Breath (9781439132227) Read Free Page A

bucket, and the liver goes back inside the bird.
    There are eighteen birds in all: seven jays, six sparrows, and five starlings. Three consecutive numbers. That feels right. My own hand got these birds—with nothing more than a rock. I’m the best birder in the family; I throw hard and accurate.
    I arrange the birds in the pan, tucking their heads under one wing. They look like they’re sleeping. Großmutter adds poppy oil to the spiced filling and spoons it in all around. Then she hands me the knife again.
    This is my favorite part. I pinch the two long sides of dough into wing shapes. Then I cut at a slant along the bottom edges and separate the dough, so it looks like the feathers of a hawk. I fold the dough wings over the center, making a top crust for the bird pie.
    While it’s cooking, the wind picks up. Rain comes. It sounds dull on our steep straw roof, but I can tell it’s pelting already.
    Father and my brothers are out in the fields getting the ground ready for sowing. It’s hard labor even here in Weserbergland—the Weser hill country—where the fields are more arable than anywhere else in God’s creation. That’s why I’mnot out there with them; I’m no good at hard labor. But I did my share—I sprinkled the brew with Großmutter. I prayed for the fertility of the earth. I wish our coven could have danced, like we did last spring, when we still had our piper. But our chants were longer and louder.
    I climb the stairs and grab four blankets off the beds. Then I rush back down, just in time. They come in the door, dripping and stamping their boots. Großmutter and I wrap them in the blankets and rub their backs.
    There’s a warming oven in the common room, but they come into the kitchen instead, lured by the smell of the bird pie. They line up in front of the fireplace.
    â€œSee how fast we got inside,” says Father. “Warmth and comfort just minutes from the field.” He stretches his hands toward the fire.
    Bertram, my oldest brother, says nothing, though Father’s remark is directed at him.
    It’s an ongoing battle between them. Bertram desperately wants us to move to town. Our farmstead is one of the few remaining outside the town walls. Most other farmers now live in narrow town houses and have to walk sometimes up to an hour just to get to their fields.
    â€œIt doesn’t usually rain this bad,” says Melis. “This spring is wetter than most. Normally, a nice walk home from the fields on a spring or summer evening would be welcome.”
    I’m surprised. Melis is but a year older than me. He usually keeps his mouth shut. But Bertram is looking at his hands in his lap, avoiding Father’s face, so I get it: The brothers have conspired. They’re ganging up on Father.
    And he knows it. He looks at Ludolf. “What have you got to add?”
    â€œDid you hear that the bakery in town opens twice a day now?” Ludolf swallows, and his Adam’s apple moves visibly; his neck is so thin you’d think he was twelve like me, rather than fifteen. It’s funny to hear Ludolf talking with enthusiasm about food; Großmutter’s always nagging him to eat. She says he eats too little for his height. “They’ll keep it up till the summer heat,” he says. “You can eat fresh bread at daybreak and fresh bread at night, and never have to use your own oven.”
    Father doesn’t look at me. But I won’t be left out—I’m one of the brothers, whether Bertram includes me in his schemes or not. “And you can go in the church any spare moment, without a long walk.” I look to Melis for support—he’s my onlybrother with an interest in the church. If I were strong enough to work in the fields, he’d be the one studying to become a cleric, not me. He hates farmer’s work.
    â€œPiss posing as beer—that’s what those arguments are,” says