Escape from the Past (17 page)

Trying to avoid the piles of dung and puddles, I stepped across the straw-covered yard, when I saw something glistening near the pig stall. It looked wet and I drew closer. The dirt and straw were soaked darkish red—blood. Trembling I rushed around the corner. At the far side of the building, the ground was drenched. Mud and rain puddles glowed red. A massacre had taken place.

Ott had killed the family for defying him. A terrible foreboding gripped me as I slowly opened the barn door and peeked into the gloom. Dark shapes covered the floor. I hesitated, my legs and feet refusing to move. I couldn’t possibly go farther.

But I had to look, see for himself who lay inside. I didn’t even notice the sticky redness beneath, the soaked straw that reached to my ankles. I could not go on. I could not handle finding the people who’d become my family dead.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom, I noticed that the shape closest to me was too small to be human. I took a step and bent
lower. It was the body of a pig, its gray fur saturated with blood. Its throat had been slashed and it had bled to death. I moved passed. The sow Bero had been so proud of lay on her side, her eight babies strewn around her, even close in death. Her teats were still swollen with milk. I felt pressure in my throat. Bero would be heartbroken. His babies had been killed. I moved further into the darkness, carefully stepping over the still forms. They were all dead.

I swallowed away the lump in my throat. At least they were only pigs. Bero would be livid and sad. They were his livelihood, his flock, almost like children. Even I had grown fond of them. They were smart and well-trained. I’d been amazed how they followed Bero’s commands. But he could buy new ones. We’d tell Lord Werner. I looked around thinking about what to do next when my gaze fell on another form in the back corner. It almost blended in with the straw and shadows. I rushed closer. The skinny human body wore a beige shirt and brownish pants. Bero.

He’d curled into a ball as if he were sleeping. I didn’t know how I made it to the crumpled up body. I fell on my knees, swallowing the bile that threatened to explode out of my head.

“Bero?”

He lay very still. My arm didn’t obey me because it shook and trembled. Gently I turned the skinny figure to look into my friend’s face. Bero’s eyes were closed. His face looked waxen. Bruises covered his cheek and neck. One eye was swollen shut and looked black in the gloom. I pushed aside the stringy hair, sticky with blood. Then I bent low to listen to his chest.

I heard a faint noise, a tiny gurgling sound. Bero was breathing—at least for now. I quickly checked for other injuries. His feet were bloody, but that was more likely from the pigs. Finding no stabbing wounds I sagged on my knees relieved.

But Bero didn’t move even when I rubbed his hands. They were grimy, but I didn’t care. I’d started crying but I didn’t care about that either. Bero looked like a used-up ragdoll ready for the
garbage. My mind raced going over the options. I had to get help. There was no doctor, no ambulance or emergency room. I didn’t know what was wrong. The head wound could mean lots of things. Maybe Bero had internal injuries. Maybe he’d die any minute. A rattle pierced the silence. It was my own moan. Something had to be done. And fast.

With another sigh I straightened. I only thought of one thing. My right arm under his shoulders, the other under the legs, I picked up Bero who felt limp as if he had no bones. I thought of
Harry Potter
when he’d lost the bones in his forearm and had to take medicine to re-grow them. Bero felt like that all over. It was probably dangerous to move him, but I couldn’t stay either. Every minute was precious.

Ignoring the dead pigs, the blood-soaked straw and manure, I walked outside and headed downhill. Every so often I slowed to catch my breath. Bero hadn’t moved and I wondered if he’d died. In the daylight, his face looked distorted from the blows to his head, swollen and bluish. Maybe he had brain damage from internal bleeding.

I thought of the crime shows on TV. Head trauma was a main cause of death when the brain swelled and put too much pressure on the skull.

The hopelessness of my situation grew and became overwhelming until my feet stopped. I wanted to lie down and dig myself a hole. I wanted to scream and rant: against Ott, against my fear and the stinking unfairness of life in this horror of a game.

Still, I held on to Bero. If I stopped now, Bero would die. So I resumed my walk, my breath rattling and my arms and back beyond tearing pain. I’d often thought that it was good not to meet anyone. But right now, I could really have used another pair of arms. Why hadn’t I asked a neighbor? They all knew each other. They could’ve helped carry Bero. My mind wandered into fog.

