Kobold

The cup knocked three times from inside Marta’s bundle.

She stopped with her hand on the kitchen latch. Behind her, in the dark, a dishcloth continued its slow circles around a pewter plate. No hand held it. The plate turned, caught a little firelight, and settled without a sound upon the stack.

“Take that out,” she said.

The bundle knocked again.

Marta put down her shoes. She had tied them together to carry over her shoulder, saving the soles for the road beyond the village. From the folds of her good shift she drew Bernd’s silver cup.

She knew it by the dent beneath the handle. She had polished around that dent for seven winters.

“You’ll have me whipped.”

“Then you won’t be walking tomorrow.”

The voice was close to her ear, thin and conversational. She swung around. Nothing occupied the space between her and the hanging ladles.

“You heard what he said. I finish tomorrow’s wedding supper, show the new girl her work, and at dawn he pays me. Then I go.”

The cloth squeezed itself over the slop bucket.

“Seven winters,” said the voice.

“Yes.”

“I did the pans.”

“And I thanked you.”

“Very quietly.”

Marta carried the cup to the high shelf, pulled a stool beneath it, and reached. Before she could set the cup down, the door opened.

Bernd stood there in his nightshirt, holding a candle.

For a moment neither of them moved. The cup shone above her head. Her bundle lay open on the floor.

“I heard talking,” he said.

Behind Marta, the dishcloth dropped into the bucket.

The Extra Mouth

By morning her bundle was locked in Bernd’s chest. Her wages lay beside it: twelve small silver coins, which he had counted onto the lid before putting them away. He wanted her to see what she might lose.

The wedding guests would arrive at dusk. His daughter had brought out the best linen. Two geese waited on the kitchen board; the bread was rising beneath a cloth. Marta could not stop thinking about the cup in her hand, the angle at which he had seen it.

She had told him about the kobold.

Saying the word aloud had been worse than she expected. All those clean pans, all those mornings when she had been praised for rising before anyone else. She had stood beside the cold hearth and let Bernd call her the best servant he had ever kept.

Now he sat at the kitchen table with the silver cup between his hands.

“Let it speak.”

“It speaks when it chooses.”

“How convenient.”

“Ask the old cook. She told me where to leave its breakfast.”

“The old cook is dead.”

From the window came a small, satisfied cough.

Bernd turned so sharply that his chair scraped the flags.

“Who’s there?”

“Your best servant,” said the voice.

Marta shut her eyes.

The silver cup rose between Bernd’s hands. He snatched at it, missed, and watched it travel over his shoulder to the shelf. It settled precisely inside the clean circle Marta had left in the dust.

Bernd got up. He examined the window, looked under the table, then thrust his arm into the space the cup had crossed.

A finger flicked his sleeve.

“Careful. That’s me.”

Marta had never seen him afraid before. It lasted only until he looked at the dishes.

“All these?” he asked.

“Every night.”

“And the copper?”

“Look at your face in it.”

He did. Then he laughed.

“Well. We shall need you tonight.”

Marta felt something in her stomach sink. He had used exactly that voice when he first told her she could manage without a kitchen boy.

“The girl I hired is coming at noon,” he said. “Between the two of you there should be no trouble. I’ll have the cellar scrubbed as well.”

A ladle moved on its hook.

“What do you give Marta?”

“Board and wages.”

“What do you give me?”

“You live in my house.”

Marta took the little earthen bowl from behind the flour crock. There was still milk in the jug, and she broke bread into it with fingers that had begun to shake.

Bernd caught her wrist.

“So this is where it goes.”

“It’s a mouthful.”

“A mouthful every morning. Seven years of mouthfuls.”

He took the bowl. Marta reached for it, and he swept his arm aside. The bowl struck the hearthstone. Milk spread through the ash; one curved piece rolled to her bare foot.

Nobody spoke.

Then the ladle stopped moving.

Bernd released her wrist. “You’ll clean that up before my daughter comes in.”

Marta crouched and gathered the fragments. She waited for the voice to laugh, or complain, or say anything at all.

The kitchen had not been so quiet in seven years.

At noon Lene arrived carrying a rolled blanket and a wooden comb. She was taller than Marta had expected, with a fresh blister across one palm from carrying her box.

“Where do I sleep?” she asked.

Marta showed her the narrow bed beside the chimney breast.

“Is it warm?”

“In winter.”

Lene smiled and set the comb on the pillow. Such a small possession, set down with such confidence. Marta almost told her then.

A shout came from the yard. The first cart had arrived early.

“Come,” Marta said. “We need more water.”

What the House Owed

The trouble began with the salt.

Lene put the crock beside the geese. Marta turned to it and found sugar. They searched the shelves while the birds hissed over the fire. When Lene reached into the flour bin, both hands came out white to the wrists and the missing salt crock sat neatly between them.

Neither had heard it fall.

Next, the serving spoons disappeared. They found them in Lene’s blanket, tied so tightly into its corners that Marta had to cut one knot. From the hall came the stamping of feet and the demand for more beer.

Lene stared at the knife in Marta’s hand.

“I didn’t put them there.”

“I know.”

“How?”

A goose slid off its platter.

Marta caught it against her apron. Hot fat ran over her fingers, and she bit down on a cry. Somewhere near the rafters, someone chuckled.

Lene backed against the wall.

“What is that?”

Marta laid the bird on the board. The skin had split where she caught it.

“There’s a kobold in the house.”

“You were going to leave me here?”

