Salome opened her eyes.
Her mind was a chaotic mess of memories and the bizarre remnants of her dreams, which were slowly being pushed aside by her waking consciousness. Adding to the chaos was an unpleasant throbbing in her temples, reminding her that she had stayed up far too long again. Groaning, she rolled onto her back, the wooden floorboards beneath her mattress creaking, and pressed the back of her hand to her forehead. What time was it? Morning? Afternoon? She closed her eyes again and waited. Eventually, the shadows from her dreams faded, leaving behind a knot of impressions and sensations that pressed on her lungs with every breath. Salome hoped it would unravel on its own by breakfast.
After a while, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, let out a long yawn, and rubbed her eyes. Outside, a light drizzle was falling, which she could tell from the fine network of raindrops clinging to her window. Occasionally, one droplet became too heavy, trickling down the glass and adding to the pattern of secret, unreadable words that Salome had always failed to decipher.
Her gaze wandered around her room. One wall was taken up by a heavy wooden wardrobe, mostly filled with clothing—though only a small portion of it could be considered everyday wear. Alongside the dull shirts, gray skirts, jackets, and stockings, she had gathered a sizable collection of sturdier clothing over the years, which she now proudly referred to as her "gear." Anyone who wanted to explore the areas beyond the main paths had to be prepared.
Opposite the wardrobe stood a wide desk, covered in sheets of paper filled with her scribbled handwriting and books with worn covers. Leaves of plants peeked out from the clutter, and on the floor beside the desk stood several pots filled with soil, from which more grasses and ferns sprouted. Above it, a shelf lined with large glass jars hung on the wall, each sealed with a cork lid and filled with stones, dark soil, moss, and even more plants. Miniature gardens.
The ceiling sloped down since the room was directly under the roof, and at the lowest point crouched her bed. It had once stood on the other side of the room, as she had struggled to sleep when the rain drummed against the roof at night, but lately, she preferred it this way.
Salome walked over to the wardrobe to get dressed. Normally, she would already be on a carriage heading into town by now, chatting idly with the other girls from the village, stepping out in front of the gates of the Ministry School after a dull ride, and—she clenched her teeth and stopped herself from following that thought any further. No. There were more important things. With practiced movements, she buttoned up her shirt and turned to her desk, where she found half of last night's dinner on a plate. Next to it lay an open book. She must have forgotten about her meal while reading. Tearing off a piece of now rock-hard bread, she chewed on it thoughtfully. It was unsettling how easily she could lose herself in stories—to the point where she lost all awareness of herself and the world around her.
She startled as someone suddenly called her name from downstairs: "Salome? Salome, are you there?"
It was her father. Puzzled, she left her room, descended the stairs to the ground floor, and found the broad-shouldered, stout man in the foyer, just about to leave the house.
"Ah, there you are," he said without looking directly at her, buttoning up his coat. Salome crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, waiting to hear what he had to say.
"Did you take care of the letter yesterday, as I asked?"
"Yes, Father," Salome said. Of course. So that's what this was about.
"Good, good... and the reply?"
"Mr. Girman said he would deliver it personally. As always."
"Well, if he insists... Anyway, I'm off now. Be a dear and take care of the two letters I left on the living room table. Oh, and... I’ll likely be home late, so don’t wait up."
"Yes, Father."
"And don't forget to lock the front door!"
"Of course, Father." She sighed in resignation. He cast her a doubtful look, but only for a moment. Then he grabbed his hat from the hook by the wall and opened the door. Salome stared at his broad back, waiting to see if he had anything else to say, but her father stepped outside without another word or a final glance, letting the door fall shut behind him. Of course, he had nothing more to say.
Salome sighed again. She turned around and slowly closed her eyes. She knew that now, there was no one else in the house.
And, as usual, the silence came. It crept out from the shadows behind the unlit candles, slithered out from beneath empty chairs and sofas, dripped from the fine cracks in the ceiling, and seeped from every hole and gap where words and voices had banished it. Soon, every room in the house would be drenched in a leaden gray, a screaming void that clogged the ears like invisible cotton. Every step in this numbness cost Salome effort. She didn't want to stay here any longer. She wanted to leave this cold, soundless realm. So many times, she had set out, let her feet carry her farther and farther, only to eventually turn back. There were simply no places worth staying.
Shaking her head, she brushed aside these thoughts. With a stony expression, she climbed the stairs back up to the first floor and pushed open the door to her room. She grabbed her shoulder bag, which leaned against the desk, and went back downstairs. She had no desire whatsoever to run her father’s errands, especially in this weather. But it was still better than being trapped in the crushing silence that made it hard to breathe. Since she had no other choice, she fetched the wax-sealed envelopes from the living room and stuffed them into her bag. She pulled on her boots, grabbed her oilcloth cloak with the wide hood, and pushed open the door. A gust of cold air met her, but she ignored it, slammed the door shut, fumbled the key from her bag, and locked up. Sullenly, she looked down the street. A few villagers hurried over the rain-slicked pavement, but they were too absorbed in their own concerns to notice her. The gray clouds overhead shattered any hope that the drizzle would stop soon. Another sigh escaped her before she could stop it, and she set off.
