Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

No sooner had she cast her line, she saw something unsettling. Half-hidden in the undergrowth, a few paces away, she noticed some sort of grounded craft. Hoos wouldn’t have bothered to mention something like that to her, but no doubt it was one of those ferries used to transport goods back and forth over the river.

She pushed aside the thicket and jumped onto the boat, which creaked under her weight. Near the bow she found a pole, resting on a rope that formed a bridge from one bank to the other. She thought it was probably used to prevent the current from dragging the ferry off during loading. After checking that the hull was intact, she decided to use it to cross to the other side of the bank.

Walking around to the grounded end, she pressed her back against the stern and pushed with all her weight, her feet sinking into the mud. The ferry didn’t budge. She attempted it several more times, until her legs and arms were trembling. Exhausted, she finally fell to the ground, crying bitterly.

Since fleeing Würzburg, she had lost count of the times she had cried. Wiping away her tears, she thought about giving up and wondered if she should return and beg Wilfred, God, or whoever necessary for mercy. At least then she could be with her family, and perhaps with their help she could prove that she had not caused the fire. However, she remembered the dead girl and shuddered. Her idea was surely deluded. She decided that if she were to make any sort of life for herself, it would have to be on the other side of this river.

Dismayed, she looked around until she found a medium-sized pebble, which she threw with all her strength toward the opposite bank. The stone flew a quarter of the way across the pool before sinking, so she estimated that it was around a hundred paces wide. In that cold water she would never make it across by swimming. She thought there might be a bridge farther on. But just as she was about to continue on her way, it occurred to her that if she hung from the rope, perhaps she could claw her way to the other side. On either side of the bank the rope was knotted to a tree, and the trees seemed secure enough to support a man’s weight. She could also see that, though the rope dipped halfway across, at no point would she be entirely submerged.

Persuaded by the idea, she waded into the water. The cold made her flinch, but she kept going. When she started to lose her footing, she swung up onto the rope and maneuvered herself until she was hanging belly-up. She advanced toward the other side by stretching and contracting like a caterpillar.

She completed the first stretch without difficulty, but a third of the way across, the rope dipped, dropping her dangerously close to the water. When the water finally touched her back, she dropped off and started swimming, holding on to the rope as a guide. When the rope started to rise again, she pulled herself back up. That was when her bag came open and the steel fell out. She tried to grab the little box, but the current dragged it down until it disappeared under the water. Swearing, she pressed on, until at last, after what seemed like an eternity, she reached the other shore.

As soon as she arrived, shivering, she pulled off her wet clothes, in order to wring them out. As she was doing so, she noticed a strange glimmer that seemed to come from an indeterminate point nearby. She thought it might be the steel she had just lost, and though it was highly unlikely, she quickly dressed anyway and headed toward the spot. However, as she approached, she could see that it was a mass of crayfish, swarming over the disfigured body of a dead soldier. She assumed it was a Saxon, though it could also have been a Frank.

Theresa noticed the great gash running from the soldier’s left ear to the base of his neck. His face was worm-eaten and blood had accumulated under the skin, turning it purple. His ankles seemed dislocated and from under his clothes, his stomach protruded, swollen like an old wineskin. She noticed that the glint she had seen came from the scramasax that he wore on his belt. She briefly thought about taking it, but then gave up on the idea, for everyone knew that the souls of the dead kept vigil over their bodies for three days.

She stepped back to watch the spectacle, repulsed and astounded. And she imagined what the crayfish would taste like once they had been roasted over a fire. Then she remembered that she had lost her steel and wondered whether one could be found on the body. Using a stick, she flicked aside several crayfish, but all she found underneath were entrails and more creatures.

As she became absorbed rummaging through his clothes, someone suddenly grabbed her from behind. Theresa screamed and kicked as if the Devil himself had seized her, but a hand was pressed over her mouth. In response she sunk her nails into the arm with such force that she thought they would come clean off. Then she received a blow to her face and was shaken like a rag doll.

“Damned bitch! Scream again and I’ll tear out your tongue!”

Theresa tried to scream, but she was unable to with his hand still covering her mouth.

The figure before her seemed more like a creature from Hell than a human. The old man’s face was mouse-bitten and devoured by rot. His thin hair revealed several bald patches dotted with wounds and grime, and his menacing gray eyes seemed to stare right through her. Her gaze fell on the fangs of the dog that accompanied him.

“Don’t worry, lass, Satan only bites people who ask for it. You alone?”

“Yes,” she stammered, immediately regretting her response.

“What were you searching that dead man for?”

“Nothing.” She bit her tongue at such a stupid answer.

“Nothing, eh? Well! Get those shoes off and throw them over there,” he ordered. “What’s your name?”

“Theresa,” she answered, following his instructions.

“Good. Give me that,” he said, pointing at the bag she had on her shoulder. “May I know what you’re doing here?”

Theresa did not respond.

The man opened her bag and inspected its contents. “And this dagger?”

It was the knife she had stolen from Hoos Larsson. “Give it back.” Theresa snatched it from him and stuffed it in her dress.

The man didn’t protest, but continued to rummage.

“What’s this?” he asked. He had already pulled out the stylus and wax tablets.

“What?”

“Don’t play the fool. This parchment that you were hiding in a secret compartment.”

Theresa was surprised. She imagined that her father, for some reason, had hidden it there.

“A poem by Virgil. I always keep it protected so it doesn’t get dirty,” she improvised.

“Poems,” he muttered as he returned the parchment to her. “What sentimentality! Now pay attention,” he continued. “This place is crawling with bandits, so I don’t care what you do, where you come from, whether you’re alone or what you were searching that body for, but I warn you: If you try to scream or do anything silly, Satan will tear your throat open before you know what’s happening. Got it?”

Theresa nodded. She would’ve tried to escape, but without shoes it would’ve been stupid. She presumed that was why he had told her to remove them. She took a few steps back and examined the old man. He wore a threadbare cloak tied around his waist, revealing long, bony legs. When he had finished rummaging through her bag, he bent down and picked up a stick with a bell hanging from one end. Theresa looked at his wounds more closely and realized he was a leper.

With this realization, she didn’t give it a second thought. As soon as the old man glanced elsewhere, she turned and ran, but before she could even take a few steps, she lost her footing and slipped. No sooner had she hit the ground, she felt the dog’s breath on her back. She waited, stock-still, for its fatal blow, but the animal didn’t move. The man approached and held out a scab-covered hand toward her. Theresa moved away.