By Pamela Love

Robbing Karl Schmidt should have been easy. He was staggering drunkenly as I stalked him through the moonlit streets. Instead, he snorted when I demanded his money, pulling out two empty pockets. “Somebody beat you to it, you rogue.” He squinted his blue eyes. “Gerhard Gruber? That’s you behind that mask, isn’t it? I can see part of your birthmark sticking out—”

With a gurgling groan, he collapsed at the base of the streetlamp, its flame flickering like his life. I yanked out my knife and fled as a whistle blew.

Moments later shouts of “Gruber! Halt!” rang out. More bad luck—Schmidt must’ve identified me with his dying breath. The constable chased me, our feet pounding over the cobblestones. I managed to lose him since I knew the back alleys of that town like the back of my hand, but I had to flee it at once.

Schmidt had powerful, vengeful friends, and soon all of Saxony was after me. Within two weeks, my face was on wanted posters in every town and city through which I passed. Its likeness was unmistakable, and I wasn’t old enough to grow a beard to hide the squiggle of a birthmark on my right cheek. I spent half my time looking over my shoulder, the other half keeping my head down to stay inconspicuous.

What little money I’d had before starting my luckless life of crime soon ran out. Out of options, I headed into the mountains where strong backs were always needed in the ore mines. No questions asked.

Safety’s bitter price? Backbreaking labor. Two months later, as I trudged out of the shaft one evening, barely able to lift my sledgehammer, the local constable was nailing up a familiar poster. My heart stuttered. The village was small, and my face was new here. Soon someone would recognize me. I had to escape, preferably to another country, but how?

While sipping ale at the local tavern, I thought it over. Peddlers’ wagons occasionally rolled through the village. Could I sneak aboard one of them? Not without getting caught.

Trekking through the dense forest would be safer, but I’d probably lose my way before I could cross into Bohemia. Besides, leaving without an explanation would raise suspicions. I’d be hunted. I’d had dogs on my trail twice already. I shuddered at the memory.

Walter, a stoop-shouldered miner, turned to me. “Cold, Matthias?”

I jerked my chin toward the window and the downpour outside. “The rain, you know.”

He grinned. “Jah, it’s nights like this I’m glad of the boats my brother Fritz makes, just in case of a flood.”

A boat. Of course. I took a deep breath. My uncle had a canoe when I was a boy. He’d shown me how to handle a paddle, and I was sure I remembered how. Even if Fritz made some other kind of boat, I could manage.

A river ran through the village, strong enough to power a sawmill and gristmill. With luck, I could reach the coast. And if my boat is good enough—for it was already mine, in my imagination—I can sell it to pay for passage to another country, maybe even to America. Surely the Law wouldn’t pursue me that far.

But which cottage belonged to the boat builder? Obviously, I couldn’t ask Walter, but I could figure it out. Fritz must live close to the riverbank with some kind of workshop nearby.

The next day was Sunday, and the mines were closed. On a seemingly casual stroll through the village, I marked the likeliest cottage, with a shed large enough for two boats.

I returned that night under a full moon. The shed wasn’t locked. There was a canoe inside, but what a disappointment! It was a mere dugout. I ran my hand over the side and picked up three splinters. “Someone must like to fish,” I grumbled, picking them out. This tub would probably get to the sea, but I’d never trade it for a new life. No, Fritz must live elsewhere.

Now what? I crept outside. If it’s not the closest house to the river, it might be the next closest.

That cottage had a shed as well, but it was locked. I was a robber, not a burglar. Fumbling with the end of my knife, I tried to jimmy the lock.

“Hey! What are you doing!” It was Walter. I jerked the blade free, but before I could send him to join Karl Schmidt, I was struck down from behind.

When I next opened my eyes, I was tied to a bed. “Ah, the villain awakes,” said Walter. “We’ve sent for the constable, Gruber. Helga here remembered the poster.” A woman glowered at me from the fireplace where she was stirring a pot.

“We know everything,” said another man, probably Fritz.

“Almost,” Helga said. “When I heard someone trying to break in, I was frightened—but also puzzled. Why would you seek to rob a poor woodcarver?”

I sighed. “I saw the poster, too. I needed a boat to flee by the river, and Walter said his brother made them.”

Walter and Fritz threw back their heads and roared with merriment. Even Helga slapped her knees with mirth. “Show him, husband. Show Gruber one of your mighty vessels.”

Fritz fetched one from the shed. Oh, he made boats, all right—toy Noah’s Arks.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test,” which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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