Eifelheim

In the morning, Heloïse Krenkerin flew over the Lower Wood and reported a pair of women living under a lean-to on the far end of the fields there. They had a small campfire and ran into the woods on catching sight of Heloïse. A third must have been hiding there, as well, for someone loosed a bolt when she swooped down for a closer look. At best, no more than a handful lived; unless others had fled to St. Peter or Bear Valley.

The Herr heard this report in his high seat and fingered an old scar on the back of his right hand. Dietrich studied his councilors, who sat along the black oak table in the manor hall. Eugen, pale and wide-eyed on his right; Thierry, who had ridden from Hinterwaldkopf on another matter and who sat now grim-visaged by his liege’s left; Everard, cheeks flushed and eyes dully glazed; Klaus, anxious and unable to hold himself still; Richart, his law-books useless in this matter, casting his attention here and there as others spoke. Dietrich and Father Rudolf represented the ghostly arm, and Hans spoke for the eight Krenken.

“Wiped out?” Manfred said at last. “Half my living gone, and we heard nought until now?”

Everard spoke low, though not so low as to go unheard. “When a man’s family dies, your living seem less weighty.” A rebuke from one so obsequious as Everard drew startled glances. The steward gave off a sharp, pungeant odor that Dietrich could not name. Drunk, Dietrich decided from the reddened cheeks, the slurred voice, the glazed look.

“Heloïse saw a body on the trail,” Max continued his report. “Perhaps they sent a man to notify you but he died on the way.”

“As well he did not succeed,” said Thierry, whose fists were stones on the table.

“Praying mine Herr’s grace,” Klaus said, “but my wife’s father says it was no more than three days from the first death to his flight.”

Manfred frowned. “I have not forgotten, maier, that you broke my curfew.”

“My wife bid him welcome…” He straightened. “Would you turn away your own father?”

Manfred leaned forward over the table, and spoke in measured tones, “In. An. Eye-blink.”

“But… He was amongst us before anyone knew he had come.”

“Beside which,” the schultheiss said, glad for something covered by law and custom, “those of each village have the right to visit the other.”

Manfred gave his lawman an astonished look. “There stands a time for rights,” he said, “and a time for what is needful. I gave orders that no one might enter this village.”

Richart was scandalized; Klaus genuinely puzzled. “But… But, this was only Odo!”

Manfred rubbed his face. “No one, maier. He may have brought with him the pest.”

“Mine Herr,” said Hans, “I am no scholar of these things, but the speed of the pest argues that the small lives quickly devour their… We would say ‘host,’ though the guest is unwelcomed. These small lives act so quickly that, did Odo carry them, he must show already the signs; and he does not.”

Manfred grunted and his bearing was yet skeptical.

Everard giggled and spoke to Klaus. “You are a fool, miller, and your wife rides you. And anyone else she can mount.”

Klaus darkened and rose from his seat, but Eugen raised a hand. “Not at mine Herr’s table!”

Manfred, for his part, snapped, “Steward, remove yourself!” When the man did not move, he cried, “Now!” and Thierry rose with a hand on his sword-hilt.

But Father Rudolf spoke in a querulous voice, “No, no, this will not do. This will not do. We mustn’t fight one another. We are not the enemy.” And he took Everard by the elbow and helped him to his feet. Everard squinted at the assembly as if only now seeing them. Rudolf guided him toward the door and he staggered out, blundering first into the doorpost. Max closed the door behind him. “He stinks,” the sergeant said.

“He is afraid,” Dietrich answered, “and drunk because he is afraid.”

Manfred’s eye was hard. “I will brook no excuses! Max?”

“There were fresh graves in the churchyard down there,” the sergeant continued, “but also bodies lying about — in the green, in the fields, one man dead even at the plough.”

“Unburied, you say?” Dietrich cried. Had it come upon them that suddenly?

A finger jutted from Manfred’s fist. “No, pastor! You will not go down there.”

“To bury the dead is one of the commands that the lord fastened upon us.” A great ball of ice had formed within Dietrich as he thought about what awaited there.

“If you go down the mountain,” Manfred told him, “I can not permit your return. The living here need your care.”

Dietrich formed an objection, but Hans interrupted, “It will by us go easier.”

“Then you, too, must be barred from returning,” Manfred said to the Krenk.

Hans worked his lips in a brief krenkish smile. “Mine Herr, my companions and I are forever barred from ‘returning.’ What is one lesser exile within a geater? But, the small lives that devour your folk would likely not attack mine. The… How do you say it when kinds change?”

“Evolutium,” suggested Dietrich. “An unfolding of potential into actual. An ‘out-rolling’ toward an end.”

“No, that is not the right term… But what it means, mine Herr, is that your small lives know not our bodies, and would lack the… the key to enter our flesh.”

Manfred pursed his lips. “Very well, then. Hans, you may bury the dead at Niederhochwald. Take only Krenken with you. When you return, wait at your former lazaretto in the woods for signs of the pest. If no signs appear in… in…” He cast about for some interval that might provide protection. “In three days’ time, you may return to the village. Meanwhile, no one may enter this manor.”

“And what of my wife’s father?” Klaus insisted.

“He must go. It sounds harsh, miller, but it must be. We must look to ourselves.”

Everard lay face down in the path near the curial gate. Klaus laughed, “The sot had puked his guts out.”

The sun was high but the breeze off the Katerinaberg carried with it enough chill to mitigate the heat. The roses had come into their time and their sharp tendrils had entwined themselves around the trellises of the Herr’s garden. But the earth here by the gate had been scuffed bare by countless obedient feet, and the yellows of the butterheads emerged more miraculaously from the barren ground.

Amidst the color, Everad twitched.

“He’ll be sore when he sobers up,” Max observcd, “thrashing on the ground like that.”

“He may choke on his vomit,” said Dietrich. “Come, let us carry him to his wife.” Dietrich strode ahead and knelt by the steward.

“He seems comfortable where he is,” said Max. Klaus laughed.

The vomit beside the path was black and loathsome, and Everard himself exuded a repellant odor. His breath wheezed like a bagpipe; and his cheeks, when Dietrich touched them, were hot. The steward twitched at the gentle touch and cried out.

Dietrich stood abruptly, taking two steps back.

He collided with the miller, who had come forward crying, “Awake, drunkard!” The steward and the maier had been rivals and partners for many years and bore each other that mix of friendly contempt that such associations often engendered.

“What is it?” the sergeant called to Dietrich.

“The pest,” Dietrich told him.

Max closed his eyes. “Herr God in heaven!”

Dietrich said, “We should carry him to his cottage.” But he made no move. Klaus, hugging himself, turned away. Max returned to the manor house, saying, “The Herr must know.”

Hans Krenk shouldered them aside. “Heloïse and I will carry him.” The pagan Krenkerin, who had been resting nearby from her flight, joined him.