Indentured
A light mist clung to an October field. It weaved and wormed its way through the scattered dead. Spiraling tendrils of smoke rose from ruin into the diffuse light of the overcast sky, dulling the sharpness of detail as if brushed with watercolor. This was a place of ghosts and those soon to be ghosts. Even the moans of the dying seemed to float between worlds, roaming like spirits, blindly searching for deliverance, and thus fading slowly into oblivion. Such was the scene two days after the Battle of the Nations. What was left behind, was merely the residue of glory.
It was the year of our lord, 1813, and a dull quiet hummed in the dead air at the year’s end. All through the day a handful of small groups wandered the littered countryside. Bent women bundled against the cold corralled their children as they picked meticulously through the detritus. They hunted for cloth and leather and bits of metal, charms and valuables that could be crafted or sold. But much of what they found was in ruin - stained, torn, or broken by the talons of war.
The people of the nearby city and the surrounding towns were hardened. Many of their homes had been trampled, their fields burned and flattened, their businesses made destitute. They had lost everything to the gamesmanship of nobility. They were less than pawns. They were molded by circumstance and the ambitions of others into cold carrion creatures scavenging for survival.
An old man stopped to survey the battlefield. The killing grounds before him stretched over gentle hills and between scattered stands of trees. In three days of fighting nearly ninety thousand lay dead or wounded across the landscape. The old man looked upon them like a reaper, in his long gray woolen coat, full length breeches, and dark boots. He had long black hair with streaks as white as snow. A leather satchel hung over his shoulder. He presided over the quilt of multi-colored uniforms spread out before him. The red, white, and blue of France, the greens of Russia and Saxony, the brown of Austria, the gray and yellow of Prussia and Sweden. Yet, the colors most common were the moist shades of red and pink - for regardless of nation, all men look the same on the inside.
This was no static vision he saw. The ground moved, slow like a seashore at lowest tide. The wounded writhed and wriggled, clinging to life like starfish and anemone on drying rock. But here, the life tide would not return, and most would wither under a blind autumn sun.
The old man was no stranger to scenes of battle. Years ago, he had fought in the War of the Bavarian Succession. Although the ensuing famine had killed more men than any of its skirmishes, he had seen the toll of death and had nearly lost his own life. He’d taken a musket shot to his face. The impact had shattered most of his teeth and left a deep frightening scar on his face. As a wounded veteran he had never again been called back to the defense of his country. His debt was paid. But in a fortuitous twist of fate his wounding came to inspire his lifelong vocation.
Kraus Broekmann was the dentist in the city of Leipzig. And though he was well known, he perceived himself as an outsider among his fellow citizens. He sensed it when people turned away when they spoke to him. They averted their eyes, looked to the sky or the ground. He thought it quite unfair to be seen in that light, as he was not an evil or unpleasant man.
Eventually he would decide that it was not because of his horrible scaring or any particular ill he may have committed. Kraus Broekmann believed himself a man feared and shunned for his profession.
Kraus did what he could to dispel such perceptions. But he understood firsthand the torment that could rage within the confines of the human mouth. The consequence of infection and abscess. He knew that it was inescapable. That it had the power to overcome all other mortal thought. That it could drive the otherwise sensible into madness. And knowing these things, he sought to use his skills to alleviate suffering, not inspire it.
But Broekmann was a realist. He knew that the cries of his patients could sometimes be heard from his summer windows. He understood the nature of his status and how his presence alone was enough to trigger uncomfortable fits of imagination. And after a time, he grew used to the loneliness. He focused on his studies, honed his skills, and learned to craft the finest dental prosthetics in all of Saxony and perhaps beyond. He saw himself as an artist, his works worthy of display in the mouths of royalty, Tsar Alexander I, Karl von Schwarzenberg, even the invading Emperor Napoleon himself.
But Kraus was a sensible man - enough to know that these fantasies existed only in his head. Even a King loved a dentist only in his darkest hour and then wished to forget forever the torment behind their necessitous relationships.
Still, he took pride in his craft, and like all great artists he strove for the finest materials. The perfect stone for the sculptor, the perfect pigment for the painter, the perfect instrument for the musician. Even the peerless poet prized paper and pen. And for thus, Kraus crossed the stygian plain in search of the perfect mouth.
The dull morning wore on and by early afternoon Kraus’ back ached from bending and stooping. His hands were cramped, and dirt took root under his nails.
