Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [15]
Seppl Bauer, straddling the roof beam of Ackermann’s cottage, dropped an empty bucket and Dietrich snatched it up.
Dietrich made his way through the rushes and cattails that bordered the millpond to the head of the bucket line, where he found Gregor and Lorenz knee-deep in the water, filling the buckets and handing them ashore. Gregor paused and wiped an arm across his brow, leaving a muddy streak. Dietrich handed him the empty bucket. The mason filled it and gave it back. Dietrich passed it on to the next man as the line made space for him.
Gregor whispered softly as he drew another bucket through the water, “This is no natural fire.” Beside him, Lorenz showed with a glance that he had heard; but the smith kept his peace.
Others nearby also cast furtive glances in his direction. Sacred priest, annointed with holy oil. He would know the answers. Call down anathemas on the flames! Wave a shinbone of St. Catherine at them! For an instant Dietrich was angry, and longed for the cool, scholastic rationalism of Paris. “Why do you say that, Gregor?” he said mildly.
“I have never seen such things in my life.”
“Have you ever seen a Turk?”
“No …”
“Are Turks then supernatural?”
Gregor scowled, sensing a flaw in the argument but unable to root it out. Dietrich passed his bucket along, then turned back to Gregor, hands outstretched and waiting. “I can create a smaller version of the same lightning with only cat’s fur and amber,” he told him, and the mason grunted, not understanding the explanation, but taking comfort in an explanation’s existence.
Dietrich fell into the swaying rhythm of the work. The buckets were heavy and the rope handles rubbed his palms raw, but the fear of the morning’s occult events was smothered under the natural fear of fire and the homely, urgent task of fighting it. The wind turned and he coughed as the smoke momentarily enveloped him.
An endless procession of buckets passed through his hands, and he began to imagine himself as a cog in a complex water pump comprised of human muscle. Yet artisans could free men of such mind-numbing labor. There were cams, and the new-fangled cranks. If mills could be driven by waterwheels and wind, why not a bucket line? If only one could …
“The fires are out, pastor.”
“What?”
“The fires are out,” said Gregor.
“Oh.” Dietrich shook himself from his trance. Up and down the line, men and women sank to their knees. Lorenz Schmidt raised the last bucket and poured the water over his head.
“What damage?” Dietrich asked. He sank to his haunches in the reeds along the millpond’s edge, too tired to climb up the embankment and see for himself.
The mason’s height gave him an advantage. He shaded his eyes against the sun and studied the scene. “The huts are lost,” he said. “Bauer’s roof will want replacement. Ackermann has lost his house entirely. The two Feldmanns, as well. I count … five dwellings destroyed, perhaps twice that many damaged. And outbuildings, as well.”
“Were any hurt?”
“A few burns, so far as I can see,” said Gregor. Then he laughed. “And young Seppl has scorched the seat from his trousers.”
“Then we have much to be thankful for.” Dietrich closed his eyes and crossed himself. O God, who suffers not that any who hope in Thee should be overmuch afflicted, but listens kindly to their prayers, we thank Thee for having heard our requests and granted our desires. Amen.
When he opened his eyes, he saw that everyone had gathered at the pond. Some were wading in the water, and the younger children—not comprehending the close brush with disaster—had seized the opportunity to go swimming.
“I have a thought, Gregor.” Dietrich