“Young man…”
Egert averted his eyes.
The doors jerked again, someone cursed beyond them, and then the light coming in through the dingy little window was cut off by a shadow.
“Step lively! Open up!”
Egert began to shake from the sound of this voice. Terror rolled over him in waves, each new wave far exceeding the one that came before. Cold sweat streamed down his back and sides.
“We need to open the door,” observed the scribe impassively.
The peddler was still clutching the chicken leg in his fist. At the scribe’s words, his eyes shot up to the top of his forehead.
The scribe stretched his hand out toward the door latch; at that very moment the girl, having despaired of securing any help from the young man, caught sight of the dark hollow underneath the opposite bench.
“Just a minute,” said the scribe in a conciliatory tone to those who were waiting outside. “The latch is jammed, just a minute.”
With a dexterous movement, the girl rolled under the bench. The shabby cloth that covered the seat concealed her completely from any passing glance.
Egert did not recall very well what happened next.
Befuddled by terror, his mind suddenly saw a way out, a slender hope for salvation. The hope was, of course, a sham, but Egert’s clouded brain did not understand this; it was overwhelmed with a single, tremendous wish, bordering on insanity: to hide!
He dragged the girl out from under the bench like a hound dragging a fox from its hole. Of course, she struggled; she bit him on the elbow, writhing in his arms, trying to crawl back under the bench, but Egert was stronger. Collapsing from terror, he crawled under the bench and squeezed himself into the darkest corner. Only then did he realize what had happened.
The only reason he did not immediately die from shame was that the door finally swept open and a new wave of fear robbed Egert of the ability to consider his actions. All the passengers were ordered out of the coach. Through the black shroud that clouded his eyes, Egert first saw massive steel-toed boots step onto the floor of the coach; then a hairy hand descended to the floor, propping up the black beard and blazing eyes of a man who said, “Ha! Indeed, there he is; the little fawn!”
Egert’s mind once again collapsed.
He did not even resist as he was dragged from the coach. The horses were tossing their heads in terror, rolling their eyes at the vast tree trunk that had been laid across the road to intercept their path. The coachman, smiling mournfully, his eyes swollen and streaming with tears, was obligingly allowing himself to be tied up. The baskets and bundles of the merchant were flying from the baggage compartment; a portion of them, disemboweled like rabbit skins at a bazaar, had already tumbled to the ground nearby.
They patted Egert down, but the only loot they got from him was his family sword and the gilded buttons on his jacket. They collected a purse from the scribe. The merchant, trembling and sniveling, watched as they broke open the lock of a potbellied chest. Two of the highwaymen held the girl by her arms; she kept twisting her head from side to side, shifting her gaze from one to the other and pleading inaudibly.
There were five or six bandits, but Egert was in no condition to remember a single face. Having finished their pillage, they divided their loot among their saddlebags and flocked around the coach. They tied the scribe to the merchant, and the driver to the tree trunk lying in the road, but they did not bother to tie Egert up. It was obvious he would not run away: his legs refused to work.
The bandits gathered in a circle and one by one thrust their hands into a cap. Egert dimly realized that they were drawing lots. The black-bearded robber nodded contentedly, and the two who were holding the girl released her elbows. Black-beard took her by the shoulder proprietarily and led her into the coach.
Egert saw her wide eyes and trembling lips. She walked without resisting, only ceaselessly repeating some entreaty directed at her tormentors. Black-beard shoved her into the carriage, while the others expectantly arrayed themselves on the grass surrounding it. The coach teetered; the carriage springs screeched, flexing rhythmically, and a thin, high voice cried out plaintively from within.
The bandits drew lots again and again. Egert lost track of time. His mind began to bifurcate: over and over he flung himself at the bandits, crushing their ribs and snapping their necks, and then he would suddenly realize that he was sprawled out the ground as before, clutching at the grass with cramped fingers and rhythmically rocking back and forth. He was loose, but he was tied hand and foot by this morbid, fiery terror.
And then he once again dissolved; he lost his memory and his ability to reason. Branches were lashing at his face: it seems he was running after all, except that his legs refused to obey him, like in a bad dream, and continually threatened to collapse under him. At that moment, he was tormented by a desire far greater than the pain and fear, the desire to cease to exist, to not be, to have never been born. Who was he now, Glorious Heaven? Who was he after all this? What crime was more dreadful than that which the monstrosity of fear, having taken up residence in his soul against his will and lacerating him from the inside, had already committed?
And once again the darkness came, and everything ended.
The ancient hermit who lived in the mud hut by the stream would occasionally find people in the forest.
Once, on a brisk winter’s morning, he found a young girl, about fourteen, in a thicket. White and hard as a statue, she was propped up against a tree trunk, and in her hands she held an empty basket. The hermit had never found out who she was or what brought her to ruin.
Another time he found a young lady in the forest. She was bloody, covered in bruises and suffering from delirium. He carried her to his little mud hut, but the next day he was forced to bury her as well.
The third time, the hermit’s discovery turned out to be a man.
He was a handsome and strong young man who was far taller and heavier than the hermit himself and thus quite difficult to drag through the forest. Trying to catch his breath, the elder was washing him with water from the river when the foundling groaned and opened his eyes.
The hermit rejoiced: At the very least, he would not have to bury this one! He flung his arms up and bellowed. Deprived of the gift of speech since birth, only thus could he give expression to his feelings.
River weeds trailed across the surface of the little stream. Their dark green tips, stretching out as if in supplication, were trying to sail away along the current, but their roots, bogged down in the obscure, earthy depths, restrained them. Dragonflies hung motionless over the stream, enormous, mindless dragonflies, opalescent as a lady’s finery.
For days on end, Egert Soll sat by the water, watching the trailing weeds and the dragonflies. Now and then he enlivened this spectacle by leaning over the dark mirror of the water and peering at the lean, vagabond scar reflected there. Sparse, sandy brown stubble could not hide the mark.
The hermit did not seem at all dangerous, but Egert still required an entire week to train himself not to shrink back at his approach. The kindhearted elder constructed a bed for his guest out of dried grass and shared his food with him, which consisted of fish, mushrooms, and cakes. Where these latter were baked was a mystery to Egert, but they appeared with enviable constancy. Very little was required of Egert in exchange: the hermit indicated that he should gather brushwood from the opposite shore of the stream or split the firewood that was piled up by the side of the hut. However, it became clear almost immediately that these tasks were beyond Egert.