Most of the dead were young men, and he found himself disappointed by the condition of their teeth. Among the many dozen he examined, only a relative few had specimens worthy of the time it took to remove them. Not one had a complete set that were in the pristine condition he was searching for. But he had expected as much.
These soldiers were poor lads, farm boys conscripted into service. Most would have never seen a dentist. Dental care was not something that the average person gave much thought. Folks in the city would come to him when they needed an extraction. These were craftsmen, and merchants and civil servants. When the pain turned to misery, they would come up with enough coin to pay him for his service. It was the bread and butter of his profession. But the common folk, those from whom most soldiers were drawn, bore the suffering until they could yank their rotting teeth pulsing from their own jaws. These poor souls could not afford the luxury of the swift modern care he provided.
Kraus knelt in the dirt. A leather pouch of assorted extractions swung from the belt at his hip. With a stained rag he cleaned fresh blood from the crow’s beak pliers that were a tool of his trade. As he contemplated his long walk home, a weak voice spoke out behind him.
“Water. Monsieur, do you have any water?”
Kraus turned and looked over his shoulder.
Several times during the day he had come across wounded men. Many he found moaning in their final throes. Some were more cognizant of their plight. They knew they were dying. Some called out to loved ones, others to God. Some in languages that Kraus did not speak or recognize. Kraus hardened himself to them. He was not a physician, and he was too old to carry them to any real salvation.
To some he told lies. They would be alright. He would find help. Corpsman were on the way.
After a while, he decided to just ignore them and leave them to their fate.
But there was something different about this voice. Although it was weak, it conveyed an accent of sophistication. It was French, a language in which Kraus was familiar. It immediately struck him that this was not the voice of a commoner.
A pile of bodies sprawled beside a ruined cart. The green coat of a dead Russian concealed the man below. Kraus could see the face of the speaker looking out from over the shoulder that covered him. That face was worn and pained, smudged with black soot and blood. It was no wonder to Kraus that he had not seen him before, so covered by the fallen around him. Kraus crawled closer, grabbed the dead Russian, and rolled the body down onto the Frenchman’s lap. It was then that Kraus noticed the Frenchman’s broken leg. It was bent at an inhuman angle. The Frenchman did not seem to notice.
“Please, monsieur, do you have water?”
The injured man was a young officer, a capitaine. Kraus recognized the identifying insignias of gold fabric on his shoulders and the blue and white coat and high red collar of an infantry officer. Kraus also saw the grave wounds of the man’s torso, the shredding of fabric and the torn and bloody flesh beneath. The Frenchman had been pierced by both musket shot and bayonet. Perhaps it was the pressure of the dead man laying across his chest that had kept him from bleeding out.
Kraus removed the bottle of water that he’d been carrying all day. He had been using it, and there was not much left. He unstopped it and gave the man a small drink.
The young man sipped with eyes closed. He coughed, blood mixing with the spittle.
“Merci,” he said with faint breath. “Merci.”
Kraus focused on the young man’s face. The features were shapely and beautiful. He was too young to have climbed the ranks through military prowess. Oh, no, Kraus thought to himself. This young man had been given a commission. Surely, he was from some important French family, hoping to curry favor from the Emperor through military service. Kraus shook his head at the foolishness of such an ambition. He was saddened to see someone so young, with a lifetime of privilege in store. Someone with a life most Europeans could only dream of obtaining. To find himself only now in a foreign land, dying on a field of battle.
“Where are my men? Are we still in the fight?”
“I’m afraid not, young capitaine. Your men are either dead or moved on.”
“And the Emperor? Have we won the battle? Is Napoleon victorious again?”
“No, he is in retreat. He crossed the river three days ago. His rearguard in the city of Leipzig has now all but been destroyed. Your Napoleon is on his way back to France.”
The news seemed to shatter the young soldier’s spirit. He closed his eyes tight, his lips peeled back in despair.
It was then Kraus saw what he hoped for. The young capitaine had the most beautiful teeth he had ever set his eyes on. They were straight with no gaps, porcelain white even within his bloody mouth.
“Ambulance volante? Please monsieur. Can you bring help? Please, take me to the hôpital. I beg you.”
“I’m sorry my friend, but there is no ambulance. I have been here all day and seen no one but scavengers. Soon they will only come to dispose of the dead.”
“Oui,” said the man. He seemed to bravely accept his fate. His gray eyes stared at Kraus as if to examine his honor. Then he spoke with forced dignity.
