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Overview
When the townsfolk of Hameln are affected by a mold that grows on the hops -- poisoning their mead and beer -- Salz is one of the few who are unaffected. The mold's effect is hallucinogenic, and soon Hameln is in the grips of a plague of madness, followed by a plague of rats. It is only Salz who can proclaim the truth -- although it might cost him his life.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781439132227 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Atheneum Books for Young Readers |
| Publication date: | 05/11/2010 |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 272 |
| Lexile: | 620L (what's this?) |
| File size: | 2 MB |
| Age Range: | 12 - 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Stranger
The beat is steady, unlike my own breathing. It draws me. And not just me: A hawk has come to investigate. Might the raptor think it's a heartbeat? Now squirrels are coming. And a badger. Creatures creep and hop from every direction, voles and rabbits and mice, creatures that normally hide when a raptor wing glides overhead.
This is new. Caution livens my skin.
My throat tickles. I fight the cough. Cursèd, thickened lungs that would betray me.
I grasp a sapling to stop myself. Time is short -- it shouldn't be wasted on satisfying simple curiosity. I'm supposed to be gathering the first wild herbs of spring for Grossmutter. She'll use them in a brew. Tonight the twelve of us -- one shy of being a full coven -- will take pots of the brew and go from field to field, sprinkling it on the earth before the farmers till and sow. The brew ensures a plentiful harvest. We do this every year, though no one outside the coven knows. Our coven of worshipers takes care of Hameln town in ways no one guesses. That's what I love being part of -- the beautiful mysteries.
I should seek out the herbs swiftly -- Grossmutter's waiting. I should avoid anything that deters me from my duty.
Instead, I let loose of the sapling and become one with the mesmerized creatures, following the beat, almost against my will. It's a hook in my chest, slowly dragging me in.
I walk quietly, stealthily. The woods can hide vagrants and criminals. They can hide knackers or hangmen or prostitutes -- the despised of society. The woods can hold danger.
But the beat insists; I walk.
He sits on a raised tree root, slapping his thighs rhythmically through green-and-yellow-striped trousers.Colors of the rich. His chest is white and thin. Not pasty like mine; he's not sickly. Rather, he seems spare. And ready to spring.
His shirt, red like blood, lies on a burlap sack on the ground. A pipe sits on top of the heap.
A music pipe.
Our coven needs a new piper. Then we'd be a full thirteen again. Our effectiveness would be secured.
Alas, a rich man would never consider a post so humble as coven piper. But a rich man isn't likely to be alone in the forest, either.
The beech beside me stands dead. I break off a branch. The crack brings the man to his feet. The animals scatter.
I step into the clearing before he flees too. The branch has become a cudgel in my hands. I am foolhardy enough to face a stranger alone, but not so much so as to do it empty-handed. One who lacks a means of defense is nearly as culpable as one who gives offense.
His skin pimples with fear. But now he squints in disbelief. "Has a mere boy come to pummel me?"
I've never pummeled anyone in my life, which I believe is twelve full years, what my priest, Pater Michael, declares a miracula, nothing less than a miracle. "I'm nearly a man."
"You have the arms to prove it," he says, noting the one part of my body that swells with strength. His arms, instead, are like his chest -- ropy. He holds empty hands up. "Won't you have pity, Master, on a simple fellow passing through?" He bows his head.
"Those aren't the clothes of a simple fellow."
He looks at my farmer smock and pants, and smiles just a little. He turns slowly in a circle, then faster. Then he's dancing, lifting his knees high, grinning like a fool. He twirls till he falls, laughing, on all fours.
I've never seen such a display outside of festivals and marriages and, of course, sacred ceremonies. It makes me think of our coven's jumping dance. The higher we jump, the higher the crops will grow. But we never dance without music; we don't do what this man just did.
He turns and drops onto his bottom. "Simple enough for you?"
I'm smiling at his wordplay. Puns confuse the devil, so they keep him at bay. From this man's behavior, though, it would seem he's not exercising prudence, but merely playing the jokester. "So, you're passing through, witty fellow. From where?"
"Most recently, Bremen."
Bremen is one of the largest cities in Germany, with more than ten thousand people. It's a week north of here, for those strong enough to walk all day. Nearly to the great North Sea. I've never been there; just the exertion of going to the healing waters at Bad Pyrmont is enough to bathe me in sweat, and that's only a half day south of here. But I listen well when travelers talk, and the images that fill my head bless me with the illusion of experience. My ears itch to hear more. "Tell me about it."
