Demuth

DEMUTH

The journey of a medieval woman and her dog

by Edward Bristol

Copyright 2012 Edward Bristol

All rights reserved.

Cover design by Patrycja Ignaczak

For Chizuko and Maria, all women with a passion for dogs.

September 1499, Solingen, Germany

Lives End

Outside, Hal, the Viking dog, growled a warning.

Inside, Demuth snuggled closer to her stuffed horse and deeper into her feather bed.

The dog growled again, now more urgent: a stranger approached their house. Probably a woman, thought Demuth. Hal used a more threatening tone for men.

She moaned. It was far too early for regular customers.

The wooden porch creaked under Hal’s weight as he rose from his boar skin and jumped off into the garden.

Hello? Hello! A young woman's voice, first weak, then fearful: Help! The dog!

With a sigh, Demuth leaped from her bed. Hal would never hurt anybody, but his size and his eyes might easily scare someone to death.

One moment! she called as loud as her sleepy voice allowed. I am coming.

She swiped a few curls from her face and opened the door, shivering, cool air creeping under her nightgown.

Fog had filled the valley. In the first light of dawn, a woman stood on the path along the medicine garden, her posture twisted and bent, her fists clutched over her belly. A few paces away stood Hal, white markings shining on black fur, barring the woman's way with stiff legs, raised shoulders, and folded ears. The dog turned, awaiting his mistress’s order, one eye amber colored and one ice blue.

Hal! Demuth called softly. Come here.

Hal relaxed his posture and returned to the porch in a few bouncy strides. He wagged his tail, smiled what Demuth knew was a smile—a slight lifting of his upper lips—followed by his good morning tune, sounding like awoe-awoe.

The dog got a brief pat from Demuth and then, his job done, he sat on the boar skin and refocused his attention on the little path that led up to their house.

Demuth looked around, blue eyes wide to penetrate the fog. All was quiet in her little valley; the creek murmured; birds greeted the coming day; her Master’s castle rose dark over the mountain.

This girl must have come alone. She hadn’t moved but stood hunched over, just where Hal had left her, looking at Demuth with dark shadows under feverish eyes. Demuth thought her to be well under twenty, though pain and fear had now distorted her broad face beyond youth.

There was only one reason for a young girl to come alone at such an hour. And that reason was a dangerous one. The burning stake awaited those who got caught.

Come, come inside. Fear not. Demuth held out her hand. The sooner she got her visitor out of sight the better.

The girl made a few awkward steps and groaned, sweat pearling on her forehead. Demuth hurried to help.

Inside the house, she led the girl to an alcove and heaved her onto a long table. The girl hissed in pain as she stretched on the old, stained wood. She made an effort to speak, but Demuth motioned her to stay quiet. The girl opened her hand, showing three silver groschen. Demuth took the coins and laid them aside.

She lit a massive oil lamp fixed to the wall above the table. The strong flame, reflected downward from a polished silver shade, bathed the alcove, the family’s operating theater for generations, in bright light.

Demuth looked into the girl’s eyes, felt her pulse, and then unbuttoned her skirt. The belly was hard and tense, pale yellowish and bloated. Four or five months in the making, Demuth thought. The veins on the girl’s hips stood out in a nasty blackish-blue, and a putrid smell filled the alcove.

The baby must have died weeks ago, but for a reason beyond Demuth’s knowledge, it had not been expelled. Now, it had to come out, or the girl would die.

I have to put you to sleep, said Demuth.

The girl agreed with a faint a nod.

Demuth stepped out of the alcove and took a lavender tin jar from the medicine shelf. She opened the jar, held it under her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled the sharp yet earthy scent. She stood lost, absentminded, then recollected herself and scooped three scrupulum from the dark brown paste, enough to put this innocent girl into oblivion.

She turned to the operating table. Open your mouth.

The girl held out her quivering tongue and Demuth emptied the pipette into the girl's mouth. Her eyes widened as she struggled with the bitter chunk of sticky substance. Demuth pulled the girl’s head up and gave her a sip of water. Brown saliva dribbled from the girl’s lips.

After a while, the girl nodded and showed her empty mouth.

Well done, said Demuth. Now, rest. The worst is over.

