The Anatomist's Dream (30 page)

‘Bugger off!' Nicolas interrupted Kwert's stuttered speech.

‘Perhaps we could . . . just sit . . .'

‘You deaf or summat? I told you, bugger off!'

Fager heard the man on the donkey droop and sigh, steeled himself and intervened. ‘Let them sit, Nicolas. They'll do us no harm.'

Nicolas scratched and grunted as Fager motioned the strangers to join them.

‘We've nothing to give you, you understand, but you're ­welcome to sit by the fire. Cold night, eh?'

‘Cold indeed,' agreed Kwert as he slid from the donkey, collapsing gratefully by the meagre flames. The boy sat down beside him, his large hat putting his face in shadow.

‘You didn't stop in the village, then?' asked Fager.

‘No,' Kwert replied, rubbing his hands, revived a tad by the warmth. ‘Came from the other side of the river . . .'

‘Hmmph,' grumbled Nicolas, ‘no bleeding money, I'll be bound.'

The boy in the hat was looking at him curiously.

‘And tell your bloody monkey to stop staring at me,' Nicolas added, ‘or I'll wring his neck and teach him to dance.'

Kwert cricked himself towards Philbert, who lowered his head.

‘No money, sir,' Kwert placated, ‘is precisely our position. But we hope to meet up with friends at Bremen.'

‘Ah yes. The Bremen Fair,' nodded Fager, ‘we're taking our sheep there. Nicolas has a couple of bulches too – bull calves.'

‘Shut up you,' Nicolas was angry. ‘You've a tongue that ­blabbers like an old woman. These two could be looking to rob us blind. You never heard of fishing expeditions? Christ, man,
'
s a good job one of us can take his drink well enough to watch our skins don't get taken while we sleep.'

Kwert waved his hand wearily. ‘You've nothing to fear from us, sir. We just want to rest for the night. We'll ask for nothing more.'

‘They all say that,' muttered Nicolas, but even he could see the newcomers didn't look like assassins. Groben's eyesight was made weak and blurry at the edges by the brandy, but something was tickling him. He squinted, leaned in for a better look, pork-faggot breath leading the way.

‘Don't I know you, pipsqueak? Hey, boy, I'm talking to you! You with the hat.' The boy looked up, dark eyes wide, though he did not remove his god-awful hat. ‘Ugly little bugger, ain't he; but then, mind your Maria?' He punched Fager in the side with his fist. ‘Right bunch of bones and squawking she was not long back, always running snot from her nose and playing with her hair. Couple years on and she's ready for the bed, and no mistake.'

Fager's pale cheeks reddened, a shiver running through him from head to toe but he said nothing, recognised the signs, Nicolas finishing off the brandy in one long swig and throwing the bottle into the fire, blue flames playing briefly over the ­shattered glass as the strangers jumped. The time of drinking when Nicolas would want a fight.

‘What you got in your bag, boy? Bottle of brandy perhaps? Flagon of wine?'

‘Nothing,' mumbled Philbert, twiddling the strap with his fingers.

‘Cunning little shite! Don't you answer me back. Gi's it here . . .'

Philbert didn't move. He wished he'd not led them over the river. The moment they'd walked into the circle of light he knew who Nicolas was, the telescope of memory zooming into Groben's barn, Huffelump and his pitiful mother, before ­slamming shut. Kwert intervened.

‘Please sir, we don't want any trouble. We've no drink, believe me. No drink, no food, no money. We'd give it you if we had it. Come on, Philbert, we'll leave these gentlemen to their fire.'

Kwert went to stand, creaking and cracking, Philbert clutching his satchel in one hand, helping Kwert with the other. Only two yards they got towards the donkey they'd tethered by the river so it could eat and drink, when they heard a rumbling behind them and on came the staggering Groben, hoisting at his
Hödensacke
with one hand, opening and closing his fist with the other.

‘Nobody walks away from me like that, d'you hear? Nobody!' he shouted, ‘and especially not a little shite like you!'

Fager scrambled to his feet and hung behind Groben like a spent breath, his heart hammering beneath his ribs like woodpeckers, lips moving without words. Kwert was shocked into immobility, Philbert gripping his bag-strap tighter, determined not to let it go, Raspel beginning to squiggle inside, bumping against the
Philocalia
. Groben was on them in a second, lumbering into Kwert, knocking him to the ground, yanking away Philbert's hat, fat-glistened teeth bared in recognition.

