Breath (9781439132227) (9 page)

The cow is long dead by now.

My own chest seems to cave. Breath is an illusion.

“May this sacrifice end the contamination of our animals before …” Pater Michael seems to consider his own words. But then he goes on. “Before it has a chance to spread to people and prematurely bring about our indissoluble communion with eternity.”

Murmured assents rise. Just like the murmurs of appreciation for Großmutter's cheese. Our coven likes the power of murmurs—as though it's obvious we all agree, so who needs to speak up? We all know, we all agree.

But I don't agree. And all I know is that I hate this, I hate what we just did. Pater Michael should have stopped it. I gather whatever small energy I have left and force out the words, “Cows also love eternity and have faith in it.” I'm gasping for air.

“Cows have no soul,” says Pater Michael. He lifts the crucifix toward the grave. “But they have dignity. The young fellow is right. May the
mysterium
of this cow's life and death be noted.”

His word
mysterium
is expected. Pater Michael refers to our coven's acts as
mirabiliae
or
mysterium
or
gratia
. But he never calls them
magia
. Miracles are allowed; magic is not.

Pater Michael and his altar boys blow out the candles. It's his way of ensuring that the ritual has ended. They leave.

And I'm still alive. I'm standing here breathing, though I feel I should be dead under dirt like that cow. Something very wrong happened today. I was part of something very wrong. I want to go away, away and never come back, never see anyone again.

The others gather together, talking now, preparing the pot, handing over the ingredients. They're too busy to take notice of me. Besides, this is when Großmutter normally sends me away. How mistaken Pater Michael was to think the ritual had ended; the ritual has barely begun. They go about their duties without hesitation. They haven't changed—not like me. They don't know.

I run after Pater Michael and throw myself in his path. “Why won't you admit we do magic?”

“Salz, that's you, no?” Pater Michael squints at me. “If your grandmother could hear you, she'd be appalled.”

“She'd understand if she had watched that cow get buried alive. All of them would understand if their backs hadn't been turned. You understand,” I say. “Saint Francis guides the whole Franciscan
sect—so he's your guide, Pater Michael, yours—and Saint Francis loved the animals. You preached about that gentle love at the centennial of his birthday. It was two years ago, but I remember it well.” I stop to gulp air. When I speak again, it is slowly and with deliberation. “Why dont you tell us now to give up this kind of magic? Why don't you demand it?” I remember the letters of Elisabeth von Schönau—Pater Frederick encouraged me to read them, but I know Pater Michael has read them, too—all priests have. I read everything she said about the corruption of the Church. I understand it now. “You know it's wrong. You have to know. Give me one good reason for your silence.”

“Ã11 give you three.” Pater Michael holds up a finger. “King Saul went to the witch of Endor to conjure up the spirit of Samuel. And Samuel's spirit came to help. First Samuel twenty-eight, verses eight through twenty-five.” He holds up a second finger. “Peter and Simon Magus dueled in a trial of magic. Simon flew above Rome, and Peter's prayers made him fall to his death. Acts eight, verse nine.” He holds up a third finger. “The three Magi, magicians, discovered the Christ child. That you need no citation for.”

“Those were ancient times. Crazy times,” I say. “We know better now.”

“Do you have more faith in oil and wax from the tomb of a saint?”

“Dont you?”

“I'm not the one questioning supernatural powers here. You are.” Pater Michael walks past me.

I was going to ask him, to demand of him, that I be allowed to read Albert the Great's list myself. But this exchange has debilitated me. All I can do is watch him go.

I return to the coven, my thoughts a jumble, tears on my cheeks. Who is right? What is right? Why is it so hard to know anything?

The atmosphere has changed: Excitement sizzles in the air. Großmutter and a lame woman stir the ointment till it's pasty. Water parsnip, sweet flag, cinquefoil, bat's blood, deadly nightshade, and rapeseed oil. That's all. I catch Großmutter's eye to be sure. She nods.

Oh, yes, there's no hemlock in there, and nothing that shortens breath. I'm allowed to participate.

