Kris Read online

  This was what I wanted. I wanted this more than anything in the world. A reason to injure. A justification to hurt. A deserving enemy to destroy. A fight.

  I lurched up at Markus, who was looking toward the cottage. He never had a chance. My body, launched from the earth, drove my momentum. My arm swung back for maximum damage. And I screamed at him from the depths of my pain as I swung my fist forward.

  A powerfully strong hand grabbed me by the back of the collar and spun me around, suddenly ending my attack.

  Josef looked down on me with drilling, intense eyes.

  “He broke the chairs,” Markus yelled angrily in accusation.

  “He was pinching our food,” Noel added in an echoing chorus.

  Josef looked at each of the boys, as if to warn them not to lie.

  “Jonas?” Josef asked after a moment in his deep, commanding voice. “What have you to say? Is this what happened?”

  Jonas stood nearly frozen with worry and did not dare to speak.

  Josef closely scrutinized him, waiting for an answer, and Jonas nodded his head timidly.

  Josef then grabbed the satchel, which was resting in the snow, and pointed to the broken chairs. “Your people will pay for those,” he said to me gruffly.

  I wiped my dripping nose with the sleeve of my threadbare coat and looked away from Josef in embarrassment. “I have no people,” was all that I could say.

  “Then you’ll work it off,” Josef barked at me. “All of you! There will be no more fighting. Now, get these chairs up to the house. Grab the tarp and tie everything down. Quickly now.”

  I moved to help the others with the chairs.

  “Not you!” Josef said to me forcefully.

  The apprentices went about their duties unloading the wagon and carrying the chairs up the slope.

  Josef approached me and set his hand roughly upon my cheek, lowering my bottom eyelid as he searched. I knew what he was looking for. But the signs of the plague are not always left on the body. He saw nothing but the story of my misery in the tears that never spilled from my eyes.

  “I have a horse.”

  “Then you’ll work his keep off too.”

  We didn’t beat the blizzard. Gerda didn’t have a sprint left in her. Slowing his pace to ours, I would have thought Josef was endangering everyone on his wagon if he didn’t give off the impression of unquestionable control. The last few stretches of land were the most difficult as the road all but disappeared. Despite the last span of days, Gerda seemed to know that a true rest was just ahead and, though not fast, she kept a modest pace.

  The world was nearly an impenetrable blur of white by the time we deposited each of the apprentices at their homes. Jonas’s family was so relieved when they greeted him at the door. Hugs and kisses.

  “Please come in! It’s safer to stay!” they hollered over the deafening wind. Josef waved them off with a polite refusal. Marcus’s father met him at the door with a pat on the shoulder and a simple nod at Josef. No one welcomed Noel home.

  The carpentry shop and Josef’s home were connected, though I couldn’t tell how large they were from the outside. I couldn’t even tell how he located the building until it was right in front of me. We put the horses up before we went to the main house.

  The barn had been mucked out and was just roomy enough for all three horses. We lit the corner stove, though it didn’t quite warm the whole space. I cried when we liberated Gerda from her harness. As we removed each piece, the terrible toll on her body was revealed as was the horrible injustice done by me. There were minor cuts and abrasions from the sheer toil of our hard journey. But the worst, almost too difficult to look at, were the gashes created by the tackle and straps. The breaching, the girth, and the tug had all cut deep wounds through her skin and into the muscle beneath. When we removed the breast collar, without the pressure, blood flowed freely down the front of her legs.

  “How long has she sat in harness?” Josef demanded. “More than seven days?”

  Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t bring myself to answer.

  “Grab that sack and the bucket of water.”

  I quickly complied and started to let her drink.

  “That water is cold. She’ll drink better if you make it warm. The cold water will help to stop the bleeding. Grab another bucket and go outside. There is plenty of snow for you to heat over the fire.”

  When I returned and had set the water on the stove, he called me to his side. He took two huge handfuls of what looked to be finely ground salt from the sack and poured them into the cold bucket of water, mixing it with his hands. Suddenly he grabbed my hands and immersed them in the freezing brine, holding them under.

