The Scribe(34)

Persuaded by the idea, she waded into the water. The cold made her flinch, but she kept going. When she started to lose her footing, she swung up onto the rope and maneuvered herself until she was hanging belly-up. She advanced toward the other side by stretching and contracting like a caterpillar.

She completed the first stretch without difficulty, but a third of the way across, the rope dipped, dropping her dangerously close to the water. When the water finally touched her back, she dropped off and started swimming, holding on to the rope as a guide. When the rope started to rise again, she pulled herself back up. That was when her bag came open and the steel fell out. She tried to grab the little box, but the current dragged it down until it disappeared under the water. Swearing, she pressed on, until at last, after what seemed like an eternity, she reached the other shore.

As soon as she arrived, shivering, she pulled off her wet clothes, in order to wring them out. As she was doing so, she noticed a strange glimmer that seemed to come from an indeterminate point nearby. She thought it might be the steel she had just lost, and though it was highly unlikely, she quickly dressed anyway and headed toward the spot. However, as she approached, she could see that it was a mass of crayfish, swarming over the disfigured body of a dead soldier. She assumed it was a Saxon, though it could also have been a Frank.

Theresa noticed the great gash running from the soldier’s left ear to the base of his neck. His face was worm-eaten and blood had accumulated under the skin, turning it purple. His ankles seemed dislocated and from under his clothes, his stomach protruded, swollen like an old wineskin. She noticed that the glint she had seen came from the scramasax that he wore on his belt. She briefly thought about taking it, but then gave up on the idea, for everyone knew that the souls of the dead kept vigil over their bodies for three days.

She stepped back to watch the spectacle, repulsed and astounded. And she imagined what the crayfish would taste like once they had been roasted over a fire. Then she remembered that she had lost her steel and wondered whether one could be found on the body. Using a stick, she flicked aside several crayfish, but all she found underneath were entrails and more creatures.

As she became absorbed rummaging through his clothes, someone suddenly grabbed her from behind. Theresa screamed and kicked as if the Devil himself had seized her, but a hand was pressed over her mouth. In response she sunk her nails into the arm with such force that she thought they would come clean off. Then she received a blow to her face and was shaken like a rag doll.

“Damned bitch! Scream again and I’ll tear out your tongue!”

Theresa tried to scream, but she was unable to with his hand still covering her mouth.

The figure before her seemed more like a creature from Hell than a human. The old man’s face was mouse-bitten and devoured by rot. His thin hair revealed several bald patches dotted with wounds and grime, and his menacing gray eyes seemed to stare right through her. Her gaze fell on the fangs of the dog that accompanied him.

“Don’t worry, lass, Satan only bites people who ask for it. You alone?”

“Yes,” she stammered, immediately regretting her response.

“What were you searching that dead man for?”

“Nothing.” She bit her tongue at such a stupid answer.

“Nothing, eh? Well! Get those shoes off and throw them over there,” he ordered. “What’s your name?”

“Theresa,” she answered, following his instructions.

“Good. Give me that,” he said, pointing at the bag she had on her shoulder. “May I know what you’re doing here?”

Theresa did not respond.

The man opened her bag and inspected its contents. “And this dagger?”

It was the knife she had stolen from Hoos Larsson. “Give it back.” Theresa snatched it from him and stuffed it in her dress.

The man didn’t protest, but continued to rummage.

“What’s this?” he asked. He had already pulled out the stylus and wax tablets.

“What?”

“Don’t play the fool. This parchment that you were hiding in a secret compartment.”

Theresa was surprised. She imagined that her father, for some reason, had hidden it there.

“A poem by Virgil. I always keep it protected so it doesn’t get dirty,” she improvised.

“Poems,” he muttered as he returned the parchment to her. “What sentimentality! Now pay attention,” he continued. “This place is crawling with bandits, so I don’t care what you do, where you come from, whether you’re alone or what you were searching that body for, but I warn you: If you try to scream or do anything silly, Satan will tear your throat open before you know what’s happening. Got it?”

Theresa nodded. She would’ve tried to escape, but without shoes it would’ve been stupid. She presumed that was why he had told her to remove them. She took a few steps back and examined the old man. He wore a threadbare cloak tied around his waist, revealing long, bony legs. When he had finished rummaging through her bag, he bent down and picked up a stick with a bell hanging from one end. Theresa looked at his wounds more closely and realized he was a leper.

With this realization, she didn’t give it a second thought. As soon as the old man glanced elsewhere, she turned and ran, but before she could even take a few steps, she lost her footing and slipped. No sooner had she hit the ground, she felt the dog’s breath on her back. She waited, stock-still, for its fatal blow, but the animal didn’t move. The man approached and held out a scab-covered hand toward her. Theresa moved away.