"A moat surrounds the whole town, right outside the massive wall."
I know what a moat is. The nuns in Höxter talk only of the cathedral school in Bremen. They say that's all that should interest me, a future cleric, if I have a future, which no one but Grossmutter believes. But everything interests me -- everything. My ears filter out nothing, no matter who is talking.
A moat. Enemies. Battles.
"Our town is nearly surrounded by water too," I say, "but from natural rivers -- a natural moat. And we have walls against enemies."
"Really, now?" He looks amused. "And who attacks?"
My cheeks got hot. I shouldn't have boasted, for I don't know of any attack.
An infantry passed through Hameln town once, when I was but five or six years old -- when Mother was still alive. It wasn't a Crusade. The most recent Crusade was a couple of years before my birth. No, this was just some sort of display. The soldiers wore iron helmets with neck guards and cheek guards. Metal scales of armor protected them from shoulder to midthigh. They carried wood shields covered with leather that was gilded or silvered and had bronze decorations. Father said they were all dressed up with nowhere to go, and he laughed like I believe this stranger would laugh. But my brothers and sisters and I watched intently, and Mother squeezed my shoulder as she stood beside me in the crowd. All of us wanted to fight the infidels. What better way is there to show your love for Jesus Christ? For years after that we boys made helmets out of old leather scraps and marched in the woods behind our farmstead.
I place the branch on the ground and drop beside it. I sit with my arms around my raised and spread knees, careful to cross my legs only at the ankle so that the rolled cuffs of my pant legs hang free. "Forget Hameln. Tell me more about Bremen."
"There are peat bogs outside town. And farmers have built dikes to steal marshlands from the sea. Willows and poplars sway in the winds. Boats go in and out the harbor." He puts his hand above his eyebrows, as though he's screening his eyes from the sun as he looks across a vast harbor. Then he lets his hand fall and grins. "Lots of boats. More than a boy like you can count."
"I can count high," I say.
"Indeed?"
I could start counting and continue till he tells me to stop. But I lose my breath so easily. Pride isn't worth it.
"What are you doing in these woods?" asks the man.
"Gathering herbs."
"A girl's task," he says.
I could rise to that insult; I could tell him it's my job for the coven. But just hearing the word can make people grimace in fear, for words can empower evil. Many people know only about the wicked covens. The ones that bring trouble and promote Morth deeds -- death deeds. They are rabid and wrathful. Their neighbors get worms or epilepsy. These covens bring on lightning and tempests. They cause hailstorms and ruin crops. They make men sterile and women deliver stillbirths. They are nothing like us.
I won't risk scaring him off. "There are no girls left in our family," I say reasonably, "and I'm the youngest."
His eyes flicker past me and back again. "Did they marry?"
"No."
"Die?"
"One. The others were sold."
"Ah, sold." Melancholy tinges his voice. His shoulders curl forward. "Some people don't deserve children."
The harshness of that thought shocks me.
Kröte moves.
The man jerks to attention. "What's that in your pant leg?"
I unroll the right cuff gently till Kröte is in the open. He blinks, then hops to the ground beside my foot. He's dusty black, nearly as dark as the rich dirt.
"Do you always carry a toad on your person?" asks the man, his face relaxing again.
I nudge Kröte just the slightest with my big toe. The toad makes a single hop.
Every member of a coven has a familiar -- an animal through which we have our magic powers. A dog, a horse, a hen -- any black animal will do. When it dies or goes astray, another takes its place. Kröte is my familiar.
"It seems he doesn't want to leave you." The man reaches forward a hand. His confidence almost offends me.
I tense up: People don't always treat toads kindly. "I wouldn't touch any black toads around Hameln town if I were you. Any one of them could have been rolled in my pant leg."
He blinks and sits on both hands, his face a mask now. This is a prudent man, after all. I shouldn't have made my words sound so threatening.
Kröte hops off among the sparse underbrush. These beeches offer their flat leaves to the heavens, like upturned palms; little sun can penetrate to the forest floor. But he's a smart toad though; he'll manage. Godspeed, Kröte.
"So, you came from Bremen," I say in a light tone, eager to get the man talking again. "And where are you going to?"
"Hannover."
"But you've strayed and gone too far."
The man jerks his chin toward me. "How's that? I followed the river."