“Then I implore you, monsieur. Make arrangements for my body to be taken home. My papers are in my possession. I swear to you. If you do this, you will be greatly rewarded. My family will see to your safe passage and will pay you in gold. You will be wealthy among your countrymen. You have my word as a gentleman. It shall be so.”
Kraus could not help but be impressed by the man’s tenacity. It seemed noble, but for its stink of privilege. Even facing death, this man’s solution was to buy something with his wealth. But Kraus had another reward in mind. As the young man made his proposal, Kraus could see the flash of his white teeth, and he imagined the things he could do with such beautiful pearls.
Kraus looked at the man’s tunic, now completely soaked with blood, his face white as the teeth within his mouth. Kraus knew that the minutes were numbered.
“I will make the arrangements,” Kraus answered. “You have my word.”
“Tres bon…” said the Frenchman relieved. “I accept your promise and your word as indenture. But please monsieur, do not betray me. Do not betray my trust…”
Kraus gave him a reassuring smile and patted his shoulder. “Tell me, young capitaine, what is your name?” he asked.
“I am Jean Badeaux.”
Kraus nodded. “You can rest now, Jean Badeaux. Close your eyes and rest.”
Kraus was certain about the young man’s prospects. The young officer was going to die and there was nothing that he or anyone else could do to stop that. But Kraus was a practical man. He saw no harm in having told Jean Badeaux what he wanted to hear.
Kraus scanned the field as he knelt beside the dying man. There were still small groups of people sorting through the dead. But there were no ambulance corpsmen, no local physician or surgeon roaming the warm afternoon. Only the desperate and the determined braved the rising smell of corpses that carpeted the countryside.
His patient waiting led his mind to wander. He could see the spectacular prosthetic he would craft. With such fine materials, its beauty would cast its beholders in a mystical trance. Even the words that passed between its ordered rows would have the power to enthrall. And of course, whoever possessed this splendor could use its beguiling power to rise to heights unimagined. Perhaps even to rival the great powers of the world.
As Kraus enjoyed his fantasy, he listened to the diminishing breath of the Frenchman. It grew weaker in the passing minutes. And after a brief time, Kraus heard the final deflation of his lungs and the young man’s chest rose no more. Kraus leaned forward and closed the dead man’s eyes, then he lowered his own head in a moment of silent respect. After muttering a short prayer, he reached into the leather bag that hung over his shoulder and removed the wooden box that contained his tools.
He replaced the crow’s beak pliers that he’d stashed in his pocket, setting them back into the box. Each of his tools had its own special indentation in the velvet-lined container. Inside was a second set of pliers, a folding knife, an assortment of curved metal picks, a slender bone chisel, and of course, a small, sturdy hammer. All of these instruments were polished and clean, and endowed with shiny black ebony handles.
Kraus set the box down beside him, then cleared a space on the ground to lay poor Jean Badeaux. He found a thick blanket on a dead horse. He folded and laid it upon the dead man’s chest so that when he straddled and sat on him, the bloody wounds would not soak through and stain his own pants.
Kraus leaned forward and opened the dead man’s mouth. More than ever, he was awed by the beauty of the human ivory. He used his fingers to slide between the teeth and gums, feeling for any decay or imperfection, but he found none. His excitement rose as he realized the confirmation of his prize.
As he removed his fingers, he saw that the young capitaine’s eyes had come open again.
Kraus was startled at first, but he checked for breath again. He laid his hand on his chest and felt no beating heart within. It was only a reflex caused by his own manipulation of the lifeless face. He reached forward and closed the lids once more.
He sat up tall on the dead man’s corpse and looked at the surroundings again. He confirmed that no other people were close enough to see what he was about to do. For just a brief moment, he felt a flutter of guilt. Of course, there was something a bit ghoulish about his goal. But Kraus was a professional man. This was no desecration. He was not doing this for the sake of disfigurement. He would turn this young man’s contribution into a work of beauty. And in that sense, Jean Badeaux would live on. There was nothing evil about Kraus’ actions. The only evil here was in war. The very war that had bound this young man to this killing field where he would lie forgotten with countless others, all for the selfish glory of a few powerful men.
In a sense, Kraus was the hero of this sad tale, in that he had given comfort to this man in his final moments. It was Kraus who allowed him to die believing that he would be reunited with his family and loved ones, even if that reunion were only through internment within his burial crypt. In exchange for the Frenchman’s gift, Kraus had given him hope at the end of his truncated life.