All my questions of theology are forgotten. I have longed to participate in this part of our coven's meetings. In the past Großmutter has sent me away at this point in the coven meeting. I leave
obediently, then sneak back and hide behind scrub brush and watch till I can bear it no more and finally run home. But not today. Not today.

My heart already pounds. I look at the beech tree branch above my head and count the leaves slowly. I must control myself. I must not have a coughing fit, I must not break out in sweat, Großmutter must not change her mind.

We scratch one another's arms till blood bubbles up. Then our supreme head holds out both arms to Großmutter. She's the oldest member here, the honor falls on her. She smears the ointment on a cloth and plasters his arms. Then she goes to the next one, and the next, until all of us have plasters, me in last place. Finally, she applies plasters to her own arms.

I can feel the change everywhere, the change that spreads from the ointment into our blood, through every tiny part of our beings. The black parts of my neighbor s eyes are dilating. He's speaking loudly. I look to our supreme head. Delirium has already caught him. We will fly.

The beautiful widow takes my arm and pulls me to the ground. She nestles against me. “There's nothing,” she whispers. “Then there's a problem. Then there's nothing.” Her braid brushes my arm.

I'm on fire. My clothes are soaked with sweat. I can't tell if the people moving around me are staggering or if it's my eyes that stagger.

The widow bites my ear. It reminds me of Kuh. I laugh. I'm laughing so hard I can't stop.

“Safe,” she says in my ear, loudly now, “safe. Safe, safe, safe, safe, safe.”

The word has lost all meaning. I look at her and wonder what language she speaks. Then I search around for the foreigner. He's naked, wrapped in the arms of the midwife. His buttocks shine with sweat. Is he salty? I get up to go taste him, but the widow pulls me back down.

People dance by, moving their bodies obscenely. It's a follow-the-leader dance. They're kissing stones and trees. They're wiping their bodies with leaves and passing the leaves along the line. They sing about the earth yielding its fruits, the animals multiplying, about health and fertility. The words grow as obscene as the movements. I jump to my feet, then spring onto my hands and join the dance line upside down.

Someone's licking the bottom of my feet. The shock makes me fall. She falls with me, on me. It's the widow, that beautiful widow.

The dancers use the candles from the graveside to stimulate one another. I have a sudden fear that Großmutter will get hurt. I struggle to get out from under the widow, but she clamps her arms around my neck.

“It takes only five minutes,” she says, “five minutes to push out a baby, but five years to stop feeling her after she s died.” And she s kissing me.

My heart beats erratically. I am falling. I am flying.

Whenever I think of the inconsistencies in Pater Michael, of the weaknesses of this leader of my church, I resolve to take the matter into my own hands and beg the coven to cease certain practices. But I never do, for that's when the sensation of flying comes back, interrupting rudely, banishing all semblance of logic. Oh Lord, flying. Flying. A flash of memory will come like a vision when I'm doing the most mundane thing, a rhythm will enter my body when I'm lying in bed at night, a pulse, a beat more insistent than the piper's in the woods, a need.

I am conflicted, it is true. But I am smart enough to know that my youth may lead me astray. The coven is to be trusted. That this may be a kind of twisted reasoning to allow me the chance of flying again is a possibility I see, then lay aside. I will take part in no more live burials—but oh, Lord, yes, I will fly if I get the chance.

My decision will not weaken the coven, for it didn't work anyway—our brutal burial of the live cow. We caused the beast misery for nothing.

The animals are sicker. Not the dogs and cats—they're still fine. But the horses, cows, sheep. All the grazers. They give practically no milk now. Calves are starving. Some of the cows' teats have turned black and fallen off. Other cows have died—simply dropped dead in the meadow.

It's grown worse day by day since midsummer, and now we're past harvest. Everyone who tends a herd clamored for fresh grain to make their animals strong as fast as possible. Their hopes were pinned on this harvest. And it was a hugely successful harvest—a bumper crop. Pater Michael says it's from all the rain last spring and the rain on and off in summer. Großmutter's worry that the rain would rot the crops was ill founded, despite the mold and fungus everywhere. The rain was good. But I wager the brew our coven scattered on the fields had its part too, even though we are only twelve strong. Heavens be praised for that
much, at least, for that crop. Because nothing else has gone right.