"Which bank?"
"The left as the river flows. They told me the Leine runs in from that bank."
"It does. But from the left bank of the Aller, not the Weser." I stand and draw a map in the dirt with my branch. "See? You followed the Weser, so you walked almost due south to Hameln town." I draw a deep star. "But the Aller comes into the Weser from the east, and the Leine runs into the Aller at least a day's journey later." I draw another star where Hannover lies. "The Leine goes to Hannover; the Weser doesn't."
The man stares at my map. "So I'm past where I want to be?"
"Not by much." I sit again. "You're still in Saxony. You could be in Hannover by the day after tomorrow."
"Even crossing these hills?"
"These are nothing. Be glad you won't have to cross the Harz Mountains. They're to the southeast. You'll go northeast."
"You're a veritable geographer," says the man. He pulls his hands out from under his bottom and brushes off the dirt, looking at me the whole time. He tilts his head, sizes me up. Then he rubs the side of his neck. "But I wager you haven't seen the Aller or the Leine or even the Harz Mountains, have you, now?"
The challenge stings; I hate being judged by my body. I take up the stone again and quickly draw hills into my map. I add the Harz Mountains. "There are evergreens there," I say, "not just beeches. Most of them are pines." I outline a castle. "That's where Herzberg should be." I extend the Weser south. "And this is Höxter." That town I can mark with complete assurance. I throw the stone past his cheek, close enough that I'm sure his ear felt the air move. It strikes a tree trunk. I wince in apology to the tree. "I've seen lots of the world. In maps and drawings and stories. I study."
He touches his ear lightly and gives an exaggerated whistle of appreciation. "At the monastery of Schönau near Sankt Goarshausen, I wager."
That famous monastery is far. I realize I don't even know where it is -- I couldn't place it on a map. Sweat breaks out on my forehead and back. "Don't mock me. I read works from Schönau -- I read everything. I've read the letters of the Benedictine nun Elisabeth von Schönau. I've read about her visions and ecstacies. She rails against the corruption of the church. I know her work as well as if I had the good fortune to listen to her directly. You can believe me on this. I study with the priest in Höxter once a month because our own priest can hardly see anymore. I go by boat up the Weser. After my birthday in autumn, if I live, I'm going to the town school in Magdeburg, where the bishop himself teaches." And now the coughs come. I talked too much, too fast. I fold forward over myself, coughing and gagging.
"What is it, boy?" The man claps a hand on my back.
The mucus presses in my windpipe, threatening to clog it. I get to my feet with difficulty and wave the man aside. Then I stand on my hands. Gobs of muck fly from my mouth onto the dirt. The coughs scrape the insides of my lungs, thinning every part, forcing a path for air. Coughs and coughs. Gradually they subside. I right myself to the sweet pleasure others enjoy without thought, the sweetest pleasure of all: breath.
The man gapes still. "How long can you stay up on your hands?"
"As long as I need to. Grossmutter taught me when I was younger than I can remember. She says it's why I'm still alive. She says I can't die if I'm standing on my hands."
"You have a cunning grandmother." The man looks contrite. "May you live past your birthday. May you study wherever you like. Even at the Fulda monastery down in Frankish lands. May you study arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, music -- whatever you want."
Music. "I heard your beat."
"I know. It brought you to me. Just like the animals. You're a funny boy, to come to animal music, and mere beats, at that. But I saw it in your eyes: You couldn't help it, could you? All of you, fascinated."
There's that cockiness again, like when he thought he'd touch Kröte without my permission. But we're becoming friends now, so I let it go.
"I like almost anything rhythmic. I always have." I don't tell him how many times I've fallen asleep to someone pounding in regular beats on my back.
His pipe tantalizes me, perched on the heap of his red shirt. "Have you studied music?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "It comes naturally. That's why I'm on my way to Hannover -- for the apple blossom festival."
Musicians that learned on their own make the best coven pipers. "We have an apple blossom festival here, too," I say encouragingly.
He smiles. "Hannover is big. They set up platforms in the town square so everyone can see the actors and musicians."
"It sounds like the new Easter passion plays."
He laughs now. "Not so elaborate, I'm sure. But it lasts two days. And it pays. There are festivals all through sowing and reaping. Then the saints' days follow. I can stay busy till the end of autumn."
"If you're looking for work, our farmers can always use an extra hand. Everything grows in the loess of our plains."