  “Grab the salt. Grab it in your hands,” he commanded.

  I did as I was told. Slowly he pulled my hands from the bucket and placed them on her wounded body. A salted wound can be a terrible pain, so immediately I drew back.

  “Her suffering cannot be ignored. You will find that the salted water pains her less than water alone and will begin her healing.”

  Josef ran our hands all over her body, guiding them into her deepest injuries.

  “Rid the wound of any dirt and debris. Flush it out. Don’t leave anything, even a piece of her own flesh.”

  Again I recoiled, pulling back. But he firmly held my hands as I cried, pushing them through the cuts and over the abrasions. The flick of her ears and tail, and the deep laboring of her breath were the only signs of her discomfort. And as I worked along her side, I could feel her lean into me, just lightly.

  Though I was not conscious of it, cleansing the atrocities done to her body was a form of purging for me, a kind of absolution for what I had done to her. I had not dealt with the loss of my family and would not for some time. Somehow a form of healing had begun at the rough hands of this old carpenter. As I cleaned her injuries my tears slowed and eventually subsided.

  “She is lucky. Though some wounds are deep, the worst are on her hips and upper thighs, not her abdomen or chest.”

  First with just my hands, then later with a soaked cloth, I cleaned every wound.

  Josef cleared the snow from the door of the carpentry shop, which he simply called the carpentry, and ushered me inside. Candles were lit and the fire stoked. It was definitely warmer than the barn. Josef called to his wife as he removed his coat and hung it near the furnace to dry.

  “Gabriella, we have a new apprentice who will work with us to repay a debt and earn his room and board.”

  I believed he said it for me, reminding me I was welcome, a worker earning his keep, not a burden.

  “Josef? Josef?!” a woman’s worried voice called.

  Josef took me through a dark hallway at the back of the carpentry that opened up into the most glorious little kitchen. I say little because it was smaller than the carpentry, about the size of a bedroom. But it was the first kitchen I had ever seen that was made for cooking, or baking, or something to do with food. I didn’t know. But it smelled fantastic.

  Then the most adorable fleshy young grandmother entered the room from the opposite doorway. I didn’t know if she had grandchildren. It didn’t matter. I didn’t even know if she had children. It didn’t matter. She had the spirit of a grandmother. It was in her eyes. I learned later Gabriella was never blessed with a child of her own but she radiated unconditional love. This of course, did not keep her from berating Josef.

  “Goodness, where have you been, Josef? You knew there was a blizzard coming. You had us scared half to death. If I wasn’t so happy to see you, I would smack you in the head!”

  From behind Gabriella stepped a girl. Her hair was strawberry blonde. Her eyes, sparkling in the flickering firelight, saw me. The world held its breath. Or maybe that was me. She was lovely, and I knew in that moment I would love no other.

  Josef talked as if Gabriella hadn’t said a word, as if he had just walked in from a refreshing spring day of work.

  “Sold most of the chairs. Not all, but most.”


  Gabriella saw me.

  “My God!”

  It was the closest I would ever hear her come to swearing. And truth be told, she may have been praying.

  Gabriella pulled me to a seat by an open oven fire that bathed the room in oranges and reds. She removed my jacket and vigorously began to rub my arms and hands. But all the while I couldn’t take my eyes off the girl. Ensnared, I stared at her. Openly and serenely she looked back. I began to think she was an angel or something from my imagination since no one had acknowledged her existence.

  “Josef, what were you thinking? Now I know that you think those horses are more important than your worrying old wife. But they could have waited.”

  “Gabby,” Josef began.

  She shot Josef the meanest, cutest, angriest look. The girl and I laughed out loud.

  “This is not funny. This poor child needs attention,” she said to the girl, who shared a small smile with me over the absurd cuteness of Gabriella’s vehemence.

  “I mean you, dear,” Gabby said to me, cupping my face. “You are, of course, welcome to laugh, and I hope you do.”

