The Anatomist's Dream (24 page)

24

The Islet of Langer Hansnarrwurst

It didn't take Kwert or Philbert long to forget about Gruftgang and his exclamations of signs and faith, for the green of the woods soon gave way to the edge of the lake, the wind sporadic but stronger now, wrinkling its dark waters with foam-flecked waves, the small islands dotted on its surface looking grim and far away. Once out of the shelter of the trees, gusty swirls of dust and grit plucked at their clothes, stung their skin and eyes. Raspel retreated back down Philbert's arm and into the satchel, and Philbert pushed his hat down harder on his head. They found the skiff beneath the large holm oak swinging back and forth upon its weed-hugged rope in the recess of a small bay, the oars carelessly hidden in a nearby bush. Dark clouds had begun to race across the sky, dimming the last half hour of sun, and they were acutely aware of how little light they had left to them, how little time they might have to get from water to island. They struggled to thread the oars onto their pins, the skiff ­spinning in wild circles as Philbert dragged it into deeper water, Kwert's ribs grating as he fought to get aboard without tipping the whole thing over. Philbert got himself onto the narrow, splintered seat while Kwert huddled at one end so that he could give directions. Then Philbert went at the oars with gusto, scooping a spray of water into the boat with one stroke, ­skimming the lake's surface uselessly with the next. Happily, the wind broadsided them right, Philbert using the oars as rudders before beginning his rowing proper, getting into the rhythm of it, Kwert keeping the island in view, hoping it was the right one, signalling direction with weak waves of his arms.

By the time they scraped into the dark spray of the island's shallows the wind was strong enough to heave Philbert off his feet as he stepped out to drag the skiff in. The slippery boulders shrugged off the noose of rope again and again, and Kwert had to get into the water to help haul the boat up a few yards of sharp shingle so they could get it high enough to loop the rope around a tree bole. The sun had given up completely, hidden behind a dark rolling of clouds and the effort of sliding and ­slipping
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n the mud was too much for Kwert. He collapsed on the slime of the strand-line, pulling his shivering body into a knot, his breath fast and thready, unable to speak, let alone move. Philbert tried his best to haul Kwert away from the water, but the muddy shingle sucked at his boots, and the rain was coming down hard on his back.

‘Kwert!' Philbert shouted, hating to see the thin white shanks of Kwert's legs as his tunic rode up, hating more the moaning of the branches above them in the rising roar of the wind. Kwert did not respond, and Philbert squinted through the beating rain and swirling leaves and thanked God he could see a faint, far-off glint of light somewhere up beyond the bank. He grabbed his satchel just as Raspel stuck out his rat-thin face and yowled, fur wettened into points, nose cold and clammy against Philbert's hand as he shoved the kitten roughly back beneath the burlap. He started a mad scramble up the muddy path between the boulders heaving away from the bank, and from bank and boulders into the trees beyond. He had a vivid memory of the miserableness of Herr Groben's barn, Huffelump's mother lying in her filth, saw the outline of Kwert abandoned on the beach and hauled himself upwards however he could, grabbing at stumps and roots until he could stand and then run, and then off he hurtled through the growing storm until he could clearly see the outline of a shack and the warm light flickering from its rattling windows. He didn't wait for niceties but hurled himself through the door and fell inside, breathing hard. And who was more startled of the two on this mud-wrung island in the middle of a lake in the middle of a storm was moot – the hermit, on seeing a small boy bowl through his door out of nowhere, hat gushing water, small ginger kitten shooting from his bag like a marble, running in ragged circles as it spat with damp and sneeze; or Philbert, finding a man round as a blown bladder, skirts hitched up about his knees, reed pipe in one hand, drum in the other, a line of tiny puppets wriggling on his bare toes. Either way, the door clattered behind Philbert and the man leapt up, dropping his instruments, startling the kitten which lunged at the little figures dancing at his feet.

‘Is it some kind of weasel?' the man blinked, snatching at Raspel, missing, steadying himself against the wall as he ­surveyed his sudden visitors. ‘You seem rather wet,' he began but was interrupted.

‘Kwert!' Philbert shouted, as the wind thwacked the shack with such force that all the wall-boards creaked and the balding rug onto which Philbert had initially rolled began to rise as he got to his feet.

‘Come on!' Philbert shouted, gesturing with his arm before running back out into the storm. The round man heard the ­desperation in the boy's voice and followed, scrambling away down the path towards the lakeside, his large bare feet ­scattering puppets as he went, burying them in the mud. Kwert was lying just as Philbert had left him, though now a thin stream of water was building up about his body, which was acting as a dam for the wind pushing the water on, and it was covering his neck and part of his face.

‘Gracious me!' exclaimed the large man as he leapt down the bank, expertly avoiding the boulders, immediately picking Kwert up, slinging him around his shoulders like a goatskin and stamping back up the hill, balancing himself on wide-straddled legs, the dark mud oozing between his naked toes, Philbert ­shivering and slipping on behind him.

They got back inside, barred the door, and at once the man stripped Kwert of his filthy, sodden clothes and couldn't hide his shock when he saw the welter of bruise and batter on Kwert's yellowing skin. The hermit said nothing. Instead he went to his bedchamber and took up a sheet, ripping it into lengths and dipping them into the cauldron that was hanging over the fire, wringing each one out, using them to gently wash away the worst of scab and grime. When he was done, he lifted Kwert onto his pallet, covered him with eiderdowns and blankets and then whistled. From the gloom at the farther end of the barn came two gleaming white goats who came up and nuzzled his hands like puppies, taking the bits of bread he held out to them before going, on his command, to Kwert and lying down contentedly, one either side of him, and went immediately to sleep.

