On the fifth day, since the fever hadn’t receded and Mutti had become delirious (“The pigs are talking to me, Luis, they want the baby, make them stop, please, please . . .”), Voter Luis decided to go down to the village and fetch a doctor.
But this was no ordinary fever. It was septicaemia.
Voter Luis’ herbs were as useless as his prayers and his final, desperate rush to the village in a thunderstorm that had turned the paths into rivers of mud. By the time he returned with the doctor, there was nothing for the medic to do but write the poor woman’s death certificate. Another death in childbirth at a time and in a region where, sad but true, such deaths were far from unusual.
If there had been a road suitable for vehicles instead of a path, if the maso had not been so high up . . . then maybe. When he told Simon that his mother had died, Voter Luis held him tight. Then, together, they stacked up bundles of wood outside the maso. Voter Luis sprinkled them with herbs, sulphur and broken stones, then later, that night, he set them alight.
They produced flames Simon had never seen before: blue flames. Like the sky Mutti had flown to, Voter Luis explained, going down on his knees and looking him in the eyes. For centuries, he said, the Kellers had used fire to say goodbye to the souls of their dead. They had done this also when Opa Josef had died, except that Simon could not remember because he was a child lying asleep in his bed.
This blue fire, Voter Luis told him, pointing at the stars, was a farewell that could be seen all the way from Heaven.
The notion of Mutti looking down at him from above made Simon cry. Gently, Voter Luis told him that these were his last tears as a child. He was now a man (had he not already begun to copy his first Bible?), and men had to be modest about showing their feelings. Only Elisabeth was allowed to cry, he added. She was little and could do it without anybody judging her.
Then he asked Simon to pray with him.
After that, there were still good days. Every so often you could hear Voter Luis’ laughter echo from one side of the valley to the other. Yet the fact that Simon remembered these outbursts of joy meant that something had changed in Voter Luis. And not just towards his son. In time, his attitude towards his daughter changed, too.
When Elisabeth began to speak her first words and toddle about the Stube, Voter Luis got into the habit of shutting himself in what young Simon called “the forbidden room,” the maso’s cellar, with the wine, the oil and the Bibles of past Bau’rn, and spending hours on end there, alone.
So it was that the task of raising Elisabeth fell to Simon.
She was a beautiful child, lively, alert, who called him “Sim’l” and was always smiling. Simon did not mind playing with her. On the contrary – he enjoyed telling her stories, making her rag dolls and carving animals. He learned to make Vulpendingen from the carcasses of animals that Voter Luis hunted and was never happier than when little Lissy would clap her hands at a new creation. Elisabeth looked at Simon in the same way that he, with his velvet bow tickling his chin, had watched Voter Luis talking to people in the village, dispensing advice and receiving praise.
Time passed.
Voter Luis grew increasingly withdrawn, Elisabeth increasingly cheerful, along with her growing resemblance to Mutti (the same raven hair, the same dimples), and Simon Keller increasingly tall and awkward, like any other teenager.
When Simon turned thirteen and Elisabeth was five and had already learned to chase away spiteful spirits by weaving garlands for burning in the Stube, Voter Luis had the accident that changed everything.
It was harvest time, but, hard as he tried, Simon knew he was not much help to his father. Not with such a heavy sickle and on such sloping fields as the ones below the maso, wedged between the rocky peak of the mountain and the forest that led down to the valley. The bulk of this arduous labour rested on Voter Luis’ shoulders.
It might have been exhaustion, or melancholy, or an angry wasp, but the blade of the sickle slipped and Voter Luis fell, screaming. Simon rushed to him and saw that his father’s leg had been severed clean off from the shin down, the stump gushing with blood just like when the pigs were slaughtered in November.
Somehow, using his belt, Voter Luis managed to stop the bleeding. He told his son to run down the hill for help. Fortunately, Simon did not need to go as far as the village. On his way, he ran into the doctor coming back from another maso on the other side of the valley. Voter Luis did not die. If he had died, things would have turned out differently for Sim’l and Lissy.
