He came closer. Marlene noticed that his greatcoat was undone. She glimpsed the hilt of his hunting knife. There was blood on his trousers. Probably the deer’s blood. He reached out his hand and stroked her face. His fingers were warm. “Breathe. How long have you been running?”
“I don’t know. I . . .”
“You’re frightened.”
Yes, damn it. Of course she was.
“And you’re cold.”
Keller laid the carcass of the deer down in the snow, took off his rucksack and pulled from it a moth-eaten woollen blanket. He put it over Marlene’s shoulders and rubbed her. Her blood started circulating again.
“Feeling any better?”
Marlene nodded.
“Tell me about Lissy. Why are you here?”
“Lissy isn’t well. She’s . . .” Shivering, Marlene pulled the blanket tightly around her, closed her eyes and breathed in. “I was feeding the . . . the kids. Everything was normal. The same as always. I gave Lissy her bowl and she started knocking herself against . . . At the back of her enclosure there’s a kind of . . .”
“A little window, yes,” Keller said.
“She kept banging her head on it, quite hard. I don’t know why, I really don’t. I tried to calm her down, but . . . there was blood everywhere and I didn’t know what to do. I ran out.”
Keller looked at her intently for a moment or two and saw fear in her face. He was touched by it. “You’re a good girl, Marlene,” he said. “Let’s go.” He hoisted up the deer. “It’s nothing, you’ll see. She does this every now and again. I think it’s the cage. Maybe I should build a larger one.”
Less than an hour later (because he knew all the shortcuts, a fact that filled Marlene with terror) they came within sight of the maso. In the midst of all that snow, it was black and reminded Marlene of the monolith in the cellar.
Even so, when Keller turned and gave her an encouraging look, Marlene actually managed to smile.
85
It was after dinner, that same evening. Every now and again she would remember to turn the page. The illustrations in her old edition of Grimm’s fairy tales were making her nauseous. Children abducted and eaten, women chopped to pieces, lies, cruelty. She could not take her eyes off one picture in particular. The moment when Gretel the Brave shuts the oven door, killing the witch.
Marlene glanced over at Keller. Sitting on the bench, his injured leg resting on a chair, his pipe clenched between his teeth, he was carving a piece of wood, using a knife with a short, sturdy blade.
He was forming a pig’s snout. There were three others standing proudly on the table.
It was only now, after tripping over the king, the boar and the three brothers, that Marlene realised something: since Wegener’s death, Keller had been carving nothing but pigs. Large or small, smiling or with their snouts turned down, with corkscrew tails or a crest between the ears. Only pigs.
Toys, he had said. For the boy. Once, he had even added: for my grandson.
He noticed her looking at him and she felt duty bound to point at the little pig taking shape in his hands and say, “It’s really lovely, Simon Keller.”
“Just an old man’s pastime,” he said.
Marlene went back to her book. She smoothed the page with the palm of her hand, but did not turn it. There was something hypnotic in that black-and-white drawing.
When they had got back to the maso, Keller had gone down to the pigsty alone and stitched Lissy’s wound. Upon his return, he had reassured Marlene. Lissy would recover soon. He had thanked her several times for coming to fetch him, but also reprimanded her. The mountain was dangerous. She had been lucky to run into him. She could have got lost, and then what would she have done, on her own, in the dark and the cold? “You must think of the baby. You’re a mother now.”
So she was, Marlene thought. Marlene the Brave.
Keller had roasted the deer, singing softly as he coated it in oil and oregano after carefully butchering it, and throwing away the scraps. While doing this, he had told her about the times when Voter Luis would bring home such delicacies. Voter Luis had been a skilful hunter, like most of his ancestors, although this might be one accomplishment in which Simon could surpass him. He was a better hunter. But he would never be a better cook than Mutti. Mutti had been a remarkable cook. For the sake of saying something, Marlene had said she was willing to write down the recipes. It would be a shame if they were forgotten. This had made Keller happy, and he had carried on singing.
