The Scribe(35)

“You’re frightened by my sores?” he laughed. “So are the bandits. Come on, get up. It’s just dye.”

Theresa examined the ulcers, which close-up looked like blotches, yet even so, she did not trust the man. Noticing this, the man rubbed his hands and the wounds disappeared.

“See? I’m not lying. Come now: Sit there and stay still.” He gave her back her bag. “You won’t get far with what you have in there.”

“You’re not a leper?” she stammered.

“Of course not,” he laughed. “But it’s a disguise that has saved my skin more than once. Watch carefully.”

The man took a fistful of sand from the river, draining the water from it. He then took out a flask of dark dye and poured it on the sand, making a uniform mixture. He added another substance and applied the poultice to his arms.

“I mix it with a paste of flour and water so that it sticks to me when it dries. The bandits fear a leper more than any army.” He glanced at the dead man. “Except this one,” he said nodding at him. “The bastard tried to steal my furs. Now he can try to thieve from the Devil. So… since when have you been robbing corpses?”

As Theresa was about to answer, the old man bent down and—ignoring the crayfish—he searched the body. He found a bag tied inside some sort of sash. He smiled upon seeing its contents and stashed the bag in his clothes. Next he pulled necklaces with strange, dark stones off the man’s throat. Then he picked up the scramasax, sheathed it next to his own, and, finally, turned over the dead body. Finding nothing else of interest, he left it lying among the pebbles.

“Well, he won’t be needing it anymore. And now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”

“You killed him?”

“Not me. It was this,” he said, touching his knife. “I suppose he had been watching me for some time. He must have been an imbecile because instead of dispatching me he went straight for the furs.”

“Furs?”

“The ones I have back there, in the cart,” he said, pointing.

Theresa turned to where the old man indicated and the sight of it cheered her: If there was a cart, there had to be a road.

“A wheel’s broken and I’m going to see if I can repair it. But you should get away from here. I doubt this man was traveling alone.”

He gave Theresa back her shoes. Then he turned and walked off toward the woods.

“Wait,” said Theresa, pulling her shoes on and running after him. “Are you going to Fulda?”

“I have little reason to visit that city of priests.”

“But, do you know the way?”

“Of course. As well as the bandits.”

Theresa didn’t know what to say. She followed him to the cart, observing his walk: He had the gait of a younger man. Then she saw his teeth, which though large and crooked, were gapless and extraordinarily white. She thought he might be her father’s age. He bent down near the split wheel and started to work on it. Then he stopped and looked at Theresa.

“You haven’t answered me. What were you searching for on the body?” Then before she could respond he looked down at himself. “Damnation! Look what you’ve done to my arm,” he said as he cleaned the scratches from Theresa’s fingernails. “Did you think the Devil was coming to get you?”

“I was on my way to Fulda.” She cleared her throat. “I saw a dead man and I thought he might have a steel. I lost mine when I crossed the lake.”

“Crossed the lake you say? Let’s see… pass me that mallet. So you came from Erfurt?”

“That’s right,” she lied, handing him the tool.

“Then you must know the Petersohns. They run the bakery just a few buildings down from the cathedral.”

“Of course,” she fibbed again.

“How are they? I haven’t seen them since summer.”

“They’re well… as far as I know. My parents live some way from the town.”

“Is that right?” he said, grimacing. He hit the wedge hard and the wheel came away from its axle.

Theresa gave a start, thinking maybe he didn’t believe her.

“Now comes the difficult part,” the man continued. “See this spoke? It’s split. And so is this other one. Lousy damned timber! I’ll change the most damaged one and repair the other with a couple strips of wood. Take this. Hold it—and when I hit it, ring the bell. If the bandits have to hear us, then let them hear the music of the lepers, too.”

Theresa noticed that the old man had unhitched the horse and arranged several rocks under the cart to stop it from toppling. He pulled a stick out from the back, which turned out to be a spare spoke. He kept talking, saying that he always carried one with him because carving oak was very difficult. He compared the new spoke to the broken ones before adjusting the end with an adze.

“Will it take long?”

“I hope not. If I bothered to do it properly, I’d be here all night: I’d have to take off the iron rim, remove the four surrounds, and replace the spokes. It’s not difficult, because the surrounds are of ash, but then you have to mount the pivots, the tongue, and the ends of the spokes.” He stood back to look at his work. “A devilish job! I’ll saw the ends and adjust them with the mallet. Now shake the bell.”