Breath (9781439132227) (2 page)

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.

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.