She waited a moment before taking another deep breath and letting herself sink into the depths of the pool. For a blink of an eye she disappeared underwater, but she quickly emerged with her head veiled in grease. Spitting, she wiped the filth from her face. Then she plunged further into the center of the bath, pushing away the floating detritus. The lime stung her skin under her clothes and the ice numbed her bones. Under her bare feet she could feel a bed of slime. And she groped the surface like a blind woman looking for a rail to cling to. But she kept going, feeling her way forward as the water lapped against her chin.
Suddenly she bumped into something under the water, and her heart missed a beat. When she managed to calm herself down, she felt the object with her foot to try to identify it. For a moment she thought about giving up, but she remembered her father and everyone who had believed in her. She filled her lungs with air and submerged herself into the water. The cold made her temples throb as her hands touched the object. Its sticky feel made her retch, but she suppressed her revulsion and continued to run her hands over the thing until she found a string of beads that felt like little shingles. She felt along the line and after a moment of uncertainty, she realized with horror she was grasping a row of teeth. She almost opened her eyes in fright and would have been blinded forever by the lime, but she kept control of herself. She let go of the jawbone and went up for air, gasping, her face flushed red as the Devil’s. As she coughed and spluttered, vomiting water, the remains of a putrid and deformed cow’s head bobbed up in front of her.
The laborers immediately came to the edge of the pool to taunt the young woman. One offered her his hand, but as Theresa grasped it, he let go, making her fall back into the water. At that moment, the parchment-maker’s wife appeared in the courtyard. She had witnessed the scene and come with dry clothes. The woman pushed past the laborers and pulled Theresa—who was quivering like a puppy—out of the pool. She covered her with a blanket and took her into her home, but as they were about to go through the door they heard Korne say, “She can get changed and get back to work.”
When Theresa returned to the workshop, she found the wrinkled remains of the cowhide on her bench. She spread it out with the help of a wooden trowel and then removed the excess water. After examining the skin, she deduced that the animal must have been flayed that very week, since the lime had barely begun to dislodge the hair, and scraps of meat and fat were stuck to the inside. The cow must have been devoured by wolves, because the skin had many bite marks. Aside from that, there were signs of the abscesses and blemishes typical of older beasts. She wouldn’t even throw that skin to the rats, she thought.
“You want to be a parchment-maker, do you not? Well, there’s your test,” Korne smirked from the doorway. “Prepare the parchment that you are so keen for Wilfred to see.”
Though she knew what he asked was impossible, Theresa did not protest. Rendering and cleaning an animal skin required several days of work with time to rest in between so the caustics and washing could take effect. Still, she was not about to give up. With a stiff brush, she scrubbed the skin to remove the remnants of meat that the worms had not managed to devour. When she finished with the flesh side of the skin, she turned her attention to the hair side. She brushed and scraped the hair energetically. Then she wrung out the leather and spread it over the bench to better see the areas that still had hair. Finally, she looked around for the box that contained the broom bundle used to apply the acid—but she was surprised to find it had disappeared.
Korne observed the whole process, a smile appearing on his lips from time to time. Occasionally he would turn away, as though he had more important things to do, but he would soon return to check the young woman’s progress. Theresa did her best to ignore him. She assumed that the broom’s disappearance was no coincidence, so she did not bother searching for it. Instead she scooped up a trowelful of ash, mixed it with some dung that the mules had deposited at the entrance, and applied the resulting paste to the pores in the skin. Then, with the help of a blunt, curved knife, she continued to work on the thick hair until she achieved the desired result.
Then she stretched the skin over a frame to form a gigantic tambourine—a delicate step, for she ran the risk of tearing the leather at its most damaged points. She skillfully positioned some pebbles around the skin and wrapped them in pinches of the leather to form little sacks resembling thick teats, which she fastened with some cord. Then she attached the leather to the frame and stretched it using the cords coming from the teats. When she saw that the tears on the skin were holding, she sighed with relief. Now all she had to do was dry the skin by the fire and wait for it to tighten before scraping it. She moved the frame over to the fire blazing in the center of the workshop. Not only was it the warmest part of the room, it was also the brightest, so the benches where the most valuable codices were repaired were located there.
As she waited for the moisture to exude from the taut leather, she warmed herself by the fire and wondered where the skin had come from. Cattle had been in short supply for some time, and as far as she knew, only Wilfred had a few animals, so Korne had probably obtained it from one of his intendants. And judging by its condition, he had done so with the sole intention of making her life difficult.
The parchment-maker came over to the fire. He ran his finger over the skin, which was oozing moisture. He turned to Theresa with a look of indifference.
“I can see you are applying yourself. You may yet get something out of it,” he said, pointing at the taut skin.
“I’m doing my best, sir,” she responded.
“And this pig’s ear is the best you can do?” Korne sneered as he drew his knife and waved it at the skin. “Have you seen these marks? The skin will break here.”
Theresa knew that would not happen. She had checked the tears and tightened the cords in a way that would prevent breakage.
“That won’t happen,” she retorted.
Korne seemed barely able to contain his rage. Very slowly, he passed the point of his knife over the taut leather, like someone sliding a dagger over the throat of his victim. The blade scraped against the skin, roughening it ever so slightly. Theresa watched, aghast, as the blade’s point stopped near a mark Korne had indicated earlier. With flashing eyes and his mouth opened enough to show his bare gums, Korne started to press the point into the surface.
“No!” Theresa implored.
At that moment, Korne sunk the knife into the skin, making it tear into a thousand pieces that flew over their heads and floated down like dead leaves onto the fire.
“Oh, dear!” Korne said. “It would seem that you did not calculate the required tension for the skin, which regrettably reverts you to your miserable life as an apprentice.”
Theresa clenched her fists, her face contorting with anger. She had endured cold and humiliation. She had tended to that unusable skin and made it into something acceptable. She had put her heart and soul into preparing for the test. And now, for the sole reason that she was a woman, Korne was condemning her forever.