When the meal was ready, he had given her the choicest part of the deer, sizzling in aromatic fat, and Marlene had forced herself to eat at least a little. In actual fact, the crisp, tasty meat had made her nauseous.
Luckily, dinner was quickly over.
After washing the pans and dishes, Marlene had curled up by the fire, the Grimm book on her lap, reading, or pretending to read, all the while thinking.
Another illustration: Hansel and Gretel walking home hand in hand. Marlene turned the book towards the firelight and looked closely at the children’s faces. They were smiling. The story had ended as well as could have been hoped, so of course they were smiling.
“And they lived happily ever after.”
But wasn’t there a shadow over their faces?
Had the artist responsible for the illustration wanted to suggest something by the way he had depicted the siblings’ eyes? Were they not too wide open? Too happy? As if what they had seen and done had changed them forever?
Was there not a touch of madness in Hansel and Gretel?
Nobody ever said what had happened to them after that “happily ever after.” What had Gretel become as a grown-up? Or Hansel? Did they have nightmares? Had they forgotten the witch? Or was it impossible for them to forget the old hag’s screams? And what had they done after the witch had stopped screaming and beating her fists on the inside of the soot-covered oven? Had they jumped for joy or immediately run away?
Had they been horrified by this brutal death? Or had they enjoyed it?
Had they killed again after that? Could blood become a compulsion? Was that what had happened to Simon Keller after he had killed Voter Luis? Had he lost his mind there and then, or had madness gradually wormed its way into his mind?
Marlene winced. It was too much. Too much all at once. She closed the book, got up, said goodnight to Keller then went to her bedroom and slipped under the blankets.
She thought about Lissy, and about Simon. He was a killer. Maybe because of Voter Luis. Maybe because of Elisabeth, who had died in his arms. Or maybe because of both. Maybe the trigger had been the solitude of this place. Or else . . . But did the reason really matter?
He was a killer. She had to focus on one crucial question: What was she going to do? Run away. But this time, prepare, make sure she had food and enough layers of clothing to protect her from the cold.
He’s been here for a long time. He knows the mountains. The distance you cover in hours he gets through in minutes.
I was scared. I went round in circles. It won’t happen again.
He’s faster than you.
No. He’s injured. He limps.
Did you see how he carried that deer on his back? He’s strong. Much stronger than you.
I can do this.
Would you really gamble with the life of your child?
A sigh. What was she to do?
The answer was not long in coming. She thought about the Grimm story, the black-and-white illustrations.
Shut him in the oven and let him scream.
The force of this thought made her get out of bed, bending forward, her hand pressed to her mouth, until one knee touched the floor. The candle flame flickered but did not go out. If that happened, she would scream, and once she started she was not sure she would be able to stop.
She stood up, holding on to the chest of drawers, opened the window wide and breathed in lungfuls of icy air. Nausea seized her by the throat. Her stomach was churning. The first retch was so vio
lent that she almost hit her chin against the window frame.
Once her stomach had stopped aching, she shut the window and went back to bed, her arm over her eyes.
Shut him in the oven and let him scream.
86
That night, after Marlene had retired to the bedroom, Keller went down into the pigsty, double-locked the little door and took a look at Lissy to make sure she was healing properly.
Lissy was sleeping on her side, her breathing regular. Before stitching her wound, he had given her some sodium pentothal to numb her and stop her from thrashing about. He stroked the white crest and examined the wound. The edges were red, but there was no sign of infection. Good. He tapped her on the muzzle and laughed. Lissy had a thick skull, just like him.
Before curling up next to Lissy, he went to the little window that looked into the cellar and ran his fingers over the metal. Lissy’s fangs had scratched it. He could feel the marks with his fingertips. In some places, the metal was almost severed. He would have to replace it. And maybe, as he had said to Marlene, it was time to enlarge Lissy’s cage. The boys and girls would have to be sacrificed, but the sow needed more space.
