Breath (9781439132227) (7 page)

“Finish the job first,” says Father.

“I have,” says Melis.

“Two buckets?” Father slaps his hand on the table beside his bowl.

“That's all they'll give.”

Father gets up and stands over the milk buckets. Then he swears and goes out the door.

Breakfast is sausages and lard spread on black bread. My favorite—when I have an appetite, that is. And Melis's favorite. He looks at Großmutter. “I'm hungry.”

She fills his bowl. Then her eyes meet mine. We've been fearing this would happen. Cows on other farms have been giving less milk for the past month. People have come knocking at the door, talking obliquely of this and that, hesitant to come right out and ask the coven for help. She bites the side of her thumb anxiously. Then she, too, goes out the door.

“Give me your hand,” says Ludolf, reaching across the table to Melis.

“No,” says Melis. “I'm a good milker. I've got strong hands. I don't have to wrestle you to prove it. The cows are sick. Whatever's been going around has finally hit them.”

“It's the planets,” says Bertram.

Everyone looks at him.

“They're lined up wrong. That's the problem with
the milk. The folk in Hameln town know it. Johannah tells me.”

“Don't talk like that,” says Melis. “Pater Michael warned against astrology. It's hocus-pocus.”

“No, it's not,” says Bertram. “It's as much a science as astronomy is. The only reason Pater Michael doesn't like it is ‘cause he's nearly blind. Much worse than Großmutter. He can't see the stars and planets, and he doesn't want anyone talking about what he can't see.”

“No,” says Melis. “It's because the pope condemns it.”

“The pope?” Bertram laughs. “Germany has never really loved any pope. Our emperor Frederick was actually excommunicated little more than a century ago.”

“I don't care about the past,” says Melis. “Germany's emperor obeys the pope now, and the pope now condemns astrology.”

“The pope condemns witchcraft, too,” says Bertram, “but you don't see Pater Michael doing anything to stop Großmutter's coven.”

“Großmutter doesn't work for the devil,” says Melis. “We're all good Catholics here. That bishop, Albert the Great, who lived and died in Köln, he made a list of which ancient practices were good
and safe, and which practices were dangerous. Pater Michael reads the list at Mass regularly. The coven's acts are not condemned.”

“Oh, Pater Michael reads the list, all right,” says Bertram sarcastically, “but not every word. He skips any mention of things the coven does that it shouldn't, the old hypocrite. He was a peasant before he became a priest. He likes all their mumbo jumbo, all of it. Father said so.”

“What did Father say exactly?” asks Melis.

“He said our priest won't banish pagan practices because there's nothing to replace them with. The church lacks answers to too many things.”

Melis looks like he's been slapped in the face. He doesn't speak.

I feel like Melis must. I've listened to Pater Michael read the list, of course. And I also know that he skips parts of it, because Pater Frederick has warned me against practices that Pater Michael never mentions. Pater Michael doesn't interfere with our coven's practices no matter what may be on that list. It makes me nervous to admit Bertram is right. And it makes me more nervous to realize I am as big a hypocrite as Pater Michael, for I have refused to think about our priest's loose ways. If I think about them, if I question them, I must question my own ways.

“Dont look so wretched, Melis.” Bertram shoves half a sausage link in his mouth. “What do you care whether or not the coven is condemned? Großmutter should face it and quit. Everything they do is a bunch of nonsense anyway.”

“Don't say that. We all used to revere the coven. It's important to Großmutter.”

“A lot of good it does her. She couldn't even save her own daughter's life, no matter how many stupid incantations the coven performed. The woman's dotty in her old age. And the coven is nothing but riffraff.”

“Stop it,” I say, rising to my feet unsteadily.

Bertram looks at me with a flash of anger in his eyes. Then he laughs. “The proof of the coven's powers stands right here, on our floor.”

“Let him be,” says Melis. “He's still sick.”

Bertram says nothing. He doesn't have to; Melis made his point.

I want to argue, but I can't seem to find the right beginning. Our coven isn't doing very well. We held a meeting and chanted charms against the rats, but they keep on coming into the houses, more and more of them.

