By Richard Harvell
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Sample text
His reply came a few days later in the form of a young priest scowling at Kilchmar’s door—a learned father Karl Victor Vonderach. “Just the man,” read the bishop’s letter, “for a posting on a cold, distant mountain. ” Now the church had a master, twelve rustic pews, and a roof that kept out a good deal of the rain, but it still did not have what Kilchmar had promised them. It did not have its bells. And so Kilchmar packed his cart, kissed his wife, and said he would undertake an expedition to St.
By the time of my birth she had been living for some years in a small alpine hut adjacent to the church. No, that is inaccurate. My mother lived in the belfry. She came to the hut only when the belfry, exposed to the mountains’ bitter weather, became too cold, or too full of snow, or when she had hunger for the cheese rinds and cold gruel the villagers left for her, or when the summer lightning storms swept down the valley and struck our belfry—they often did, the bells ringing as if tolled by ghosts.
At least twice a summer the church was struck, and I know she was thinking we should be huddled in our hut. As the storm moved over us, the bells sung a soft warning. My mother looked up, for she heard it in her gut. Run, they said. She took me in her arms and fled down the ladder. Lightning crashed, the echoes rumbled in the valley. I listened for the sounds of feet trudging in the mud, but in the torrent I heard the splotch of a thousand boots, the mashing of a thousand lips. In the thunder’s rumble I heard a million Karl Victors curse.