"I'm a piper. Festivals in little towns like yours are too brief and far between to keep me happy."
"Exactly. You could farm for money and pipe for joy. The life would be a lot better than that of an itinerant piper. And those who listened would be far more attentive than your usual audience."
"How so?"
"You'd have to give up your dandy clothes and don all black."
"All black?" His voice hushes to a whisper. "You mean be a devil's piper?"
"It's not shameful."
"So, that toad really was your familiar."
"Yes."
He shakes his head. "I'm just an ordinary Christian piper. And what about you? You said you study with a priest, so how can you belong to a coven?"
"We're papists in our coven -- we follow the pope. We practice the good magic of the old religion, merging it with the enlightenment of the new religion." I stop for breath. "We are soldiers of Christ."
"Christians can't abide pagan ways."
"Why not? Pagan ways with nature do no harm. No one has reason to fear us -- no one decent, at least."
He shakes his head harder.
"Even the priests consult us, I swear. When things go really wrong, they come to us. Don't be fooled by black clothing: We wear it only out of tradition." I don't even know if what I say is true. I'm not sure why we wear black. Many things about the coven are secrets from me, for when I ask, the supreme head says I'm too young to know. He let me join when Grossmutter asked, because she's the oldest member and, as such, commands respect. And because he doesn't think I'll be a member for long.
"You risk your soul," says the piper.
"That's the one thing I don't risk. My name is Salz."
He pushes his bottom lip forward in confusion. "They named you after food salt?"
"Not originally. I was christened Siefried." I wipe the sweat that remains on my brow and hold out my hand. "Lick it."
He pulls back slightly in surprise. But then he licks. He wrinkles his nose. "You could salt a vat of gruel."
"The priest at Höxter renamed me. He says it's better to face your afflictions than to pretend they don't exist. So I'm S-A-L-Z. S for soul's salvation; A for activity and ability; L for loyalty and light heartedness; Z for zeal in making money. The letters A, L, and Z are wishful thinking. Other children salty like me die before they're useful. But the letter S was in my christened name too. It belongs to me." I wipe my hand on my smock. "So you see, my soul is guaranteed salvation."
"I don't know anything about letters," he says softly, "but I pray you're right."
I step closer to him. "Play your pipe for me. Please. Let me hear a little melody." I smile in a way I hope is winning, for I am warming to him more and more. "A simple tune."
"Best to change my tune," he says, and this time I'm sure of the intent of his pun. He picks up the pipe and tucks it in at the waist of his trousers. He slips his shirt on over his head. "If you pass through Hannover on your way to Magdeburg, listen for me."
"I might," I say, a little hurt. "But I won't stop."
He laughs. "If you hear me, you'll stop. I'll be playing people music this time. No one will be able to resist." He throws his sack over his shoulder and walks through the forest, out of sight.
Copyright © 2003 by Donna Jo Napoli
Meal
Grossmutter rolls the dough half a fingernail thick and twice the length of the pan. I take one end, she takes the other, and we lift it like a sheet, lining the pan, snugging it into the corners. The ends hang over the sides of the pan. It overlaps on both ends by an equal amount. The center sits empty, waiting for the filling.
Grossmutter minces fennel and lovage, leeks and dried apples, while I work on the birds. I pluck them good and rinse them in the basin of cold water. They are spring fat. I slit the belly down to the anus and stick in my finger. I scoop out the liver and peel away the little sack from its side, careful not to rip it, or the bitter green bile will taint the meat. The sack goes in the waste bucket, and the liver goes back inside the bird.
There are eighteen birds in all: seven jays, six sparrows, and five starlings. Three consecutive numbers. That feels right. My own hand got these birds -- with nothing more than a rock. I'm the best birder in the family; I throw hard and accurate.
I arrange the birds in the pan, tucking their heads under one wing. They look like they're sleeping. Grossmutter adds poppy oil to the spiced filling and spoons it in all around. Then she hands me the knife again.
This is my favorite part. I pinch the two long sides of dough into wing shapes. Then I cut at a slant along the bottom edges and separate the dough, so it looks like the feathers of a hawk. I fold the dough wings over the center, making a top crust for the bird pie.
While it's cooking, the wind picks up. Rain comes. It sounds dull on our steep straw roof, but I can tell it's pelting already.
