The return to the village takes forever, because Godel, in her mother’s grief, wavers between giving up and inevitably freezing to death at the side of the road, and pulling herself together because the infant needs her, as do the three other children who are waiting at home. Martin props up her up and helps as best he can. But when the village comes into sight Godel finally breaks down, because now she catches a glimpse of the everyday life that awaits her, when the first great period of mourning is over and she will be condemned to eternal pain. How much she will miss the little girl. The blond plait on the pillow in the mornings. The serious little face as she goes about her duties in the kitchen. But from now on, she will only sense the little girl in the corner of her eye. Like a gentle visitor from another world. She will pause for a moment in her daily chores and hope that the angel might stay, and she will barely dare to breathe. And yet the figure will fade. And each time, Godel’s heart will weaken, and the pain will accompany her to her deathbed, together with the agonising question of what happened to the child.
And so Godel breaks down completely. The pain is already etched into her face and she looks years older. Tears pour down her face incessantly, and milk drips from her dress. Now she wants to lie here, oblivious to anything around her. Martin can’t rouse her any more, so eventually he leans her against a tree trunk together with the infant. He hastens the rest of the way to fetch help. The boy reaches the village and shouts with what little breath he has left in his lungs after running so fast.
But because the villagers have so many misgivings about Martin, it takes an intolerably long time for them to understand the seriousness of the situation, the tale of the horseman, the calamity, and to rush down the hill, jackets flying, to help Godel. What lamentation breaks out then! They carry Godel away. Her last glance is towards Martin, and he can read it. Never again will he go to market with her. She will avoid him from now on. But perhaps he is to blame. Perhaps the black devil attracted the misfortune after all.
Exhausted, Martin stays behind at the well and rests a fair while before setting off home. The cottage on the edge of the forest, whose door has been kicked in. Although there is nothing to steal. Just a jug. The blankets and the sheaf of straw that serves as his bed.
The rooster manages to find some corn and crumbs in between the floorboards. When was the last time any baking or cooking took place here? A long time ago. Martin makes a fire, because these times call for a fire, not because he needs it. He holds his hands, frozen blue, over the embers, not because he yearns for their heat, but as an act of self-preservation.
He knows that his mind works better when he takes care of his body, at least a little. He drinks something and digs out the apple he found recently and has saved as an iron ration. He shares it with the rooster. The rooster gets the worms.
Martin chews slowly and stares into the flames. He strokes the rooster and is still awake long after the stars have come out. A whisper grips his soul; it comes from the rooster and from his own heart and becomes a decision, the gravity of which no one can take from him. The horseman; he needs to find the horseman. He will go in search of the vanished children. He uses this knowledge like a protective cloak, deep inside him. He knows now that his life has a purpose.
He falls asleep sitting up and doesn’t wake until the early hours of the morning, when a terrible clattering and banging pulls the world from its night-time peace and a cart pulled by a donkey comes rumbling across the hard, frozen field at the bottom edge of the forest. A blond child is sitting on the box bashing two metal discs together.