The Scribe(36)

Theresa swayed the stick until the bell jingled. The hammer blow resounded all around the forest. The young woman tried to drown out the echo by shaking the bell harder, but try as she might, the blows could be heard all morning.

They talked. He said his name was Althar. He was a trapper who lived in a log cabin in the woods with his wife and their dog, Satan. In winter he hunted and in summer he sold the furs in Aquis-Granum. Theresa said that she had fled a marriage of convenience and asked for his help to reach Fulda. But he refused, and when he had finished mending the cart, he said farewell.

“You’re going?” Theresa asked.

“Yes, I’m going home.”

“What about me?”

“What about you?”

“What will I do?”

Althar shrugged. “What you should have done from the beginning: Go back to Erfurt and marry that man you say you hate. I bet he’s not so bad.”

“I would rather go to the Saxons,” she said, with such conviction that she admired her own acting skills.

“You can do whatever you want as far as I’m concerned.” Althar hitched the horse to the harness and began removing the stones that held the cart in place. “But hurry. There might be more bandits looking for him,” he said, pointing at the dead man. “I’ll lead the horse to the river. After she has drunk, I’ll be off like the clappers.”

Theresa walked off. As she went, she saw the forest as dense and cold as a cemetery, and tears came to her eyes. She stopped, knowing that if she continued alone she would die. Althar seemed like a good man, for he had done her no harm. Besides, he was married and knew the Petersohns. Perhaps he would allow her to accompany him.

She pleaded with him to let her stay and talked of her skill as a seamstress, and lied about her ability to cook, but Althar did not seem impressed.

“I can also tan skins,” she added.

The old man looked at her out of the corner of his eye, indicating this was an area where he could use a little help. Leatherwork required dexterity, and his wife, since the last of her fevers, could barely move her hands. He looked at her again and shook his head. No doubt this ill-bred lass would only make his life difficult. What’s more, his wife would be suspicious of a young woman.

He moved the last stone away and climbed on the cart.

“Look, lass, I like you, but you’d be a burden. Another mouth to feed. I’m sorry. Go back to your town and ask that man to forgive you.”

“I won’t go back.”

“Then do what you want.” He urged the horse on.

Theresa didn’t know what to say. But suddenly she remembered the traps she had found by Hoos’s mount.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Althar raised an eyebrow and glanced at her. “I don’t think you could. I’m too old to get my cock moving.”

The young woman pretended not to hear him. “Look at your traps… they’re old and rusty,” she observed, walking alongside the cart.

“So am I, but I can still look after myself.”

“But I can get you some new ones. I know where to find them.”

Althar stopped the horse. Some new traps would of course be useful, and in truth he felt sorry for the poor girl. Theresa told him about the incident with the wolves and the contents of the saddlebags. She also described the place where it happened.

“Are you sure it was in that gully?”

She nodded. Althar seemed to be considering it.

“Pox on you! Come on, get in the cart. I know a path that will take us to that precipice. And change your clothes, or you’ll die before you can show me the exact place.”

The young woman leaped onto the cart and made herself comfortable in the heap of furs. The dozens of bundles in the cart began to jump about with the trotting of the horse. Theresa recognized pelts of beaver and deer, and even one or two wolf pelts. Most of them looked to be in a fairly poor state. Several skins looked like they had been tanned, but most were teeming with insects that crawled among the dried out fur and remnants of blood as though the skins had been flayed that very morning. She positioned herself as far away as possible from them, for they gave off an unbreathable stench, and she covered herself with a dry skin she found acceptable. Behind her, she discovered an earthenware jar covered with a greasy mesh that let off the delicious aroma of cheese.

Theresa squeezed her belly, trying to calm her complaining intestines. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye, she journeyed back to Würzburg, to the winter mornings when Gorgias would wake her with a kiss so she could help him light the oven they had built. She recalled looking out over the snow-covered fields, and how thankful she was for the warmth of the embers on those early mornings when she accompanied her father, reading some manuscript to him. She wondered whether Althar had ever seen a book.

She looked at Satan. The animal followed behind the cart by about a stone’s throw. He looked like he had more intelligence in his little darting eyes than some of the boys she knew. Once in a while he would come closer to the horse to jump into the air and catch the pieces of meat that Althar threw him. Theresa heard her belly rumble again and asked Althar when they would eat.

“Do you think I’m made of food? Patience, lass. Now get cleaning those skins. The brush is there, by the bow.”

Theresa made no complaints. She took one of the bulkiest bundles, untied the tendons that held it together, and boldly started to clean one of the grotesque furs on her lap. On the first stroke, a swarm of insects flew from the skin, falling to the floor of the cart and scattering across the boards. She kept brushing, her eyes fixed firmly on the pelts, until she had brushed the whole bundle. Without respite she continued to do the same with a second wad of furs. When she had finished, Althar pointed at a third.