Demuth changed into her working robe, opened a hidden compartment in her desk, and brought out a heavy leather bundle. She opened the bundle and unfolded it onto the side table. The surgery set—knives, pliers, and scissors—had been made in Solingen for her great-grandfather, and had passed into her possession and responsibility. Her fingers wandered over the immaculate steel with its precise edges, the metal’s smooth glow defying nature.

When Demuth turned, the girl’s expression had softened, her features relaxed, revealing her youth, and even a hint of contentment.

Feeling better already, huh? Demuth smiled and stroked the girl’s feverish head.

A tear fell as the girl left her pained body.

Hours later, with gray shadows under her eyes and trembling hands, Demuth rolled the pieces of a tiny body into a linen cloth and tied it up with string. She laid the little bundle at the girl's feet and threw her bloodied apron into a bucket.

She opened the door and stepped into the fresh air of a late-summer morning. Hal jumped from his boar skin, pressed against her, and sang his hello song adding weeo at the end, indicating hunger.

Not yet, my friend. Demuth scratched his back but then pointed to the boar skin: Stay. Watch it some more.

Hal flapped his ears, sighed, and went back to his sentry.

Demuth returned into the house, laid fresh wood on the fire, soaked the surgery set in warm water, and then stood motionless. The sun had not yet risen over the mountains, but she already felt exhausted, her breasts hurting, her back sore. Demuth checked on the girl. She would sleep for another hour or two.

Yes, she decided with a smile, there was time for a well-deserved rest. She hadn’t eaten, but the scent of death that now clung to the house suppressed her usual appetite.

Once more, she took the tin jar from the shelf and sat in her grandfather's rocking chair. All was quiet. The fire was in good shape. Hal was guarding the house.

She opened the jar and measured one scrupulum into the pipette. Leaning against her stuffed horse, the bitter aroma filling her senses, she sighed in contentment and drifted off into soothing calm.

When Demuth opened her eyes, the girl was picking at the cord of the small bundle.

No! No! Demuth bolted from the chair.

The girl screamed and shrank back to the wall, clutching the bundle to her breast.

No?

No. Do not look!

Demuth gently took the bundle from the girl’s hands and laid it on the bench.

He was dead.

The girl stared. He?

Yes, it was a boy.

A boy... The girl’s eyes filled with tears.

Demuth sat on the bed and put one arm around the shivering girl. It is over now.

The girl nodded, touching her belly. I thought I was going to die.

"You were going to die. There was poisoning."

The girl buried her face in her hands, sobbed, and stuttered.

I jumped from the barn first, but I only sprained my ankle . . . then I tried cow bitter. My friend said cow bitter would do it. Three weeks ago. I was so sick.

Cow bitter—yak, nasty stuff. You are lucky to have survived.

Demuth patted her knee. The girl's eyes wandered to the little bundle on the bench.

What are you going to with . . . him?

"I am not going to do anything, said Demuth. You will bury him somewhere secret, deep in the forest, on your way home."

Me? The girl swallowed air. Can you not bury him here?

No. I do not want any graves in my garden.

Everybody knew witches used fetus blood for magic spells.

Before the girl could protest, Demuth asked: Do you know who the father is?

Of course! the girl said with an indignant glance at Demuth and leaned away from her embrace.

Demuth raised her eyebrows and stifled a grunt. Of course, of course! she thought. They always said that, even if they were not so sure. At times, she resented these silly girls. Could they not be more careful? But this was a pointless discussion of which Demuth had grown tired.

Does the father know that you are here? Demuth asked.

The girl shook her head and stared at her dirty feet.

Does he know of the child?

He only knows I was sick—often, lately—but I did not tell him why.

Does anybody else know?

No. I was so afraid.

Does anybody know you came to me?

No.

How about that friend with the cow bitter?

No. The girl squirmed under the inquisition.

Where does your family think you are?

I told them I was going to visit our aunt and stay overnight.

Does your aunt know?

No, Auntie is old; she can't remember her own name. No one knows. I told you!

The girl was again on the verge of tears.

Good. Keep it that way, Demuth said and laid her hand on the girl’s knee. This is not a matter for gossip, you know?

The girl nodded. She straightened her body carefully and tried to stand up but swayed.

Let me warm a soup for you. You need strength, Demuth said.

No, I cannot eat.

