Death and the Devil

Bodo gave a dignified nod and entered the chamber.

The other watched him go in. Then he turned on his heel, ran down the steps two at a time, and disappeared down Judengasse.

LAST WORDS

“Middle finger,” said Jacob.

“She’ll never learn to play, will she?” said Rolof.

“If I’d wanted your opinion, you old polecat, I’d have grunted,” Richmodis said with a laugh.

“Don’t talk to Rolof like that,” growled Goddert from the corner where he was refilling his mug with wine. He had insisted on coming. “Polecats are God’s creatures, too.”

Jacob took her middle finger and gently placed it on the correct hole. They had been practicing playing the whistle ever since Jaspar had left. Unfortunately Richmodis’s talent in that direction fell far short of her other merits. “I just can’t get the change from here to there,” she complained.

“From where to where?” Jacob asked.

“From there—to there.”

“You can do it if you try. Now blow.”

Richmodis placed the whistle to her lips and took a deep breath. The result could hardly be classified as music. Sweet as a snake bite, thought Jacob.

“Told you,” muttered Rolof. “She’ll never learn.”

“Oh, yes, she will,” retorted Goddert. “She needs a bit of practice, that’s all.”

“My fingers feel as if they’re going to break off.” Richmodis slapped the whistle down on the table, pouted, and looked at Jacob from beneath her long eyelashes. “I save your life and you torture me.”

“Torture?” said Jacob, baffled. “But you wanted to—”

“Feminine logic.” Goddert giggled. “I get it all the time at home.”

“Oh, Jacob,” she breathed, “you play us something.”

“You’ll never learn like that.”

“I do want to learn, but I need”—she gave him a sugary smile that made his heart melt—“inspiration. Just once, please. Play a dance tune so this fat lump can get some exercise. Then I’ll practice day and night, promise.”

“You will?” Jacob grinned. “How can I resist that argument?”

He picked up his whistle and started to play a fast peasant dance. Richmodis immediately jumped up and tugged and pulled at Rolof until he lumbered around the room with her, still mumbling and grumbling. Then he started to enjoy it, and the lumbering turned into a stamping that made the floor creak and tremble. Richmodis spun around and around him. Jacob watched her hair fly and played faster and faster, beating out the rhythm with his foot on the floor. Goddert decided to join in and thumped the table with his fist.

The door opened.

Jaspar Rodenkirchen came in, stared goggle-eyed at the goings-on, and went out again.

“Oh, dear,” said Rolof.

Jacob put down his whistle.

Richmodis pulled a face, put her hands to her mouth, and called out, “Uncle Jaspar.”

Jaspar came back in with a sigh of relief.

“What was wrong?” asked Goddert cautiously.

“What was wrong?” Jaspar scratched his bald pate. “I was in the wrong house. Must have gone next door. There were four lunatics trying to pull it down. You’re all nice and quiet, thank God. And Jacob’s chopped the wood, haven’t you, Fox-cub?”

“Oh, the wood! Err—”

“And my old friend Goddert’s drinking water from the well. Let’s see, Goddert, you crimson crayfish. What’s this? Wine? Where did you get that?”

Goddert squirmed. “Erm, you know—”

“No, I do not know.”

“The cellar was open and I thought, well, someone might go and steal the wine. I was worried, you see—”

“Oh, now I do see. And I thought you’d repeated the miracle at Cana. Could that be my wine cellar you’re talking about, and therefore my wine?”

“Your wine?” said Goddert with an astonished glance at the jug. “How could that be, my dear Jaspar, when Saint Benedict’s Rule says that monks must not own anything, not even the habit that clothes their nakedness?”

“Outrageous! You drink my wine and then dare to quote Saint Benedict at me!”

“And you? Begrudge an old friend his last glass.”

“What?” Jaspar exclaimed in horror. “Things are that bad?”

“Well, no. But if I were to die, this jug of wine might be my last comfort. Would you deny me it?”

“You’re not going to die. You’re much too busy ruining me.”

“I could have a stroke, now, at this very moment.”

“Impossible.”

“No, it’s not. What proof do you have?”

“You’re right, none at all.”

“May a thunderbolt strike you, you heartless wretch. Just imagine they came to, let’s say, arrest me—unjustly, of course—for some crime and burned me at the stake. Wouldn’t you be prostrate with grief?”

“You wouldn’t burn. You consist of nothing but wine and fat. It’d make a stench, but no fire.”

“How can you be so unfeeling?”

“I’m not unfeeling.”

“You are. You’re miserly. All this fuss about a few mugfuls. I’m ashamed of you. Your stupid wine sticks in my throat now. Why don’t you follow the example of Ensfried? You know, the priest who was asked for alms on the way to mass, and as he had no money with him, he went into a dark corner of St. Mary’s, took off his breeches, and gave them to the beggar. And he even tried to keep his work of Christian charity a secret and didn’t take off his fur cloak when he was sitting by the fire—”