If Bero died, it would be my fault. I should’ve gone with him. Better yet, I should’ve never let him leave the castle. Not without protection. Not after we’d been taken by Ott and run off. A sob escaped me. I couldn’t afford to cry right now. I had no breath left, no energy, but the last shred of muscle power to carry Bero and maybe, maybe… Another sob.

Something rustled in the bushes behind me and I froze. What if Ott was waiting for me? Had Bero told him that I was at the castle? I forced myself to walk on. I couldn’t think about it. One more step. I had to walk…another step.

At last I reached the river. My feet were beyond pain, my back screaming now. My arms throbbed. I kept going—past the area where I’d swum, past the hazelnut bushes and into the gardens of the old witch.

Before I could wheeze for help—my lungs had long given up the last bit of oxygen—the door opened and Luanda took hold of Bero’s feet. We placed him on her bed, which smelled of lavender and hay.

“What happened?” she said. “Was it Ott?”

I nodded and sank on one of the two chairs by the window, wiping my face, a mixture of sweat and tears.

Without comment, Luanda began to check Bero’s body. She pushed and probed, her knobby fingers like bleached tree limbs. Then she shuffled to the back wall, opening clay pots and mumbling in a low voice.

“Take off his tunic,” she ordered. I obeyed and hung Bero’s shredded top on a hook near the door. “I’ll wash him and you rub this on his forehead and bruises. It’s Arnica.

“Is he…going to die?”

Luanda’s rain cloud eyes glanced at me. Did I imagine them darken for a moment? “We shall see. He is tough.”

I sucked air. More tears showed up.

“You did the right thing. He is a good lad.”

I nodded, my throat too tight for words. “His pigs are dead,”
I finally managed.

“Just sows,” she said. “You’ll buy new ones.” Her eyes had attached themselves to my pant pocket where I kept the coin bag. I could’ve sworn she knew that I carried a small fortune. I didn’t care anymore. I’d give it all to her gladly if she could save my friend.

I concentrated on Bero whose cheeks had regained a faint glow. Luanda kept washing with a mix of water and assorted herbs.

“Put the salve on his bruises. They’ll heal faster.” I obeyed, spreading the thick mixture that smelled of sheep on Bero’s ribs and cheek. At last, Luanda was satisfied and we covered Bero with a coarsely woven wool blanket.

“We better have a look at your feet.”

I looked down. My toes were hardly recognizable under the dirt, blood and grime.

“Wash in the river. I’ll fix something to make them better.”

“I lost my shoes,” I said, but Luanda waved me away.

At the water’s edge, I stripped and jumped in. My teeth chattered, but I scrubbed fast and furious until the last filth and dried blood had floated away. The water burned as if I’d stuck my feet in the freezer. The open sores throbbed. I hobbled back to the house and sank on the chair.

The old woman’s hands moved with certainty and quickness as she applied a salve to my feet and ankles. The fire in the back glowed red and a cup of tea appeared on the table.

“Drink it hot,” she said. Within minutes heaviness settled. Luanda helped me stretch next to Bero on the bed and I sank into deep slumber.

I dreamed. I lay in bed sick and my mother was taking care of me. I didn’t have to go to school. When my mother left the room, I snuck to the computer. Ott’s rat face, teeth bared with red eyes, appeared on the screen. Then Ott’s entire head materialized in
my room, followed by claw-like hands that were bony and long with curved nails. I tried to scramble back into bed, but Ott had sunk his fingers into my shirt. The closer I got to my bed, the farther Ott climbed out of the screen. At last I screamed.

“Shsh, rest yourself,” a soothing voice said.

“Mom?” I opened my eyes. The room was nearly dark except for two oil lamps and the glow of a fire. As the memories of the morning’s ordeal hurtled into my consciousness, I glanced next to me. Bero lay on his back unmoving.

“Will he…”

“We must wait,” Luanda said from the shadows. “He’s had tea.”

I sank back into sleep. Away from the most horrible thought of my life. Away from it all.

When I woke again, a single oil lamp burned near my bed. I rolled to my elbow in search of Luanda.

“How is he?” I said into the gloom.

“He will live. A strong lad.”

I looked at my friend. Bero lay on his back, his face peaceful despite the grotesque bumps and discolorations. Fresh tears appeared in my eyes, followed by a smile. I’d turned into a regular cry baby. Strangely, it didn’t matter.

