Then he thought about Wegener again.
His was the last blood he would ever spill. That death had broken the circle. It was over. He could not kill anymore. He must never do it again. Above all: he did not want to.
Peace.
He closed his eyes, smiling. Peace.
But only for a short while. A very short while.
The Voice screamed in his head. A roar that drew an exclamation from him. Lissy is hungry, Lissy is hungry. The Voice wanted blood, wanted it now.
Lissy is hungry. Kill him!
“Opa Simon,” he whispered. “Opa Simon.”
He heard the young man’s voice from down below. “Who’s there?”
Keller peered out.
Below him, as the shadows of night turned into darkness, Alex the poacher was aiming his rifle. He was shaking. Keller could see him even at that distance, lurking amid the snow-covered rocks. The young man was shaking. Keller was sorry for him and the fear he was feeling.
All because of him.
Then he thought of the fear of all those he had killed. Some had been lucky: death had caught them unawares, like a black curtain falling, putting an end to all joy and pain. But others had seen it coming. They had known.
And death had not been gentle with them.
Kill him, Sim’l. Please.
Keller hid again.
“I won’t do it.”
Why, why, why?
Keller counted to a hundred. And then he checked. The young man had gone.
Keller blessed him with a prayer, dug a hole in the snow and laid the poacher’s woollen gloves in it. He set fire to them with a match, waited until the wool was burnt to a cinder, then closed the hole and got back on his feet.
The Voice whimpered.
Lissy is hungry.
“Yes,” Keller murmured, “I know.”
Lissy was hungry, and he would take care of her. Because, even though the circle had closed, Lissy loved Sim’l, and Sim’l loved Lissy, and Lissy had not abandoned him.
Keller would continue to care for her. But he would do it differently. How, he did not know, nor did he know if there was another way. He only knew that he would not kill anymore.
Never again.
77
The following day, Alex sold his rifle and ammunition to a smuggler, who put everything into the boot of his car. He did not give them away, but he did not cheat the man either. The rifle was a good weapon and the smuggler an old acquaintance. They agreed on a fair price. The smuggler asked him why he had decided to quit, and Alex made up an answer off the top of his head. He was going south for a while. He was sick of the cold.
He did not mention the feeling he had experienced as he had aimed the rifle at the darkness. Or the impression he had had, once he had put the weapon back over his shoulder, that God had searched his soul and decided to give him a second chance. Freezing cold, terrified, he had made a vow. If he managed to get back to the village safe and sound, he would change his life.
Selling the rifle was just the first step. He really did go south.
The first year was tough. He did not speak the language well and had to make do with a few pennies for day jobs that sapped all his energy. He slept wherever he could. He spent a week in a shelter where an emaciated-looking guy offered him heroin. Alex refused. He hung on and moved from city to city until he came to a port. He had never seen one before. He liked the coming and going of the passengers, sailors, prostitutes and dockers, the mixture of languages from every part of the world. He decided to stay and look for work.
He met a Dutch sailor who spoke German. They became friends, and the sailor introduced him to a guy who smoked a cigar and spoke too loudly, as if he were slightly deaf. They needed German speakers as waiters on a cruise ship. Was he interested? Yes, he was.
The pay was good, and his life took a new turn.
He was easy-going, fond of a joke, so the customers liked him. On top of that, he discovered he had a talent for singing. Just a few months later, he was noticed by the ship’s captain who promoted him to master of ceremonies. He learned a fair number of sentimental songs and would often punctuate his caterwauling with jokes and double entendres that made the dancing couples laugh. It was a life he enjoyed: pretty girls, travel to exotic lands.
He fell in love. He got married and used the money he had saved to open a restaurant. He had children. Never once did he tell anyone about the night he was given a second chance. Still, he often found himself thinking about the old man and the girl.
And the sow.
How he would have ended up without them was anyone’s guess. The universe teemed with mysteries and miracles. His whole life, Alex would wonder what the difference was between the two.
78
It was shortly after dawn. Going down to the Stube, Marlene found Simon Keller there, his extinguished pipe in his mouth, engrossed in the pages of a frayed Bible open on his lap. When she spoke to him, he was disorientated for a few seconds and did not respond to her greeting at once.
She opened the shutters to let the light in, and they both squinted. She lit the fire and prepared the espresso pot. As she filled it with ground coffee, she asked after Lissy.
“The fit has passed,” Keller said.
“It’s not the first time it’s happened, is it?”
“No,” he said, relighting his pipe. “She’s had this problem ever since she was a piglet. Lissy needs to be taken care of.”
“She couldn’t have found a better place or a better Bau’r.”
Keller gave a strained smile and drummed on the cover of the Bible with his fingers. “There’s . . . there’s something I have to ask of you.”
Marlene put the espresso pot on the fire and sat down opposite him. “Anything you like.”
“A period of self-denial.”
Keller ran his hand over the back of his neck. He looked worried. He probably was, Marlene thought. But he also seemed confused, as if he were trying to solve a riddle.
