Day 390: 5 Minute Freewrite: Wednesday - Prompt: sweating

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Lady Graves is my NaNoWriMo novel in progress.

Chapter One begins here: Lady Graves - ch. 1 - NaNoWriMo 2018 - freewritemadness: Day One

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14-Nov-201

Chapter Fourteen

Fritz Lanza was the only local who knew

Herr Doktor’s secrets: that his name was Stangler and he had escaped from prison, that his wife had been killed before his very eyes as she protested his unwarranted arrest, and that the wife’s spinster aunt owned a stone cottage as a summer home. Fritz guarded another great secret: the old woman of the stone hut, die Dame der Steinhütte, was a baroness who returned quietly every year, after the Mai Fest in Munich; how could she miss the ribbon-weaving and yodeling of the Mai pole dancers? In her younger days, calling May Day her one and only “holy day of obligation” had led to charges of witchcraft, which she eluded by having the stone cottage built off the beaten path in her favorite part of Bavaria, living in seclusion there until winters became wearisome and she traveled as far as her fortune could take her. She had seen the rain forests of Brazil, the ruins of the Aztecs, the pyramids of the Egyptians. People and politics tended to weary her as much as the snowy winters of the Black Forest, yet she continued to gather woodland wild flowers and roots to use in the gentle art of healing. Despite the risk of being charged with witchcraft, she could never turn her back on the sick and injured. It was she who taught Herr Doktor all the herbal remedies in his rucksack, she who recommended to him a bright, stalwart farm hand named Fritz as a potential apprentice.

Stangler entertained hopes of introducing the baroness to Lady Evelyn, but April was only just dawning. How much longer could he detain his English patient? He wanted to prolong the horse ride through the forest with her snug against him, transported by the rhythm of Etzel’s massive hooves like a ship on the sea. After all his suffering and despair, there was light again; spring had come, as it must, with fresh air and warm light, and a maiden for him to unearth. But she was not his to keep. Like the Persephone myth, she was in his care only for a time, and then he must return her to others who’d loved her first.

Normally his heart lifted as the Lanza farm came into view, but this time it spelled the end of a treasured journey. Their departure at dawn with Etzel and the borrowed clothes had been hasty, but their return would not be. Today the Lanza family would meet a supposedly unfortunate orphan boy named Graves, and only Fritz was given to know that Graves had a long, long braid coiled under his hat and no male anatomy whatsoever.

The long ride from the inn wasn’t nearly long enough, no matter how the horse might start sweating if allowed to gallop full speed ahead with two riders.

Lady Graves was happily reunited with Emil, who ran to each animal or pen full of animals and then back to her, as if to make sure she did not fail to meet every furry beast in his acquaintance. Sheep, goats, milk cows, cats, and horses welcomed her attentions, while a mean bull favored her with nothing but a snort. Chickens and geese roamed the place unmolested. Alles in Ordnung, everything in order. The grandfather, the mother and father, the twelve children, a daughter-in-law, and even a few grandchildren were in attendance. The massive Leonberger dogs stayed in the pasture with their flocks, except for a puppy that tailed Emil and nipped at his heels. At only a few months of age, it was already Emil’s size but with lion-sized paws.

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The summer garden

was only now being seeded, but cucumbers, cabbage, kale and spinach were already thriving in a little house made of stone, glass, and louvered windows. A chicken coop inside the greenhouse recovered heat generated by the hens to keep the greens from freezing. A small version of a smokehouse for bacon and ham also kept the plants warm, and a mechanical ventilation system been ingeniously contrived, all thanks to the interventions of the old dame in the summer cottage.

For Lady Graves, it was easy to take interest in horses and greenhouses. The hard part was staying in character as a boy with no interest in sewing, felting and knitting, much less any dresses and social engagements the Lanza sisters might care to discuss. Just to hear their laughter was heartwarming--never mind that it followed sidelong glances at the strange boy who was now wearing their brothers’ cast-offs.

Stangler tried to politely decline an invitation to evening dinner--it would soon be dark, after all-- but Graves nudged him and gave him her best attempt at puppy-dog eyes. How long had it been since she’d enjoyed the conversation and companionship of anyone but her doctor? It felt like forever.

Darkness fell a wee bit later with every passing day, but April nights still came early. The sun went to bed before the apple strudel and rhubarb pie were consumed, long before talk of Napoleon Bonaparte was settled or the subject of naturalists and explorers in America would ever be exhausted. Stangler regaled them with stories of the America’s “redskins,” hardy, athletic women and tall, strong warriors with black eyes full of fire. He quoted from a massive history of the American Indians written by an Irish trapper, James Adair, who arrived in the New World in 1775.

The doctor’s eyes glowed with a fire of his own when he spoke of this land and its splendid inhabitants. They lived as wild animals, building no cities or roads, nothing made of glass or forged metal, though a warrior might wear his long, raven-black hair in a topknot clasped with a silver brooch acquired from European traders. Like forest creatures these native people slipped through the trees; like fish they swam the rivers; the children run naked, and their only god was the Great Spirit, who lived in man and animal alike. The spirits were as real to them as the wind. Before firing an arrow, the hunter must offer a prayer for consent and forgiveness from the deer or hawk he was about to kill. He would ask the fire to keep him warm at night, never assuming it would do so of its own volition.

“Ignorant savages,” Grandfather Lanza exclaimed, but the doctor would hear none of that.

“It is true, they lack our own attainments and understanding of the world,” he said, “but they have their own knowledge of nature, far surpassing our own. We have forgotten much, living as we do in our towns and castles, not having to rely on our own cunning and strength to chase down our dinner or procure food each day from forest and stream. And as for our libraries and universities, only a precious few of us get to enjoy them. Most Europeans are illiterate laborers. The Indian gains his education from nature, by living and doing.”

