Breath (9781439132227) (19 page)

I'd scream if I could, but I can hardly breathe through the pain. It takes all my concentration to say, “Shhhh.” But Ava's too far to hear. Shhhh.

Ava. My Ava.

No. I think I see her hair still. But the children merge into a continuous line from here. No. Paler and paler. No.

I am drowning in my tears. I want to drown.

The piper and the children disappear into Köppen Hill.

Frost coats my upper lip. My tears are ice streaks. A cold wind blew in overnight.

I stand on unsteady legs and look up the path toward the silent hills. Hills are solid. They don't open up and swallow people, no matter what my eyes told me last night. The piper and the children are somewhere.

But far, very far, by now. I cannot catch up to them, not in the shape I'm in. The cold has weakened me severely. My body is useless. And I can call on no one else for help, for no one else in Hameln town could do any better than me.

The children are as much gone as the rats.

My heart is broken glass cutting through my chest.

Gone.

It makes no sense. What will a piper do with a horde of children? How will he feed them? House them? Clothe them? Love them?

He's the one who called himself a Christian. He was actually afraid of me that day in the woods. Him afraid of me. What a devilish twist.

But the people of Hameln couldn't take care of their children anyway. They can't take care of themselves. The disease ruined them, and it remains.

I took care of Ava, though. I cared for her well. I love her like a sister deserves to be loved.

I don't know what to do. Life seems without hope, without worth.

I stand until I can manage to walk without falling. Then I rub my arms and follow the road back to Hameln town. Though it's not yet dawn, the gates stand wide open.

Nothing stirs in the houses on either side of the main road. A man lies slumped in the gutter. His eyes are closed. His hands are black. I kneel beside him and hold the back of my hand below his nose, as I saw Großmutter do once to a man a horse had thrown. Nothing. I move my hand closer. A roach crawls out of the puckered hole of his mouth. I back away with a yelp.

Poor soul. I take off my shirt and cover his head. There's nothing more I can do for him.

The sound of crying comes from the market square. I walk on, shaking—not sure which is stronger, fear trembles or cold shivers. Nothing's been cleaned up since last night. Food dries on the tables. People lie in stupored slumber on the benches, under the tables, out in the open.

I walk through them slowly. And only slowly do I realize that many of them will never wake—last night was more than their disease-ravaged bodies could take. I hug myself and shake my head no. My tears chill on my chest.

It's better that Ava doesn't see this. All those children, it's better they are spared this, wherever they are.

Dogs growl in an alley. A dogfight. I don't dare look. I don't want to see what they're fighting over, what they're ripping apart.

The crying I heard before is louder now. It comes from a young man and woman, her in the circle of his arms. “He's gone,” she says over and over, “our baby's gone.” She yanks the hair from her head. It comes in bloody clumps.

Father and Bertram lie huddled together. And I see now what I refused to see before: Their hands
and feet are swollen. Ludolf lies naked with a woman Großmutter s age. Melis is nowhere to be found.

I howl at the sky.

And I'm stumbling from table to table, stripping off the cloths. I spread them over Ludolf and his woman, over Father and Bertram, over the beautiful widow lying unfairly in no one's arms, over everyone, sleeping and dead alike. I tuck the corners around their limbs tenderly.

When there are no cloths left in sight, I drop to the ground on my bottom. My head falls, chin on chest. The air holds nothing but the buzz of flies.

I watch the skin of my torso turn bluish in the cold air, like cheese covered with a fine film of mold.

Blue mold from the never-ending rain. Blueberries soaked in holy water, forced down cows' throats. Blue flickers of flame that Ludolf could see with his eyes closed. Blue. The world turns blue as it rots.

I have to get up and get moving, get my blood running, get my strength back. I need something to eat.

A loaf of bread lies on the ground, broken open. A black cloud of flies hovers over it. I pick it up. It has hardened overnight, of course. Such delicate bread should have been wrapped in cloth to stay moist.

I remember how good it tasted hot and fresh yesterday. How Ava hummed as she ate it. The first bread from fresh grain.

First bread.

Fresh grain.