The question came without a raised voice. Marta wished Lene had shouted.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

Bernd pushed through the door before she could answer. He took in the torn goose, Marta’s greasy apron, and Lene standing idle by the wall.

“Is this what I hired you for?” he demanded of Lene.

“She didn’t do it.”

“Then get it right.” He pointed to the large kettle hanging beside the hearth. “The guests want the broth. Bring it through.”

Lene looked at Marta. Marta had taught her the heavy work that afternoon: where to stand, how to take the kettle between two people, how to keep the carrying pole clear of the fire. Now Lene would not step close enough to touch her.

Bernd fetched Marta’s tied bundle from the passage and threw it onto the table. He took the coins from his coat and put them beside it.

“There. Before you tell the whole village I cheated you. You can leave as soon as the kitchen is cleared.”

Twelve silver coins. The carrier would take four to get her to the town where her sister lived. She could buy food and arrive with something still in her pocket. She could sleep one night without hearing another person breathe through the wall.

She scooped them into her purse. Lene, avoiding her eyes, slid the carrying pole through the kettle’s handle and waited for her to take the other end.

Then Lene cried out.

The kettle had risen from its hook. One end of the carrying pole slid toward the floor, though neither woman held it. Lene had fallen against the wood box. The kettle hung above her knees, tilting slowly. Broth touched the lip.

Bernd took one step backward.

Marta dropped her bundle and caught the pole.

Its weight drove her shoulder down. She planted her bare feet on the flags and heaved. The kettle levelled, but something pulled against her from the other end, testing her.

“Get out,” she told Lene.

Lene tried to move. Her skirt had caught beneath the wood box.

“Lift it!” Marta shouted at Bernd.

He stared at the kettle.

“The box. Lift the box.”

He bent and dragged it aside. Lene crawled free. The pressure on Marta’s end of the pole eased so suddenly that she nearly sent the kettle into the fire.

“Put it down,” she said.

“You’ve got your money.”

The voice came from just above the steam.

“Put it down.”

“Then go.”

She shifted her hands. A thin stream of broth ran down the iron and spat on the coals. The girl stood in the doorway, holding her skirt away from a wet patch on the hem.

Marta could let go. She could run. Bernd had his house, and his fine supper, and the helper he thought came with the walls.

The pole jerked. She held on.

“You wanted me to stay,” she said.

“I wanted my breakfast.”

“I gave you breakfast.”

“Behind a crock.”

The wood pressed into the burned skin of her fingers. She tried to get one foot under the iron stand beside the hearth and pull it closer, but the leg caught between two flags.

“Lene. The stand.”

The girl did not move.

Marta could hardly blame her.

“I should have told you before you unpacked. I knew it could be spiteful. I let you think the place was yours to choose.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. It still is. Help me set this down, and I’ll walk out with you if you want.”

Lene looked at the kettle, then came forward. Keeping beyond its rim, she dragged the stand into place with both hands.

Marta lowered her end of the pole. For a moment the other end resisted. Then the unseen weight descended with hers.

The kettle met the stand with a dull iron knock.

Marta would not release the pole.

“Bernd. The little table in the passage.”

“What?”

“The one with the short leg. Bring it here.”

“This is my house.”

“I know. What do you want for that table?”

He looked at her purse.

Marta waited. She could feel her pulse in both burned hands.

“All of it,” he said.

Lene made a sound of disgust.

Marta took the purse from her belt and tossed it onto the kitchen board. One coin escaped, spun, and fell flat.

“Table and stool,” she said. “And the space beside the hearth. You’ve been paid.”

Bernd picked up the loose coin before he fetched them.

A Place Beside the Fire

The table rocked when Bernd put it down. He went back to his guests without finding anything to wedge beneath the short leg.

Marta waited until she heard his voice in the hall. Then she eased her hands from the pole.

The kettle stayed still.

She found a sound bowl, ladled broth into it, and cut a heel from the fresh loaf. She carried both to the little table. A split piece of kindling stopped its rocking.

“There,” she said.

The stool scraped forward by itself.

“Mine?”

“Your place.”

“And you?”

“I’m leaving.”

The bowl remained untouched. Behind her, Lene picked up her blanket.

Marta made herself turn away from the table.

“There’s room at my sister’s,” she told the girl. “Not much, but room.”

“How far?”

“Three days on foot.”

She had pictured riding. She had pictured arriving with clean stockings and money to lay beside her sister’s bread. Now her shoes lay under the table, and she would need to get them on before her feet grew too swollen.

Lene looked toward the hall. Someone was singing. Bernd called for another jug, as if nothing had happened.

“I’ll decide in the morning,” she said.

Marta nodded. They could at least wash the burns. There was cool water in the pail.

The spoon lifted from beside the bowl.

“Too much salt,” said the kobold.

For the first time that night Lene looked directly at the empty stool.

“You moved it.”

The spoon paused.

Then it dipped again.

They slept little. Marta showed Lene the flour bin, the larder key, the loose hearthstone that caught the iron stand. She told her where the milk came from and everything she could remember about the voice. When she reached the silver cup, she stopped hiding her part in it.

By dawn Lene had set her comb back on the pillow.

Marta sat on the step to put on her shoes. The left lace had been tied into a hard little knot. Once she would have sworn at it, or begged the air to undo it. She worked it loose with the point of her knife.

Behind her, Lene put a bowl of milk and bread on the small table.

“The stool’s too far away,” said the voice.

Marta held her breath.

Lene took her hands off the bowl.

“Then pull it closer.”

There was a pause. Then a short scrape of wood on stone.

Marta tied her shoe and stepped out onto the road.