The Scribe (15 page)

“Well, he won’t be needing it anymore. And now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“You killed him?”

“Not me. It was this,” he said, touching his knife. “I suppose he had been watching me for some time. He must have been an imbecile because instead of dispatching me he went straight for the furs.”

“Furs?”

“The ones I have back there, in the cart,” he said, pointing.

Theresa turned to where the old man indicated and the sight of it cheered her: If there was a cart, there had to be a road.

“A wheel’s broken and I’m going to see if I can repair it. But you should get away from here. I doubt this man was traveling alone.”

He gave Theresa back her shoes. Then he turned and walked off toward the woods.

“Wait,” said Theresa, pulling her shoes on and running after him. “Are you going to Fulda?”

“I have little reason to visit that city of priests.”

“But, do you know the way?”

“Of course. As well as the bandits.”

Theresa didn’t know what to say. She followed him to the cart, observing his walk: He had the gait of a younger man. Then she saw his teeth, which though large and crooked, were gapless and extraordinarily white. She thought he might be her father’s age. He bent down near the split wheel and started to work on it. Then he stopped and looked at Theresa.

“You haven’t answered me. What were you searching for on the body?” Then before she could respond he looked down at himself. “Damnation! Look what you’ve done to my arm,” he said as he cleaned the scratches from Theresa’s fingernails. “Did you think the Devil was coming to get you?”

“I was on my way to Fulda.” She cleared her throat. “I saw a dead man and I thought he might have a steel. I lost mine when I crossed the lake.”

“Crossed the lake you say? Let’s see… pass me that mallet. So you came from Erfurt?”

“That’s right,” she lied, handing him the tool.

“Then you must know the Petersohns. They run the bakery just a few buildings down from the cathedral.”

“Of course,” she fibbed again.

“How are they? I haven’t seen them since summer.”

“They’re well… as far as I know. My parents live some way from the town.”

“Is that right?” he said, grimacing. He hit the wedge hard and the wheel came away from its axle.

Theresa gave a start, thinking maybe he didn’t believe her.

“Now comes the difficult part,” the man continued. “See this spoke? It’s split. And so is this other one. Lousy damned timber! I’ll change the most damaged one and repair the other with a couple strips of wood. Take this. Hold it—and when I hit it, ring the bell. If the bandits have to hear us, then let them hear the music of the lepers, too.”

Theresa noticed that the old man had unhitched the horse and arranged several rocks under the cart to stop it from toppling. He pulled a stick out from the back, which turned out to be a spare spoke. He kept talking, saying that he always carried one with him because carving oak was very difficult. He compared the new spoke to the broken ones before adjusting the end with an adze.

“Will it take long?”

“I hope not. If I bothered to do it properly, I’d be here all night: I’d have to take off the iron rim, remove the four surrounds, and replace the spokes. It’s not difficult, because the surrounds are of ash, but then you have to mount the pivots, the tongue, and the ends of the spokes.” He stood back to look at his work. “A devilish job! I’ll saw the ends and adjust them with the mallet. Now shake the bell.”

Theresa swayed the stick until the bell jingled. The hammer blow resounded all around the forest. The young woman tried to drown out the echo by shaking the bell harder, but try as she might, the blows could be heard all morning.

They talked. He said his name was Althar. He was a trapper who lived in a log cabin in the woods with his wife and their dog, Satan. In winter he hunted and in summer he sold the furs in Aquis-Granum. Theresa said that she had fled a marriage of convenience
and asked for his help to reach Fulda. But he refused, and when he had finished mending the cart, he said farewell.

“You’re going?” Theresa asked.

“Yes, I’m going home.”

“What about me?”

“What
about
you?”

“What will I do?”

Althar shrugged. “What you should have done from the beginning: Go back to Erfurt and marry that man you say you hate. I bet he’s not so bad.”

“I would rather go to the Saxons,” she said, with such conviction that she admired her own acting skills.

“You can do whatever you want as far as I’m concerned.” Althar hitched the horse to the harness and began removing the stones that held the cart in place. “But hurry. There might be more bandits looking for him,” he said, pointing at the dead man. “I’ll lead the horse to the river. After she has drunk, I’ll be off like the clappers.”

Theresa walked off. As she went, she saw the forest as dense and cold as a cemetery, and tears came to her eyes. She stopped, knowing that if she continued alone she would die. Althar seemed like a good man, for he had done her no harm. Besides, he was married and knew the Petersohns. Perhaps he would allow her to accompany him.

She pleaded with him to let her stay and talked of her skill as a seamstress, and lied about her ability to cook, but Althar did not seem impressed.

“I can also tan skins,” she added.

The old man looked at her out of the corner of his eye, indicating this was an area where he could use a little help. Leatherwork required dexterity, and his wife, since the last of her fevers, could barely move her hands. He looked at her again and shook his head.
No doubt this ill-bred lass would only make his life difficult. What’s more, his wife would be suspicious of a young woman.

He moved the last stone away and climbed on the cart.

“Look, lass, I like you, but you’d be a burden. Another mouth to feed. I’m sorry. Go back to your town and ask that man to forgive you.”

“I won’t go back.”

“Then do what you want.” He urged the horse on.

Theresa didn’t know what to say. But suddenly she remembered the traps she had found by Hoos’s mount.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Althar raised an eyebrow and glanced at her. “I don’t think you could. I’m too old to get my cock moving.”

The young woman pretended not to hear him. “Look at your traps… they’re old and rusty,” she observed, walking alongside the cart.

“So am I, but I can still look after myself.”

“But I can get you some new ones. I know where to find them.”

Althar stopped the horse. Some new traps would of course be useful, and in truth he felt sorry for the poor girl. Theresa told him about the incident with the wolves and the contents of the saddlebags. She also described the place where it happened.