Things have changed for the worse in the very way we all feared: The pigs got sick. Fresh grain and everything—and still the pigs got sick.

We farmers are doing the best we can. We haven't even used any of the new harvest grain for our own bread. We're still grinding last year's stale grain. No one other than our family has any left. So we share. We give to every farmer who comes to the door. We give to every peasant who used to get grain from the farmers. We're doing what we can to keep the livestock alive. Only the rich townsfolk, with their bakery bread, have fresh grain.

My family's sitting at the table, eating and talking about the livestock disease. It's all we ever talk about these days.

A knock comes at the door. Großmutter answers. I follow her, holding a lit candle, Kuh on my shoulder.

A woman stands alone with a kerchief wrapped over her head in such a way that only the part of her face from her bottom lip to just above her eyes shows. I can't be sure, but I think I've never seen her before. That and the fine way she's dressed make
me guess that she lives in town. Maybe she's a merchant's wife or even a noble lady.

“God brings me here, good woman,” she says. And the refined way she forms her words confirms my guess.

Großmutter steps back. “And I welcome you in God's name.”

But the lady doesn't come in. Her eyes are nervous. Her hands are hidden in the folds of her skirt. “My family has taken ill.” She hesitates, then adds, “Though we mustn't speak ill.” The pun is purposeful; she's ready to flee at the first hint of a devil. She eyes Kuh mistrustfully.

But I don't want to put the kitten aside. Kuh's got the sweetest spirit around. I give a smile to show we're harmless.

Großmutter still stands with plenty of room for the lady to pass in front of her into our home. She leans forward deferentially. “Tell me about it, if you please.”

The lady's hand comes to her mouth. It trembles, like I sometimes tremble when I'm at the weakest point of a bout with congestion. Her lips are painted red. Her cheeks are caked with pink. I've seen makeup on fine ladies in town before, but always from a distance. Up close it has a different
effect. She seems bloody, a body that's nothing but a sack of blood. If a pin pricked her, she'd empty out and deflate. Her fragility is like nakedness. I look away for a moment.

“The surgeon, the good surgeon with all his knowledge, has been unable to help. So we went to the healing waters at Bad Pyrmont. But nothing helps. Otherwise I'd never have come. The Lord knows that.”

“The Lord knows everything.” Großmutter puts her hands together as in prayer. “Jesus our Savior knew the value of herbs.”

The lady drops her hand at the mention of Jesus. She gives a sigh of relief. “I heard you were a true believer.” She comes inside. Her skirt is so long it brushes the floor. The hem is filthy. She must have walked here. Alone in the falling night. In those narrow, pointy shoes. Did each step hurt? Did she jump at every sound?

I close the door behind her.

“It started with my husband. He did strange things.”

“What sort of things?”

The lady peers past Großmutter at the kitchen table, where all conversation has stopped.

Großmutter goes to the table and pours Father
and my brothers beer. “Enjoy your meal,” she says. “And dont be listening to others' problems.”

“What about Salz?” says Melis. “He's listening.”

“Mind your own behavior.” Großmutter leads the lady to the far corner of the common room.

I follow, grabbing another candle on the way, holding them both high; I earn my right to listen. But the posture of my arms disturbs Kuh. He jumps from my shoulder and disappears in the shadows beyond the circle of candle glow.

“Tell me everything,” says Großmutter in a hoarse whisper, “no matter how unusual. I'm not a stranger to much.”

The lady steps very close to Großmutter. “He spoke inanities,” she whispers, so softly I have to strain to hear. “He still does. He sees things. Images. Then he got … well, amorous.”

Großmutter waits.

“He couldn't be satisfied. He went for me. Any time of day.”

Großmutter waits.

The lady takes Großmutter's hands, and a rosary dangles from her wrist. “Then he went for the servants. And it spread. I felt the same way. I needed him all the time. My hands tingle with the need for him. My feet go numb.” She stops.