Breath (9781439132227) by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

I look over my shoulder. It’s the widow in our coven. She squeezes hard. And I remember: I mustn’t draw attention to myself. The supreme head of our coven warned us all—these are times for coven members to fade from the public’s mind. “It’s bad,” I say, bowing my head.
    â€œThe worst we’ve ever had,” says the man.
    â€œWe’ll have to call Pater Frederick here for advice,” says another.
    â€œIf he’ll come to a sick town.”
    â€œIn the meantime we can’t just wait around. We have to do something.”
    Already everyone’s declaring war on the rats. I look for the beautiful widow, to thank her, and maybe to squeeze her wrist back—to see where that leads—but she’s gone.
    I wander through the market, looking vaguely at the booths. My eyes go across things I know so well, goods made by locals. I seek out oddities. Where are the colorful Arab goods?
    And I realize there aren’t any. In fact, none of the merchants looks like a stranger. Not a single one.
    That’s what the man in the crowd meant: The word has gotten around that Hameln is sick. People from other parts are staying away. That’s why thetraveling merchant Großmutter gave the schilling to hasn’t brought me the Arab medicine.
    Suddenly Hugo’s beside me. I haven’t seen him since Großmutter fed the cows blackberries soaked in holy water. “Are you still a good aim?” he asks me.
    â€œThe best,” I say. After all, I can guess what’s on his mind. False humility would serve no purpose.
    We walk to the edge of the market and pick up stones.
    â€œLead us to your rats,” shouts Hugo.
    We go from house to house, killing rats. Other boys join us. But it’s clear I’m the best at it.
    Over the next several days I’m in demand. Me, more than anyone else. It didn’t take long for people to learn of my unerring aim. I’m the king rat killer. Some townsfolk give me a little extra something—a spool of thread; a witch-hazel broom; even, once, a small bag of Arab rice—if I come right into their home and kill as many as I see. One old woman gave me a hand-carved crucifix with ivory inlay. I don’t know how on earth she came to own something so beautiful—and I refused to take it. But when I left her home, she forced it into my hand. I gave it to Melis. I already have a crucifix that Pater Frederick gave me anyway. It’s not nearly so nice, but who needs two?
    Most people don’t pay me, though. And that’s fine. Seeing a dead rat is payment enough.
    They’re everywhere. In the open sewers, of course. But also in the shops, even the fancy millinery shops.
    I take on the task with zeal. I hate these rats. I hate seeing our cattle suffer. I hate seeing the sows give birth early, to little balls of white hide that never squirm like piglets should. Or, even worse, to skin-and-bones piglets that die from lack of milk before the sun sets. And I never want to see a man convulsing on the ground again. If it were up to me, there’d be no rats left anywhere on Earth.
    By the week’s end dead rats hang on leather strings nailed to the door of every home in town. May their rotting flesh fend off others.
    And by the week’s end something else happens: Großmutter comes home with a girl child in tow. Short and fat-cheeked, with something that looks like mud in her hair and makes it stick to one side of her face.
    Father brings his fist down on the table so hard the bowls clear over on the shelf clatter.
    â€œDon’t bother with your shenanigans,” says Großmutter before he can speak. “She’s an orphan. And forget trying to sell her. No one’sbuying children from Hameln now—not with our woes.”
    â€œBut she doesn’t know hunger, just look at her,” says Father. “She’s a servant’s offspring, no doubt—she’s the onus of the