Four hundred kilos crammed into that cubbyhole. No wonder she went crazy.
He sighed and pictured the scene, the sow striking out, biting. An ugly sight. Lissy was not fierce, he thought affectionately, but she could be scary. He could well understand why Marlene had been overcome with panic. She had not lost her head, though, and he admired her for that. Marlene had thought about Lissy’s well-being and had gone looking for him. It was a brave act. She had taken a big risk. If she had fallen or got lost . . . The mere thought filled him with horror.
He had decided to sleep down here so that when Lissy woke up, she would find him next to her and know that Sim’l would never abandon her. Because Sim’l loved Lissy and Lissy loved Sim’l. He moved away from the little window, snuggled up next to the sow and was about to put out the light, singing,“Sweet Lissy, little—”
The Voice stopped him from finishing. It had never been so powerful inside his head. A cacophony. The deep voice of Voter Luis, a whining voice like Elisabeth’s, and grunts that were like bites. It hurt.
Keller lifted both hands to his temples.
She’s seen. She’ll betray you.
“No, she isn’t a bad person.”
She’s done it before. You know she has. She left marks everywhere.
“You’re wrong.”
The Voice exploded in laughter so sharp it pierced through his skull.
She knows. She’s seen. She knows.
“It’s not true, it’s impossible.”
The Voice grew ingratiating.
She was running away. From me. From us. From you.
“Don’t—”
She’ll kill you. She’ll kill me. She’ll leave you on your own.
“You can’t—”
She doesn’t love you. Nobody loves Sim’l. Only Lissy. Nobody will ever love you the way I love you.
The Voice fell silent.
On all fours, Keller shook his head. “It’s not true.”
Who loves you as much as I love you, Sim’l? the Voice roared indignantly.
“Opa,” Keller muttered. Then, in a louder voice, “Opa!” He leaped to his feet, colliding with Lissy.
That was when the unthinkable happened.
With one bound, Lissy threw herself at him, jaws wide open, eyes like tiny slits, muscles quivering, fangs glistening with saliva. Jerking backwards, Keller fell to one knee and the pain shot through him, clouding his vision. Lissy sank her fangs into air. A hollow sound that silenced the Voice.
Keller stared at Lissy. She met his gaze, a string of saliva hanging from a snout as black as night, fangs glistening in the light of the oil lamp. Motionless.
She lay back down and closed her eyes.
Keller left the sty, closed the little door behind him and fled into the woods.
87
Simon Keller had read all the Bibles of the past Voter, some more than once. He had immersed himself in them, searching for an answer. His faith was unshakable, but he was a man, and men are inquisitive. He wanted to discover the nature of the Voice.
After all, the Word itself had been dictated to men of faith by a Voice without face, body or blood. A Voice that would sometimes show compassion, at other times fury, but never explained anything about its nature.
He had discovered a lot. And at the same time, nothing. The Voice remained a miracle and a mystery.
Every time he finished reading one of his ancestor’s Bibles, Keller would add it to the stack in the middle of the cellar. He had started doing this for practical reasons, in order not to confuse them – which sometimes happened. Then, once the stack had grown nice and big, he had started using it as a desk. It was on that altar, with a light within reach, that he copied his Bibles and read those of past Voter. The more he read the taller the altar grew, until it became unmanageable. He had considered building a second stack of books, but when he saw the shape the pile was taking, he decided to carry on erecting a kind of tall black pillar (he did not know the words “obelisk” or “monolith”), because he liked the idea of his ancestors’ words reaching up to heaven from where the Word had come down. Besides, it was as good a way as any other of passing the time. Like making Vulpendingen or carving wooden animals.
One day, shortly before Lissy number six had given way to Lissy number seven, he had fallen ill. A sudden downpour of icy rain had caught him unawares when he was outside. By the time he was on his way back to the maso, he had already started feeling his temperature rising. Once indoors, he had collapsed on the bed fully dressed. Within a couple of hours, his temperature had turned into a raging fever that made his teeth chatter, made swallowing difficult and filled his slumber with nightmares. In the middle of the night, he had woken with a start and got up.
