“Grubbing in the dirt,” he said. “It suits you.”
The figure made no response. Marius watched in silence as he finished his slow, methodical coverage of the run, then made his way back through a small gate. He leant the rake against a wall and picked up a hoe, bending his attention to the piles of mud and dung churned up by the pigs.
“Ah,” Marius said in amusement. “I was mistaken. Now, now you’ve found your level.”
Again he was ignored. He sighed.
“Come on, Gerd. You know it’s me. At least say something.”
Gerd flicked a glance at him, then bent his head back over his task. Marius stepped forward to peer over his shoulder, stepping carefully between the mounds of pig droppings that Gerd was collecting.
“Nope,” he said. “It must be fascinating for you, I’m sure, but I can’t see it.”
“It’s honest work,” Gerd replied. “Good work.”
“It speaks!” Marius clapped a hand on his shoulder. Gerd neither acknowledged it nor shrugged it off. It lay there, like a dead fish, until Marius coughed and removed it. “So why are you here, then? I thought you’d be tracking me to the ends of the Earth like a little dead bloodhound.”
“Grandma needs me.” Gerd swung the hoe towards another pile of shit, spraying wet refuse against Marius’ legs. “Sty needs maintaining, chores need doing. She’s getting old.”
“And she’s blind as a judge and crazy as a banana skin. It’s a tragic tale.” He leaned in, so that his mouth was less than a foot from Gerd’s ear. “I recommend a pillow, placed over the face.” He straightened. “Where are all your dead chums, then?”
“We had a difference of opinion.”
“Oh, really?”
“They wanted to hunt you down, no matter where on the globe you ran to, and tear you limb from limb and scatter you to the four corners of the wind, so that every moment of your afterlife was spent in torturous agony, never to be reconstituted and find peace.”
“I see. And you?”
Gerd swung the hoe upwards and brandished it like a pike.
“I wanted to do it myself.”
“Oh, you have to be kidding.”
Gerd wasn’t kidding. Without so much as a change in expression, he swung at Marius’ head.
Marius ducked, and skipped backwards, out of reach. The hoe is not a graceful weapon, and Gerd was a less than graceful wielder. Compared to him, Marius was a dancer, a prize fighter, a light-footed professional fencer. Then, just as quickly, compared to Gerd he was a man lying on his back in a slippery pile of pig shit. He rolled over and drew his hands underneath his chest, ready to push himself up. A cold weight pressed against the back of his neck, and pushed him down until he lay with his face deep in the warm, stinking manure. He squirmed until he could tilt part of his face out of the mess – an eye, and the corner of his mouth – and squinted upwards. Gerd stood above him, his weight pressing the hoe down onto Marius. Marius spat his lips free of dung.
“What are you going to do?” he managed to ask. “Kill me?”
Gerd reached for something just out of his field of vision. A moment later, a broad, heavy-bladed axe struck the dirt an inch from his free eye and sank an inch into the hard ground.
“Chop you up,” Gerd said. “into different pieces. Feed your limbs to the pigs, throw your torso down the cliff face. Give your head to the dead.”
The pigs squealed in excitement, as if the sound of the axe heralded a new meal. They butted against the wooden fence, giving Marius a new memory of fear to block in later days. He was fleetingly glad that his bowels had nothing to add to the already-covered ground.
“And what will that do?” Marius eyed the nicked and stained axe head. He had no doubt it would be capable of the task. “They won’t get their king that way.”
“It’ll make me feel better.” Gerd pulled the axe up, out of Marius’ view. He braced, waiting for the first heavy impact. Instead, the pressure against his neck lessened. He rolled over, conscious of the wet, sticky, mess across his face and hair. Gerd had replaced the axe on its mount, just inside the sty door. Now he did the same with the hoe.
“Get up,” he said without looking at Marius. “Wash yourself off. You stink.”
Marius sat up. “So?”
“You’re not meeting my grandmother smelling like pig shit.” He stepped over to a barrel in the lee of the shed, plunged his hands into the top, and splashed water on his face and upper body. “Hurry up.”
Marius stood. He edged over to the barrel and washed himself down, keeping one wary eye on Gerd.
“What makes you think I want to meet your grandmother again?” he asked. The last time he was in the village, he had met the old woman to explain why Gerd was leaving, and how he would look after the boy and see him safe. All the while he had been forced to swallow down the lumpiest, indigestible cabbage soups he had ever eaten. There were parts of it that still hadn’t digested properly. Two more minutes with the axe and the pigs would have been pulling bits out of his intestines like truffles.
“Because,” Gerd replied, turning his back on Marius and walking towards the village centre. “You obviously need me, or you wouldn’t be here. And if you don’t, I won’t help you. And I’ll take you apart with the axe.”
“Compelling argument.” Marius followed behind Gerd. Men were just beginning to exit the huts, yawning as the rays of the sun stretched the shadows across the open square. As they saw Gerd and Marius they nodded slightly, before averting their gazes and hurrying past, to their jobs. Marius watched them, and saw the cautious nods that Gerd gave back.
“They don’t seem too bothered by your current state.”
“I’m a hard worker,” Gerd replied. “I’m honest. I keep to myself. I built the chicken run, and repaired the sty. I’ve almost cleared another six acres of field in the lower valley.” He shrugged. “Dead isn’t the same as it is down on the plains. They may be a little spooked by it, but as long as I’m not lazy and I don’t touch their daughters, they leave me alone.” He paused at the entrance of a low-framed, ramshackle hut on the outskirts of the village. “Be nice.” He stepped inside. “Grandma? There’s someone to see you.”
Marius sighed, and put one hand on the door frame.
“I’m going to regret this,” he said to the wood, and followed Gerd into the hut.
TWENTY-ONE
“More soup?” The old woman stood above Marius, a ladle held in front of her like a white walking stick. Hot lumps of something that may have started out as vegetable matter dripped from it onto the back of Marius’ hand. He watched it slide off onto the table, wishing he had a cloth to wipe it away. There was no chance in hell he was going to lick his hand clean.
“Uh, no, no thank you,” he said, eyeing the bowl in front of him. It overflowed with the greasy, viscous product, the colour and consistency of pus. “I couldn’t eat another bite.”
“Are you sure?” the old woman waved the ladle about like a weapon. Hot liquid sprayed the table, the floor, and Marius. He held up a hand to ward off the attacking droplets.