Brede awakens a seventeen-year sickness

The afternoon was dragging, and though they were well into October, the space between dinner and supper seemed as long as at Midsummer. The wine Brede had drunk at dinner had not settled well, and he was looking forward to his bread and cheese: he wanted to distract his stomach with some honest labor.

His stomach was reminiscing and reliving queasinesses past. He had felt just this way once, when he was a little boy, as his stomach reminded him.

It had been one of the seasons when his father’s debts had weighed more heavily than usual, and his Uncle Aelfden had not been in the country to see that the children were at least well-​​fed. Little Brede had found a hard-​​cooked egg in the kitchen, and though the yolk was a little green, and though it did not smell quite right to his six-year-old’s nose, still it had been so long since he had had an entire egg to himself that he had eaten it.

A few hours later he had felt just as he felt now: a little green and a little rotten himself. He felt like he still had that seventeen-​​year-​​old spoiled egg in his stomach. A bit of bread and a cup or two of cider would be just the thing to settle it. Something light…

He was a prosperous man now, he reminded himself: not only debt-​​free but wealthy in land and wealthy in silver. He could certainly afford a snack in the middle of the afternoon. He was just about to head out to the kitchens when he heard a scream in the hall.

He threw open the door with such force that it rebounded from the wall against his hand and back against the wall again. Instinct and reflex had taken him that far, but now his mind had to understand. Here were his three oldest children and his wife, and no one was lying on the floor in a pool of blood, and no one was touching anyone else. There was only Estrid on her knees across the room – Estrid wailing over a basket that contained a jumble of blankets–

Brede’s heart seemed to burst open with anguish, and the muscles of his arms contracted with helpless rage against the Lord. His baby was dead. Those three or four seconds were the worst of Brede’s twenty-​​three years of life.

Then he saw that the limp limbs protruding from the blankets were covered with wet, gray fur.

“What in the name of God?” he cried.

Estrid threw back her head and wailed, “Hundr!”

“The cat!”

The tense muscles of his arm wanted to slap some sense into her. She was blubbering over a cat when their baby was alive and well upstairs?

“Daeglan drowned my cat!” she sobbed.

Brede’s breath caught in his throat and stuck there. He never paid much attention to his son’s behavior in such situations, for Daeglan would have stood with the same glassy-​​eyed inattention if the trump of doom had sounded and the two hundred thousand thousand horsemen had come thundering past on either side of him.

“What did you say?” Brede hissed.

“Daeglan drowned my poor cat! My poor kitten!”

“What did you do, boy?”

“He didn’t mean to!” Dyrne sniffled.

“Shut up! Let him talk for himself for once! What did you do, boy? Did you drown this cat?”

Daeglan’s eyes snapped to life. “I drowned this cat.”

Brede’s arms shook with anger. “Why?” he barked.

“‘Cause I was mad at Mama ’cause she wouldn’t let me go play with the puppies. So I drowned her cat to make her mad and sad.”

Estrid had risen and was wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

“You killed this poor animal because your mother wouldn’t let you go play? Killed it dead?”

“Brede…” Estrid murmured.

“Shut up! Answer me, boy!”

“I killed this poor animal dead,” he repeated dully, as if it were a lesson he was supposed to learn.

Brede’s arms shook with helpless fury. There was no talking to the boy. There was no reasoning he could understand.

“Look at your mother! Look at her crying! Is that what you want? To make your mother cry?”

“Yes.”

Brede’s arm went up, and it was with some difficulty that he coaxed it down again. But it had frightened Estrid meanwhile.

“Brede,” she whimpered, “he doesn’t understand.”

“He will understand by the time I’m done with him! By God! I shall make him understand!”

“Brede, don’t…”

“I want to go play with my puppies,” Daeglan announced.

“No puppies for you! How would you like it if I drowned all your puppies, too? What then?”

Daeglan clenched his fists at his sides and shouted, “No!”

“I should wager you would be feeling a little mad and sad then, wouldn’t you?” Brede taunted.

“Don’t you dare!”

“No more puppies for you! No more animals for you! If you can kill this cat, you can’t be trusted!”

“I shall kill you!” Daeglan howled, his pale face pink with rage. “When I get big I shall kill you dead! I shall drown you in the pond!”

“What did you say?” Brede roared.

“I shall kill you dead! And you shall go straight to Hell!”

“What did you say?”

Estrid and Dyrne were both whinnying in panic, and Finna sat bawling on the floor.

“You shall go straight to Hell and burn in Hell forever and ever! I hate you!”

Somehow Brede had known he would hear those three words. Somehow he had been waiting for those three words. His arm went up again, and this time he let it fly.

Daeglan’s head hit the floor, rebounded, and hit the floor again. But somehow Brede knew he would be on his feet in no time. Somehow Brede knew Daeglan would stand up and face him, though his eyes were full of tears and his lips were quivering. He had never hit one of his children before, but somehow he had known just how it would be.

Then he understood how it was that he knew. He could see it all again, just as clearly as he had seen himself eating that seventeen-​​year-​​old egg. There was his Mama, sniveling into her sleeve because she was too afraid to sob and call attention to herself. There was little Sigi, pulling her skirt up over her face so she would not have to see, and there was tiny Synne, bawling on the floor.

There was young Brede, with his lips quivering, his cheek throbbing, and his eyes full of tears, but knowing himself the only other man in the house, and standing up to face his father.

And there was his father. He had always hated his father, and since his father’s death he had always known and always satisfied himself with the knowledge that his father was burning in Hell forever and ever.

Brede could not see his father now, but it was because he was standing in his father’s place.

“No!” he howled. “No! You shall not make me into him!”

Estrid squeaked, “Brede!” and pulled Daeglan and Dyrne against her skirts.

“I won’t let you!”

Daeglan responded to his mother’s caress by breaking into tears, as Brede had known he would, as little Brede always had.

“He doesn’t understand,” Estrid whimpered. “He doesn’t know.”

“He had better learn! Before he drowns the baby!”

“Brede!”

“Leave me alone! All of you! If you know what’s good for you!”

Brede turned and stalked away from them, shaking with helpless fury. He would go to the kitchens as he had intended, and he would eat his bread and cheese at any hour he pleased, and he would drink his wine, and he would settle that seventeen-​​year-​​old sickness.

He threw the door open as he passed, and it rebounded against the wall and swung slowly shut behind him.