  “Gabby,” Josef tried to interject again.

  “No offense, dear, but you need a warm bath.” Gabby whispered to me. “Josef, warm up some water for a bath.”

  “At this time of night?” he asked.

  Another stern look from Gabriella and Josef gave up the losing battle. Shaking his head, he exited the door. Gabriella took my old tattered coat and looked closely at it and then at me. She placed the coat on a hook next to the door.

  Again she took my icy hands and began to massage them.

  “Dear child,” she exclaimed, “you are nearly frozen. We’ll warm you up soon enough, and I am sure you will feel better.”

  Again the angelic girl stepped out from nowhere, this time holding a basket. Inside were the most glorious golden loaves of bread. I could smell them from where I sat, and my mouth watered as my stomach made a series of embarrassing rumbling sounds.

  “Go ahead,” the girl encouraged, speaking for the first time. “These are for you. Eat until you are full.”

  “Right you are, Sarah,” Gabby said. “We must get you some food and something warm to drink. Sarah, bring some honey for the bread. And I’ll get you a tureen of hot soup to accompany it.”

  Her name was Sarah. She was fourteen and the baker’s girl. She visited the carpentry each day to bring Josef and Gabriella and their apprentices delicious baked goods and to enjoy Gabriella’s motherly company and loving friendship. Her family frequently used these baked goods in barter for Josef’s carpentry services, and he had helped them by building baking racks, cabinets, and tables for their bakery. Sarah would often stay with Gabriella if Josef was away to keep her company and make sure she was safe in case of any crisis. She and Gabby were the best of friends, and although not their daughter, she was more than family.

  Sarah seemed to glide across the room as she retrieved the bucket of honey and the honey dipper and brought them to where I sat.

  “Water is on,” Josef announced as he reentered the room and sat at the table.

  “Sold most of the chairs,” Josef said again, “not all, but most.”

  The women ignored him and went about their work.

  Sarah selected a small loaf of bread from my basket, tore it in half, and coated it with honey oozing off the dipper. As the bread overflowed with the sweet nectar, Sarah licked her fingers and then handed the dripping bread to me. I had never tasted anything so glorious, so sweet.

  Sarah watched me with delight as I ravenously ate the bread and started in on the hearty soup, which Gabriella set beside me in a steaming bowl. As I continued to eat and revel in their kindnesses and generosity, Gabriella and Sarah brought trays of meat and cheese and still more food until I could not eat another morsel, having consumed a magnificent feast that I would remember for all my years.

  They had rescued me.

  They had taken me in when I had no place else to turn. Josef realized this when he looked into my eyes. Gabriella and Sarah were equally wise.

  I didn’t know it then, but I was still in shock. That night I was more alive than I would be for most of the coming year. Even with love, these things take time.

  Josef began to gather bedding from a lower cupboard. “You’ll get a bed in the carpentry,” he said. “The mornings are early. I expect you working by first light.”

  Gabriella stepped in front of Josef, cutting him off as he piled up the blankets and grabbed a lumpy pillow. “There’s time enough for that,” she said. “How about we begin with a name?”

  “KRIS!”

  Trees loomed in the darkness. Small feet ran through the snow. Through the trees my brother Owen slowly walked up the steps of the roadhouse. People poured out of the roadhouse, standing at the door.

  “Who’s he?”

  “Sniveling brat!”

  “Abandoned!”

  “I don’t want him.”

  “I’m not taking care of him.”

  “He’s from the sickness!”

  Owen stepped onto the porch. The roadhouse giant stepped forward from the crowd, placed his foot on the chest of my brother, and gave him a mighty push.

  “Leave him to die!”

  Owen turned his head and looked straight at me. His violet eyes pleaded for help. Silently, his mouth called my name.

  “KRIS!”

  I jolted awake. Another morning had dawned.

  Light poured through the doorway of my makeshift room. At Gabriella’s bidding Josef had boxed in my cot at the back of the shop with standing shelves so that I might have some place of solitude.

