Who writes the story of the fire?
Let’s say a young woman is standing on a town wall, and she is armed. No, let’s not say “standing.” Let’s say she “steps from foot to foot on the spot in the cold.” That tells us about the weather too, and if someone is stepping from foot to foot on the spot, we get a sense of time passing. Let’s say, instead of “armed,” that she has “a crossbow in the crook of her arm.” That’s better. And ahead of her is the enemy in the uniform of the night. Uniform of the night!
Heroes need names. Let’s call her Anna.
Down at the foot of the wall, old Lutz says, “Anna, one thing troubles me in this hour. I have never spoken loving words and meant them.”
What? Yes, what’s that supposed to mean? No idea, it’s written like that. However, it does us good to hear the old man’s rough voice. He is drinking beer, perhaps leaning on a rusty halberd. But the girl says nothing. Such a crazy thing to say, and no reply? No, the enemy is advancing. “A movement,” calls Anna, loading the crossbow with her bolts. “They’re coming!”
Old Lutz warns Anna not to shoot. “Put the bow away, girl, come down from there.” At that distance and in the dark, she won’t hit anyone anyway. Even if she does, she can’t win this fight. There are dozens and dozens of them coming, and she is alone. “That’s enough heroism. Join the others, girl, disappear. You can yet be loving in your life, go, Anna, disappear!”
Who writes the old stories? Who decides who will be hit by the bolts? Bolts? Surely they all had muskets at that time. Anna has a crossbow, full stop. She takes aim, she shoots. The first bolt hits the leader of the rabble in the left eye, goes through his brain and kills him then and there. With the next bolt she hits the second man, who is carrying a banner with no crest on it, only dried blood, in the right eye and kills him too then and there. As quickly as those two fell, the attackers draw back.
David versus Goliath. Hmm, no. We don’t like that. Why not? Why is Lutz hiding the people? It would be more exciting if they were really in danger. And this is all going too smoothly. Suppose someone else comes along? For instance, someone from the village who thinks Anna is a traitor. Thinks she is one of the rabble who has smuggled herself in to find out whether an attack is worthwhile, whether the village can defend itself, and so on. Let’s say the Mayor. Yes, him. He tells Anna to put her crossbow away and come down. Right, but if she is really a traitor then the Mayor needs a weapon, or she will shoot him. Okay. He has a. . a wheel-lock pistol. What’s that? GEO Epoch magazine about the Thirty Years’ War describes it as the best handgun of its time. We’re always learning something new. Okay. Anna comes down. We need another twist in the story now. Right. It’s a fact that Lutz trusts her. He stands between her and the Mayor, who aims his pistol at Lutz. Right, we already know about that.
Who writes the old stories?
Who takes that job on?
FROM OUR VANTAGE POINT AS WE HOVER ABOVE the scene, it looks as if Herr Schramm is working magic. Both his hands are outstretched, one to Frau Schwermuth, he’s almost touching her, the other to Anna, and they are both of them aiming their pistols at him.
My word, thinks Herr Schramm. But he has already seen that it’s not a real pistol in Frau Schwermuth’s hand. A sort of pistol, yes, but he doesn’t mind water, he’s all wet anyway. However, Herr Schramm also thinks that if this were on Crime Scene you could bet on a minor character with strong feelings shooting him in the shoulder now, or shooting Frau Schwermuth in the forehead or the knee.
Anna is clutching his pistol in both hands.
Frau Schwermuth sobs.
What looks to us like magic is the fact that Herr Schramm slowly lowers his arm in front of Frau Schwermuth, and in a synchronized movement Frau Schwermuth lowers her gun with the yellow dolphin on the barrel.
Then Herr Schramm says Anna’s name and the name of his favorite place. “It’s all right, Anna,” says Herr Schramm, “in winter I’ll take you to see the Güldenstein.” And he lowers his other arm, while in a synchronized movement Anna lowers hers.
Frau Schwermuth bursts into tears.
Herr Schramm clears his throat. He finds tears in connection with the Prussian spiked helmet really embarrassing.
“Johann.” Frau Schwermuth looks at him pleadingly. “I think Johann. . in the Archivarium. . we must. .”
Herr Schramm offers her his arm. She gratefully links hers with it. Anna is trembling all over. Herr Schramm thinks of ruffling up her hair, but she must be too old for that, and also she is wearing a cap.
On such a night as this, the Güldenstein shines a little more brightly.
SOMEONE. SOMEONE WRITES THE STORIES. Someone has always written them.
AN EXCERPT FROM THE ACCOUNT OF THE TRAVELING barber-surgeon and dentist, Johanness Michael Harthsilber, of a girl who fell sick of a ravenous hunger. This occurred in the year 1807, in the little town of Fürstenfelde in the Brandenburg Mark, and was written down by Herr Harthsilber.
The girl was twelve years old, and small of stature. She hardly ever played with children of her own age, being weak and sickly in other respects as well, but regularly attended church with her father, a blacksmith. Her mother had died at the girl’s birth.
It was on the second day of the New Year that the girl felt a great appetentia for food, which soon assumed such proportions that her father, in his concern and uneasiness, sent for me. I found the girl in an unusual conditio! Her forehead was burning, she was sweating, etc., yet when she was not asleep she kept calling for food. But her stomach would not accept any thing, and the girl vomited it all up again. Before my eyes, she devoured a large chicken, bones and all, a loaf of bread and a piece of butter, putting it straight into her mouth with her hand. In addition she drank milk and beer, and poured rye flour down her throat, but all of this came back up and out of her again.
I tried to prohibit her from eating, but a very strange thing happened: when she was not fed as she demanded, the girl bit her own finger! I told her father to tie her down to her bed, which he did, being full of love for the poor little soul. The child screamed as if in pain, and begged us for food.
The casus was hard for the blacksmith to bear, and in these circumstances I must praise his generosity and hospitality in entertaining me in his own home as well as I could hardly expect at the best of inns. In thanks I shaved both him and his brother in the same way as I shave gentlemen of a certain age and station in Berlin, with a little pointed beard and a slender mustache curving to left and right!
We now gave the girl nothing but vegetable broth, which could not diminish her craving for food. She drank the hot broth straight down, without caring that it burned her throat, and immediately called for more.
On the fifth night, a terrible thing occurred. The girl freed herself from her bonds, and gnawed the flesh from her own hand and arm, so that much blood was shed, and the bare bones were exposed. Before God, that was the worst sight I ever beheld.
In spite of all her bleeding, the girl was still alive. She demanded an apple, which was surprising, for she had not cared what she ate before. Her loving father hurried out and came back with apples. The girl took a bite out of each and then said, in her fever, that these were the wrong apples. The fruit that she desired was to be found in a fallow field run wild, under a solitary oak tree. Once again the father set out, so he was not obliged to see his little daughter die in convulsions and pain. He did not, however, find an apple where he had thought to do so.
I left that poor, sad village not without a troubled mind myself, in fear of God, and thanking Him that He does not show that same countenance to all His flock.