* * *
*
‘Did you dig?’ Jude asked when Marek got home. He dunked a cup into their keg of water and handed it to the boy.
‘They didn’t need me,’ Marek answered. ‘And I was afraid of the dead. I was afraid they were still alive.’
‘Those were good people who got killed,’ Jude said. ‘Only the evil ones get trapped in their dead bodies. That’s their eternal penance; the ones who go to hell rot. The ones who go to heaven disappear. Not a trace of flesh is left. Be good and you’ll leave nothing behind. Be bad and you’ll live forever in your rotting body in the ground.’
‘Why were the good dead people still flesh then? Why hadn’t they gone to heaven yet?’
‘They’ve got to go into the ground first. Bury them and they disappear.’
‘How do you know?’ Marek asked.
‘I’m your father,’ Jude said. ‘I know everything.’
They boiled lamb’s milk and covered the pot with a cloth to keep the flies away while it cooled. Marek picked the bugs off some potatoes and plunged them and a few whole apples in the fire. They were old apples from the fall harvest. Jude had eaten only lamb’s milk, bread, apples and potatoes, and wild grasses his entire life. Like the rest of Lapvona, he didn’t eat meat. Nor did he drink mead, only milk and water. Marek ate what Jude ate, always saving a few bites for God: he knew that sacrifice was the best way to please Him.
‘Does your head hurt?’ Marek asked his father. Jude was rubbing his temples with his knuckles. He often had headaches. His gums often bled.
‘Be quiet,’ said Jude. ‘A storm is coming, that’s all.’
‘Will it rain tonight?’
‘It will rain on Wednesday. Just in time for the hanging.’
* * *
*
It did rain on Wednesday. As father and son walked to the village square, warm spring rain shook the lemon blossoms and haunted the air under Jude’s hood with a smell that brought his brighter childhood memories to mind, which he felt shame for remembering on such a day. Jude had not yet set eyes on the bandit.
‘Did bandits really kill my grandparents?’ Marek asked.
‘My parents drowned. You know that.’
‘My mother’s parents—did the bandits kill them, really?’
‘I’ve told you a hundred times,’ Jude said. He told Marek that his mother had been a victim of an attack on her native village when she was twelve, a year younger than Marek was now. ‘First they slashed your grandfather’s throat, and then they raped your grandmother. Then they slashed her throat, too. They tied your uncles up with rope and threw them in a well to drown. They were just little boys.’
‘What did they do to my mother?’
‘They cut out her tongue so she couldn’t talk, but she ran away,’ Jude told him. ‘She was lucky to escape. I found her in the woods, nearly dead. Poor Agata. Why do you like this story so much?’
‘Because I love my mother.’
‘She was a strong girl, but she carried death with her. Death is like that. Like a beggar that follows you down the road. And kills you.’
‘Was my mother very beautiful?’
‘What a stupid question,’ Jude said. Of course, he had invented the girl’s name and history. With no tongue, she couldn’t possibly have communicated any of this to Jude—she could barely even understand the language of Lapvona when she first arrived. But Jude thought the story made him sound like a hero. ‘She was the only one left alive. Imagine the guilt that comes with that charge. Who cares about beauty?’
‘I’ll feel guilty when you die,’ Marek told Jude.
‘Good boy,’ Jude said.
The crowd had collected in the square, and as Jude and Marek arrived the bandit was being removed from the pillory. They joined a huddle of villagers and watched as Villiam’s guards tied the bandit’s hands behind his back and dragged him, his legs bouncing, along the cobblestones. They hefted him up the steps and onto the small platform of the gallows. The villagers spoke quietly amongst themselves, a few women sniffling, a few men shuffling violently, thirsty for blood. Grigor, the old man, stood stoically in front of the gallows and prayed that the souls of his two dead grandchildren find peace. The families of the other slain villagers shouted curses at the bandit. Their anger was righteous. Father Barnabas, their priest, had told them so. ‘Chastise an evil-doer and God will know you’re good.’ Marek covered his ears. He didn’t like to hear foul language. He was delicate in this way. Even Jude’s rough words hurt him in the heart: ‘Damn him,’ Jude said.