An eagle on the wind is an apostle speaking in tongues: Pentecostal, filled with Holy Spirit.
I woke to limp bodies, feathers fanned out in salutation to flight.
That autumn, the people of Heiligendorf gathered to slaughter their pigs, and not once did any of those pigs cry out. Each time a slaughter day was announced, I slept with the pig in its snuffle-mud-warmth and shivered into it morning-come. I urged us to go placidly to the knife. Even when the blade bit and we felt panic throb in our pig-heart and we longed to buck and run screaming from what was coming, I throttled the impulse and we leaned into it, and we went quietly. I did not want them to suffer, and I did not want Thea to hear us squeal.
I took a dark liking to sacrificing myself in this way. When all the doomed pigs had been killed, I inhabited unwanted roosters, the occasional goose. I walked into the hands of women and placed my chicken neck between their fingers, closed my eyes for the break. I told myself I stopped the creatures from fear and distress. But that immediate close of death, the blank oblivion – that is what I sought. Oh God, the glory of that brief immolation when I forgot the looming wedding and my own struck heart! It was my panacea against the constant upswelling of love that threatened to suffocate me.
When Anna Maria and Thea sewed the wedding dress in the evenings, moths dancing around their candle, I let the flash of their needles act as a mesmeric until I, too, felt dazzled by the light and mothsong and forgot everything but the euphoria of the flame’s brilliance. Oh, that exquisite sizzle. I was a mosquito thirsty for the slap.
Stupidly, I thought that these small, ill-fated returns to life would be hardly noticed. But in the days after each Schweineschlachten doorways and kitchen tables filled with quiet marvel that each pig had gone in silence. Soon, no one could speak of anything else. I hovered around the circles of men and women after Sunday services, listening to them remark upon all the ways I had died in the week.
‘It’s about time we planted a yew tree in the churchyard,’ Henriette said, bending low to Christiana.
‘What is a yew tree to a witch?’ Christiana muttered.
Several nearby women glanced at her.
‘You heard me. These are supernatural deaths. Who amongst you ever heard of a pig lifting its neck to the knife? A rooster placing his head on the block at first sight of the axe?’
‘It’s strange, I’ll grant you,’ said Elize. ‘But what harm is in it?’
‘What harm?’ Christiana repeated. ‘It shows that there are those amongst us who might bewitch. It shows that there are some who have false texts here in this congregation.’
Elize sighed. ‘We all know who you are talking of.’
‘I saw her give it to Thea!’ Christiana said. ‘It was a witches’ bible.’
‘The kind of book you are talking of is an encyclopedia of herbal cures,’ Elize interrupted. ‘It’s not witchcraft.’ She flushed as the women turned to stare at her. ‘I haven’t one myself but . . . my mother’s friend, in my youth . . .’ She turned to Christiana. ‘This is what you’re speaking of, isn’t it? The Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses.’
‘It is. And God forgive you and your mother, Elize. The pastor told Mama he has burned copies of that same book. It includes a conversation with the Devil.’
There was an uneasy silence.
‘You think Thea Eichenwald has such a book?’ asked Emile Pfeiffer.
‘She or her mother.’ Christiana glanced across to where Hans was speaking to Thea outside the church. ‘She witched our garden. If she can enchant creatures, why not any of our number?’
Elize shook her head. ‘Christiana, stop. Pastor Flügel spoke with Anna Maria. She denied having such a book.’
‘I am no liar,’ Christiana replied. She took a deep breath. ‘There was a book. It is hidden here, somewhere. And when it is found, the pastor will ensure it is destroyed. There is no room for the Devil in Heiligendorf.’
The following morning, a gentle knocking woke Thea from her bed by the fire. Blanket wrapped around her nightshift, she stood at the door, peering out into the darkness. It was still very early. No one was yet awake.
‘Johanne?’
My mother came inside, headscarf tight around her face. She closed the door firmly behind her.
Thea glanced to the door leading to her parents’ bedroom. ‘Shall I wake Mama? Would you like to sit down?’
‘No,’ my mother said. ‘I’ve come to see you.’
‘Oh.’ Thea frowned. ‘What hour is it?’