That's what was different about Ava and me yesterday. The rest of the family had drunk beer from the fresh grain, but Ava and I had not eaten anything made from this harvest. Not till yesterday.

The children of poor families weren't afflicted till yesterday, either. They hadn't had beer and they hadn't had new bread. They hadn't eaten anything from the new grain—not till yesterday.

Then we ate the bread. And look how we acted.

Look how my family acted after it started drinking the new beer.

And the rich townsfolk got sick first—them and their servants, adults and children alike. And they ate bread from the new grain long before the peasants did.

I throw the bread away and get to my feet.

The grain is cursed!

The grain brought pain. It rhymes like a charm.

Such a big harvest, and all of it poison. An abundant harvest, brought by the rain rain rain rain.

The rain brought the grain brought the pain.

All we have to do is stop eating the grain and Hameln town will be saved.

But what will we feed the animals?

And, oh, the animals. The got sick before the harvest. The grazers were sick way back in summertime. They hadn't had the fresh grain. How could I forget that?

I remember the morning I lay in the meadow, curled on my side, watching cows swallow bees with each mouthful of wild grasses.

It doesn't make sense, after all. It's not the fresh grain. I thought I had it, but nothing's logical. I will never understand. That's what evil is—the lack of rationality.

And the presence of despair.

They are partners. They disable. They undo me. Nothing is sacred anymore.

But what am I thinking? I must yield to neither. I must dwell on Ava. Wherever she is, she's counting on me. Her trust is sacred.

I go into the
Rathaus
. I take a fine cloth from the table the mayor sat at and wrap up as much smoked meat as I can. Then I go back down the road, out the gates.

There's no point in trying to find a horse. For one, I'm not a horse thief. Horse thieves are the
lowest of the low. For another, most horses around Hameln are lame.

I go home. I know Kuh will be there—and he is, loyal cat. I come up on him from behind, surprised he doesn't notice. Then I realize he's still deaf from the wool I stuffed in his ears. It takes pinning his head between my knees and fishing around with Großmutter's darning needle to get all the wool out. The angry kit scratches my wrists till we're both blood spattered and goes screeching off the instant I let him loose.

The water bucket is totally empty and lined with black mold. But there's an open jug of cider on the floor. No one's drunk from it since Ava and I left. The sharp smell tells me it's gone hard. Good. Alcohol cleans better. I wash my face and hands and wrists. Then I put on my only other smock and take my cloak.

When I go out the door, Kuh runs at me and climbs to my shoulder. He's forgiven me already. Or maybe he was never mad—just frightened.

Kuh's white splotch saved me from the gallows.

Kuh is not my familiar after all. I have no familiar. And I want none.

I want nothing to do with hypocrisy and corruption.

It's just Kuh and me, off to Köppen Hill to find Ava. It may take days, but we have the provisions. And the determination.

Then we'll walk the bank of the Weser. A boat will come eventually, and I'll flag it down. It will not pass us by in fear, as the boats passed by Hameln's dock after the disease got bad. No, it will stop, for anyone will be able to see that we are not lame.

I laugh sadly. Me. SaIz. The one who can never go anywhere—I'm the one who turns out not to be lame.

I'll earn our passage through helping to row. My arms are stronger than most men's. We'll take a boat north down the Weser to the Aller, then east and south, all the way to Magdeburg, to a school, to my other sisters, if they still breathe. They deserve to be loved like sisters by a brother. Ava taught me how to do it right.

So it will be Kuh and me and Ava and Eike and Hilde. Five of us. Five strong, starting out fresh.

I have perfect aim. I can earn our keep by hunting and killing pests. I can buy my sisters' freedom. There is order somewhere in this world. I'll find it.

Order. God's order. And that's one more to add to the list, one more in this fresh start.

I walk slowly. I mustn't tire myself out. The air off the meadow at the base of Köppen Hill is sweet. I listen and watch for signs of Ava. With any luck, I'll be in Magdeburg by my birthday.

I rest when I need to. I discover I'm still crying. But that's all right. I can drink river water if my tears dry me out.

I get up and walk again.

I concentrate on breathing.