State of Mind

Chapter One

Haggen, Switzerland, 1950

Sunlight coated the world in a hot, honeyed tint, and the spring-fed creek chortled like a happy baby as it swept along the edge of the pasture and down to the lower field. It was another perfect morning, and Chol had no reason to suspect that it would bloom into anything but another perfect day.

Releasing the cloth-wrapped bundle that contained food and a book, she snapped open her quilt. The breeze toyed with her black, chin-length hair and ruffled the edges of the quilt as it settled on the nubby grass. She tugged off her shirt and used it to mop her forehead. Tan and lean from outdoor work, Chol’s body was all lank muscle and angles and very much resembled that of a young man, though she was a hipless, flat-chested, forty-one-year-old woman. She spread her shirt out on the quilt. Soon it would dry and smell of summer. Maybe she would wade in the creek today, maybe relax and read, maybe—

A Sennähond bark sounded behind her.

She turned and scanned the middle pasture, a plateau of about 350 hectares bordered on all sides by slopes. The stock were grazing at the centre of the field, roughly 100 metres away, where she’d commanded the two Sennähönd to position them. It wasn’t hard to identify the problem. A renegade cow had broken from the herd and was charging Chol—twenty metres and closing. One bark sounded, and another. Müesli was already racing towards Chol in a smooth, low run. Cobb trundled into view from the far edge of the herd, her left foreleg curling inward slightly, as usual.

You didn’t give me much warning, Chol shouted to the Sennähönd. She tugged her whip from her belt and cracked it overhead.

The rebel didn’t flinch. With only eight metres between them now, Chol could see the moisture glistening on the beast’s dark nostrils at the centre of its circular, white-furred muzzle. The two short pointed horns jutting from its grey forelock were aimed at her chest. There was no margin for error when a bolter got this close. She pivoted wide, snapped the whip again, and whistled for the Sennähönd to get in the beast’s face.

Cobb circled to the front obediently, but Müesli veered wide, and then sprinted headlong towards the beast’s flank.

No, Müesli!

The Sennähond’s paws left the earth. Müesli rotated her body in mid-air, hurling her 25 kilograms of weight at the cow, flank to flank, and making contact with full force. The beast tottered, its white muzzle now seeming to express an oh! of surprise and dismay. Müesli ricocheted and made a rolling landing in the grass. The Sennähond shook her body out—head to tail—and crouched low, keeping eyes on the cow, which somehow had managed to remain on its feet. After enduring a minute or two of Cobb snarls and death stares, the renegade cow finally began an ambling retreat. Cobb nipped its rear heels to urge it to pick up the pace and drove it back to mid-pasture to re-join the rest of the s’Veech.

Panting, with pink tongue flopping out the side of her mouth, Müesli trotted up to Chol. Her white forelegs, and the white diamond on her chest, usually groomed to gleam, were grass-stained. Even the white patch across her nose bore a green smear.

Nicely hurled, Müesli—Chol kneeled and scritched the Sennähond’s forehead—but you know, the beast should never have gotten that far. You’re supposed to be in charge. I told you two… Cobb thrust her nose under Chol’s hand and sat down as if nothing had gone amiss. The little Sennähond was panting so hard that the river-shaped patch of white fur on her chest undulated like a stormy sea. Chol glanced over at the herd grazing in the middle pasture, right where they should be. …pay more attention next time, will you—both of you? Enforce the boundary. After ruffling some fur, she whistled a command, and the Sennähönd darted off towards the herd.

Chol kept fifty Braunviehs on about 1400 hectares set in an oval-shaped, stepped pastureland bordered by public forest strewn with hiking trails—Wanderwege—to the north, fire roads and forest to the east and south, and the residential edge of Haggen, a sleepy suburb outside of St. Gallen, to the west. She moved the cattle, or rather the Sennähönd did, from and to the barn every morning and evening, and shifted them each hour while they grazed, sometimes more frequently, if the Sennähönd stayed on task. This stock in continual motion practice, passed down to Chol by old man Renfer, played an integral part in the production of the high-quality beef the farm was known for—and was something Chol couldn’t have done without the Sennähönd. Well, maybe she could have, but it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as relaxing or fun.

Müesli sped across the pasture, barking as she drove. Cobb presided over the outer perimeter, motivating stragglers as necessary, and Chol sprawled on her quilt, absorbing the sunshine as if she were a cold-blooded creature who’d waited all night for this opportunity. She kept her eyes on the s’Veech—a lowing, undulating mass of brown, beige, grey, and white—and whistled commands to the Sennähönd when necessary.

Suddenly, Müesli disappeared behind the herd. A moment later, she reappeared around the other side in fast pursuit of what looked like a ball of cotton darting along the ground—one of the ubiquitous field mice that lived in Chol’s pastures. It appeared the mouse was heading for the tall grass a few metres from the part of the field that had been tramped down by two hundred hooves. Cobb took up the chase. Müesli sped low and wide and Cobb, almost as low, trundled at full speed. The Sennähönd had closed the gap to about a metre when Müesli pounced and—Chol held her breath—landed in a heap of tall grass. A moment later, Müesli’s head popped up, jerked left and right and down, no mouse to be seen.

Mouse wins again, said Chol, with a grin.

Simultaneously all business and all play, the Sennähönd amused Chol as much now as they had when they were puppies six years ago. She’d evaluated several cattle dog breeds before travelling to Entlebuch, outside of Lucerne, to find out if the Entlebucher reputation would prove true. When she saw the two black Sennähöndli with white noses and tail tips herding chickens and ducks more than twice their size around the breeder’s yard while their littermates snoozed and suckled, Chol was sold.

