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wood pipes. He now noticed that they were even more out of tune. The organ needed healing, and Elias decided to ensure that the organ would soon be healthy. He would not rest, he whispered to himself, until he had found her soul again.
    When the tower clock struck for the eighth time, the beadle opened the portals for the Rorate Mass. By this time Elias had already cleared away all traces of his nocturnal work, cleanly removed the clump of wax, locked the loft, and given the key back to St. Wolfgang. Then he crept home.
    In the stable, Seff was amazed that the boy had already milked all the cows, strewn fresh straw, and even strained the milk. Seff gave him a sleepy Christ-be-praised, and Elias answered with a proud Forever-Amen. Then he inquired into the health of his mother, for Seff’s wife was–despite the loveless union between the Alder parents–again awaiting a happy event, and the day of her third confinement was not far off. Seff nodded, and at the same time they both begged the Lord to give them a child healthy in mind in body. Seff and the boy loved each other, that is true. And Elias could have embraced his father with joy, and smelled his hair, as he had smelled the stable hat on bad nights. That is true too.

SO JOYFUL IS THE DAY
    THE Föhn is roaring in the village, dancing like Satan, bending apple trees, breaking windows, plucking shingles from the roofs, burrowing in the haystacks and raising dust, furiously banging the shutters closed. To­ward midday, it knocks over a Lamparter’s salt cart along with his two oxen, and the Lamparter has to kill the animals, for their hooves are ruined. Two days before Nativity nothing would make one think of Christmas. It smells of rain, and the sky is already turning blue again. The Föhn constantly sends the clouds whirling. The pastures have dried up; the Em­mer is a mere trickle. The forest animals are thirsty. And strangely, here and there the willows already bear catkins.
    On the day of 24 December 1815 the Föhn seems to be subsiding. The wind turns northerly, the squalls grow calm. Sometimes a gust of wind shakes the girders of the stables and the farms. It is dry and tepid. People walk around without jackets, in their shirtsleeves. Dur­ing these days and nights no one in Eschberg dares to light a fire, not even a candle for prayer. Everyone knows–the children know from the menacing tales and the suddenly frightened eyes of the old people–what an open flame can do when the Föhn is blowing. Early on Christmas Eve one Lamparter goes from farm to farm, to prevent everyone, by force if need be, from lighting their Christmas tree candles. He creeps around, peering into rooms and stables, and sees not even the palest glow. He sniffs for chimneys and does not smell the merest hint of cold smoke. Then he walks more peacefully and dons his Sunday clothes, ready for Midnight Mass.
    At the top of the gorge called St. Peter’s Rock, in the dusty twilight, is the figure of Peter Alder. Sitting there for who knows how long, sitting like a toad, glaring at the tinderbox, and his hand fingers his dangling arm. Beside him purrs the marmalade cat, his sister Elsbeth’s favorite animal. Peter always takes the cat with him when something is wrong. Again he looks at the swelling of his little arm and bites back the pain. No, he will never go crawling, not even if his mouth is dry with hunger. Has he not sat for five nights and more in damp ditches, without a bite in his belly? No, he will not beg his father’s forgiveness, he will not fall on his knees and repent the theft, even if it costs him his Holy Mass. His plan is irrevocable. Today he will kill his father. He must perish tonight. Peter looks at the swelling, bites shreds from his lips, and imagines how his father will die. Then he grows miserable with pain. Why should he bear this suffering alone? He takes the stone, reaches for a paw, and breaks the purring cat’s leg.