Kraus went back to his box and selected the proper pair of pliers and a sturdy pick. He leaned forward once again. With one hand prying mouth and lips apart, he took hold of Badeaux’s top front tooth. Kraus gave it a gentle wiggle, testing its hold in the dead man’s skull. Then with his greatest care and skill he forced it down. There was the tiniest snap as the roots broke loose and the tooth slid from the gum. Kraus held it up in triumph, but at the same time Badeaux’s eyes shot open again.
The sudden cry from the Frenchman was so horrific that Kraus’ heart jumped in his chest. He fell backward as Badeaux sprang up at the waist.
“Toi diable!” he shouted. “You devil!” Blood poured from the black socket in his mouth, much more than could be accounted for. His eyes filled with shock and desperation. “What are you doing, you fiend? What have you done?”
Now it was Kraus who lay on his back among the dead. So surprised by the sudden awakening, he could only cower with his hands held up over his shoulders. He cried out, but no words were formed.
Now Badeaux’s gray eyes turned to midnight coal. They burned with hate. They filled Kraus with a terror like he had never experienced before. It was an unearthly terror. One that invited the opening of the very gates of inferno.
“I will kill you, you bastard!” shouted Badeaux. “I will kill you!”
He reached down and grabbed Kraus’ throat with both hands. His fingers squeezed like iron shackles.
Kraus could not breath. He waited for the sound of his crushing esophagus. His only recourse, blind instinct. With his own hands still floating forgotten above his shoulders, he punched upward at Badeaux’s face. He was unaware that he still clutched the long dental pick in his crumpled fist. The sharp angled tip at the end of the metal shaft passed through the Frenchman’s eye and into his brain. Without thinking, Kraus rotated the handle, further scrambling the matter within.
Badeaux’s grip released immediately. His face went blank.
“Toi diable…You will pay…”
Jean Badeaux collapsed onto Kraus’ prone body. This time there was no helping the transfer of blood onto the dentist’s clothes. And this time, there could be no doubt that the Frenchman was dead.
Kraus squirmed out from beneath the corpse and then onto his knees. He caught his breath. He looked around. There were no witnesses to the deadly scuffle. Suddenly, panic struck him again. He leaned forward, rummaging the ground. Then he found it. The single front tooth that he had extracted. He held it tight in his fist relishing that it was undamaged. This single tooth would be the keystone to his greatest creation.
Just before sundown, Kraus Broekmann walked the desolate streets of his home. The wide boulevards were abandoned. The city of Leipzig stood in quiet mourning. A majority of its residents had fled the city at the rumor of encroaching war. They escaped to the countryside, to the outlying villages and to cities beyond. Only a few had stayed behind, the most headstrong, the powerless, and now the dead. The empty corridors echoed with the sound of tears and the barking of masterless dogs. Even the church bells tolled grim with sorrow.
Grand buildings that lined the way, some as high as four-stories in height, dimmed in the faltering October dusk. Others were already deep in night-shadow. Kraus weaved his way through their maze as he raced the darkness home. Sturdy buildings of cut stone remained towering above him. They seemed relatively untouched by the battle. But many of the city’s brick structures had not withstood the relentless cannon fire. More than a few lay completely destroyed. Mountainous piles of ruined red and painted brick, haphazardly spoked with smoking timbers, sloped into the cobbled streets all over the city.
Kraus passed pyres of dead soldiers and unclaimed citizens, burning in plazas and open areas. The smoke and bright flames made the city seem haunted by the holocaust. In more narrow and forgotten passages, smaller fires sprang from the darkness as the homeless sought refuge in the heat and quivering light.
Yet, among all this ruin, Kraus held onto hope. Kraus Broekmann was an optimistic man. He believed that once news spread of the battles’ conclusion, the people of Leipzig would return. They would be horrified by the number of the dead. And many would be in shock at seeing their homes destroyed, their livestock slaughtered, their businesses broken and looted. But they would rebuild. The city would go on. Eventually, even the salted field would grow again.
When the people returned, so would prosperity. And Kraus would continue his work. The future would be bright again. As people prospered, so too would his business flourish. And in that world, everyone would see the culmination of his skill. Nothing would stand in the way of that.
This war would be over soon. From what he’d witnessed today - the scale of death and devastation - he knew in his heart that there could never be another war so heinous and destructive. And just as he had paid with his own battle injury long ago, Europe had now paid its debt and no man would ever wage such a war again.