‘I knew it,' Groben growled, ‘knew I'd seen that ugly little
pickelkopf
before. You stole my prize calf. . .
pretending to be fine gents you were, and all along just common swindlers. I seen that midget girl dancing pirouettes and that lump-calf prancing, raking in a fortune.
My
fortune, you thieving little bastard!'

Groben grabbed Philbert and shook him like a bag of dice, Fager dragging ineffectually at Groben's arm, flung off in a moment, bleating as he fell.

‘But it's only a boy, it's only a boy!'

Groben ignored him, heaved Philbert up into the air and threw him with all his fighting strength; Philbert somersaulted, landing mercifully not on hard ground but into a deep pool beyond the popplestones, sank and stayed, bobbed and gasped, arms flapping and floundering, body banging against one rock here, another there, head surfacing every now and then to hiccup in a bit of air, drowning like a puppy in a pail. And then he was up, someone yanking hard at his collar, bringing him to land, choking and coughing, sounds around him of a hundred sheep stumbling and complaining, rearranging themselves, shuffling themselves like cards.

‘Stay here,' commanded his rescuer, throwing a heavy coat about Philbert's shoulders before marching away down the track, muttering under his fast-drawn breath, stamping his big boots, heading for Groben's fire; Groben loomed beside it like a venomous bat, spitting drunk and spoiling for a fight, lifting his fists as he saw the man's approach.

‘Whaddaya want, old Stultzie? Old farty-pants-farmer Stultzie?' Groben swaggered, invigorated by action, certain he'd righted a great wrong by chucking the kid into the river. Schtultz did not reply, marching on with sure and steady stride, removing a leather glove from his back pocket and fitting it on. Straight to Groben he went, and straight into Groben's face went his leather clad fist, Groben far too drunk and slow to respond, falling to his knees with an audible
oomph
. Schtultz gave him no leave, pulled him up again by his collar, punched him three times more, saying vehemently each time he hit:

‘That's for the boy; and that one's for knocking down a sick old man; and this last is for me, because I'm sick of the sight of you, and I'm sick of the sight of your maggoty sheep, and I'm sick of what you do to little girls behind hedges. Sick,' he said quietly, delivering a final blow, ‘of your waste of a life.'

Schtultz stopped and stood, breathing hard, releasing Groben who slumped to the ground, nose and cheekbones cracked and bruised, bleeding and moaning in the dirt.

And away to the west, the reed-cutter sits in his reed-house, thinks he hears a commotion coming to him on the breeze; he cocks his head and listens: nothing but the sound of the wind and the water. He puffs his pipe and is at peace.

30

Loss and Gain and on to Bremen

Low grey clouds drizzled over Philbert's world. He was down by the river looking at the laundry pool into which he
'
d ended up the night before, watching the water as it splayed its toes between rocks and the discarded limbs of trees before losing itself in the shallows and beds of reeds. He saw the dippers darting from rock to rock, and a kingfisher cutting from air to water and back again as if there were no difference between the two, listened to the water burbling sleepily beneath its breath of mist. He slipped along the grassy bank, two green snakes following where his feet pushed through the dewy grass. He found his satchel, snagged and sorrowful, caught on the roots of a tree that had out-grown its bank, Raspel hanging out from beneath the flap, pink tongue smooth and sodden, long and limp, blue eyes cloudy and vacant, fur sogged and draggled into dark points, bones sharp beneath his waterlogged skin. Philbert retrieved the satchel, lifted him out gently and laid him on the bank next to the water-steeped
Philocalia
. So different, his little Raspel, so thin and cold, Philbert weeping for the loss of the warm purr, the companionship of Raspel wrapped about his neck or snuggled in his satchel, Kwert staggering up behind the boy and laying down his sticks, putting his arm around Philbert – cold and thin as Raspel – pushing the large familiar head against his chest and the arrhythmic beating of his heart.

It was a slow and sad sojourn to Bremen, Kwert on his donkey, Philbert walking in front, Schtultz taking up the rear, going behind his sheep, driving them on with two switches of willow held in outstretched hands. Philbert's role was to keep the sheep from wandering on ahead, but mostly he just dawdled, kicking stones with his feet, eyes red and bleary, knapsack damp, weighing more though it carried less – only the
Philocalia
, with the flyers from the Cloth Market torn up and tucked between its pages to suck out the wet. The sheep, incurious, kept their heads down and soodled steadily along, ignoring the boy and the odd sobs that escaped him occasionally but soon desisted, Philbert's grief twisting into an anger as integral as the pit to the peach, growing with every step he took, its hardness spreading throughout him like a mushroom spreads its roots beneath the soil, unseen. And he was glad for it, giving him to understand how cruel the world could be, how filled with chance, how the next time it showed itself he would pay it back in kind.