Father and my brothers are out in the fields getting the ground ready for sowing. It's hard labor even here in Weserbergland -- the Weser hill country -- where the fields are more arable than anywhere else in God's creation. That's why I'm not out there with them; I'm no good at hard labor. But I did my share -- I sprinkled the brew with Grossmutter. I prayed for the fertility of the earth. I wish our coven could have danced, like we did last spring, when we still had our piper. But our chants were longer and louder.
I climb the stairs and grab four blankets off the beds. Then I rush back down, just in time. They come in the door, dripping and stamping their boots. Grossmutter and I wrap them in the blankets and rub their backs.
There's a warming oven in the common room, but they come into the kitchen instead, lured by the smell of the bird pie. They line up in front of the fireplace.
"See how fast we got inside," says Father. "Warmth and comfort just minutes from the field." He stretches his hands toward the fire.
Bertram, my oldest brother, says nothing, though Father's remark is directed at him.
It's an ongoing battle between them. Bertram desperately wants us to move to town. Our farmstead is one of the few remaining outside the town walls. Most other farmers now live in narrow town houses and have to walk sometimes up to an hour just to get to their fields.
"It doesn't usually rain this bad," says Melis. "This spring is wetter than most. Normally, a nice walk home from the fields on a spring or summer evening would be welcome."
I'm surprised. Melis is but a year older than me. He usually keeps his mouth shut. But Bertram is looking at his hands in his lap, avoiding Father's face, so I get it: The brothers have conspired. They're ganging up on Father.
And he knows it. He looks at Ludolf. "What have you got to add?"
"Did you hear that the bakery in town opens twice a day now?" Ludolf swallows, and his Adam's apple moves visibly; his neck is so thin you'd think he was twelve like me, rather than fifteen. It's funny to hear Ludolf talking with enthusiasm about food; Grossmutter's always nagging him to eat. She says he eats too little for his height. "They'll keep it up till the summer heat," he says. "You can eat fresh bread at daybreak and fresh bread at night, and never have to use your own oven."
Father doesn't look at me. But I won't be left out -- I'm one of the brothers, whether Bertram includes me in his schemes or not. "And you can go in the church any spare moment, without a long walk." I look to Melis for support -- he's my only brother with an interest in the church. If I were strong enough to work in the fields, he'd be the one studying to become a cleric, not me. He hates farmer's work.
"Piss posing as beer -- that's what those arguments are," says Father with a laugh. He sinks into a chair at the table. "A nice long walk after a day in the field, ha! And visits to the church more than once a week -- that's a good joke. All I want after a day in the field is a full plate and a dry bed." He shakes a finger at us. "And no one's bread is better than Grossmutter's. Don't forget that."
I feel suddenly disloyal. I look quickly at Grossmutter's face to see if she took offense.
She's busy scraping mold off a round of cheese; it doesn't seem she's heard at all. She looks up at us, at this unexpected attention. "We'll eat this cheese tonight. I fear the mold will get the better part of it by Sunday."
Tomorrow's Friday. We don't eat meat, fowl, lard, eggs, or dairy products on Friday or Saturday -- or on church holidays or during Lent or before saints' holidays, for that matter. Grossmutter observes fasting rules strictly. That's why I caught the birds today. Thursday's dinner is always meat, to keep us from getting too cranky by Sunday.
Grossmutter puts the cheese on a board with a knife and sets it in the center of the table.
"Our arguments would be a lot better if you'd let us talk about the danger of living out here," says Bertram.
"Danger? You're back to danger again. Hogwash. You think Germany is off to another Crusade, and you boys will go be soldiers, so the rest of us will need the safety of town?" Father pulls the cheese toward him and rips off a hunk. "The only Crusade that wasn't a total disaster was the first one -- the only one our good emperors had no part in. Germany's sick of failure by now. We won't be marching off to Africa or Asia Minor again. We can leave the dirty Arabs to themselves." He takes a big bite of cheese.
"There are smaller battles all the time," says Bertram. "Wars against the heathen Prussians."
"That's way in the east," says Father, chewing large. "Nobody's threatening Saxony. We don't need to squirrel away behind walls."
Bertram takes the chair across from Father. Melis and Ludolf sit now too. I place wooden spoons in front of everyone, and at the spots for Grossmutter and me too.
Bertram grabs the cheese off the board and picks at a blue spot that Grossmutter's failing eyes missed. "Even the cheese mold is on our side."
Father holds his spoon by its throat and rubs his thumb inside its smooth bowl. "How do you figure that?"