I thought of all I’d lost. My dad who I’d refused to see or talk to, my mom who I knew worried about me all the time, Jimmy, my best friend. I had new friends now and in a way our relationships were a lot more meaningful. We weren’t just hanging out over some game or homework. We were struggling with life and death. I felt my chest heave again. I’d saved Bero and that had to be enough to sustain me.

Luanda busied herself near the fireplace. “You must be famished.”

My stomach rumbled in response and I sat up. I could swear the old witch was in my head sometimes. I glanced back at Bero. He’d be okay. I wanted to shout with relief.

After limping to Luanda’s outhouse, which smelled loads better than Bero’s, I sat down at the table. Luanda had made more tea and set bowls with nuts and dried berries and a loaf of dark bread in front of me.

As I stuffed bread and nuts into my mouth, I tried to figure out what to do next.

The castle was the only safe place for us now. I thought of the pigs, which would soon rot.

“I don’t know where his family is,” I said. “They may have been taken by Ott. Will you make sure the pigs are given to Bero’s neighbors?”

Luanda nodded. “Most of the sows belong to the Lord. You better tell the castellan when you return to his castle.”

“Castellan?”

“He keeps Hanstein’s books. Like the villagers, Bero has to deliver a portion of the harvest. Slaughtering takes place in November.” Luana paused. “But then, I’m sure you know all that.” Her eyes watched me as I nodded slowly. I was sure she knew I didn’t have a clue.

I remained silent while I enjoyed the bread. It tasted slightly sweet like honey.

“Juliana is at Hanstein,” I finally said, my gaze wandering to the bed. Bero hadn’t moved. What if the witch was wrong and Bero didn’t recover? I cleared my throat. “Can he walk?”

“He should stay another night. You can, too.”

“What about Ott?”

“I do not fear him.”

“But he may look for us here.”

A deep cackle erupted from the old woman’s throat. “Don’t be frightened, Max Nerds. He will leave us alone.”

I stared at her, wanting to know her secret. Instead I asked, “Do you think Knight Werner has returned?”

“I don’t know.”

I felt my frustration growing. If I left and Werner wasn’t back,
I’d have wasted his time and risked running around. Maybe I should wait until tomorrow and help Bero get to the castle. As weak as he was, it would take us an hour, maybe longer. On the other hand it was dark now and easier to hide. Then I remembered my bare feet. They felt warm and much better, but I’d tear them up as soon as I stepped outside.

Luanda had extinguished the lights except for one on the table. “Why don’t you sleep?”

I dragged myself back to the bed. I felt as if a truck had run over me. “Need to get shoes,” I mumbled and was asleep.

The first light of dawn trickled through the window when I woke. I remembered Bero and anxiously glanced over. He laid on his side, facing the wall, his chest rising and falling. I carefully sat up not to disturb him. I wondered where the old woman slept until I saw a sack stuffed with hay and blankets near the fire pit. She’d left us her bed.

I asked myself how old she was. A spider web of wrinkles covered her cheeks and forehead and she walked hunched-over. But her rain-colored eyes looked young—like my own.

I moseyed to the door and peeked outside. Fog like watered-down milk shrouded the garden, hiding bushes and trees beyond. Quiet lay over the land and I heard my own breath. It was getting too cold for a thin shirt and no shoes. I saw no sign of Luanda.

Shivering I hurried to the outhouse. Back inside, I folded the blankets and looked around for something to eat. I didn’t want to rummage through the woman’s stuff. My stomach churned and my mouth was dry.

I froze when the door opened, but it was Luanda. Obviously, my nerves were shot with all the nastiness going on.

“The last fresh mint and chamomile,” the old woman said. “Winter is coming. Will you fetch water? The well is around the corner.”

Glad for something to do I disappeared with a bucket. By the time I returned, the fog had lifted slightly and I was able to make out the trees near the river’s edge. Somewhere, a crow squawked. Then another. I rushed inside. The hut was warm and the smells of boiling grain reached my nostrils.

As if on cue, Bero sat up and rubbed his face. “I’m starving.” Then he groaned and held his forehead.

But hunger seemed to win out. Without the slightest
hesitation, Bero lumbered to investigate the pot.

“What’s up, man,” I said to hide my relief. “How’s your head?”

Bero felt across the swollen parts of his face and shrugged. “What happened? My head feels like my sow is sitting on it.” He looked bewildered.