They reached the outskirts of Bremen two days later, Schtultz not minding the presence of his two companions, pretending they were being a big help with the sheep as he shared out his meagre portions of food each night. They heard the city long before they stumbled through the hinterland of villages that were caught around its edges like goose-grass to a dog: the noise of cattle bellowing, sheep coughing, the grackles of geese, the howling of dogs, clear as a multitude of clarion at battle's start seven miles distant. The closer they got, the more crowded the lanes became, filling up with animal muck, spilling one track into another – some wide as weirs, others bottle-necked over a ford or bridge – and everywhere the dust kicked up by the folk and animals coming into market carked and choked and cloaked the air, the pale blue of the sky disappearing, all to see being the livestock stumbling all around them and the backs of the men tending them, everything, everyone, pushing onwards, all shoving into one other, until it seemed a miracle any one farmer could distinguish his stock from another's.

They stayed their last night a few miles out of the town and took off in the early morning, the drizzle helping for a while to settle the dust to the earth, allowing an hour or so of cool, clean air. But this soon ceased the moment everyone else started their own forward momentum, kicking up the dust again, great ­clusters of flies rising in the growing morning warmth that swarmed around both animals and men, settling on their backs, in their collars, at the corners of their eyes. The clamouring hurry-burry of noise was incessant, the dung so all-pervasive that it was difficult to make out any other smell excepting by degrees of stink and shit. As soon as they passed the town's boundary markers every square inch seemed covered and close-packed with hurdle-houses, animal pens, cheese and butter makers setting up their stalls, touting for milk and cream, thick-armed women churning and stirring everything they could get their hands on. Boxing booths opened, gaming rinks were ­cordoned off, the screams of cockfights and the howls of dogs pitched against chained bears ripped through the air, and every step sent up streaks of pinch-backed rats that had woken up in paradise. Every yard of every street was taken up by stalls selling crooks and whips, poultry, jugs of cream, curry-combs, buckets of dip and dye, worm powders, fleece pullers, shearers, hoers, turnip-cutters, saddle-sellers, harness-hammerers, ox-hoof ­clippers, tail-trimmers. From all sides came the hurdy-gurdy of sheep's bleating, cattle lowing, chickens squawking, donkeys braying. Philbert had never encountered anything like it, eager to run up every ginnel, might have been landed on a different continent, and so much to explore.

They left Schtultz when they reached his allotted patch, nothing to give him but their thanks, taken with equanimity and a brief tip of his head before carrying on shoving his sheep inside his pens. Kwert and Philbert pushed and butted their way through the crowds until they reached the cooler, quieter back streets, clutching the few coins Schtultz had pushed at Kwert as they had left; in payment, he said, for the labour they had but poorly given.

‘My God!' Kwert groaned, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. ‘If I never see another sheep it will be too soon.'

They stopped by a coffee barrow, sipping the rich liquid, glad to be still and almost alone. The streets were still awash with shouts and smells, but the further they went from the hurdle-houses, the quieter it got. By late afternoon the noise crescendoed again as stockmen began their early celebration of the various sodalities of Horn Suppers, Whip-Words, Cock-Claws, amongst many other initiatory drinking rites. Needing rest and food, Kwert and Philbert tucked themselves away into the back-haunts of the city, eventually landing at an inn renting out its back yard for cheap night lodgings, and settled down to ­noodles, gristly meatballs, and gravy-dunked slabs of stale bread. It was late, and dark.

‘Read to me,' Kwert's voice was soft in Philbert's ear, but before Philbert could take out the
Philocalia
and its water-smudged pages, Kwert was asleep. Silence then, only the sound of a few snores and grunts, everyone rested and content to have found their small square of peace. He placed his head on Kwert's knees, but his eyes were open and years later he could have told anyone who asked how many cobblestones there were in that yard, and how many people sat around its walls or were curled upon its benches. And if Philbert had ever become a man who could paint – which he did not – he could have depicted every stroke of light and dark that fell upon that place, every star as it appeared in the sky, every colour of every coat buttoned tight, every strand of hair, every wisp of straw; all there in his head as it was then, before he closed his eyes and slept.