Still, he was filled with a strange anxiety. He felt eyes upon him but saw no sign of a watcher. Surely, the last few days had some effect on his mind. How could his spirit not be affected by the explosions of war, the shaking of the very Earth, and the immense toll of the dead he’d waded through on this day. It was stress and fatigue that led to his uneasiness, and it pushed him to hurry toward the sanctuary of his home.
Turning the final corner onto the street where he lived, he was stopped by an unfamiliar sound. He looked back and saw nothing. The darkness had closed in, but no movement stirred the shadows. Then the sound came again. A quick clicking, like the tapping of small stones. It came and went without issue.
Kraus stood a moment longer waiting for it to repeat, but only the dull sounds of the ruined city came to his ears. It was just the sound of falling mortar or crumbled brick, tumbling to the cobbled street. Perhaps the beak of a bird tapping a snail, hoping to break through in search of food. Somehow his justifications fell short. They did not calm the racing heart inside his chest. For some reason that he could not explain, he felt that this sound was meant for his hearing.
He did not stay to explore further. He turned and quick stepped toward his home.
In a moment he saw the shingle that hung over his door. K Broekmann – Dental Practitioner, it read. The sign was painted and carved with a large white tooth. His place was a narrow slice of a much larger stone building. It was undamaged by the violence. Even having left it unguarded all day, it appeared untouched and not broken into or looted. It seemed that even soldiers in battle and desperate citizens stayed clear of the dentist chair.
Coming closer, he noticed that the neighboring windows were as dark as his own. Days before, Kraus had watched as the merchants on either side packed their carts and escaped with their valuables. Though his relationship with them was cordial, he had not approached them about their plans. And now that he had come home after a long day, he was disappointed that they had not yet returned. He felt as if he was the only man alive anywhere on the long avenue. And perhaps he was. The feeling of isolation crawled tingling up his spine.
As he reached the door, he heard the tapping again. A few quick clicks. Louder this time. They echoed along the abandoned street, hiding their direction, but feeling close.
Kraus fumbled with his key, almost dropping it on the stoop. His hands were shaking, and in the darkness, he struggled to find the keyhole. Finally, it slipped in. He turned the mechanism, heard it click, then pushed inside the foyer. He slammed the heavy door closed behind him and pressed his back against it. Standing there in the dark, his breathing was hard, and cold sweat brimmed his forehead. But he was home. He took a moment to compose himself, relocked the door and lit the oil lamp sitting on the sideboard in the dark entry hall.
As Kraus was a bachelor, and never having been married, his workspace and living space were one and the same. In the front parlor he had a large desk covered with odd-shaped bottles and small tools. There was upholstered furniture, a high-backed chair, and a comfortable lounge. Bookshelves, half-full, lined the wall on either side of the black fireplace. Long thick curtains hung down from the high ceiling and completely blocked the windows to the outside.
Kraus set the lamp on the desk, discarded his shoulder bag and leather pouches, then got to work lighting a fire in the hearth. In a few moments he had the room aglow and crackling. He stood in the light and warmed his chilled hands before noticing his state. His hands and clothes were covered in blood. Thank goodness no one had seen him on his trip home, he thought, for they would have been horrified by the sight. He looked like a man who’d spent the day rolling among the dead.
He fetched a pot of water to warm over the fire.
Over the next hour, he bathed himself with a cloth, then redressed with fresh clothes. His old body ached from his exertions, but he found he was too excited for sleep. He sat at his desk and turned up the wick of his lamp, then he reached for the special pouch that was his prize. With a grin of avarice, he emptied the bag onto a cloth laid there. Looking up at him, were the teeth of Jean Badeaux.
There were twenty-eight in total, smeared with blood and bits of tissue. There were no wisdom teeth. For his purposes, the extra molars seemed redundant. He believed his great work should be both beautiful and comfortable. No need to overcrowd a mouth with needless clutter. Especially since he had decided that this greatest masterpiece would be for himself and himself alone. Before he did anything further, he reached into his moist mouth and removed the old, worn dentures that were relics of his own past injury.
He set them on the desk - then he went to work.
With a rag, a small brush, and a fresh pot of warm water, he carefully began to clean his new teeth. As he completed each one, he used a jeweler’s glass to examine it closely for flaws or defects. With each examination he found only perfection. Kraus marveled at the care that this Jean Badeaux had taken in preserving these treasures. Badeaux had been blessed beyond all other living men. Not even the great Michelangelo could have honored the human form with such shape and beauty.
