Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel by Stefan Kiesbye Page A

drifted and for the first time I remembered the legends of the real heir and asked myself if I’d just met him. If the legend turned out to be true,how would the von Kamphoff family react to my discovery? What would Bruno say? Would he have to relinquish the manor? Would he beg me to keep what I knew a secret? Before my thoughts turned to dreams, this became more than just a possibility. The stranger was my key to the Big House.
    In the morning I rose before my father, who smiled with satisfaction when he came into the kitchen and found the coffee ready. “Found your appetite again?” he said.
    I nodded. Before leaving the house, I packed extra bread, a glass jar of jam, and several slices of ham and filled a bottle with water. I was eager to see the man again, against my better judgment.
    On arrival my father was told by the steward that certain parts of the grounds were off-limits because “county inspectors were measuring the manor for tax purposes.” Dad nodded, but after the steward left, he spit and said, “Humbug.” Still, he had me do chores all morning and kept me at his side. It wasn’t until I pretended to feel light-headed—a condition my father accepted as belonging to the world of female mysteries—that I could venture off with exact instructions where not to go.
    The maze was forbidden, but I entered it nevertheless—too strong was my curiosity. Since I didn’t want to draw the von Kamphoffs’ attention, I had to look for the stranger without a sound. Shouting was not an option. Instead I walked and walked, careful not to run into any of the tax inspectors. I had already given up hope of ever finding the professor when I came to an enormous hole. Loose earth was lying in heaps beyond the hole and blocked the path entirely.
    At the bottom of the hole sat the professor. His shirt was no longer white, his hands looked as dirty as my father’s, and hisfingers were full of dried blood. Blood and dirt covered his cheeks and forehead and pants. He sat perfectly erect on the ground, humming to himself.
    “Hello,” I said.
    I received no reply.
    “Hey there, Professor,” I called.
    He finally looked up, without recognizing me it seemed.
    “Did you dig this hole?” I asked and climbed over a small mound of dirt, ready to join him in the pit.
    “Be careful,” he called. “Step gently.”
    “Of course,” I replied, and, carrying the food for him in one hand and lifting my other for balance, I descended.
    “Oh no,” he cried when I landed, covering his ears with his trembling hands.
    “What is it?” I asked, but had to ask again after he was done playing deaf.
    “Didn’t I ask you to be gentle?” he reprimanded me. “Your thoughtlessness might have caused us great harm.”
    “How so?” I asked, suppressing a laugh. He looked droll in his dirty clothes, much like a kid after an especially wild afternoon in the mud.
    “One false step and we might break through the crust of the earth and fall out on the other side and into the skies and be lost.”
    I believed he was playing a prank on me, but when he moved closer toward me and took good care to be as careful as a thief at night, I understood that he was serious.
    “I dug this hole to reach the other side, where dark people walk on their heads, but I’m afraid I might not be able to hold on to the earth once I get there. Maybe you could.”
    “I brought you food,” I said, not knowing how to respond to the rubbish he’d told me.
    “I’m not fond of the night,” he said, making an important face. “The stars are cold and behind them angels are hiding and trying to suck in your breath to warm themselves.” He unwrapped the bread and ham and said, “It’s quite coarse,” but ate nevertheless. He didn’t wash his bloodied hands and chewed quite noisily.
    “How will I pay you?” he asked when he had finished the last crumb and was scooping jam from the glass with two fingers.
    “I don’t need any pay,” I said. “But answer me.