Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

He had not gone even half a mile when he sank into the mud. The first time he got up again. The second time, he passed out and fell to the ground.

He stayed there, lying flat on his face until the weeping of one of the children prompted him to continue, but he could not find the strength to stand up. He merely panted like a wounded animal. He dragged himself to the side of the road. There, as he got his breath back, he realized he would never accomplish what he had set out to do. His stump was hurting again, with the pain reaching to his lungs, though he no longer cared. He rested against the side of a rock and wept in despair. He was not concerned for his own life, but he was desperate to protect the two little girls.

From the bend in the road where he was sitting, he contemplated Würzburg in the distance. He admired the cluster of hovels packed behind the walls in the valley with the towers of the fortress watching over them from the hilltop. He looked longingly at the clear sky between the little columns of smoke rising up from the houses, and the first greenery appearing on the fields in the distance that seemed unreachable. It comforted him to think that his daughter already rested there under those lands, and that soon he would be reunited with her.

As he noticed the plumes of smoke, he suddenly had an idea. He lifted the twins out of the chest and put them to one side. Then, with the last of his strength, he smashed it into a heap of splinters with his foot. He took out his steel and held the flint between his feet to direct the sparks toward the dry cloth he’d positioned on top of the wood. Then he scraped the steel, praying to God the canvas would catch. But as much as he pleaded, it would not ignite. He tried again and again, but eventually his strength left him. Exhausted, he threw away the steel, cursing his bad luck.

After a while, he remembered the document he had hidden behind the beam in the slave hut. He thought the parchment would make ideal tinder, but when he stood up with the intention of retrieving it, everything started spinning.

He realized then that he would never leave that place. The twins were silent, as if they’d been drugged. He dragged himself over to the steel to try again. Taking it in his hand with all his strength, he unleashed it on the flint. To his surprise, the sparks burst forth in a luminous torrent, raining down onto the woolen mesh. He repeated the process vigorously, blowing on the sparks, rubbing the steel against the flint with all his might. Suddenly a dot of cloth caught. Gorgias blew on it again until another speck of gold appeared, immediately turning into an intense red. Revitalized, he continued to rub the steel as the incandescent particles multiplied. Thin threads of smoke gradually grew denser, until at last a lively flame took hold of the mesh of wood.

Now he prayed that somebody in Würzburg would spot the fire. He planned to wait until someone approached—and then, once he was sure they had found the girls, he would flee again into the mountains. At that moment he noticed the fire beginning to wane, so he fed the flames with some of the wood that had scattered. Still, the fire devoured the wood as quickly as he added it, and gradually it faded until it was reduced to a pile of embers.

When all that remained was ash, Gorgias looked at it bitterly. Driven by a foolish idea, he had destroyed the only means he had to transport the little girls. So now all he could do was wait for the cold and the wild animals to take them to their graves. He took off his cloak and wrapped the twins in it. For a moment he thought the most alert one smiled at him. Then he huddled up close to them to protect them with his body and fell asleep, dreaming of his daughter.

He knew he must be dead, for when he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was Theresa. He saw her enveloped in a white halo, radiant with joy, her honey-colored eyes big and shining, her messy hair that she never tidied, her warm, affectionate voice. He thought he could feel her arms and hear her encouraging words. She was in the company of a kind-looking dark-haired angel.

He tried to speak to her but could only let out a groan. Suddenly he felt them lifting him. In the darkness, he could see that the two little girls were still with him, then he noticed the remains of the fire. Confused, he looked at Theresa before she took him in her arms. Then he lost consciousness again.

As much as he tried, Izam could not put Theresa at ease. The young woman had been so desperate to find her father that when she spotted the fire in the vicinity of the mines that morning, she had cried, certain that she would find him alive. Then, after reaching the top of the path and discovering Gorgias huddled up to the girls, she had run toward him sobbing with joy, and when she saw that he was still breathing, she had embraced him a thousand times before Izam suggested they return to the town immediately.

They set off back to the city with Theresa guiding the horse, Gorgias’s unconscious body slumped over the back of the mount, and Izam on foot carrying the twins in his arms. At first Theresa was brimming with happiness. She spoke to her father, explaining where she had been, what had happened in Fulda, how much she had missed him. However, as they traveled, she noticed not only could he not hear her, but also that his wounded stump stank like a dead animal. She told Izam and he pursed his lips, shaking his head.

“We’ll have to take him to the physician,” he said, realizing too late what effect this statement might have on Theresa. “I’m sure this time he’ll make him better.”

His addendum did not prevent Theresa from being alarmed, so to distract her he spoke about the twins. “Someone must have left them in the mine,” he remarked.

Theresa did not answer, for it was obvious to her that her father could not have kidnapped a chicken.

They were halfway back when suddenly, upon reaching the top of a slope, they saw a mob of peasants heading toward them brandishing hay forks and scythes. The mob was led by a group of soldiers who told them to halt. Izam assumed they sought Wilfred’s reward. What he didn’t understand was how they had found them so quickly.

Fortunately Izam spotted Gratz, one of his trusted men. When Gratz recognized Izam, he shouted for the archers to lower their weapons. But several peasants, blinded by greed, were already running toward them. Izam quickly put down the children and drew his sword, but before he could use it, an arrow knocked down the first peasant. Izam looked at Gratz, who was still holding the bow. The other peasants stopped dead in their tracks. One of the townspeople dropped his weapon on the ground and the rest copied him. Then a few of the solders overtook them, shoving aside the group of hotheads and offering their horses to Izam and the twins.

On the way back to Würzburg, Gratz revealed to Izam that someone had anonymously revealed the girls’ whereabouts.

“Apparently a hooded man confessed it to a priest, who in turn informed Wilfred. This morning they ordered us to organize a search party.”

Izam was surprised to hear that the informer had known where they were—and that he had blamed Gorgias for abducting the twins. He thanked Gratz for his intervention and they rode on to the citadel gates, where another angry crowd had gathered.

As soon as the gates were opened, they saw Wilfred on his wooden carriage. The count cracked his whip and the dogs pulled the contraption, which moved clumsily down the road, leaving behind Alcuin, Zeno, and Rutgarda, who were standing behind him watching the events. When the cripple reached the walls, Izam met him with the two little girls. As Wilfred embraced them, the whole town celebrated the end of their nightmare.