Back on the barrens, Hans prepared for his own night of horror. It was the new moon, the time that Knobbe had decreed he must rob his first grave.
Three days earlier, Hans had woken to the sight of the royal carriage galloping up Castle Hill. He’d snuck home to the cave, racked with guilt. It’s a terrible thing to steal from the dead, he’d thought, but how can I abandon Papa? He saved my life. When Hans had begged forgiveness, the grave robber’d grunted, “If it’s forgiveness you want, do my feet. They’ve swelled up fierce.” Hans had rubbed the bloated pads and Knobbe had welcomed him home.
Now Hans wondered if maybe he should’ve stayed away after all. Within the hour he’d be stripping a corpse of its rings and boots, its glasses and teeth. He’d be touching decayed flesh; feeling the damp where the rot oozed.
He swallowed hard and watched as Knobbe tossed on the old monk’s robe he’d stolen from an abbey. The robe had a large hood that covered his head and hid the rat scar on his cheek. Knobbe considered it a perfect disguise. Hans wasn’t so sure. He figured anyone would be curious to see a monk with a shovel standing over a corpse in an open grave.
Knobbe glanced over. “What are you staring at, lazybones?”
“Nothing.” Hans looped a rope around his shoulder and picked up his wooden shovel. His hands sweat so much it nearly slid from his grip.
“What’s wrong with you?” Knobbe demanded. “You’re about to strip your very first coffin. Show some enthusiasm.”
Hans closed his eyes and tried to imagine birdsongs. “I’m ready.”
“Then we’re off.” Knobbe raised a lantern and guided them into the dark. “Your task tonight is a good deed for a widow in need,” he said as they crossed the barrens. “You remember Yorick Grimwort, the scoundrel who gambled his fortune and left his poor wife to pay his debts?”
Hans nodded glumly.
“Well, the widow Grimwort was no fool,” Knobbe confided. “Before the bailiffs could claim her valuables, she sewed them in his stomach. He was buried full of coins and cutlery. Now the widow’s begged a favor: that I might fetch them back in exchange for some of the pretties. Returning the poor woman’s treasures is the least the good Lord would have us do.”
Yorick Grimwort was planted with the damned in the unholy ground of Potter’s Field, a vast boneyard that stretched beyond the iron gates of the village church. It was an awful, lonely place. Aside from a whistle of wind, the only sounds were the whispers of villagers seeking the Necromancer for a spell and the scurry of his Weevil gang lurking in the tall grass.
Hans and Knobbe gingerly made their way across the pitted terrain of brambles, weed, and rock. Every so often they passed a grave marked by a brick. Most often, though, the only marker was a hollow in the ground where the coffin below had collapsed. How awful to be alone and forgotten, Hans thought.
They arrived at Yorick’s resting place. Hans’ cheeks went pale as the moon. He began to dig, his insides churning with every shovel of earth. At last he reached the coffin. He closed his eyes and pictured himself as a bird flying high and free in the fresh air. Then he took a deep breath and pried open the lid.
In life, Yorick Grimwort had smelled of old fish guts. Death hadn’t improved matters. Hans wriggled a rag from his pocket and pressed it over his nose. He opened his eyes. At that very moment, a beetle crawled out of Yorick’s left nostril and waved its antennae. Hans promptly heaved.
“In the name of the Great Himself!” Knobbe exclaimed. “There’s no need to make the job disgusting. Where’s your respect for the dead?”
“I’m sorry,” Hans said as he scrambled out of the grave.
Knobbe cursed, eased down into the hole, and straddled the corpse. He lifted Yorick’s tunic and tugged at the cord the widow Grimwort had sewn across her husband’s belly. The stitch fell away. Knobbe pulled out coins and cutlery like stuffing from a turkey. But when he hauled the loot up from the hole, a spasm seared his lower back.
“Aaa!” He lurched his head toward Hans. “Useless wretch. You’re the cause of my pain. Rob a grave by month’s end, or I’ll cast you out. Now go!”
Hans ran from Potter’s Field, the words burning in his ears. He’d never be able to steal from the dead. So how could he gain his father’s love?
Once more, he ended up at the stand of bulrushes at the foot of Castle Hill. Lanterns lit the gates above. Torches glowed from the halls beyond the windows. Lamplight twinkled like stars from the upper parapets. The castle appeared to be resting, peaceful and happy, awaiting the return of its noble family.
Hans remembered his glimpse of the royal coach. How wonderful it must have been for the Little Countess to ride to the palace in that magnificent carriage. How exciting to be the guests of the archduke himself. What a thrill to have all those soldiers at their command.
Hans wished he could be so lucky.