“Voter Luis used to say that there is always a period of self-denial before a celebration. And that’s what I’m asking of you. A period of self-denial.” His eyes brought her into focus. “Lissy isn’t well,” he explained. “The fit is over, but she needs me to stay with her.” He looked down at the floor, shrugged and continued, “There could be more fits. It does happen.”
“Does that mean we’re postponing our departure?” Marlene said, trying to dispel his embarrassment. “No problem. You mustn’t fret about it.”
“Just a few days’ self-denial,” Keller hastened to add. “Only a few days.”
“Please don’t worry, one day more or—”
“Once Lissy’s better, I’ll take you down to the village and put you on the bus. You need to take care of the baby. You can’t do it here, and the more advanced your pregnancy, the harder it will be to go down the mountain. But we’ll celebrate before we part” – smiling, he took her hands in his – “because the period of self-denial always comes before a celebration.”
Marlene felt her eyes fill with tears. “Not a farewell party, though, alright?”
“Not a farewell party,” Simon replied, adding, “Not if you don’t want it to be.”
Marlene bit her lip. “I’ll be back, and when I come I won’t be on my own.”
She felt his hands squeeze hers tighter. “Opa,” he said inadvertently.
“Opa?” Marlene echoed, surprised.
Keller moved away from her, his face flushed. “It’s just something silly.”
Marlene quickly grabbed his hand. “Opa Simon. Why not?”
Yes, Keller thought, why not?
Then he put on his greatcoat, put the rifle over his shoulder and the Bible into his haversack and went hunting.
The Voice was silent.
79
Nothing, not even the little bell.
Lissy did not show her face for three days.
Marlene paid no attention. She would get up at dawn, make Simon Keller’s brea
kfast, see him off at the door, wait for him to vanish beyond the horizon, then go back to the Stube, prepare the pig slop and go and pour it into the trough in the sty.
By now even the females had got used to her presence. The males, as Marlene knew, were less fastidious. And when they smelled the food, they did not stand on ceremony. What did they care if it was Marlene or Simon Keller? They would jump all over one another, biting and grunting, until they had lapped up the last drop of that disgusting stuff.
Marlene would call them by their names. The Doctor, with dark spots under his eyes, never came when she called. Franz was more courteous. He would look up and wag his tail. Kurt, on the other hand, would cock his head. He was funny, with his floppy ears. Gertrud the fugitive had got into the habit of walking up and down the pen as soon as she saw Marlene appear at the top of the stairs. It was a kind of welcome – or maybe just a sign of impatience.
Self-denial. And an obsession. For three days, all Marlene could think about was the cellar and the leather-covered monolith. She was curious, but she was also scared. And fear acted as a trigger to her curiosity.
For three days, the monolith was her first thought when she woke up and the last one before she went to sleep.
For three days, Marlene tried to stifle her curiosity. It was none of her business. There was nothing under the cloth. Some old piece of furniture. Junk.
Did she really want Simon Keller to catch her down there? In the only room under lock and key in the entire maso? How would he react to such an intrusion?
There was nothing under that cloth. Nothing.
And yet . . . And yet there was something in that cellar she could only guess at. Something (and this was what finally convinced her to steal Simon Keller’s key) she did not want to see.
And she had sworn to herself that it would never happen again. No more lies. No more fairy tales.
Right. Precisely.
Lies to avoid facing reality. Marlene was a champion at the sport. Like when she had realised she was pregnant. It had taken her a while to come to terms with the idea. She was about to become a mother. She would give birth to a child. Had she been happy? Radiant? Of course, but only later.
At first, she had spent days acting as if nothing was happening. She had hidden her head under the blankets.
It seemed crazy in retrospect, but that was what she had done. She had tried to erase her child. If you ignore it, then it doesn’t exist. But Klaus wanted to live.
He was there. With her.
And he had fought.
Marlene had dreamt about him. A beautiful newborn baby, waving his arms as though he wanted to be picked up. She had woken drenched in sweat, scared but happy, terrified but in seventh heaven. She had cried silently while Wegener slept. And, once she had calmed down, she had vowed: no more lies. Because her entire life was a lie. The Thieving Magpie. The mice in the walls. You’re pregnant, she had thought. You’re about to become a mother.
A mother doesn’t live in fairy-tale land. A mother faces reality. Like Gretel the Brave. Not like Hansel. That whining child Hansel.
A mother does what Gretel the Brave does. She accepts reality and acts on it. Look around, she had told herself. Look at the villa. The cars in the garage. The jewellery.
Look at the photographs of your husband. His arrogant eyes. That cruel streak that never leaves him. His bloodstained hands. Do you really want your child to grow up like that?
To become . . . Kobold?
And that was how Marlene had become Marlene the Brave and started plotting the escape that had brought her here. Klaus had taught her to face the world.
On the fourth day of her self-denial period, she stole the key.
80
Simon Keller had four keys jattached to a rusty ring. The one for the cellar was the largest and oldest, made of bronze. But it wasn’t hard to steal. Before dawn, feeling both guilty and excited, Marlene had taken it from the rucksack Simon Keller always carried when he went out.