You cannot walk either. Not on an empty stomach anyway. You must stay until you have eaten. I have rabbit stew.

Sometimes Demuth snared a rabbit. It was forbidden—all game was the Duke’s, but he was rarely at his castle, and the Master was her friend. He would protect her even if she was caught poaching.

Demuth set a blackened pot over the fire, drew a cup of beer from a barrel in the corner, helped the girl to the table, and covered her with a blanket.

Soon the rich scent of stew filled the room. Hal pushed his head through the door and signaled his interest in sharing the meal, weeo.

He speaks! said the girl with childish delight.

Demuth nodded. He sings. She raised her hand and said to Hal: Out. Wait!

Hal pulled back with a grump.

When did you last eat? asked Demuth.

I cannot remember. Ever since I took the cow bitter, I have been ill.

Ah! Then this soup will work miracles. Everybody feels sick on an empty stomach.

Demuth soaked pieces of dry bread in the stew and threw them into a big bowl.

First the animals, she said and carried Hal’s meal out to the porch. The dog gave a quick awo and stuck his head into the bowl.

Next, Demuth filled a plate for the girl and only then did she fill one for herself. They ate in silence.

This is very good, said the girl after a while. Thank you! I feel much better already.

She was eager to leave, but Demuth ordered her to rest. They exchanged mundane chatter while Demuth worked in the house. When the sun broke over the hills, the girl was determined to start her homeward journey.

I will give you a little help for the walk. Demuth took the tin jar from the shelf. It will relieve the pain and give you strength.

She squeezed an eighth of a scrupulum onto a piece of bread.

Demuth handed her the little bundle.

The girl took it, albeit reluctantly. Demuth put one hand on her shoulder and gave her a hard look.

"Bury him in the forest. Do not mark the grave."

The girl tried to pull away, but Demuth held her back.

Do not speak to anybody about this. Ever.

Another nod.

Promise!

I promise, whispered the girl, and clutching the bundle to her chest, she escaped through the door.

Hal jumped up and patrolled her to the edge of the forest.

Demuth stood on her porch, biting her lip as the girl disappeared between the trees. The soothing calm of the morning’s papaver had already abandoned her. Always too soon, lately. Despite the mild sunshine, she felt cold and empty. Hal returned and broke her gloomy mood by pushing his wet nose under her skirt, touching the back of her knee. Demuth squeaked and giggled and turned to begin her day’s work. She scrubbed the alcove with vinegar and hot water, polished the surgery set until it shone, and returned it to the hidden compartment. She cleaned the hearth, brought in fresh firewood, and washed the pottery in the creek.

Though she could well afford help, she preferred to run her little household alone, without the complications that a servant would inevitably bring into her life. Ever since her brother’s death, she had insisted on living alone—an unusual arrangement for an unmarried women, raising many eyebrows in the village.

While she was preparing the Master’s ointment, the baker came to fetch his cough draft and wasted a precious hour with gossip and flattery until Demuth remarked that the Master was waiting for his daily massage. The man took the hint and finally left.

Demuth stepped into her brother's leather jacket, the work of a gifted artisan in Wuppertal, double-stitched deerskin on the outside, soft lamb hide on the inside, by far Demuth’s most valued possession. She never left the house without the jacket.

The heavy scent reminded her of Mef and filled her with warmth and love. After her brother's death five years ago, she had adjusted the jacket to her slender frame and had ordered a set of brass buttons to replace the traditional hooks that used to close the front. The buttons, a fashionable invention from the south, held tight and never came loose. Though comfortable as a bed and protective as armor, the jacket was strange attire for an unmarried woman; in fact, it was absolutely inappropriate. Any respectable mother would forbid her daughter to go out in such a manly garment, but Demuth, orphaned since birth, knew no such restrictions.

The villagers thought her eccentric—not outright crazy perhaps, but not normal either. However, she cared not. Her apothecary stood under the Master’s personal protection, and thus far, the slanderers and the pious had tolerated her singularities because they needed her.

What the villagers did not know of, and would never have tolerated, was the stiletto hidden inside her jacket’s left sleeve. Its hilt lay under the seam at her wrist, the tip reaching up to her elbow. Demuth pulled the blade from its sheath and checked its double-sided edges. Wrought from the