“Are you sure it was in that gully?”

She nodded. Althar seemed to be considering it.

“Pox on you! Come on, get in the cart. I know a path that will take us to that precipice. And change your clothes, or you’ll die before you can show me the exact place.”

The young woman leaped onto the cart and made herself comfortable in the heap of furs. The dozens of bundles in the cart began to jump about with the trotting of the horse. Theresa recognized pelts of beaver and deer, and even one or two wolf pelts. Most of them looked to be in a fairly poor state. Several skins looked like they had been tanned, but most were teeming with insects that
crawled among the dried out fur and remnants of blood as though the skins had been flayed that very morning. She positioned herself as far away as possible from them, for they gave off an unbreathable stench, and she covered herself with a dry skin she found acceptable. Behind her, she discovered an earthenware jar covered with a greasy mesh that let off the delicious aroma of cheese.

Theresa squeezed her belly, trying to calm her complaining intestines. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye, she journeyed back to Würzburg, to the winter mornings when Gorgias would wake her with a kiss so she could help him light the oven they had built. She recalled looking out over the snow-covered fields, and how thankful she was for the warmth of the embers on those early mornings when she accompanied her father, reading some manuscript to him. She wondered whether Althar had ever seen a book.

She looked at Satan. The animal followed behind the cart by about a stone’s throw. He looked like he had more intelligence in his little darting eyes than some of the boys she knew. Once in a while he would come closer to the horse to jump into the air and catch the pieces of meat that Althar threw him. Theresa heard her belly rumble again and asked Althar when they would eat.

“Do you think I’m made of food? Patience, lass. Now get cleaning those skins. The brush is there, by the bow.”

Theresa made no complaints. She took one of the bulkiest bundles, untied the tendons that held it together, and boldly started to clean one of the grotesque furs on her lap. On the first stroke, a swarm of insects flew from the skin, falling to the floor of the cart and scattering across the boards. She kept brushing, her eyes fixed firmly on the pelts, until she had brushed the whole bundle. Without respite she continued to do the same with a second wad of furs. When she had finished, Althar pointed at a third.

“After that, clean the traps till they’re gleaming,” he said.

Theresa grabbed the traps, spat on the filth, and got started with her new task. Then, as she scrubbed the contraptions, she reflected that Althar must have a special gift for the art of hunting, for how else could he have amassed such a collection of furs? When at last she finished her work, she informed Althar, who, surprised at her diligence, stopped the cart to check her handiwork.

“Right then, lass, time to fill our bellies,” he said with a smile before clambering off.

He went to the back of the cart and rooted around until he produced a small sack, which he dropped on the ground. Satan approached for a sniff, but Althar kicked him away. Then he turned to Theresa. “Climb up to that hillock and take a good look around. If you see anything out of the ordinary: a fire, horses, men, anything out of place, bark like a dog.”

“Bark?” asked Theresa incredulously.

“Yes, bark… you know how to bark, don’t you?”

Theresa practiced barking with varying success. She thought it sounded awful, but Althar seemed satisfied.

“Hurry, then. And take the bell with you.”

While she climbed the slope, he prepared some slices of cheese with pieces of hard bread. Then he cut open a couple of onions. He commandeered the biggest portion and then beckoned Theresa.

“All quiet,” said the young woman.

“Good. At this rate we’ll reach the gully before midday. We’ll eat now because we won’t stop again. Back there, behind the traps, you’ll find some wine. And put some more clothes on, if you want. You must be freezing.”

The trapper clambered back onto the cart and urged the horse on. Theresa followed his lead, and dispensing with any prayers of thanks, she set about her food, washing it down with a gulp of wine that tasted of heaven.

Before long they were traveling over a strip of woodland surrounded by a quagmire. Althar’s countenance changed, and he
seemed more cautious. Any noise that they heard would make him give a start. He glanced around continuously, and every now and again he stopped the cart to stand up and scan the surroundings. There were moments when he thought Satan was sniffing danger. The hound was no longer straying very far from the cart. With his ears pricked and tail extended, he followed his master’s movements closely.

They must have gone a hundred paces when the dog began to bark. Althar stopped the cart dead, clambered down and walked on ahead. With a worried expression he ordered Theresa to be silent, his hand slowly moving to his scramasax. Then, without a word, he straightened and disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving Theresa in the cart in the middle of the road.

Theresa’s nerves started to get the better of her. She tried to stand on tiptoes to see farther than her stature permitted, but the sores on her feet prevented her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but in her bones she felt that something terrible was about to happen.

A few moments later Althar reappeared looking shaken. “Come with me. Quickly.”

Theresa jumped down from the cart and followed him into the vegetation. The trapper walked bent over like a cat stalking its prey, while the young woman floundered behind him, dodging the branches that he pushed aside. They progressed with difficulty through the dead leaves and mud from the recent rains. In some places the undergrowth was so thick that all Theresa could see was Althar’s behind, a hand’s width from her face.

Suddenly he turned his head to signal that she should be silent, and slowly he moved aside to reveal a scene of death and devastation. Two blood-soaked bodies lay on top of one another in a macabre embrace, half-hidden under a mantle of slime. A few paces ahead, half-submerged in a ditch, the mutilated corpse of a third man could be made out.

“This one’s no Saxon,” said Althar, nudging one of the men with his foot.

Theresa didn’t respond. Despite the mud, she recognized those clothes. She had seen them in the Larssons’ cabin. With her heart in her throat, she approached the grotesquely conjoined bodies. Slowly she pulled away the one on top and suddenly her vision clouded over and she would have fallen to the ground if Althar hadn’t held her up. The body lying under that shroud of blood was none other than Hoos Larsson, the young man who had a few days prior saved her life.