Then she had made breakfast, chatted to Simon Keller once he had woken up, and witnessed his usual morning ritual. The greatcoat done up to his neck, the snowshoes, the rifle over his shoulder. With her heart in her mouth, she had said goodbye to him and watched him vanish over the horizon, expecting him to turn back any minute and ask her for the key that was burning a hole in her pocket.
It had not happened.
She was alone and would be for hours, as usual.
She got down to work. She prepared the pig slop, poured it into the buckets and, defying the cold, went down into the sty. She fed the animals, first the boars, then the females, as usual leaving the silver bowl inside Lissy’s grille, and went back to the Stube. Without giving herself time to think, she inserted the key in the lock and turned it twice. The door opened wide.
No creaking. Not like the one . . .
Stupid woman.
Marlene turned back, searched until she found a candle and lit it.
With that faint flame to guide her, she felt ready. The air of the cellar snatched at her throat when she was only halfway down the steps.
The dirt. The chaos.
The monolith.
The top of the covered object almost touched the ceiling. There were spiders’ webs over it, although not many, as if the spiders kept away from it. Marlene huffed impatiently. The fairy-tale world again.
Marlene the Brave would not let herself be intimidated by this . . . this . . . What was it?
Time to find out.
That was when she heard it. The roar, loud and hollow. A kind of subterranean thunder. Marlene froze and looked around.
Boom.
The thunder had sounded again.
The candle flame swayed from side to side. Marlene was bewildered. She could not locate the origin of the sound – or figure out what was making it.
An earthquake? Impossible.
Boom.
Not thunder, she thought, but the thumping of a gigantic heart. She shuddered.
Boom.
Then an unmistakable squeal.
Lissy.
Marlene almost dropped the candle.
The squeal had come from her right.
Marlene understood now. Nine steps down to the pigsty, nine down to the cellar. The cellar and the sty were part of the same room, divided by a wall.
The wall from where the squeal had come. From where the thumping was coming. The wall to which Marlene now turned, shielding the flame with her hand, barely able to breathe.
The thumps were turning into a rhythmical beat. Boom. Boom. Boom.
About half a metre from the ground, there was a small window, protected by metal bars, connecting the cellar and the pigsty.
To reach it, she only needed to take a couple of steps, taking care not to trip over the junk strewn all over the cellar floor. That was where the thunder was coming from.
And a strange glow. It was green, as if covered in mucus, or moss. The light vanished and . . .
Boom.
Marlene bent forward and looked. Behind the bars, Lissy was bleeding, her forehead cracked open, her fangs dripping with blood.
Marlene felt faint.
Lissy withdrew into the darkness, emitted a squeal and charged, hurling her black, menacing form at the barred window with such force and fury that the metal rippled and creaked. She shook her head and rolled her eyes, as if stunned by the impact. But that did not deter her. She withdrew again into the shadows, emitted another long squeal and struck the metal again. Then again, and again. Harder each time. Angrier each time. Spraying blood around her each time.
Darkness. Squealing. Impact.
Boom.
The metal rippled, as if about to give way.
Lissy is hungry, Marlene thought.
Blood spattered her face and she pulled back in disgust, narrowly avoiding a fall. It was a miracle the candle did not go out. The prospect of being plunged into darkness filled her with terror.
On the other side of the window, Lissy was staring
at her with hatred. She brought her snout close to the bars, sniffed the air and snorted, squirting blood and mucus. Then she sank her teeth into the metal.
The sharp fangs rasped the iron, which bent under the force of her bite.
Marlene could not stand it anymore. “Please, Lissy, stop it. Stop it.”
Lissy obeyed. She threw her one final glance, then withdrew and again hid in the shadows.
Marlene collapsed.
81
Sitting on the floor, in the dirt, shaking, she started to cry, big tears of anguish. Crying did her good. She slowly regained control.
She stopped sobbing.
Lissy was just a sow. Nothing more. It was stupid, really stupid to be afraid of Lissy. Lissy was just a sow. A sow . . . But was there anything normal about this sow? No. Definitely not. Even so, Marlene tried to regulate her breathing and, after a while, stopped shaking. She rubbed her face with the sleeve of her sweater to wipe off the blood.
The Lissy she feared belonged to the world of fairy tales. Kobolds, witches, possessed sows. All nonsense. It was time to be Marlene the Brave again.
With a sigh, she got to her feet. She glanced at the barred window, then focused on the monolith. That was what she was here for.
She reached out and pulled off the leather sheet, releasing a little dust – actually, less than she would have expected, but it still made her cough. She half closed her eyes and took a step back.
Once the dust (and the spiders’ webs and the dirt) had settled on the floor, Marlene examined what the sheet had been concealing.
Books. Hundreds of them, a perfect stack of books piled one on top of the other, all black and thick as bricks, with the spines facing outwards. A stele of paper and glue. Marlene the Brave brushed the monolith with the tip of her finger. It was cold.
Sanctuary Page 21