He had somehow dragged himself down to the cellar, where, in addition to Lissy’s drugs, he kept a supply of medicines he used whenever Kräutermandl wisdom was at odds with the violence of nature. A few bottles of antibiotics, aspirin and anti-inflammatories. He used them sparingly because they were very expensive, but his fever was so high that he felt he needed them now.
He had descended the nine steps, his weak legs forcing him to lean against the wall, but once he was in the cellar, standing in front of the monolith of Bibles, instead of looking for the medicines, he had an idea and, without querying it, put it into practice. Even though his head was spinning, he climbed onto a wooden box (the same one Marlene would use years later) and placed his hat on top of the stack of Bibles. He tripped as he got down and banged his head, then picked himself up again and stood admiring his achievement.
“Voter is back,” he said with a laugh.
He took the medicines, forced himself to have a sip of water and went back to bed. By the following morning, his fever had subsided. Once he had recovered, he slaughtered three pigs, used their skins to make leather and adorned it by branding little circles into it. Only then had he gone back down to the cellar to retrieve the hat from the top of the monolith.
The hat was the answer to his quest regarding the Voice.
There was no Voice. No Voice at all.
You’re mad, Simon Keller. Like Voter Luis. You’re simply mad.
He had covered the monolith with the leather sheet, closed the door and put the hat back on his head. The idea that he was mad had never crossed his mind again. Not until Lissy had attacked him and he had fled to the woods. There, in the middle of the night, leaning against a fir tree, chewing poppy seeds to keep the Voice at bay (it kept screaming, Betrayal! Betrayal!), Simon Keller began torturing himself again about the nature of the Voice. And thinking again about his father.
He had come to terms with Voter Luis’ madness decades ago. He understood it. The grief over Mutti’s death had been too great: Voter Luis had lost his mind and killed Lissy.
Could the same be true of him? What if he, too, wer
e mad? And what if that was the reason he had killed so many people?
You’re not mad. You did it because Lissy was hungry.
No, Lissy was just a sow.
Lissy loves you.
Keller felt a pang in his heart. Lissy, the real Lissy, had died years ago. When his father had lost his mind. When he himself still had a chance of a normal life: escaping Voter Luis, leaving the maso, getting off the mountain, working as a farmhand or becoming a skilled craftsman. A carpenter, maybe. He would have liked that. Sanding beams, making toys, cradles for babies.
It’s the child. It’s all because of him. He’s the reason you’ve become blind, Sim’l.
Keller tried to take his mind off the clamour of the Voice. It did not exist. It was only in his head.
Who knows? Without the Voice, he might have found himself a wife. A nice girl to joke with and smile at, the way Voter Luis had done with Mutti before she died. He would have got married and had children, his own children. Lots of children, in whom he would have seen himself reflected.
Voter Simon? the Voice teased.
Keller stood up, furious. “Why not?”
Voter Simon. Opa Simon, the Voice sang.
“Be quiet!”
But the Voice would not keep quiet.
Lissy’s Voice.
Except that Lissy had attacked him.
At this point, Keller had a thought that was even worse than the thought of his being mad.
Lissy was evil. Lissy did not love him. Lissy had never loved him. Lissy had put a chain around his neck and imprisoned him there, in the maso, with her. She had forced him to kill again and again.
Even the Voice fell silent at this terrifying thought.
Lissy was not hungry, Keller thought. Lissy was evil.
That was when Keller decided that he was mad and that he had to kill the sow.
The idea that Lissy could be evil was worse than madness.
88
Blue flames, he thought.
Opa, he thought.
He felt numb, devastated. Behind him, the first rays of light set the mountain tops ablaze. Ahead of him the maso.
Sanctuary Page 23