‘Hansel and Gretel,' said the hermit for explanation, looking around him to find the boy leaning against the door. ‘Over here, lad,' he commanded. ‘Come on over to the fire. Best take your things off too, get them dried. I've more blankets, if not more goats.' Philbert did as he was bid, stripping down to his underclothes, piling everything in a sodden mess.

‘Grandfather here looks very sick,' the hermit went on, ‘so I'm going to make him some ginger and horseradish tea. You should have some too, warm you both up a bit.'

Philbert nodded and sat down by the fire, leaning against a sofa built from wooden pallets bolstered by sacks of hay and straw. The hermit set a small pot on the gridiron, stirred it, dropping in bits of this and bits of that, and the next time he looked over he saw the boy had slumped into a sleep so deep he didn't stir a muscle even when the hermit, whose name was Langer Hansnarrwurst, gently took off the rest of his wet clothes and lifted the lad up, placing him on the sofa before covering him up.

Philbert woke naked, cosy and hungry, Raspel a warm bundle on his neck, tantalising smells of coffee, bacon and frying pancakes strong in the air. He looked up at the low roof heavy with beams pricked over with hooks, then shrugged off all his covers but the last, knotting the sheet about him and clambered to his feet. The hermit sat on a stool close to the fire, looking as big and round as the night before, but with slippers – instead of puppets – on his feet, that resembled birds' nests: woven plant stems felted with wool. He was ladling out bowls of soup, hunks of rough bread squatting like soldiers on a low, hand-hewn table.

‘Well, well,' Brother Langer said brightly, his big belly rolling like an ocean swell beneath his rough-spun habit. ‘So you're awake. I'm afraid grandfather over there hasn't come back to us yet.'

He nodded at Kwert, who was lying slack-mouthed and gaunt in his blankets by the fire, Langer having shifted his pallet – Kwert, goats and all – closer to the warmth. He motioned Philbert to sit, and Philbert went down on the floor next to Kwert, appalled at the rotten melon-skin blotchiness of his face. Philbert was uncertain and frightened; the sequence of events of the last thirty-six hours bewildering and confused. Brother Langer Hansnarrwurst was no more certain. He was a self-elected hermit, but denying his curiosity was not a part of his seclusion, and the arrival of these two waifs was tickling him. He had noticed the large growth on the boy's head the second the lad removed his hat, and also the concern with which the boy regarded the old man, wondering how and why they had washed up on his island. But he was a wise man, was Langer Hansnarrwurst, and asked no questions. Instead he handed the lad a bowl of sorrel and fennel soup, big chunks of back-bacon breaking through its surface, a roll of pancake shoved in like a straw, and it intrigued him that the boy didn't immediately dive in and eat, but instead pinched off a few bits of the pancake soaking in the soup, feeding them first to his little ginger kitten before taking any of it for himself.

‘Enough?' asked Brother Langer when both kitten and boy had taken their fill.

‘Enough,' Philbert repeated. ‘Thank you.'

‘Do you have names?' Brother Langer asked.

‘I'm Philbert,' Philbert whispered, ‘and that's Kwert,' unable to stop a couple of tears leaking from his eyes as he saw how pitiful Kwert was, how bereft of command, wanting nothing more than for Kwert to wake up, take charge and tell him what to do.

Langer shifted uncomfortably. He wasn't good with emotions or small boys, or people in general come to that, and he was unsure how to proceed.

‘Why don't you tell me what happened to you and how you came here,' he said after clearing his throat. ‘Here,' he added. ‘Your clothes are quite dry now, so maybe you'd like to get dressed first?'

Philbert didn't answer. He couldn't take his eyes off Kwert, whose laboured breathing was as bad as when he'd got the glanders, but no Ullendorf to come to his rescue, for Ullendorf was dead. It felt like his whole life was made up of a series of disasters – small or otherwise – interspersed by short pockets of calm before the next one came along, each time growing in strength. It was only by pure chance or through the kindness of others that he'd got out of them at all. And now it was all ­happening again.

He blinked, and then spoke, giving Brother Langer an ­abbreviated version of leaving Staßburg, getting to Lengerrborn, the Westphal Club and the soldiers, the prison and the running; of Fatzke sending them to Amt Gruftgang and Amt Gruftgang taking them through the shroudways that led down to the lake. Considering the extraordinary nature of the tale, Brother Langer took it remarkably well, merely nodding his head here and there as Philbert talked. But when he mentioned St Lydia's Langer frowned, looking closely at the boy brought to him by the storm that had blown out of nowhere and gone the same way back a few hours since.

‘It was Amt Gruftgang brought you through the crypts?' he asked, Philbert nodding assent. ‘And so your story becomes both clearer and more obscure at the same time.'

Philbert was used to Fair people's patter and absorbed the contradictory response without comment, but he did lift his eyes, looking properly at Brother Langer, noting he didn't look quite right, though couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong. Brother Langer saw him looking.

‘We're not a world away, you and I,' he said. ‘You can probably see I'm not like most men, but I'm sure too from what you've said that you've seen many such as I, yourself included.'

Brother Langer brought his face from profile to full moon, and plain as day then, the two sides didn't match, the left side out of sync with the right: one ear too high, one eye too low, one cheekbone far too flat. The recognition of these differences had Philbert feeling at home, as used to oddity as most were not and he smiled, Langer responding in kind.