Like the grain of wheat that falls to the ground, Voter Luis did not die.
33
The sheet of ice quivered and began to slide down. Marlene felt as if she were being sucked into the void, unable to do anything but wave her arms and scream. Her mouth open, an icy breath in her lungs, unable to cry out, she watched the edge of the roof draw closer. She considered throwing herself to the side and hoping for the best.
But she didn’t.
Barely twenty centimetres from the edge, for no apparent reason, just as it had started moving, the sheet of ice stopped dead. Marlene swayed, opened her arms and held her breath. She forced herself not to close her eyes.
The ice held.
She took two hesitant steps. Panting, she paused once she had reached the ladder.
“Simon Keller?” she called out.
No answer.
Marlene turned, her back to the void, and climbed down the ladder, looking straight ahead, until she felt solid ground under her boots. Her knees gave way, and she fell in a sitting position on the snow. Only then did she venture to look.
Keller was motionless a few metres from her, his leg twisted in an unnatural, painful way, his head to one side. All around him, blood spread, staining the snow and steaming in contact with the frosty air.
His hat had rolled far away. A mound of snow had stopped it in its tracks. Otherwise, it would have ended up heaven knows where. All Marlene could think of was that hat. It was important to keep your head warm, or you could easily get flu or pneumonia. Or maybe . . .
Or maybe, a steely voice Marlene barely recognised as her own said, you’ve completely lost your mind. What are you doing sitting there like that? Get up, move!
But she didn’t. She was shaking too much.
She called out Simon Keller’s name. The body lying on the ground did not reply. Nor did it move. The blood kept steaming.
He’s dead, Marlene thought.
He’s dead.
She got up and moved unsteadily towards him, calling his name again. No reply.
Marlene bent over him.
He was breathing. He was moving his lips, muttering incomprehensible words. He was alive.
Marlene was about to grab hold of him, but she stopped as soon as her fingers came into contact with the texture of the greatcoat, which lay spread around him like the wings of a bat.
Maybe he had hit his head. Or maybe his neck was broken. If she lifted him the wrong way, she might be sentencing him to a life of paralysis. She might even kill him. She was no doctor.
There was nothing for it. She had to go down to the village. Get help, come back and . . .
And find him dead, that steely voice replied. You can’t leave him out here. He’ll die of cold. Have you gone completely mad? Take him inside, into the warmth. Then you can decide what to do.
Marlene took him by the armpits. Keller let out a heart-stopping moan.
Marlene did not let go. Whispering words of apology, she dragged him as far as the steps. The entrance to the Stube up there seemed as distant as the moon. And just as unreachable.
“God . . .”
This man carried you over his shoulder for hours. He saved your life. He gave you his food, his home, his protection. You made him a target. Now stop crying all over yourself.
Marlene propped Keller up against the outside wall of the maso. She took a deep breath and tore off her woollen hat. She wiped her sweat, unaware that she had smeared her face with Keller’s blood, crouch
ed down and put an arm around his chest. She did the same with his arm, which she put around her shoulders.
Then she pulled.
She felt something tense up in her back muscles, but she refused to feel the pain, refused to give in. She pulled with all her strength.
Keller weighed a ton. She would not be able to do this alone.
“You have to help me, Simon Keller,” she begged. “Come on.”
He reached out with his free hand and grabbed the rail.
“Good, well done.”
One step. Two.
The door.
The warmth of the Stube.
Out of breath, Marlene laid Keller on the floor and looked around. Carrying him upstairs and putting him to bed was out of the question, as was leaving him on the floor. If the mountain won’t come to Muhammad . . .
She went upstairs to Keller’s bedroom and pulled off the blankets. She did the same with hers. She came back down the steps two at a time, made a makeshift bed in front of the fireplace and, with what was left of her strength, moved Keller onto it.
What now?
Clean his wounds and bandage them.