"It keeps raining. Mold's growing on everything," says Bertram. "I can't remember the last time it was sunny. Melis is right: This is a strange year."
Clouds cover us more days than not, year-round -- but it's true this spring has been rainier and chillier than usual. Still, I remember the last time it was sunny, and it wasn't that long ago -- just a couple of weeks. It was the day I met the stranger in the forest -- the piper who was headed for Hannover. It was so warm he had his shirt off to rest, his red, red shirt.
"Ack!" Grossmutter jumps back from the bread bin.
Two rats go skittering across the kitchen floor to an upright. They climb the timber fast and disappear into the flooring of the upstairs bedrooms.
Grossmutter presses her lips together in a determined line. She cuts the gnaw marks off the bread and puts the rest of the loaf on the table. "Rats," she says with a little shiver. I can feel her disgust. She always says animals have no place in the house.
I'm glad I left Kröte upstairs in his earthen pot, on a nice bed of wool, with a piece of milk-soaked bread beside him. Even my harmless Kröte annoys Grossmutter. This is a new Kröte -- I name all my toads Kröte, and I never keep them for more than a couple of days at a time. Longer than that is cruel. Tomorrow I'll set this one free.
"See?" says Bertram. "The rats are coming in out of the rain this year. When's the last time that happened? You can't make any decisions based on an odd spring like this, Father. In most years life would be better in town. A lot better."
"Help me, Salz," calls Grossmutter.
I use my smock to protect my hands from the heat and lift the pan out of the oven onto the bricked area in front of it. The rest of our floor is wood and can't take such heat. Grossmutter squats beside me with a stack of wooden bowls. I make sure Father gets four birds, my older brothers get three each, Grossmutter and I get two each. Three consecutive numbers again. And going down again. One lone bird remains in the pan. Bertram will eat it later, when Father's not watching. I wish I had a way of knowing ahead of time which portion of the food would be left over for Bertram. If I did, I'd sweat on it and make it too salty for him to enjoy. I'd get back for all the times he's mean to me.
We eat without talking, crunching small beaks and bones in our molars, spitting out larger ones. Except Grossmutter. She picks out the bones with her fingers. She has too many molars missing for those that remain to be of any use.
She goes to the windowsill and comes back with a copper bowl of wild strawberries, chilled by the storm. She hands it to Father and sits again. He takes a handful and passes it. I know she'll pour the beer soon enough -- that's the daily beverage, mug after mug of beer. Then she'll cut us hunks of the bread. This is how our meals always go: hot, cold, wet, dry. The right sequence restores the balance of the four humors in the body. Grossmutter is careful about such things.
"Tell him the real reason you want to move to town," she says, picking between her front teeth with a bird bone. So she was listening after all.
"The real reason?" asks Father, looking at Bertram.
"A man needs a family of his own," says Bertram quietly.
"You like that Johannah, is that it? Well, that's no problem. We can add another house to the farmyard."
"And what about when Ludolf takes a wife? And then Melis?"
Bertram doesn't say "Salz."
"There's plenty of room here."
"Wives want to see their friends," says Bertram. "They want to stand in the marketplace and walk through the shops." He pushes his empty bowl toward the center of the table and sets his elbows firm in its place. "They want town life. They won't leave it to go live on an isolated farmstead."
"If the girl talks like that," says Father, "she gives herself airs. Your Johannah is nothing but a servant racing through town on errands others give her."
"What does that matter? It's decent work. And her masters treat her well." Bertram stands now. I'm shocked at the way his tone has changed so fast. He's challenged Father often this past year, but never belligerently. "A wife who's had that experience can't be ripped from it."
"Sit down, sit down," says Father, flapping his hand.
Bertram drops into his seat, but his body is stiff. He's ready to jump to his feet again in an instant.
"Girls." Father shakes his head. "It's a good thing we don't have any."
I suck in my breath in pain. From nowhere come the words that piper in the woods spoke: Some people don't deserve children.
Father leans back. "Where's my beer?"
I look to Bertram. Has the discussion really ended?
Grossmutter sets mugs of beer on the table and sits.
No one moves.
Father lifts his mug and drinks long.
Tonight's show is over. Despite myself, I feel sorry for Bertram. He has loved Johannah for two years now. I like her. She's the most interesting girl I know.
But then, I know hardly any other girls. We've kept pretty much to ourselves since Mother died.