It was late in the night as he polished the final molar, but still he felt wide awake. The real artistry of his profession was ready to begin. Obviously, the teeth were too large in their current state. In order for them to fit into their new denture, he would have to carefully grind down the roots so that they would sit flat and at the perfect height. Once the grinding process began, he would be able to pull the nerves and dig out the rich pulp within. Each finished tooth would be set with resin on a tiny metal post for placement in the artificial gum. It would be a long and meticulous process, one that would require all of his skill and concentration. He did not know the time of night, but he was sure he would not be able to sleep without at least beginning this next phase of the task.
Kraus readjusted the lamp so that it illuminated the contraption sitting beside his desk. It was a custom-made grinder that he had designed himself. It stood on legs and had a small platformed surface. Upon that was a stone wheel about eight inches in diameter. A leather belt ran from the hub down to a pedal on the floor. With that he could spin the wheel with his foot while leaving his hands free to reshape his teeth with precision.
Kraus strapped on a pair of round cup-like glasses. They were to protect his eyes from shards sent flying from the grinding stone. Next, he chose a molar. He clamped it with specially padded forceps. Then he began to spin the wheel. It grew faster and faster as he pumped the peddle. He leaned forward, moving the tooth closer. He anticipated the vibration of the long thick roots touching the stone, the scraping sound like nails on slate. He closed his mouth tight and held his breath so as not to inhale the dust and particulate.
Then a sound caught his attention at the last moment.
He withdrew and sat up – removed his foot from the peddle. The wheel spun on, but slowed now from its rotation, its sound fading into the crackling fire. He looked at his desk and saw that the teeth were now scattered from their ordered positions on the desk cloth. Then with horror, he noticed that some were missing.
Kraus stood up and pulled off his safety lenses. He put the clamped tooth down beside the others. With the lamp in hand, he carefully stepped around his desk, and on the rough floorboards he found six of Badeaux’s teeth. Their shiny white enamel glowed flaming orange in the firelight.
Kraus didn’t know what to think. A lump rose in his throat, pushed by his racing heart. He looked about the dark room and saw nothing strange, but still he felt something. The opening to the foyer and front hall was black as pitch. The heat and glow of the fire diminished. A cold chill weaved up his spine. He knelt down to retrieve the fallen teeth.
As he gathered one after another into his palm, he could only guess what caused the disarray. It seemed impossible, but perhaps he had hit them with his elbow while his focus was elsewhere. Perhaps he was more fatigued than he thought. With the last tooth now safe in hand, he heard a peculiar sound once again.
It was the same strange clicking he had heard outside on the street, but now it shared the intimacy of his home. It was close, somewhere in the dark. As a cold draught crept across the floor, he recognized what this sound reminded him of. It was the sound of chattering teeth in winter. It came again in a short burst. It was in the room with him. Kraus slowly stood, steeling his nerves, then quickly spun to face whatever intruder was upon him. But only shadows shifted on the dim firelit walls.
Kraus remained still. He waited for the sound to reemerge, but the silence continued, and his chill returned. He twitched in the growing cold. His old, sleep deprived ears must have deceived him. He set the teeth back on the desk cloth with the others, then folded the cloth to cover and protect them. Leaving the lamp on the desk, he knelt back at the fire and began to stoke it with fresh kindling and dry logs. He needed more heat to warm his blood and bones, and soon he was rewarded. The fire grew and danced for him. The brightness blinded his eyes to all else. But he soaked it in, shuddering, listening to the pop of wood, gazing into the pulsing glow of the embers breathing beneath the grate. The smell of the woodsmoke cleansed his sinuses of the stench of death that lingered there.
A new sound, different and louder than before, brought tension back to the air. Something banged loud against the ceiling. Something in his bedroom upstairs. A heavy weight had come down on the floor above. Then it came again, a bang followed by something dragging across the floorboards. It was much louder than it should have been, passing through the floor, the joists, the wood lath, the plaster ceiling. Kraus could imagine heavy boots, like the step and drag of a wounded man, a cripple with a heavy limp.
Kraus cringed, watching the ceiling, following the course of movement as it crossed the room above to where he knew the doorway stood open to the upper hall. Six loud strides he counted, then silence again.
