Devotion(15)

‘Why? There’s at least another hour of daylight.’

When I didn’t respond, Thea took my arm again and pulled me onwards. ‘Who lives there?’

‘Reinhardt Geschke and his new wife, Elize. And his father, Traugott. Wheelwrights by trade.’

We walked on into the heart of the village, where the cottages crowded the lane, narrow fingers of land spilling out behind.

‘That’s your house over there, isn’t it?’ asked Thea. ‘Is that your pig?’

I nodded.

She leaned closer to me and whispered, ‘And who’s that?’

‘Where?’

Thea nodded to the Pasches’ cottage and I saw Hans standing in the yard, carrying a milk pail. He raised his free hand in greeting as we passed.

‘That’s Hans Pasche,’ I told Thea. ‘Elder Pasche’s son.’

‘I thought Elder Pasche was not yet married?’

‘Rosina will be his second wife. Hans’s mother died.’

‘Thirsty?’ Hans called out to us, lifting the pail. I could see steam lift from it in the cold air.

Thea laughed and shook her head.

I was about to stop and farewell her there, in the lane, when I saw Magdalena and Christiana come around the far corner of my house. Without thinking, I veered sideways into the Pasches’ yard, dragging Thea with me.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Shh.’

Hans stared at us in surprise as I pulled Thea into the Pasches’ barn.

‘Hanne?’ Thea stumbled in the gloom.

I put a finger to my lips and peered out just in time to see Magdalena and Christiana stop on the swept flagstone and stamp the snow from their shoes. I ducked back around as Christiana glanced up, eyes sweeping the yard, and heard her call out a greeting to Hans.

‘It’s the Radtkes,’ I whispered, turning around.

Thea rested a hand on the flank of the Pasches’ cow and raised her eyebrows.

Hans stepped into the barn then and set the pail on the floor. ‘She’s gone inside your house now, if that’s who you’re hiding from, Hanne.’

‘Hello,’ Thea said, lifting her chapped fingers into the air. ‘I’m Thea.’

Hans nodded, glancing between us. ‘Hans.’

‘I don’t want her to see me,’ I mumbled.

‘Christiana?’

‘I didn’t realise they were visiting.’

The three of us stood together for an awkward moment. Thea ran her hand over the cow and smiled at Hans. ‘She’s lovely,’ she said.

Hans beamed. ‘She’s a bit sad, poor thing.’

‘Oh?’

‘My father just sold her calf.’ He scratched the cow behind the ears and pressed his own forehead to hers.

‘Sorry, Hans,’ I said. ‘Forget we were here.’

Hans shrugged, head still against the cow. ‘Don’t worry about it. I hide in here all the time.’


‘I knew at once you didn’t like her,’ Thea said, as we walked along the fence line that separated the Pasches’ land from my father’s. It was snowing heavily, white slowly covering the dun of the bare fields.

‘I never said that,’ I said. ‘She just . . .’ I hesitated, wondering how to explain that I yearned for Christiana’s approval and yet hated to be in her company. ‘She makes me feel . . . I don’t know. As though I am nothing.’ I took a deep breath. Cold air flooded my lungs.

Thea blew on her fingers and shrugged. ‘She sounds awful.’ We were standing in the Pasches’ rye field, snow catching on the stubble of the ground. ‘Where should we go?’

‘I can show you the other houses. Or I can take you to the river. It’s a bit cold.’

Thea shook her head. ‘Take me there.’

I turned and saw she was pointing to the church spire, empty sky showing where the bell used to hang.

‘It’s locked,’ I said.

‘Take me anyway.’



It is strange to think of that old church in Kay now that I am surrounded by sunlight and birdsong and the rustle of gum leaves. It seems a dead thing, in my memory. Even before it was locked, I remember it as dark and cold, as having nothing to do with God. I never mourned the church when it was forbidden to us – the forest was the more magnificent cathedral – and I never understood my father when, in a rare mood of despondency, he would reminisce about Sunday mornings of worship held there, the sound of voices echoing off the ceiling, still blue and gilt from an earlier life of Catholicism.

No doubt the church in Kay is in use again. I pity the faithful who attend it. Why do men bother with churches at all when instead they might make cathedrals out of sky and water?

Better a chorus of birds than a choir. Better an altar of leaves. Baptise me in rainfall and crown me with sunrise. If I am still, somehow, God’s child, let me find grace in the mysteries of bat-shriek and honeycomb.



Thea and I stepped through the graves, wooden crosses tilting in the frozen ground in various attitudes of age, and reached the heavy doors of the church. The varnish was peeling, snow sticking to the wrought iron spidering out from the boards. A heavy chain was looped through the handles.

Thea lay her hands flat on the doors and turned to me. ‘Shall we go inside?’