Mother is wrong about this, it will be the first time in Esther’s life she has been wrong about anything. Geertje is commonsensical. Her ability to master the mysterious and fearful was one of the main reasons Christiaan married her.
Black. In her dreams, Esther sees a figure arriving at their village carrying a rake. It shuffles along passing the church, passing the well, passing the mill and the modest houses. It is not a man and itis not a woman. It is a creature. Old and covered, crossing an erratic path, touching walls and doorframes, windows and cradles, hearths and pillows. It touches what we touch and is guided by moonshine. Its robes are miasmic, seeping into cracks and crevices. It blows poisonous breath into lungs, on the napes of necks, under armpits and dissolves stout hearts into nothing. It hears neither prayers nor argument. It sways with each step; it is bent, it is evil, the most efficient killer with the lightest caress. It leaves behind black footprints.
And Esther dreams of a land populated with skeletons. Skeletons that trip over fields, ride in wagons, crouch in boats, climb trees. They chase and hide and tumble. Bonfires are set alight in their names. They clatter their bones, they gnash their teeth. How quickly their abominable numbers swell, doubling doubling doubling.
All are equal, are leveled.
The blacksmith’s forge is cold. Only one kind of work to be done: the ghoulish business of digging ditches and filling them in. Christiaan’s arm is strong; he shoulders his spade and joins the volunteers. They improvise masks, communicate in single-word sentences. Here. More. Stop. Mounds appear beyond the boundaries of consecrated ground. Whole families laid waste, including Hugo’s. People say, perhaps the whole village . . . ?
Geertje cannot hide the lumps under her arms and in her groin for long—she is bedridden in hours and dead within days. The brightest and kindest are as susceptible as any, and returned to the earth in a putrid heap.
The visions and smells and sounds penetrate Christiaan’s mind, attractive to the demons that Geertje’s strength had kept at a distance. He recognizes their advancing shadows and approaching tread. Their warnings.
Miraculously some do survive. Life grows back, gradually, likeivy, clinging on, breaking through. The peculiar blacksmith and his deaf daughter are long gone.
Where are we going?
Church.
You always say that. We passed a church this morning. We passed two yesterday. Churches abound. Do you really know where we are going? If you have lost your way, you ought to admit it and not be so proud.
Keep up.
I think we should go home.
We cannot.
Yes, we can. Mother would want us to.
No. She would want you to have a future.
We can go back to the smithy and I will take care of you.
She would want you to have a husband and a family.
Maybe I will, one day. But if that happens, I will still be your daughter and look after you. We can turn around and go home, right now, if we want to. I could even find work.
Not safe there.
Safer than on the road. Safer than having nowhere to go.
We are going to church.
And what if the same thing happens when we get there? It might. It could. Who knows, it might even be worse.
Be quiet.
Do you have the pain?
No.
Are you sure? You promised to tell me when it comes. You made a promise.
No pain, and this is the way.
It must be some church, if we are going to all this trouble.
* * *
They arrive in Amsterdam. Suddenly they are walking along canals and through side streets and by the IJ Bay itself. Esther is in awe of the assault on her senses.
Here are the whalers, the shipbuilders, the sugar merchants, the fishermen, the customs officials, the innumerable networks of contracts and dealings, the constant braying and barking of beast and hawker. Here are ropes, crates, and kegs slung with force from deck, to slipway, to cart, from man to man. Faces and arms cracked and browned from exposure to sun and
Black. In her dreams, Esther sees a figure arriving at their village carrying a rake. It shuffles along passing the church, passing the well, passing the mill and the modest houses. It is not a man and itis not a woman. It is a creature. Old and covered, crossing an erratic path, touching walls and doorframes, windows and cradles, hearths and pillows. It touches what we touch and is guided by moonshine. Its robes are miasmic, seeping into cracks and crevices. It blows poisonous breath into lungs, on the napes of necks, under armpits and dissolves stout hearts into nothing. It hears neither prayers nor argument. It sways with each step; it is bent, it is evil, the most efficient killer with the lightest caress. It leaves behind black footprints.
And Esther dreams of a land populated with skeletons. Skeletons that trip over fields, ride in wagons, crouch in boats, climb trees. They chase and hide and tumble. Bonfires are set alight in their names. They clatter their bones, they gnash their teeth. How quickly their abominable numbers swell, doubling doubling doubling.
All are equal, are leveled.
The blacksmith’s forge is cold. Only one kind of work to be done: the ghoulish business of digging ditches and filling them in. Christiaan’s arm is strong; he shoulders his spade and joins the volunteers. They improvise masks, communicate in single-word sentences. Here. More. Stop. Mounds appear beyond the boundaries of consecrated ground. Whole families laid waste, including Hugo’s. People say, perhaps the whole village . . . ?
Geertje cannot hide the lumps under her arms and in her groin for long—she is bedridden in hours and dead within days. The brightest and kindest are as susceptible as any, and returned to the earth in a putrid heap.
The visions and smells and sounds penetrate Christiaan’s mind, attractive to the demons that Geertje’s strength had kept at a distance. He recognizes their advancing shadows and approaching tread. Their warnings.
Miraculously some do survive. Life grows back, gradually, likeivy, clinging on, breaking through. The peculiar blacksmith and his deaf daughter are long gone.
Where are we going?
Church.
You always say that. We passed a church this morning. We passed two yesterday. Churches abound. Do you really know where we are going? If you have lost your way, you ought to admit it and not be so proud.
Keep up.
I think we should go home.
We cannot.
Yes, we can. Mother would want us to.
No. She would want you to have a future.
We can go back to the smithy and I will take care of you.
She would want you to have a husband and a family.
Maybe I will, one day. But if that happens, I will still be your daughter and look after you. We can turn around and go home, right now, if we want to. I could even find work.
Not safe there.
Safer than on the road. Safer than having nowhere to go.
We are going to church.
And what if the same thing happens when we get there? It might. It could. Who knows, it might even be worse.
Be quiet.
Do you have the pain?
No.
Are you sure? You promised to tell me when it comes. You made a promise.
No pain, and this is the way.
It must be some church, if we are going to all this trouble.
* * *
They arrive in Amsterdam. Suddenly they are walking along canals and through side streets and by the IJ Bay itself. Esther is in awe of the assault on her senses.
Here are the whalers, the shipbuilders, the sugar merchants, the fishermen, the customs officials, the innumerable networks of contracts and dealings, the constant braying and barking of beast and hawker. Here are ropes, crates, and kegs slung with force from deck, to slipway, to cart, from man to man. Faces and arms cracked and browned from exposure to sun and
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