our food in silence and it amazes me that Father can eat this slop with a stomach soured by last night’s liquor. I can barely stomach it, but it is better than an empty belly so I eat just enough to keep from having hunger pains.

  “Can I visit Ivo?” I ask.

  “Have you finished eating already?” Father asks and I nod. “I’m full.” I lie.

  “Give me your bowl. Go, then. Be back by supper,” Father says.

  I nod and kiss him on the cheek. I grab my cloak from the floor and run out the door.

  ***

  I sneak over to the window by Ivo’s mat, hoping he is sleeping late this morning so I can startle him. I peel back the wooden shutter and there is a yelp. Greta stands up from her sweeping. She stares back at me with a raised eyebrow and a fist on her hip. There are daggers in her eyes as she waits for an explanation. It’ll just make her angrier if I lie. I feel the warmth of blush in my cheeks which only adds to the embarrassment.

  “Is Ivo here?” I ask and smile impishly. She is not amused.

  Ivo’s mouth is wide as he is about to shove a spoon of porridge into his mouth. His eyes meet mine and his brow knits with confusion. Greta’s eyes grow larger, angrier by the moment.

  “Ivo!” Greta squawks. Ivo and Levi startle at her scream and the blackbirds flutter from the roof. Ivo rushes to her side. Erik is asleep on their mat in the corner and doesn’t even stir.

  “Yes, Mother?” he asks calmly, looking down to hide a smirk.

  “This girl’s confused the door with the window. Show her where the door is and how to knock on it.”

  “Yes, Mother,” he chortles and my cheeks burn.

  He goes to the table and scoops the rest of his porridge into his mouth quickly, then runs to kiss his mother, throws a cloak over his shoulder, and is out the front door in a flash.

  Greta slams the shutters in my face and I shrink into my cloak as I step back from the window. I meet Ivo at the door.

  “This is a door,” he says, speaking slowly to me like I am some sort of simpleton. “To get our attention, you must ball up your fist and tap on it like this. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” I grumble.

  “Are you sure?” He cocks his head and smirks at my embarrassment.

  “Yes,” I snap, and punch him in the arm. “What’s crawled up her hose?” I ask.

  “Not you. Something else has set her off,” he says. “I can’t believe you thought I was going to be in bed at noon.” He chuckles.

  “It’s not yet noon.”

  “Close enough,” he says matter-of-factly, walking quickly.

  “I bet I got up earlier than you did this morning.” Unable to keep up with his pace I grab his arm, cuing him to slow down.

  “The rooster woke me up this morning. Actually the rooster woke up my father and his boot woke me when he threw it at my head,” he laughs.

  “Well, then we woke up at nearly the same time,” I quip, finally catching my breath.

  A growl from my stomach interrupts the short silence and Ivo looks at me strangely.

  “I’m hungry,” I say.

  “Don’t they feed you?”

  “I’d rather eat mud than Galadriel’s cooking,” I declare with my lip curled in disgust. “She burned the porridge terribly today.”

  “Well, mud is in great supply,” he teases. “There you go.” He points to the ground. I slap his hand playfully and give him a look. “You think my mother’s cooking is much better?” he laughs, casually tossing his hair out of his eyes.

  “I’m quite sure your breakfast wasn’t charred to cinders!” I cry.

  “No, but I wasn’t eating breakfast. I was eating lunch,” he teases and I roll my eyes.

  I follow him, wishing I had a full belly, but the market isn’t open on Sundays. “I am so hungry,” I whine, before I realize we are about to pass St. Laurentius. Getting snatched and questioned by Father Soren’s guard is not how I want to spend my afternoon.

  “Not that way!” I grab his arm and pull him back.

  He points ahead. “I thought we could go out Kunibert’s gate and climb trees.”

  I grab his arm and pull him the other way.

  “What?” he asks.

  “Just come with me,” I sigh. “Do you think you could sneak me out something to eat?” I ask with my best fake pout.

  He shakes his head. “Mother’s on the warpath, remember?”

  “What’s she so mad about, anyway?”

  Ivo shrugs. “So where are we going?” He makes it a full four gigantic Ivo-sized paces ahead of me before he realizes I’m lagging behind. He turns and shrugs his shoulders.

  “It’s a… surprise,” I reply, out of breath.

  “We can stop by your place to get food.”

  “Then Father could change his mind and make me work on shoes all day.”

  He shrugs.

  “I’ll be fine,” I sigh, just as we are about to pass the alley off Foller Strasse. I see Levi from the corner of my eye cross the alley while some other farm boys follow him at a run. Ivo and I take the narrow alley to see what he is up to.

  “Levi!” I call, and he comes running.

  “Hi, Addie! Want to help us catch the chicken? We’ll get a pfennig if we do!” He hugs me and I look down Foller Strasse to see a chicken running in zigzags with a half dozen farm boys at its heel.

  “No,” I smile, then kneel and whisper in his ear. “I’ll give you two pfennigs if you get me some bread and cheese.”

  “Really?” he shouts.

  “Yes, but it’s a secret so don’t tell your mother who it’s for.”

  He nods, but looks a little uncomfortable at the thought of lying to his mother.

  “Here’s an extra pfennig. Give it to her and tell her you love her very much,” I say.

  Levi smiles widely and runs for the house. Ivo catches the chicken and hands it to the smallest boy. The rest whine while the little one runs to the manor yards for his pfennig. Levi returns with my bread and cheese.

  “Who caught the chicken?” Levi cries.


  “Michael,” Ivo replies.

  “Oh,” Levi says with a shrug just like his big brother. He runs off to join his friends who are now playing a game called “Chase the Chicken” in which one of them pretends to be a chicken while the others try to catch him.

  I offer half the bread and cheese to Ivo, but he shakes his head. Good, I think, as I eat the whole thing in three bites. We make our way back down the narrow alley and onto to the wide thoroughfare of Severin’s Strasse, making small talk about how my arm is feeling and predicting what had set his mother off this morning. It is a short walk from his house to the tree-lined city wall. I find the tallest tree and hope we aren’t in the middle of our climb when the church bells strike noon.

  “You climb first,” I order.

  “Why?” I think if I stay silent for long enough, he shall just start climbing, but he doesn’t.

  “Come on. Just go,” I grumble, pushing him forward.

  “Fine…” he shrugs, shaking the hair from his eyes as he grabs a limb. But rather than climb he looks to me one more time. “Is this a trick?”

  “No! If you don’t hurry, we’re going to miss it!” He turns and hoists himself onto the branch. Before I am even onto the lowest branch he has climbed three. The muscles and veins in his arms swell, though he never struggles with the climb. I am much slower for my wounded arm hurts. He pauses on a limb ten feet above me, turns, and swings down from the branch he’s on, shaking his head with a gloat.

  “It’s my arm.”

  “Sure it is.”

  I eventually reach a place in the tree where we can see all the way to St. Laurentius and all the streets that wind around it. I motion for Ivo to come down a few branches. Before I am even seated comfortably, he is sitting on an opposing branch, watching me nervously.

  “Scared of heights?” I quip.

  “I’m scared you’ll fall and I’ll have to explain it to your father.” His foot twitches nervously. “I’m coming over there. Scoot forward.”

  Gripping the trunk, he slides over to my branch and sits behind me. He wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close so my back rests against his chest. I gasp, startled from the pull and from being so close to him.