No, we aren't strong. It's the lack of a piper, I wager. We haven't been able to dance since our
piper died last winter, and so much of our power lies in dance.

The memory of the piper in the woods makes me angry now. I should have tried harder to convince him to join us. I should always try harder. It s my fault things are going wrong. I sink to my knees.

“I've been listening to talk about the dairy cows too,” says Ludolf quietly. “But I heard the milk is drying up because of foul winds from earthquakes down south.” His words are like balm; the raw anger of a moment ago is instantly gone. There's no reason for it, it's not like we all agree Ludolf is right. It just happens that way—it's the close of the argument.

The brothers turn their attention to eating the rest of breakfast with noisy lip smackings, and I'm almost wishing they'd leave me some sausage, for I'm getting hungry. I'm sitting on my feet now, my hands pressing my belly.

Großmutter comes inside. “Bertram, get the ax. We need to build a fire upwind from the cow barn. Ludolf, go find hassock. As much as you can hold. There should be plenty on the east side of the lagoon, over near the woods. And Melis, you get fennel from my physic garden.”

Bertram and Ludolf are already out the door.
Melis looks at me. Picking herbs from the garden should be my job. He's sick of doing my chores. And in his face I see something else: I'm a thorn in his side. He s the one who told Bertram to let me be because I'm still sick, but he's angry for that very fact. He suffers a double injustice—for he has to do my home chores because I'm sick, and he isn't allowed to become a cleric because I'm sickly, so I get that role. But he doesn't protest now; anyone can see I can't do the chores. I wish he'd protest. I'd feel less guilty then. But he just leaves.

Großmutter goes to her sewing bins. She takes out linen, fine linen, the finest we have—the stuff she calls
Godwebbe
. She goes to her wooden chest that no one other than me is allowed to touch. She takes out a handful of incense sticks. There's going to be a ritual of some sort.

I'm on my feet again.

“Get back down,” she says.

“You'll need me. And I'm feeling better,” I lie.

She shakes her head, but she doesn't insist. “Drink your tea.”

I walk to the stove. I'm light-headed from eating nothing but brewed herbs for two days. Kuh walks behind me, practically under my heels. I look into the pot that's been steeping since last night. A
wedge of hog lung bobs in a mess of froth. Mustard greens and caraway seeds add colored spots to the gray liquid. I drink the whole pot. Then I eat the lung. I wipe the scudge off the inner sides of the pot with my finger and I lick it clean. I've absorbed every bit of nourishment and healing power this brew has to offer. It may be working. A hint of energy makes my ears buzz.

I go to lift the linen.

“No, no, carry Kuh,” says Großmutter. “Only Kuh.” She goes to the shelf and gets a sprig of mustard and a sprig of caraway, twists them together with yarn, and hangs the charm around my neck.

This is one of the dangerous practices on Albert the Great s list. It is acceptable to drink brews from herbs. But it is dangerous to wear herbs—or eagle claws—or anything else. “The brew is efficacious,'” I say, using one of Pater Fredericks words. I lift the yarn necklace off over my head. “But amulets and hanging herbs—they're superstition. They do nothing.”

Großmutter's face goes slack. “Is this the moment to question?” Her voice grows hissy. “You sleep under a blanket I wove to protect you.” She whispers now. “Stay with me, Salz.”

I couldn't fall asleep without that blanket.

I put the yarn necklace back on.

Have I let myself off the hook for the same reason Pater Frederick in Höxter does—because I figure a dying person should be allowed minor transgressions? Do I humor myself?

Großmutter gathers the linen against her chest. “And you can hold these, too.” She hands me the incense. “That's enough for you to carry—Kuh and the incense. Stay right behind me.”

We go straight to Father, who has dug a wide and shallow hole on one side of the cow barn. Großmutter lays the linen in a loose pile in the center. Bertram stands outside the hole, at a respectful distance, despite the disparaging way he talked of Großmutter just minutes ago. He hands her fresh logs, and she forms a cone around the linen with them, balancing the logs on their fatter ends, with the other ends coming together in a point. Melis hands Großmutter the fennel. She shoves it between the logs, in among the linen. Ludolf comes running from the woods, as thin and breakable as the brittle stalks he clutches. He empties his arms into Großmutter's, and she arranges the coarse hassock on top of the log cone.