Kraus was shaking. He felt his pulse in his neck and temples. He felt a rising pressure in his chest as his heart raced within. He stood up as quietly as he could and stealthily crossed to his desk. From there he stared into the blackness of the hallway outside the parlor. Out there the stairs climbed toward whatever waited above. Up there some hidden answer to this mystery held its identity in darkness.
It was some homeless person, he tried to convince himself, displaced by the ruin of battle. They had climbed in a back window and sought shelter here. Perhaps they believed his home was abandoned, as so many in the city were. But subterfuge was not necessary - Kraus would have opened his home to a citizen neighbor in these times of need.
Then it occurred to him that this might be an enemy. What if a wounded soldier, one of Napoleon’s rearguard, had been left behind, and avoiding capture, had taken refuge here in his home. What would such a man do? Would he be desperate enough to cause harm? What demands might he make?
Even though these thoughts seemed reasonable, the explanations did not satisfy the old man’s concern. Something deep in his primitive brain screamed a warning of a darker reality. Images of the battlefield were fresh in his mind. Flashes of the dead, thousands upon thousands laid sprawling, blood soaking the earth, their flesh, now the feast of worms and vultures and murders of crow. But there was one particular death that stood at the threshold of his imagination, one which he fought to keep out of this nightmare.
Kraus lifted the oil lamp and stepped up to the doorway to the hall. The lamplight struggled to pierce the darkness of the corridor. It seemed like a black tunnel that led forever away into the void of purgatory. Kraus’ eyes trained upward where the stairway rose through the upper floor. The shifting lamplight sent the balusters and their shadows into a dizzying dance of vertigo. He could discern no difference between the shadow and the movement of anything else beyond. There was utter silence, but for the flutter of the flame in his hand and the pulse of his pounding heart.
“Hello? Who’s up there?” Kraus said. His voice was muffled, his gums were dry. His rustic dentures watched him from the dim island of his desk.
“Are you a neighbor, a friend from Leipzig? I can help you. You are welcome here in my home.”
There was no answer. Not even the creak of a floorboard.
“A soldier? Are you frightened or wounded? You may have sanctuary here. I care not for wars and battles. I am an old man. But I can help you. Nurse you to health? Help you escape the city? Je suis un ami. I am a friend, monsieur.”
Still there was no response.
Kraus retreated back into the parlor. He seemed to have no choice. He closed the heavy oak door to the hallway and locked it with his key.
“I’m sorry my friend. You may feel safer tomorrow. As will I,” he raised his voice through the closed door.
Kraus turned to face the room and was immediately frozen in horror. Standing, not two paces before him was the figure of Jean Badeaux. He was tall but skewed on his broken leg. Between the blue shoulders of his uniform, his white tunic was soaked in red, matching his high collar. Blood glistened as if fresh from the puncture wounds in his body. Kraus looked at his face. One of his beautiful eyes was but a ruptured orb pasting a black hole in the front of his skull. The other was deep gray and piercing. It bore like a spiraling tornado directly into Kraus’ soul. And then Badeaux opened his mouth and more blood gushed out. Kraus could see the ripped gums and black empty sockets where his teeth had been. And he remembered pulling each and every one from the dead man’s gaping mouth.
“No! It’s not you! You’re dead! You’re dead!”
Badeaux stepped forward, never faltering in his stare. He reached out his hands. “You have betrayed me, diable. Now you have earned the consequence of justice.”
Kraus whimpered and clamped his eyes, surrendering to whatever terrible penance awaited.
And so, Kraus waited behind his closed eyes, but nothing happened. After a moment, he relaxed his tense, crumpled face, and peeked through a sliver of his cracked eyelid.
He was still in his parlor where darkness prevailed. But he was alone in the glimmering of the fireplace embers. He was sitting in his cushioned chair, strangely comfortable now that his tense body relaxed. He sat forward and scanned the room, confirming that he was alone.
“Jean Badeaux? Are you here? Have you come to torment me, to torture my soul?”
Silence was the only answer.
Kraus tried to process what he’d just gone through, and as his head cleared, he began to feel the fool. Of course, Jean Badeaux was not here. Jean Badeaux was a corpse lying miles away on a field of death. There were no such things as ghosts - no such thing as revenge from beyond the grave. Kraus had been a victim of his own exhaustion. He had sat in his chair and dozed off as he had done a thousand times before. Of course, his experience on the battlefield earlier had left a disturbing residue in his mind. It had caused him nightmares. Kraus was a modern man, only in dreams would he concede to thoughts of the supernatural.