Soft splashing sounds echoed from the plain, tightly packed houses lining the street, whenever a droplet from an overhanging roof fell into a puddle below. A sorrowful concert of irregular plopping sounds accompanied Salome as she walked toward the village square with her gaze lowered. She tried to find a pattern in the chaos of noises, a rhythm she could hum along to, but it was impossible to predict when the next drop would fall into a puddle. It didn’t take long before she found herself holding her breath, waiting for the next plop. The constant unpredictability gnawed at her nerves, so she tried to ignore the remnants of the rain.
This time, she stayed on the main street instead of sneaking through the winding side streets of the village as usual. The sooner she delivered the letters, the better. And the first was addressed to the innkeeper of the village tavern—a man she had never liked. He was a greasy fellow who, for some reason, always squinted his right eye whenever he spoke to someone. Besides, he was reclusive and boorish, but Salome could say that about nearly every one of his regulars.
She reached the village square and immediately turned right. The tavern was on the other side, but she absolutely did not want to walk through the middle of the square. Instead, she walked along the edge, in the shadow of the shops, where she would attract less attention. Meanwhile, she kept a wary eye on the obelisk towering in the center of the square like a menacing reminder. Such a man-high, roughly hewn boulder could be found in every village around the town. They said it had stood there from the very beginning and that the villages had been built around it afterward, but Salome had never believed that absurd tale. It was obvious that the rock had been shaped by human hands. Moreover, the unblinking eye of the Ministry was engraved on its front, and that could not possibly be as old as these stones were said to be. Presumably, the obelisks served only to remind people that the Ministry’s enforcers always kept a watchful eye on them.
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When Salome arrived at the decidedly uninviting tavern, she hesitated. I wondered if there were any guests at that hour? She earnestly hoped to find the taproom empty and deserted. The last time she had been here, she had had to endure the presence of several coachmen who traveled from village to village transporting goods. They reeked of cheap schnapps and couldn’t help but make their offensive remarks. At the very thought, heat rushed to Salome’s cheeks and she involuntarily clenched her fists. In a fit of anger, she stepped up to the tavern’s entrance and pushed the door open a little more forcefully than she had planned.
There were indeed a few guests seated at the tables. Some of them looked at her in surprise as the door banged against the interior wall. Salome startled and released her grip on the handle. Holding her breath, she stepped inside and closed the door behind her. Only when the guests slowly and quietly grumbled and turned away did she allow herself a relieved exhale. Well, she was there now. The sooner she got out, the better.
She looked around. The taproom was, as always, smoky and gloomy, with only a few oil lamps and candles casting flickering light. The darkened windows did nothing to lift the gloom. Salome could barely make out the tables along the far wall through her squinting eyes. Not wanting to risk meeting anyone’s gaze, she turned her back on the room and stepped up to the counter, scanning for the innkeeper. A shabby shelf—one that had seen better days—occupied the back wall and held several barrels whose rusty taps jutted out in a row like iron beaks. Above them sat a cluster of wooden jugs, all looking warped from years of use. But there was no sign of the innkeeper. Could it be he wasn’t there? Then maybe she could…
“What, by the pillars, do you want here?” a rough voice suddenly demanded. At that moment, he pushed open the door to the kitchen and stepped behind the counter, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. “It’ always bad news when you show up here.” The small, stocky man leaned on the counter and glared at her. He wore an old apron and had rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing densely hairy arms. His right eye was squinted.
“I—I mean…” Salome stuttered. She swallowed; his unbridled hostility hit her like a blow to the face.
“Well, just say it! Is it about the damned tax again?” he barked.
Instead of answering, Salome hastily rummaged in her bag and produced the letter meant for the innkeeper. She held it up hesitantly, but the man snatched it from her hand.
“Pah, village head, no way! A lapdog of the city administration is your father, nothing more!” he grumbled as he opened the envelope. He took out the folded slip of paper and held it in the light of a candle so he could read it. Scanning the lines, he then crumpled it up. “I knew it…” he murmured. “It’s always the same with those greedy bloodsuckers.” He was about to leave when he paused and glared at Salome. “What? What else do you want here?”
“The… the reply…” Salome mumbled. It was incredibly hard for her to meet the gaze of that small, loathsome eye. What on earth had she done to make him hate her so much?
