Eifelheim - Michael Flynn [185]
“He is mad,” said Yrmegard, edging closer to the bed. Witold ran weeping from the cottage.
“He is conscious,” said Dietrich, “and he is speaking. That is miracle enough. Why ask for reasoned discourse?”
He tried to feed Everard some water, but it dribbled down his chin due to the unruly tongue. He coughed and groaned, but this seemed a better thing than the vomiting and shrieks of the previous day. It is passing, he thought in relief.
FROM CASTLE hill, Dietrich took the back trail to the meadow bordering the millstream. There he found Gregor and Theresia sitting on the bank, throwing pebbles into the pond. He halted before they had seen him, and he heard, above the waters rushing onto the mill wheel, the bells of Theresia’s laughter. Then someone put the camshaft into its gear and the great paddle wheel began to groan and turn.
There had been a time when the sound of it had delighted Dietrich. It was the sound of labor lifted from the shoulders of men. But there was something in it this day of complaint. Klaus came forth from the mill to watch the wheel turn and judge the current and the drop. Satisfied, he turned and, spying Dietrich, called a greeting. Gregor and Theresia turned also and Dietrich, being thus discovered, approached them.
“You have my blessing,” he told Gregor before the mason could speak. He placed his left hand in turn on the brow of each, sketching the cross with his right as he did so. The touch served double duty: he detected no sign of fever in either, but he did not speak of that. “She is a good woman,” he told Gregor, “and pious when her terrors permit, and her skills in the healing arts are truly a gift from God. On her terrors, do not press her, for she wants comfort and not inquisition.” He turned to Theresia, who had began to weep. “Listen to Gregor, daughter mine. He is a wiser man than he believes.”
“I don’t understand,” Theresia said, and Dietrich knelt before her.
“He is wise enough to love you. If you understand nothing beside that, it would suffice an Aristotle.”
Gregor walked with him a space toward the mill. “You changed your mind.”
“I never opposed it. Gregor, you had right. Each day may be our last and, whether our time be long or short, the smallest happiness added to it is worth its while.”
At the mill, Klaus dusted his hands with a rag while the mason and the herb woman walked off together. “So?” he asked. “Does Gregor get what he wants?”
Dietrich said, “He gets what he asked for. Pray God they are the same.”
Klaus shook his head. “You are too clever sometimes. Does she know what he wants to do with her? I mean, down there. She is a simple woman.”
“You are grinding wheat today?”
Klaus shrugged. “The pest may kill us all, but there is no reason to starve while we wait.”
THAT WAS the third day’s grace.
XXIV
JULY, 1349
At Primes, The Commemoration of St. Hilarinus
THURSDAY DAWNED and the wind blew hot and from the west, hissing through the black spruce and stirring the half-grown wheat. The heavens faded into a blue so pale as to be alabaster. In the distance, toward the Breisgau, small, dark plumes rose, suggesting fires in the lowlands. The air twisted from the heat, conjuring half-seen, invisible creatures to stalk the land.
Dietrich sat by Joachim’s cot and the young man turned his back so that Dietrich could anoint the welts. Dietrich dipped his fingers in the bowl he had prepared and smeared the ointment gently on the wounds. The Minorite shuddered at the touch. “You might have died,” Dietrich chided him.
“All men die,” Joachim answered. “What concern is it of yours?”
Dietrich set the bowl aside. “I have grown accustomed to having you about.”
As he rose, Joachim twisted to face him. “How goes it with the village?”
“It has been three days, with no further afflictions. Folk are telling one another that the pest has moved on. Many have returned to work.”
“Then my sacrifice has not been in vain.” Joachim closed his eyes and laid his head back. In moments, he