The room around him was still cold, so he stoked the fire once again. Afterward, he went to his desk and relit the oil lamp there. The first thing he noticed was his key balanced on the edge. It prompted him to look toward the door. It was closed. He looked up at the ceiling, half expecting to hear the heavy footsteps return. He waited, but all remained silent. It seemed that his nightmare lingered in shadows of paranoia.
Turning back to his desk he pinched the edge of the folded cloth and uncovered his treasured teeth.
They were gone.
Kraus’ eyes shot open, and his jaw dropped. He brought his hand to his face and was further surprised. With his covering hand he felt a strange sensation in his mouth. His tongue raced around inside, tracing the smooth contours of teeth within. His eyes darted and saw his old dentures still sitting lonely on the desk. He suddenly realized his mouth was filled with real teeth.
The feeling of wholeness struck fast. So many years had passed since he’d had this feeling. The nostalgia of youth was overwhelming. He could feel them, actually feel them. His tongue glided over the smooth surfaces, traced the keen ridges and sharp points, traced the line where tooth met gum. Kraus could not believe what his senses were telling him.
He grabbed a handheld mirror from a drawer and leaned close to the lamp to examine his mouth’s interior. Kraus knew immediately that these were the teeth of Jean Badeaux. By some strange magic, these teeth had come into his mouth and fused there. Their roots had planted firmly into his gums and jaws. And they were more beautiful than any he could ever have imagined. They were white and straight and as comfortable as if they had been born within him.
As he gazed in wonder, running his fingers over their smooth surfaces, he heard one of the bell towers of the city begin to toll. Six times the bell struck, and Kraus knew that soon the sun would rise, and a new day would begin. But as this thought faded, he felt a sudden and excruciating pain.
Like a charge of lightning inside his skull, the ache exploded in his mouth. He opened wide and cried out in torment. It was as if each tooth were its own conduit to the nerves within. Every touch by his lips, his tongue, even his breath upon them triggered the raw splitting pain of exposed nerves. Kraus’ mind went blank as only the sheer, excruciating sensation of agony could live there now.
Then he felt the swelling of his gums. Hard boils bulged to the size of marbles all around each tooth, building with pressure and inflammation. He prayed they would burst just to relieve the stress on the surrounding tissue. The taste of blood and seeping puss filled his mouth and gagged his throat. He cried and screamed. His knees collapsed, and he dropped down on them. He gasped, hyperventilating. He struggled for air.
The teeth were growing in his mouth, long like white porcelain spikes. They grew into each other, painfully forcing his mouth open until finally having to push others out of alignment just to continue their expanding paths.
Next, he felt the fracture of bone. Just as the roots of plants burrow through stone, the roots of these living teeth bore through his upper and lower jaws, cracking the bone through which they passed. They broke through his jawline and just below his nose and cheeks. They pierced the flesh of his face like ivory worms, squirming, twisting, and growing. Kraus dropped to his back on the floor. His mind afire with agony. He convulsed and twitched as his feet pounded sporadic rhythms on the floorboards. Kraus Broekmann was a dying man, spending his last moments in a reality of pain.
In the following days, the city of Leipzig slowly returned to life. The people returned. Though there was still much work to do, most residents believed that if they could get through the winter, then Spring would be a new beginning and the horror of war would be left far behind.
It was assumed by his neighbors that Kraus Broekmann had abandoned the city before the battle and had not yet returned. But after passing days and finally noticing the smell seeping through his draughty windows, they were forced to investigate. The men who found him were baffled and disturbed. Even a medical man, who happened to be on hand, had no explanation.
Kraus was found locked in his parlor, his back to the floor. His head was encased in a strange white material, like marble, but not so hard, like a coral, but not so brittle. It was a twisted helmet that completely masked his face. Its strange hard shell of tusk-like tentacles grew back and pierced the floor as if nailing him to the surface. Yet as odd and inexplicable as this material was, it was also beautiful. Its bright white sheen, its glossy surfaces smooth to perfection. Not even when prying his head from the floor did the fang-like tips break or show any sign of damage.
So shocked were they by the bizarre and unknown nature of Kraus’ condition, it was decided that his body should be removed from the city. They covered Kraus’ head and placed him in a cart with other unfortunates, and that very day, carried them to the countryside.
It was there, among the many dead that they emptied the cart and laid him to rest. And none would ever take notice that they’d laid Kraus’ disfigured body upon the corpse of Jean Badeaux.