She added wood to the fire and put water on to boil. She undid the collar of Keller’s greatcoat to let him breathe more easily and checked the wound. There was a nasty gash from his temple to his jaw. The edges of the skin were clean, as if cut with a scalpel. The injury seemed to be swelling as she watched.
She tore a sheet into strips, immersed them in boiling water, counted to two hundred and pulled them out with a fork. Then she counted to two hundred again before touching them with her fingertips. They were hot but not boiling.
She began carefully cleaning Keller’s face. He had told her that he had cleaned the injury on her forehead with soap and it had not got infected. So using soap was fine. Better than nothing, anyway. She found his soap, dipped it in the water and cleaned the gash. Keller winced at every touch.
He opened his clouded eyes.
“Can you hear me?” Marlene said.
He nodded. “What happened?”
“You fell off the roof.”
He tried to get up, but Marlene held him down.
“Keep still. Your leg—”
“I want to see.”
Marlene helped him sit up. Then she pulled the blankets off.
Keller shook his head. His eyes were once again alert. “I need scissors. They’re in the sideboard. Second drawer.”
“Why do you need scissors?”
“You have to cut my trousers. I need to see my knee. Something’s not right.”
Marlene obeyed, skilfully cutting Simon’s trouser leg (although Gabriel would have turned his nose up at such a rudimentary, unartistic job) and exposing his leg to the light. It was strong and covered with protruding veins. His knee was a disaster. Swollen, purple and bent thirty degrees more than usual.
Simon pushed himself forward as far as he could. “Can you hold me? I want to touch it.”
Marlene supported his back as he checked the bruised swelling, biting his lip and grimacing at every touch.
“It’s not broken. But the leg . . . It needs to be pulled and reset. You’ll have to do it.”
Marlene turned pale. “We need a doctor. I can’t do it, I really can’t. I’d only mess it up . . . You stay here in the warmth. Tell me which way to go and I’ll—”
“Do you want to help me?” Keller said, looking her straight in the eyes.
“I’ll run as fast as I can and—”
“You’ll get lost in the woods. Or fall into a crevasse, or end up under an avalanche. You wouldn’t reach the village before sunset, and you’d find yourself walking during the night, when it gets so cold that . . . No. Do you want to help me, Marlene?”
It was the first time he had called her by her name.
“Tell me what to do.”
He explained, and she felt her head spin.
“It’ll hurt.”
He smiled. “Better me than you.”
Marlene put one hand on his thigh and one on his shin.
“Come closer, you’ll need to yank it. Hard. Twist it and put it back in its socket.”
Marlene moved her hands closer to his knee. It was hot and throbbing. “Pull, twist and—”
“Pull, twist and put it back in its socket. You can do it.”
“I—”
“Pull!” Keller said, panting.
Marlene closed her eyes, counted to three, then let go. “I can’t do it. The pain—”
“We’ll deal with the pain later.”
Marlene’s face lit up. “I can prepare the infusion. Tell me where I can find the poppy. It’ll be easier without the pain. We can—”
“And what if I fall asleep? Would you know what to do? What we have to do now is straighten the knee and then immobilise it, make a frame to keep it still. Would you be able to do that without my instructions?”
Marlene shook her head, her eyes filled with tears. “Don’t ask me to do it, I beg you. I don’t want to hurt you.”
Keller stroked her face. Marlene felt his fingertips linger on her beauty spot.
“Are you a mountain or a city girl?”
Marlene did it.
Keller cried out.
“The poppy!” Marlene cried, seeing how red in the face he was, his veins protruding and a grimace of pain distorting his features. “Please, the poppy . . .”
Keller persuaded her to carry on. The operation was not over yet. Marlene managed to make a splint for the knee, using thick string, wire and little else – and somehow she did not scream.
Keller did, though, despite all his efforts to restrain himself. Finally, he pointed to the shelf. “Half a tablespoon.”
“In boiling water?”