  I poked my head out and could see across the room to the windows. The storm had broken and departed. Josef was busy examining a piece of lumber. Silently I set about organizing my sleeping space and putting it back in order, folding my bedding and stacking it in a corner so that it would not be an obstacle.

  “KRIS!” Josef yelled as he began sawing into the lumber.

  I moved in front of him to gain a better view and watch him work, unsure what else to do.

  Markus, Jonas, and Noel, who were busy with various tasks, eyed me with disdain. I felt embarrassed for having slept so long, vulnerable. This would be the first and last day I overslept. I only hoped I hadn’t spoken in my sleep. Their eyes were upon me as I helped Josef anchor the piece of lumber at his instruction while he continued to finish off a clean cut.

  The carpentry was filled with the tools of Josef’s trade, a wide assortment of unusual saws, knives, chisels, punches, hammers, mallets, gougers, planes, wood-turning lathes, and various other implements used to measure and hold wood, including a collection of ingenious grips and vices, which Josef had no doubt devised and fabricated, along with drafting tables, cutting tables, storage bins, and shelves that contained scrolls of drawings and plans, sawdust-covered books, and small carved cornices.

  The carpentry itself was shaped like a large, open barn, twice the length of its width. At the far end were two swinging doors that opened to the outside, which allowed room for the larger finished pieces to be carried out. To the left of the barn doors were stacks of raw, uncut wood and scraps. To the right lived a very organized system of separating wood based on size and shape. Along the length of the rest of the right wall, above a working counter, hung most of the tools of the shop. On the counter, a grouping of small baskets was filled with screws and pegs of varying lengths and sizes. The space itself was broken up by three long tables. Just to the left of the counter, two tables ran end-to-end. I could tell by the mess that this was where the apprentices worked. To the left of the length of tables set the third workspace. This table was neat and organized. I could almost tell the logic of the intended undertaking for the day. These pegs, these pieces, would become an arm. These screws, these pieces, would become the back of a chair. I could see how they would be assembled and where the worker would position his body from one task to the next. Josef had set out his day’
s work.

  On the right wall, in the back of the carpentry, sat a large furnace surrounded by neat stacks of split logs. Just to the left were the shelves that framed my sleeping area, a cot with just enough room to walk around. In the back corner, opposite the furnace, was the doorway into that glorious kitchen with its delicious smells, promising breakfast. High along the left wall ran a series of windows that cast light throughout the carpentry. Beneath the windows sat a few large lathes with dowels in various stages of crafting and completion. A single door split the wall to the outside.

  Markus stood at a small table by the stack of raw wood, sanding boards. His sanding created a fine dust that he occasionally blew at Noel as Noel walked by, carrying bundles of wood cut into standard shapes and sizes.

  Jonas was sweeping up the sawdust and debris in a constant state of frustration due to the new piles of sawdust Markus made each time Jonas got closer to completing his task. Markus seemed to hesitate and hold each new release of the pilings until just after Jonas had swept up a hefty batch and dumped it in an old wooden barrel by the scrap heap.

  Throughout the day I watched with fascination as Josef transformed pieces of raw wood into strong and useful objects, both functional and beautiful expressions of his craftsmanship and artistry. His instructions to me were filled with depth and life—words which, throughout my training, would shape and hone my being.

  This was the solution to reuniting my family. If I could learn this trade, I could take care of my brothers and sisters. And in that moment I decided I was going to master this craft. One year, I gave myself. If they could only survive this one year, I could save them. This was the pact I made with myself on my first day as an apprentice.

  I studied each of the boys as they engaged in their tasks and every move Josef made as he sliced and trimmed pieces of lumber or sawed massive boards into sections or shaved the bark off thick logs that might soon become pieces of elegant chairs or sturdy tables.

  Josef wedged his saw into a log and then instructed me. “Remember. Measure twice, cut once. Now, two-foot lengths until I tell you otherwise.”