Eifelheim

Dietrich said, “She told me that the Krenken play a game of position and maneuver among themselves. I think she is bored, and this is a way of relieving her tedium. A curious folk.”

“A patient folk,” Max answered. “God might’ve created them for ambush work or sentry-go; but for intrigue, the dullest Italian could rob them blind.”

Shepherd seemed affronted when Manfred rejected her assumption of power and instead set guards over Baron Grosswald. Dietrich was unsure how great an obstacle they would have proven had Shepherd pressed her coup to the limit, but the Krenken seemed disinclined to anger their host. Most of the pilgrims and one of the Kratzer’s philosophers declared their fealty to Shepherd, who settled in the end for secession.

Gschert accustomed himself to the role of “Herr of the Krenken,” and he “beat the kettledrum,” as folk said, even though the secession, first of Hans and his companions and then of Shepherd and her pilgrims, greatly reduced his besitting. Most of the ship’s crew remained loyal to him, and perhaps he had convinced himself that this was indeed the rightful and customary bound to his authority. He was seen betimes standing rock-hard on the castle parapet, gazing out across the world with those great yellow eyes and thinking no one knew what. Dietrich never did pierce the consciousness of that cruel and haughty lord.

May blossomed from April’s bounty, and wildflowers speckled the meadows and high woods. The rich odor of rising sap and the fragrance of honey-clover anointed the air. Diligent bees flitted among the blossoms, griping bears newly roused. But in the age-old honey-struggle between bear and bee, it was men who held the balance, for they hunted the one and farmed the other.

On Walpurgisnacht, bonfires lit the hilltops to frighten witches from their covens. As custom required, Manfred spent the day playing with the villagers’ illegitimate children; while those selfsame peasants danced around festooned poles and leapt through fires and ensured a plentiful supply of such children for future years.

Dietrich and Hans sat on the church green, overlooking the celebration. “It is said that the ancient red-haired race who once held these lands lit such fires to mark the middle of the springtime.”

“The folk you call pagans,” Hans said.

“One sort of pagan. The Romans had outgrown such frivolities, one reason why their empire fell. It was much too serious to last.”

“Then the Christians took these customs from the pagans.”

Dietrich shook his head. “No, the pagans became the Christians and merely kept their own ways when they did. So, like the Romans, we give gifts during Christmastide and, like the Germans, we decorate trees on festive occasions.”

“And like the red-haired race, you light bonfires and dance around poles.” Hans parted his lips. “Underseeking your customs was the Kratzer’s great work, and I have the sentence in my head that this example will please him. Perhaps…” He stiffened for just a moment. “Perhaps I will visit him.”

Below, among the celebrants, the philosopher plied his fotografik device.

On Rogation Sunday, Hans and the other enfoeffed Krenken joined the villagers in the a

But Dietrich remembered when the child Theresia skipped with that same aspergum clenched in her fist; and Lorenz the smith had carried the pail and held the cape. Had Gottfried taken up Lorenz’s old duty as he had taken Lorenz’s name? Now Theresia lingered fearful in the procession’s rear.

Manfred escorted them astride a white palfrey whose mane had been braided and perfumed and inset with fresh violets. With him were Eugen and Kunigund and — on a small white pony — little Irmgard, done up in a lace girdle to mark her chastity and with unbound hair flowing to her waist. Kunigund, being now wed, enclosed her hair with a wimple. Everard strode with his wife Yrmegard and his son Witold a few paces behind the Herr’s party. “He’s no more noble for traipsing in his lord’s muck,” Klaus whispered to his wife, loudly enough that Yrmegard scowled and gripped her husband’s arm.

Dietrich had earlier explained to Hans that this was a ceremony only for the familia; which was why Joachim, like the soldiers in the Burg, had remained behind. Nevertheless, the Kratzer and a few krenkish pilgrims followed with their fotografik devices.

The ground was yet sodden from the previous week’s rains, and soon were hose and shoes spattered and Manfred’s horse mud-stained to her hocks. Whenever they came to a boundary marker, Richart Schultheiss would point it out and parents would toss their children in this stream or bump their head against that tree, to general laughter and repeated demands to “do it again!”

“A curious custom,” Hans said as they progressed. “Yet it touches. One ca

After stopping for a midday meal, and a visit by the curious to the krenkish vessel, the villagers emerged on the east side of the Great Woods, where the ground dropped sharply toward the Bear Valley road. Manfred had reined in on a spur of rock to essay the descent when he suddenly held a palm up. “Quiet!” The chatter of the peasants gave way to louder cries of “Silence, there!” and “The Herr wants silence!”

Finally, there was the sound only of soft breezes and rustling branches from the woods behind them. Everard began to make some remark, but the Herr hushed him with a gesture.

Faintly, they heard it: the tocsin of a distant bell.

It was a single note, tolling slowly, borne half-heard like a leaf on the blustery winds. “Angelus already?” someone asked.

“No, the sun is yet too high.”

“Too deep for St. Catherine’s peal. Is it St. Peter’s?”

“St. Wilhelm, I think.”

“No, St. Wilhelm tolls three bells.”

Then the wind shifted and the faint ringing died. Manfred listened further, but the sound did not repeat itself. “Whose bell was that?” he asked Dietrich.

“Mine Herr, I did not recognize it. St. Blasien owns a bass bell called the Paternoster, but this was higher-pitched. I think it was more distant than those we usually hear, and some freak of wind brought it to our ears.”

Manfred scowled toward the Swiss, the direction from which the ringing had seemed to come. “Basel, perhaps?”

Hans cried, “Smoke! And five riders.”

Everard leapt atop a protruding boulder and shaded his eyes. “The monster has right. Altenbach’s steading burns! A dust cloud moves off toward the northeast. That five riders are under it,” he added as he dropped off the stone, “I will take the word of the bug-eye.”

Manfred ordered his serfs across the valley to help put out the fire. Hans called the other baptized Krenken to his side. After a deal of pointing and clacking, he and Beatke leapt toward Altenbach’s steading, while Gottfried and another hopped into the woods, toward the wrecked ship. The fifth stood irresolute.

“How can they leap so far?” Klaus wondered, for this was the first time he had seen the Krenken in open country. “Do they wear seven-league boots?”