His face dripping with sweat, Keller replied with a smile. “It acts faster if you chew it.”
34
Half a tablespoon a day.
That was the dose Voter Luis took to stop the pain. His stump felt the seasons, the damp, impending rain. It itched like hell.
But it wasn’t for his stump that Voter Luis used poppy.
The pain that made him beg his son to hurry up with that verfluachtn Monbluam came from the part of the leg that was gone, which would send out shooting pains that turned his prayers to screams. Sometimes, they were so strong that Simon had to prepare an infusion with three times the usual dose.
Within a few weeks, Voter Luis started telling him to bring just the seeds. He would chew them and calm down. Tears in his eyes, he would thank him and fall asleep. Or sometimes, after the poppy, Voter Luis would recite passages from the Bible. Staring into space, his mind clouded over, lips moving frantically, his voice mechanical, flat, with no variations in volume.
Voter Luis started drinking. When drunk, he would curse and beat his son, though he was never quick enough or strong enough to shut that damned little girl’s mouth.
One day, he tore the little bells off both of them and threw them away. The sound was driving him mad, he cried.
Sim’l found them and hid them. They became his most precious treasure, and he would shake them whenever he felt scared, whenever Voter Luis was drunk. The supply of wine and grappa had diminished. Whenever he drank, Voter Luis would turn into an unrecognisable monster.
Sim’l feared his father’s rages as much as he feared snakes hiding in the long grass.
Voter Luis loaded the bulk of his work onto his son’s slight shoulders, which meant that the food supplies were diminishing, too. In order to prosper, the maso needed a Voter, not a beardless boy. Despite all Sim’l’s efforts, the Kellers began to experience hunger.
The days went by, all identical.
The pain. The screams. The blows.
The opium.
And the misfortunes did not end there. It was as if, with the death of Simon and Elisabeth’s mother, a curse had befallen the Keller family maso.
The hens were decimated by buzzards. One after the other, the cows died from a mysteriou
s illness. The barn was struck by lightning and burned to the ground. The maso only narrowly escaped the fire. Voter Luis did not bother to rebuild the barn.
There was no point, he said. We won’t keep cows anymore, only pigs. Because the pig, Voter Luis said with a snigger, is the most sacred of animals. The pig was the clay out of which He created man.
Don’t you believe me, son? he screamed, laughing.
“Look at the pig and admire His masterwork. At the dawn of time, He took the pig, blessed it and changed it. He replaced its legs with fir and yew branches. The yew is solid enough for walking, because He knew men would be travellers, and the fir tree is slender enough to provide agility but not strong enough to spare man having to build tools for his work. Too strong a man would have been arrogant, whereas work makes him humble. Man had also to speak and pray, so He squashed the pig’s snout so that man’s mouth could invent the alphabet and use it to sing His praises. Then, using pebbles from the streams to remind His new creation that life had emerged from water, he changed the shape of its ears. Finally, he tore the wings off an eagle and inserted them into the pig’s head, to enable man to think. But for all His infinite wisdom, He forgot to remove from man the pig’s hunger. That is why the eagle’s wings are of no use to man. His thoughts cannot fly because hunger is a boulder that keeps him pinned to the ground. Man is His Vulpendingen. His damned joke.”
Less than a month after uttering this terrible sermon, Voter Luis killed Elisabeth.
35
Elisabeth, small and sweet, still breathing as she died in Simon’s arms, whispering confused words he would never forget. With fear in her eyes, unable to understand what was happening, unable to make sense of the pain. Searching for an answer that Sim’l was unable to give her.
And Sim’l could do nothing but cradle her, looking at her increasingly pale, frightful face, with that small bloodstain beside her mouth, the mouth itself forming the shape of a reproach. Why didn’t you save me, Sim’l? Why don’t you take this pain away? You’re as tall and strong as an ash, so why can’t you do anything but cradle me and whisper, cradle me and whisper? Why?
Sanctuary Page 11