Garrido, Antonio - The Scribe

“Then do what you want.” He urged the horse on.

Theresa didn’t know what to say. But suddenly she remembered the traps she had found by Hoos’s mount.

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

Althar raised an eyebrow and glanced at her. “I don’t think you could. I’m too old to get my cock moving.”

The young woman pretended not to hear him. “Look at your traps… they’re old and rusty,” she observed, walking alongside the cart.

“So am I, but I can still look after myself.”

“But I can get you some new ones. I know where to find them.”

Althar stopped the horse. Some new traps would of course be useful, and in truth he felt sorry for the poor girl. Theresa told him about the incident with the wolves and the contents of the saddlebags. She also described the place where it happened.

“Are you sure it was in that gully?”

She nodded. Althar seemed to be considering it.

“Pox on you! Come on, get in the cart. I know a path that will take us to that precipice. And change your clothes, or you’ll die before you can show me the exact place.”

The young woman leaped onto the cart and made herself comfortable in the heap of furs. The dozens of bundles in the cart began to jump about with the trotting of the horse. Theresa recognized pelts of beaver and deer, and even one or two wolf pelts. Most of them looked to be in a fairly poor state. Several skins looked like they had been tanned, but most were teeming with insects that crawled among the dried out fur and remnants of blood as though the skins had been flayed that very morning. She positioned herself as far away as possible from them, for they gave off an unbreathable stench, and she covered herself with a dry skin she found acceptable. Behind her, she discovered an earthenware jar covered with a greasy mesh that let off the delicious aroma of cheese.

Theresa squeezed her belly, trying to calm her complaining intestines. Then she lay back and closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye, she journeyed back to Würzburg, to the winter mornings when Gorgias would wake her with a kiss so she could help him light the oven they had built. She recalled looking out over the snow-covered fields, and how thankful she was for the warmth of the embers on those early mornings when she accompanied her father, reading some manuscript to him. She wondered whether Althar had ever seen a book.

She looked at Satan. The animal followed behind the cart by about a stone’s throw. He looked like he had more intelligence in his little darting eyes than some of the boys she knew. Once in a while he would come closer to the horse to jump into the air and catch the pieces of meat that Althar threw him. Theresa heard her belly rumble again and asked Althar when they would eat.

“Do you think I’m made of food? Patience, lass. Now get cleaning those skins. The brush is there, by the bow.”

Theresa made no complaints. She took one of the bulkiest bundles, untied the tendons that held it together, and boldly started to clean one of the grotesque furs on her lap. On the first stroke, a swarm of insects flew from the skin, falling to the floor of the cart and scattering across the boards. She kept brushing, her eyes fixed firmly on the pelts, until she had brushed the whole bundle. Without respite she continued to do the same with a second wad of furs. When she had finished, Althar pointed at a third.

“After that, clean the traps till they’re gleaming,” he said.

Theresa grabbed the traps, spat on the filth, and got started with her new task. Then, as she scrubbed the contraptions, she reflected that Althar must have a special gift for the art of hunting, for how else could he have amassed such a collection of furs? When at last she finished her work, she informed Althar, who, surprised at her diligence, stopped the cart to check her handiwork.

“Right then, lass, time to fill our bellies,” he said with a smile before clambering off.

He went to the back of the cart and rooted around until he produced a small sack, which he dropped on the ground. Satan approached for a sniff, but Althar kicked him away. Then he turned to Theresa. “Climb up to that hillock and take a good look around. If you see anything out of the ordinary: a fire, horses, men, anything out of place, bark like a dog.”

“Bark?” asked Theresa incredulously.

“Yes, bark… you know how to bark, don’t you?”

Theresa practiced barking with varying success. She thought it sounded awful, but Althar seemed satisfied.

“Hurry, then. And take the bell with you.”

While she climbed the slope, he prepared some slices of cheese with pieces of hard bread. Then he cut open a couple of onions. He commandeered the biggest portion and then beckoned Theresa.

“All quiet,” said the young woman.

“Good. At this rate we’ll reach the gully before midday. We’ll eat now because we won’t stop again. Back there, behind the traps, you’ll find some wine. And put some more clothes on, if you want. You must be freezing.”

The trapper clambered back onto the cart and urged the horse on. Theresa followed his lead, and dispensing with any prayers of thanks, she set about her food, washing it down with a gulp of wine that tasted of heaven.

Before long they were traveling over a strip of woodland surrounded by a quagmire. Althar’s countenance changed, and he seemed more cautious. Any noise that they heard would make him give a start. He glanced around continuously, and every now and again he stopped the cart to stand up and scan the surroundings. There were moments when he thought Satan was sniffing danger. The hound was no longer straying very far from the cart. With his ears pricked and tail extended, he followed his master’s movements closely.

They must have gone a hundred paces when the dog began to bark. Althar stopped the cart dead, clambered down and walked on ahead. With a worried expression he ordered Theresa to be silent, his hand slowly moving to his scramasax. Then, without a word, he straightened and disappeared into the undergrowth, leaving Theresa in the cart in the middle of the road.

Theresa’s nerves started to get the better of her. She tried to stand on tiptoes to see farther than her stature permitted, but the sores on her feet prevented her. She didn’t know why, exactly, but in her bones she felt that something terrible was about to happen.

A few moments later Althar reappeared looking shaken. “Come with me. Quickly.”

Theresa jumped down from the cart and followed him into the vegetation. The trapper walked bent over like a cat stalking its prey, while the young woman floundered behind him, dodging the branches that he pushed aside. They progressed with difficulty through the dead leaves and mud from the recent rains. In some places the undergrowth was so thick that all Theresa could see was Althar’s behind, a hand’s width from her face.

Suddenly he turned his head to signal that she should be silent, and slowly he moved aside to reveal a scene of death and devastation. Two blood-soaked bodies lay on top of one another in a macabre embrace, half-hidden under a mantle of slime. A few paces ahead, half-submerged in a ditch, the mutilated corpse of a third man could be made out.

“This one’s no Saxon,” said Althar, nudging one of the men with his foot.

Theresa didn’t respond. Despite the mud, she recognized those clothes. She had seen them in the Larssons’ cabin. With her heart in her throat, she approached the grotesquely conjoined bodies. Slowly she pulled away the one on top and suddenly her vision clouded over and she would have fallen to the ground if Althar hadn’t held her up. The body lying under that shroud of blood was none other than Hoos Larsson, the young man who had a few days prior saved her life.