“Let me handle this with your father privately. Tell him that. And now, get out!” He turned away and returned to the kitchen. Salome glared at him as she heard quiet laughter from the taproom, and she felt her cheeks growing hot. Her lips had already begun forming the words she wanted to hurl at him and everyone else, but once again, that damned knot in her throat tightened. She knew she wouldn’t be able to utter a single sound. Turning on her heel, she fled the building with her eyes downcast.
Outside, she stopped and, trembling with anger, fought the urge to kick against a wall. Slowly, she took a deep breath in and out to calm herself. What could she do, being the daughter of the village head? Everyone behaved like obedient sheep before her father, were friendly and well-mannered, but no one did that in front of her! If only her father knew how people talked about him behind his back! But maybe he deserved it. Probably. What did she know.
Dejectedly, she glanced into her bag. The second letter was addressed to one of the farmers on the outskirts of the village. With a sour expression, Salome turned away from the tavern and set off toward the village’s edge. Why was she getting worked up again? It had always been like this. By now, she should have gotten used to people making her the scapegoat when she ran errands for her father…
She walked among the dilapidated houses and left the village along a footpath that ran through a gap in the waist-high village wall. Then she entered the well-trodden country road behind it, which, as always, was wet and muddy from the rain. The farm wasn’t far away—she could already see one of the barns. Thin veils of mist hung over the surrounding fields. As she walked, she lifted her gaze to the clouds, which lazily drifted by. Even the world pillars looked blurred by the moisture. She peered down into the valley, watching the broad steamships with their black smoke flags inch along on the river—some headed toward the town, others in the opposite direction, toward the mines. Then her eyes followed the course of the small stream that flowed from the forest behind the village and eventually emptied into the river. She cast a longing glance toward the forest’s edge. Hopefully, it would rain properly again soon. Then she could finally return to her favorite place.
The farm was not particularly large; there were only two barns for the livestock and a one-story house. Yet it was in very good condition. The farmers always took care of the appearance of their farms, no matter if they could afford it—even if that meant enduring hunger for weeks or even months. Salome had never understood what drove them so much. She had heard that the moist earth was reluctant to share its fruits with people, but if it was so hard to cultivate, why put so much effort into the farms? Why did everyone want to pretend that everything was all right?
Next to the front door lay a large, shaggy guard dog on a leash. His head rested on his crossed front paws. He perked his ears briefly when he noticed her but refrained from barking loudly as he used to. Salome was grateful for that. She had been quite frightened when she first came here with her father a few years ago. Still, for safety’s sake, she made a wide detour around the canine.
She approached the front door and knocked. The farmer who lived here with his wife was a man of few words who had never paid much attention to Salome—a treatment she much preferred to that of the cursed innkeeper. She heard footsteps behind the door. Shortly afterward, some bolts were shifted before the farmer opened the door for her. He looked at her with an impassive expression but said nothing. Inside, it was dark; part of his face lay in shadow. Candles were expensive, and one could always economize on light.
“I have come to deliver this letter to you,” Salome said quickly as she produced the second envelope from her bag. The man accepted it wordlessly, taking a step outside. In that moment, Salome noticed how emaciated he looked—his shirt hung limply and the arm he extended for the letter appeared sinewy and thin. Realizing that she was staring, she lowered her head. She waited until he had read the letter, but when she opened her mouth to ask for his response, he simply turned and slammed the door shut. She blinked in bewilderment. What was that about? Was she not even worth a brief conversation? She glared at the dark brown wooden door, then let her shoulders drop and sighed. Apparently, she had only bad news to deliver today.
She turned around and lifted her gaze to the clouds. Sporadic droplets still fell on her like tiny cold needles—too silent to truly be considered rain, but enough to make her hair begin to curl slightly. It was annoying, but she had no desire to pull the wide hood of her cloak over her head. That would be admitting that this drizzle counted as real rain, and she simply couldn’t allow that!
The old guard dog let out a soft hum as he lifted his head into a more comfortable position. Salome looked at him. What was she even doing here anymore? It was high time she returned home. Today, neither her father nor her mother—who, as usual, worked in the city—would be there. And she doubted her sister would come to visit. That hardly ever happened, as she was always far too busy. So there was no one to burden Salome with any other pointless tasks. She would have her peace.
A humorless laugh escaped her. How was it that she already wanted to return to the silence after such a short time, even though it had seemed unbearable only moments before? It was always the same! If only there were a place she could go—preferably far away from here… She pressed her lips together. How long would it take this time before the emptiness once again squeezed her chest? Her gaze wandered to the horizon, slowly veiled by sluggish shrouds of mist. She blinked. Was that…? A faint hope spread within her. She tightened her grip on the strap of her bag, cast one last glance at the locked front door behind her, and hurried back home as quickly as possible.