Lady Evelyn cast a glance at Fritz, who’d flourished under the tutelage of the doctor, though neither he nor his siblings were compelled to learn reading, writing, science, math, music, or art. Education was a privilege, not a right, and not readily available to the ignorant masses.

The redskins were known more for their physical attributes and ferocity as warriors than for cultural attainments of the Old World variety. Their music consisted mostly drums, footwork, crooning or ululating, and wooden flutes. Their stories were preserved through oral tradition, not the written word. They had no books, no dinner dishes or teacups, no desks, no churches or schools, no taverns or inns, and no jails.

The men were surprisingly tall, most of them at least six feet, yet quick and agile, silent and deadly as panthers. Their hunters could mimic the cry of a fawn or entice a buck by wearing antlers on their own heads.

“Imagine,” Stangler said, “an entire tribe of warriors, everyone of them the equal of Siegfried of the Nibelungenlied.”

He could have talked all night and into the morning but for his hosts needing to clear the dishes and get ready for bed. And she could listen to him all night. Instead, she was walking away with him in the moonlight, waving goodbye, with the Leonberger puppy yipping its own farewell to Emil while Fritz held the creature in his arms, standing there until his visitors were long out of sight, as was the custom.

Emil bounced with joy at the prospect of walking home with them in the dark, and Etzel had shown no sorrow at being left with the Lanzas and their horses, but Lady Evelyn felt a remnant of her heart holding her back. To be part of a family, a house filled with people, warm and inviting place that bustled with activity!

They walked and walked, while she kept seeing Lanza standing sentinel with the Leonberger, an image that belonged now to the past; he too was only a memory; and yet he existed still, she knew--she knew him to be there at this very hour at that very farmhouse with all his family.

Stangler’s arm linked with hers was hardly necessary, sure-footed as she was, but it was entirely necessary, alone as she felt.

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Upon realizing he was humming a tune that sounded familiar,

she found the lyrics right there at the front door of her mind: Moon shining bright, we’re on our pathway home; under the trees, we walk there all alone; then he came in on the refrain, stodala, stodala, stodala pumpa. Their laughter rang out through the forest, but they were close to home, near enough to outrun any bears or wolves or constables ready to arrest them on bogus charges of being Bonapartists.

Stangler guided her along the path to the cottage door. Her heart must have broadcast an audible note of sorrow as they stepped into the dark, empty dwelling place. He set his rucksack on the table and grasped her hands. “Forgive me, Liebling.”

Forgive what? She couldn’t ask; his nearness took her breath away.

“For the first time today, I witnessed the lively repartee and social graces of Lady Evelyn, and it makes my heart sore to think how dearly you must miss the society of others.”

She had finally snagged a breath, and it came out as a sigh. “Your society has done me good, mein Herz. I haven’t begun to learn from you all there is to learn of Indians, herbs, Bonapartists, and starving Hamburgers exiled by that awful little Frenchman.”

He laughed. “I didn’t mention it over dinner, but Cherokee men and women pluck out their body hair, from their chins to their privates, hair by hair--from the root--using a tiny corkscrew twirled by a stick. They like their skin to be smooth as a baby’s.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “I won’t even wax my eyebrows. What a hairy beast they’d think me.”

“You’re not at all hirsute.”

He turned to the fire as she felt her face turning red, and soon they were back to their quiet routine, getting ready for bed. Emil had been evicted to his old place at the hearth, doctor’s orders, though she was wont to pretend not to awaken if the dog stole back onto the feather bed.

“Brother fire,” he said, as if in prayer, “please warm us all night if you would have it so.”

She smiled, remembering Grandpa Lanza’s comment: Savages!

Stangler was the most scrupulous of men. She almost hated his virtue and integrity.

“I dreamed last night I was at Everleigh once more,” she said as he turned toward the loft. He paused and turned back to face her. “I dreamed I was calling your name, but you were too far away to see or hear. I turned back onto the road looking for you but then my sister Louisa stood in front of me, blocking the way.”

He stood in the moonlight watching her, his chest swelling as if words were ready to spill out and flow to her, but he swallowed, and the space between them closed as if by magic. He was there, ready to climb to the loft; then he was here, hands on her shoulders.

“I’m sure you feel these are the worst of times,” he said gently. His eyes were dark with an ancient hurt. “For me, having you here has made these the best of times. I want to tie back the hands of time and keep you here, alone with me.”

Her throat was so dry she couldn’t make a sound.

“At the inn today I was hoping you would recover your memory of how you came to be here but you didn’t, and I am glad--selfish bastard that I am!--glad that you are still here, still lost in the arms that have found you.”

Her lips parted. Still no words formed, only the familiar tension, the welling up of something great and full, like a raindrop, ready to spill down the window pane.

“I have known many people,” she managed at last, “but never anyone quite like you.”

He quirked a smile at her. “How can you remember that for sure?”

“Whatever memories I have lost must be too painful to bring out of the hidden vault in my mind. It would seem my own maid and her mother orchestrated my death--and Reginald’s. Or maybe the blows to my head knocked the memories out forever and they shall never be retrieved.”

Stangler’s eyes filled with the fire of his Cherokee warriors. He gripped her shoulders. “I would kill anyone who harmed a hair on your head.”

“Would you be able to kill a woman who looked enough like me to be my sister?”

“In cold blood, maybe not.” His hands relaxed their hold on her. “And yet, how can we sleep at night, knowing whoever killed Reginald is out there, free as a bird?”

“Do we know that? Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord. Maybe--”

The raindrop quivered, then fell. Lady Evelyn slid into a kiss, a luscious, long-lasting kiss. It was a letting go of all that was and all that might have been and a seizing of all that could be.

The past did not exist. Tomorrow might never come. There was only him, here and now.

End of Day 14

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