Theresa tried to scream, but she was unable to with his hand still covering her mouth.
The figure before her seemed more like a creature from Hell than a human. The old man’s face was mouse-bitten and devoured by rot. His thin hair revealed several bald patches dotted with wounds and grime, and his menacing gray eyes seemed to stare right through her. Her gaze fell on the fangs of the dog that accompanied him.
“Don’t worry, lass, Satan only bites people who ask for it. You alone?”
“Yes,” she stammered, immediately regretting her response.
“What were you searching that dead man for?”
“Nothing.” She bit her tongue at such a stupid answer.
“Nothing, eh? Well! Get those shoes off and throw them over there,” he ordered. “What’s your name?”
“Theresa,” she answered, following his instructions.
“Good. Give me that,” he said, pointing at the bag she had on her shoulder. “May I know what you’re doing here?”
Theresa did not respond.
The man opened her bag and inspected its contents. “And this dagger?”
It was the knife she had stolen from Hoos Larsson. “Give it back.” Theresa snatched it from him and stuffed it in her dress.
The man didn’t protest, but continued to rummage.
“What’s this?” he asked. He had already pulled out the stylus and wax tablets.
“What?”
“Don’t play the fool. This parchment that you were hiding in a secret compartment.”
Theresa was surprised. She imagined that her father, for some reason, had hidden it there.
“A poem by Virgil. I always keep it protected so it doesn’t get dirty,” she improvised.
“Poems,” he muttered as he returned the parchment to her. “What sentimentality! Now pay attention,” he continued. “This place is crawling with bandits, so I don’t care what you do, where you come from, whether you’re alone or what you were searching that body for, but I warn you: If you try to scream or do anything silly, Satan will tear your throat open before you know what’s happening. Got it?”
Theresa nodded. She would’ve tried to escape, but without shoes it would’ve been stupid. She presumed that was why he had told her to remove them. She took a few steps back and examined the old man. He wore a threadbare cloak tied around his waist, revealing long, bony legs. When he had finished rummaging through her bag, he bent down and picked up a stick with a bell hanging from one end. Theresa looked at his wounds more closely and realized he was a leper.
With this realization, she didn’t give it a second thought. As soon as the old man glanced elsewhere, she turned and ran, but before she could even take a few steps, she lost her footing and slipped. No sooner had she hit the ground, she felt the dog’s breath on her back. She waited, stock-still, for its fatal blow, but the animal didn’t move. The man approached and held out a scab-covered hand toward her. Theresa moved away.
“You’re frightened by my sores?” he laughed. “So are the bandits. Come on, get up. It’s just dye.”
Theresa examined the ulcers, which close-up looked like blotches, yet even so, she did not trust the man. Noticing this, the man rubbed his hands and the wounds disappeared.
“See? I’m not lying. Come now: Sit there and stay still.” He gave her back her bag. “You won’t get far with what you have in there.”
“You’re not a leper?” she stammered.
“Of course not,” he laughed. “But it’s a disguise that has saved my skin more than once. Watch carefully.”
The man took a fistful of sand from the river, draining the water from it. He then took out a flask of dark dye and poured it on the sand, making a uniform mixture. He added another substance and applied the poultice to his arms.
“I mix it with a paste of flour and water so that it sticks to me when it dries. The bandits fear a leper more than any army.” He glanced at the dead man. “Except this one,” he said nodding at him. “The bastard tried to steal my furs. Now he can try to thieve from the Devil. So… since when have you been robbing corpses?”
As Theresa was about to answer, the old man bent down and—ignoring the crayfish—he searched the body. He found a bag tied inside some sort of sash. He smiled upon seeing its contents and stashed the bag in his clothes. Next he pulled necklaces with strange, dark stones off the man’s throat. Then he picked up the scramasax, sheathed it next to his own, and, finally, turned over the dead body. Finding nothing else of interest, he left it lying among the pebbles.
“Well, he won’t be needing it anymore. And now, are you going to tell me what you’re doing here?”
“You killed him?”
“Not me. It was this,” he said, touching his knife. “I suppose he had been watching me for some time. He must have been an imbecile because instead of dispatching me he went straight for the furs.”
“Furs?”
“The ones I have back there, in the cart,” he said, pointing.
Theresa turned to where the old man indicated and the sight of it cheered her: If there was a cart, there had to be a road.
“A wheel’s broken and I’m going to see if I can repair it. But you should get away from here. I doubt this man was traveling alone.”
He gave Theresa back her shoes. Then he turned and walked off toward the woods.
“Wait,” said Theresa, pulling her shoes on and running after him. “Are you going to Fulda?”
“I have little reason to visit that city of priests.”
“But, do you know the way?”
“Of course. As well as the bandits.”
Theresa didn’t know what to say. She followed him to the cart, observing his walk: He had the gait of a younger man. Then she saw his teeth, which though large and crooked, were gapless and extraordinarily white. She thought he might be her father’s age. He bent down near the split wheel and started to work on it. Then he stopped and looked at Theresa.
“You haven’t answered me. What were you searching for on the body?” Then before she could respond he looked down at himself. “Damnation! Look what you’ve done to my arm,” he said as he cleaned the scratches from Theresa’s fingernails. “Did you think the Devil was coming to get you?”
“I was on my way to Fulda.” She cleared her throat. “I saw a dead man and I thought he might have a steel. I lost mine when I crossed the lake.”
“Crossed the lake you say? Let’s see… pass me that mallet. So you came from Erfurt?”
“That’s right,” she lied, handing him the tool.
“Then you must know the Petersohns. They run the bakery just a few buildings down from the cathedral.”
“Of course,” she fibbed again.
“How are they? I haven’t seen them since summer.”
“They’re well… as far as I know. My parents live some way from the town.”
“Is that right?” he said, grimacing. He hit the wedge hard and the wheel came away from its axle.