That's another reason I feel sorry for Bertram now: Mother. Father's words were about the girls -- but any mention of girls brings the memory of Mother, too. So these words must have hurt Bertram as much as they hurt me. He was Mother's favorite. He still leaves when anyone mentions her -- and I bet he does it so we won't see him tear up.
In silence we eat bread and drink beer, all but me, that is. Children seven years of age drink beer -- but not me. Grossmutter won't have it. She says beer presses on the lungs, and I'm not strong enough to breathe through that. Instead, I drink a cool tea of mint and juniper berries. It isn't bad. And it smells sweeter than beer.
Grossmutter hands out oat straws to everyone, even me. This way I avoid the leaves and berries in the tea, just like they avoid most of the grain hulls in the beer. But mainly she lets me do it so I won't feel too left out. Straws are fun. When we have enough used ones in a pile, Grossmutter and I weave them into pentagrams -- goblin crosses -- that hang over the door to ward off evil. I smile at her now, small and quick. Her eyes crinkle and the corners of her mouth lift just a bit. But it's enough. None of the others notice our exchange. It's like a secret.
I suck on the straw, then gnaw on the bread.
Ludolf stops eating first. He puts the end of his bread on top of the half bird that remains in his bowl, pushes his mug away, and leans back. Bertram doesn't miss a beat: He pulls the bowl and mug over and finishes them off.
Father looks around, and the very sight of my face makes him remember. "Go kill those rats, Salz." He takes his boots off and walks into the common room to sit by the warming oven.
My brothers rise as well. They pull off their boots and stand talking by the fire. Everyone can easily see Father from here, but no one seems to want to go be in his company. Melis and Ludolf close in on Bertram from each side, like the hard shell wings of a beetle protecting the soft middle.
Grossmutter sits a moment, staring at the center of the table, at the empty strawberry bowl.
I think again of what Father said. "Do you miss the girls?" I whisper. I reach out and gently tap the white lumps of her knuckles. "Do you miss my sisters?"
She draws back as though I've uttered profanity. "Children are a nuisance. I'm glad your father sold them while he could. I couldn't be bothered raising another brood."
Grossmutter is holding the empty bowl like a chalice, fingers spread to cradle it well. Her hands belie her words; she used to hold little Hilde constantly.
I had two sisters -- Eike and Hildegard. I was eight when Mother died -- one year too old to be sold into slavery, though surely no one would have bought a child as sick as I was. Eike was six. Hilde was three -- barely weaned. They went together with a traveling merchant to Magdeburg, where they work in the castle. That's what I've been told, at least. If I do go to the Magdeburg town school next year, I'll find them again. And when I get a job, I'll buy them back. They're my blood, after all.
It's strange thinking about them. I usually try not to. There's no point thinking about what you can't do anything about. And it hurts to think like that.
I peek through the opening in the shutters. It's pouring. I strip.
"What are you doing?" Grossmutter gets up from the table groggily. It's the effect of the beer, for she drank extra tonight. I saw.
"No point in getting my clothes wet," I say, and I dash out the door, out from under the wide roof overhang, into the downpour. It takes almost no time to grab a couple of stones. When I run back in, she's waiting, holding a blanket one of my brothers has cast off. She clucks angrily.
My brothers are laughing.
"Don't encourage him," she spits at them. "The rain will be the death of him if he doesn't watch out." She pinches my ear till I beg for mercy. "That's from your mother's spirit."
I climb the stairs quietly, with a stone in each hand, at the ready. The rats are gnawing at something. Something near my bed. A steady gnaw. I peer through the shadows, and now I see them. Blood makes their whiskers shine. They've killed Kröte! Idiot rats. They'd die of the poison in his skin if I didn't kill them first.
My Kröte, my familiar.
I throw hard and kill them both. Swiftly. I've never had a stomach for pain. But I wish I did. They deserved as painful a death as they gave.
Scattered bits of Kröte's bone shard and glistening flesh and one intact hind leg -- strong, long muscles, useless.
Oh, yes, I should have let those rats die in misery. They probably ate Kröte alive -- rats do that. Did he see his own innards?
And I'm sweating and dizzy and coughing, coughing, coughing.
"On your hands, boy," shouts Grossmutter, clomping up the stairs. "Stand on your hands. Fast."
But I'm already upside down, and now she's pounding my back. Hack and pound, hack and pound.
Copyright © 2003 by Donna Jo Napoli