Großmutter turns to me. I hold out the incense
to her, but she puts her hands behind her back. And they're all looking at me.

Großmutter's been doing everything all along. She's the one who knows, the one in charge. And when my brothers were talking in the kitchen before, they spoke of Großmutter s coven. They didn't mention me. No one ever acknowledges that I'm a member too.

But I'm standing here in the shallow hole with Großmutter, I'm the only one. The hole feels special. No matter what Bertram said before, this spot of earth has become sacred.

Is this practice designated as safe or dangerous on the list? I poke the incense sticks into the pile of linen, making a circle of their points.

Father hands Großmutter a bit of kindling burning at one end. She, in turn, hands it to me.

I'm giddy at being so central to this event, this event I don't even understand. I set fire to the linen.

The flames shoot up quickly. Father and my brothers stand on one side and fan the smoke toward the cow barn. But they needn't, really, for there's a steady, soft wind.

When every last bit of linen has turned to ash,
Father closes the barn doors so the cows will have nothing to breathe but smoke. I'm sitting far off to the side. Thin air is hard enough for me to breathe—there's no way I could manage that smoke in my lungs.

“Melis,” says Großmutter, “come with me to gather blackberries.”

“Take Salz,” he says. “Salz is well enough to light fires. Father needs me.” He walks over and stands by Father.

Then they leave.

I can't possibly pick blackberries. I'm not even sure I can get to my feet now. But I'm glad Melis stood up for himself.

When Father and the boys are out of sight, Großmutter goes back to the house. She returns with our biggest burlap sack, not the usual berry basket. “Rest in the sunlight,” she says. And she's gone toward the thickets at the edge of the woods.

I lie on the ground, my knees bent to the sun. Kuh rolls on his back beside me and wiggles, scratching an itch. I smile and close my eyes. The hog lung is making its way through my system. My belly gurgles so loudly Kuh jumps. I'm getting well, I know it. I sleep.

In my dream Großmutter dies. For no reason.

My own scream wakes me. I sit up and breathe the stink of the smoke. I rub my eyes with the heels of my hands.

Großmutter pulls on my arm. “We have to drive the cows to Hameln,” she says.

I get to my feet, but I dont look at her. I dont want her to see the fear in my eyes at dreaming her dead.

The barn doors are open and a few cows stray out, slow and confused. The smoke put them in a stupor.

“You can't walk, can you?” She harrumphs. “All right, I'll get the blanket.”

Soon I'm riding on a cow's back. My blanket is rolled between my legs, cushioning me from the bony backbone. A burlap sack rests on the cow's shoulders, and Kuh perches on top of it, his claws gripping tight. I'm glad he's not holding on to me. Here and there blue black juice seeps through the sack. Why, there must be enough berries in this sack to feed ten families for a week.

Großmutter drives the herd to the east bridge of Hameln town. “Watch them,” she says to me. Then she crosses the bridge and goes through the gate.

I slide to the ground and walk among the cows. They shift from hoof to hoof. They don't like
standing on the pounded earth of the road that leads to town. They look around for something to graze on. I have to keep circling them, or they'll wander away. I'm so tired. Coughs come. And I can feel the fever returning stronger.

“What are you doing here?” It's Hugo.

I used to play with Hugo, years ago, until Gertrude died and the word got around that she was salty, and then people found out I was too. Hugo's mother stopped coming by to visit with mine after that. And when Mother died and Father sold Eike and Hilde, no one visited anymore. Now Hugo's a young man, taller than me and darker, too. I watch him in Mass sometimes. I've waved to him before. He always waves back. “I'm waiting for Großmutter.”

Hugo looks at the caraway and mustard hanging around my neck. Maybe he knows it's banned. I'm tempted to take it off and throw it away.

Right then Großmutter comes through the gate with Pater Michael. Two boys walk behind, carrying a vat between them. They're the altar boys that help at Mass. They put the vat on the ground in front of the herd. A cow tries to stick her muzzle in the vat. Another follows. The two boys have their hands full shoving cows away.