Read Online The Witch's Trinity by Erika Mailman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Erika Mailman
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Hensel returned. I pulled at the skin of my forearm and saw the true outline of my bone as clearly defined as any saint’s relic. I should already be buried in the churchyard.
7
He who chops wood is the cause of the actual fire.
—M ALLEUS M ALEFICARUM
H ensel and I had wed in the year of the mute wolf, on a June day. He milled in the morning, but the men all converged upon him at once and dumped their grain upon his head for merriment, and so as I stood next to him for the trothing I smelled the wheaty odor. He winked at me throughout the ceremony, so much so that I giggled and earned a frown from the priest. I had remained a virgin for him, although Künne had told me I was foolish to wait so long since I already had his promise. The night I made love for the first time was the first night I’d spent in this cottage; our marriage bed was the one now used by Jost, Irmeltrud, and the two children.
All the wedding party gathered at the window, pushing each other aside to lift the cloth and peer inside. They jostled for space, shouting lewdly, “Open your legs wide then, Güde!” and “You’ll have to press through the briars to find the cuckoo’s nest, Hensel!”
Künne’s face appeared. She made no call but simply grinned and winked in at me.
“Can we not pin down the cloth?” I pleaded.
“Aw, give them their pleasure too,” said Hensel, smiling gently. “It’s summertime! We are all lovers now.” He positioned his body so his head blocked the view of the window for me. Such a handsome face! The eyes that wrestled with a gentian for the best kind of blue, and the strong jaw with soft whiskers. Hensel’s eyelashes were longer than a broom’s straw and I sank into his kiss until I didn’t care who saw my legs wrapped around him, and eventually giggled at the thought of his arse pumping away to their amusement.
Afterward, I pulled my gown back down—clean white it was, embroidered with tiny bluebells by my steady hand—and we invited everyone in to sit at the table and eat with us. They crowded in, the entire village practically, except for Ottilie Shuster, who’d set her cap on Hensel and spent our wedding day crying in the forest. They were so many that they sat upon the bed—making great sport of avoiding the wet area where Hensel’s seed had leaked—and upon the ground and leaned against the wall…and there was so much food back then! We had nary a thought of not sharing what we had; there was so much. Hensel’s mill was going all the day to grind the meal and oft he had to tell the men to return the next day; he had all he could do to grind what he had. There was a flock of sheep on the hill that was his, and he traded for whatever else we needed. That day we offered our guests bread, and lard cakes, and lamp chops with fat sizzling around the edges of the meat, and a profusion of radishes. Everyone ate to satisfaction, making the sign of the meat, the women coming to kiss my belly for the life that might be in it already and the men pinching my cheeks to retain the redness Hensel’s romping had brought to them. I had thought the cottage would burst for all the life in it, for the merry songs that would end in laughter, the milky puddle that embarrassed me and still clung to my thighs, and the women calling out the names of the animals who assist fertility. And the gurgle of the tankards being filled, my own arm aching from the filling and refilling of the pitcher, but minding not, for I couldn’t stop smiling and every time I walked past Hensel he would grab my waist and pull me onto his lap to make everyone cheer, and how many times I was kissed that day! And how I too ate, my fingers darting like crows onto the trenchers to grab a bite here and there, thinking perhaps a child was inside me needing its first bite of lamb—and there was a child. It was Jost, hearing the cries of the villagers’ good time too, and the song about the alewife’s bosom.
They didn’t
7
He who chops wood is the cause of the actual fire.
—M ALLEUS M ALEFICARUM
H ensel and I had wed in the year of the mute wolf, on a June day. He milled in the morning, but the men all converged upon him at once and dumped their grain upon his head for merriment, and so as I stood next to him for the trothing I smelled the wheaty odor. He winked at me throughout the ceremony, so much so that I giggled and earned a frown from the priest. I had remained a virgin for him, although Künne had told me I was foolish to wait so long since I already had his promise. The night I made love for the first time was the first night I’d spent in this cottage; our marriage bed was the one now used by Jost, Irmeltrud, and the two children.
All the wedding party gathered at the window, pushing each other aside to lift the cloth and peer inside. They jostled for space, shouting lewdly, “Open your legs wide then, Güde!” and “You’ll have to press through the briars to find the cuckoo’s nest, Hensel!”
Künne’s face appeared. She made no call but simply grinned and winked in at me.
“Can we not pin down the cloth?” I pleaded.
“Aw, give them their pleasure too,” said Hensel, smiling gently. “It’s summertime! We are all lovers now.” He positioned his body so his head blocked the view of the window for me. Such a handsome face! The eyes that wrestled with a gentian for the best kind of blue, and the strong jaw with soft whiskers. Hensel’s eyelashes were longer than a broom’s straw and I sank into his kiss until I didn’t care who saw my legs wrapped around him, and eventually giggled at the thought of his arse pumping away to their amusement.
Afterward, I pulled my gown back down—clean white it was, embroidered with tiny bluebells by my steady hand—and we invited everyone in to sit at the table and eat with us. They crowded in, the entire village practically, except for Ottilie Shuster, who’d set her cap on Hensel and spent our wedding day crying in the forest. They were so many that they sat upon the bed—making great sport of avoiding the wet area where Hensel’s seed had leaked—and upon the ground and leaned against the wall…and there was so much food back then! We had nary a thought of not sharing what we had; there was so much. Hensel’s mill was going all the day to grind the meal and oft he had to tell the men to return the next day; he had all he could do to grind what he had. There was a flock of sheep on the hill that was his, and he traded for whatever else we needed. That day we offered our guests bread, and lard cakes, and lamp chops with fat sizzling around the edges of the meat, and a profusion of radishes. Everyone ate to satisfaction, making the sign of the meat, the women coming to kiss my belly for the life that might be in it already and the men pinching my cheeks to retain the redness Hensel’s romping had brought to them. I had thought the cottage would burst for all the life in it, for the merry songs that would end in laughter, the milky puddle that embarrassed me and still clung to my thighs, and the women calling out the names of the animals who assist fertility. And the gurgle of the tankards being filled, my own arm aching from the filling and refilling of the pitcher, but minding not, for I couldn’t stop smiling and every time I walked past Hensel he would grab my waist and pull me onto his lap to make everyone cheer, and how many times I was kissed that day! And how I too ate, my fingers darting like crows onto the trenchers to grab a bite here and there, thinking perhaps a child was inside me needing its first bite of lamb—and there was a child. It was Jost, hearing the cries of the villagers’ good time too, and the song about the alewife’s bosom.
They didn’t
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