Trojan Gold - Elizabeth Peters [89]
Friedl simpered. “You are very kind to say so, Herr Professor.”
“But it is true. A little more brandy?”
He caught my disapproving eye and winked openly. His hand was still on Friedl’s shoulder, squeezing and squirming in Dieteresque fashion. Friedl didn’t object. She giggled and nodded.
“Humph!” said Schmidt, staring.
He wasn’t the only one to find their behavior unbecoming. Elise said loudly, “We should leave if we want seats for the performance.”
“There is plenty of time,” Dieter said easily. “The seats are only for the town dignitaries; the rest of us commoners will mill around in a friendly confusion.”
He handed Friedl her glass. Reaching for it, she was a little too eager—or perhaps her hand was a little too unsteady. Only a few drops of the liquid spilled, but one of Friedl’s fake fingernails popped off and flew across the table, landing with a splash in Schmidt’s coffee. His expression of disgust as he stared at his cup would have been funny if the whole performance had not been so repellent.
The incident put Schmidt off his food, and shortly thereafter, we left. Friedl tried to keep her hand out of sight, but I caught a glimpse of the denuded finger. The nail was bitten to the quick.
After the overheated, stale confines of the restaurant, the night air felt like wine. Clouds hid the winter stars, but the Marktplatz was as brilliant as a stage, and the dark slopes of the Hexenhut twinkled with lights like a giant Christmas tree. Even Elise forgot her ill humor. “Oh, look,” she cried, “what is it?”
“Torches,” Tony said. “The young men carry them in procession through the forest and end up on top of the mountain where there is a huge bonfire.”
“It is in essence a pagan festival,” Jan explained. “The old pre-Christian commemoration of the winter solstice. On the longest night of the year, the fires were lit to welcome the returning Sun, who was the god of these heathens. The demons of darkness are most dangerous at this time, you understand, so the ignorant villagers make loud noises to frighten them away. No doubt there was once a pagan sanctuary on that very hill; the name Witches’ Hat—”
“We’ve all studied folklore, Jan,” I said.
“Yes, don’t lecture to us,” Dieter added. “This is supposed to be fun. Come, let us find a good place. Where does the parade go?”
“Down from the mountain, I think,” Tony said. “It ends up at the church.”
From pushcarts and stalls draped in greenery, people were buying trinkets and refreshments—mundane modern offerings like cotton candy and popcorn along with fragrant, freshly baked gingerbread and twisted canes of red-and-white sugar. Schmidt bought an enormous candy cane and a pocketful of gingerbread, which he munched as we made our way through the crowd. People filled the Marktplatz and the surrounding streets, whose steep slopes made an informal viewing stand. It was a cheerful, well-mannered crowd, but beer was flowing freely and I suspected there would be a few fights before the night was over. Ropes strung from wooden horses outlined a path through the Marktplatz and around the fountain; it ended, as Tony had said, at the church.
Christian theology had converted the spirits of forest and field into demons, to be expelled and exorcised. The hunters on the hillsides would drive them from their refuge and into the church, where the priest would cast them into outer darkness. Poor little harmless nymphs and satyrs, stumbling and squealing as they fled the hunters, cowering under the ceremonial lash of the priestly voice. Since the ceremony had to be repeated every year, one might reasonably assume that the demons weren’t annihilated, only temporarily inconvenienced. I was glad of that.
I realized I had taken a little too much to drink. Contrary to popular belief, fresh air doesn’t clear one’s head; in fact, it concentrates