Industrious and loyal, these Sennähönd had the intelligence to learn almost anything Chol tried to teach them. Of course, just because they had an extensive command vocabulary they didn’t necessarily do as commanded, as evidenced by Müesli’s unauthorized hurl. Chol had considered getting a few more Entlebuchers, having enough for a football team or a circus, in case the beef industry took a downturn, but she feared the stock would never survive it.

The Sennähönd trotted to the creek and drank before coming to sit in the cool grass near her. She unwrapped the bundle, set her book aside, and offered the Sennähönd some carrots and sausage, taking some bread and cheese for herself.

They ate and sat together in the sun, the thin breeze at their flanks, the creek singing and soughing behind them. Chol never opened her book. She didn’t nap or swim. The three beings just watched the s’Veech graze and enjoyed the day, immersed in a satisfaction that they had always experienced together and which, unbeknownst to them, could never last.

Chapter Two

Haggen, Switzerland, 1950

First, Chol heard the creek’s happy babble. Next, she felt the cool sweat on her body, the heat of the sun, the soft quilt beneath her cheek. She opened her eyes and blinked at the brightness. The Sennähönd were shifting the stock in the pasture. It was late afternoon. She’d had a short nap after all.

When she sat up, her vision darkened and blurred, and the grapevines that had once lined the lower pasture far down on her left flickered in and out of view. It was an illusion from her blood pressure adjusting, she told herself, but for a moment she saw old man Renfer moving among the vines as he had when she was young. He’d spent many an evening there after a day of herding, tending his small vineyard, and she had followed him, watching every move, mimicking every action, knowing that one day she would take over for him, and fearing that if she messed up he’d send her back to the convent and replace her with someone else.

This year, he would say every year, we will produce the vintage that no Swiss connoisseur can resist. We’ll call it Renfer’s Finest! When he spoke like this, Chol quivered because of the gleam that appeared in his eyes. A gleam that made her uncomfortable, that seemed to abduct the Renfer she knew and leave someone else in his place. And we will be able to sell it for a good price, if we so desire, he said, still under the spell of that gleam, or covet it to savour until the end of our days!

When she was young, Chol couldn’t help but feel that the gleam had done something to Renfer in those moments. He had been at least 99% humility, but if he had had a pride, it had been embedded in that vintage dream.

Try as he might to improve each year, his wine tasted terrible, and eventually the gleam lost its power.

I wouldn’t gift it to my enemies, Renfer had always said following every tasting. He’d raised the trap door in the farmhouse linen closet, and they stepped carefully down the steep stairs, each carrying a case of his latest vintage.

We could use it for cooking, said Chol, as she did every time they brought another batch of wine down for storage. She set her box on the basement floor and climbed through the hatch to the root cellar that Renfer had upgraded into a Luftschuzzchäller when the war began. Once inside the thick-walled cement bunker, she turned and peered back through the hatch.

Renfer was shaking his head. He passed the cases to her and climbed in. It’s not good enough to cook with, he said, as he did every time Chol suggested using the wine for cooking. He hung his head.

Chol tried to stifle a laugh, but it escaped. Sorry, she said.

What’s funny? The corners of his mouth curved upwards.

It’s the only wine I’ve ever had that tastes like Death. Even saying it made her mouth feel the way it felt when she had tried the wine, like someone had painted her tongue with the pasty, numbing flavour of endless time, of an empty eternity. She kneeled before the wine rack that took up most of one wall in the refuge.

Death? He sat on one case, opened the other, and pulled out a bottle, handing it to her with a grin. Thanks for the vote of confidence.

Sorry. She slotted the bottle into the rack beside the ones they had stored the year before. I don’t know why it tastes like that to me, Renfer—her voice tremored against repressed laughter—it just does.

He laughed and handed her another bottle. His laugh was deep and explosive and filled her with pure joy. I think you’re on to something, he said. It tastes like that to me too, come to think of it.

She slotted the bottle and put her hands out for another. Maybe the undertaker in St. Gallen could use it as a kind of embalming solution, you know?

Hm, now! Renfer’s thick blonde hair fell into his eyes. He tossed his head back and squinted at her. Ill-bred child! With a hand shaking from laughter, he passed her another bottle. Maybe he could put a bottle in each coffin—

As a gift to the dead!

A toast to the dead?

You could name it ‘Dead Toast’. No…‘Burnt Toast’.

Renfer’s Grim Reap.

Ferryman’s Pick.

Rosé of Charon…

They laughed harder the more ridiculous they got, until both were crouched on the gritty concrete floor, backs against the wall, arms wrapped around aching bellies.

Oh, child, Renfer said, his wide grin pushing up the skin around his eyes. You are so wonderful. He stood, brushed his palms against the sides of his coveralls and extended a warm, callused hand to help her up.

He looked so happy and full of pleasure, and Chol absorbed his warmth like sunshine. While contentment moved into her core, making a home for itself, she felt something loosen inside. Tears rushed out of her as if evicted and pursued by an angry landlord. She peeked up at Renfer in surprise. Before she could turn away to hide her shame, he had knelt down, pulled her to his chest, and clasped her there. He smelled of sweat and smoke and shaving lotion. One hand rubbed her back. The other held her to him like he’d never let go. For the first time since he’d rescued her, Chol sobbed.

When her body quietened, Renfer sat her beside him as he unpacked and slotted the remaining wine. He used one hand to maneuver bottles and held her hand with the other, as if to demonstrate that he would never abandon her. When the cases were empty and the rack full, Renfer raised an eyebrow and said, We can’t drink it, but we shall not waste it. There is a bouquet for every palate, and a palate for every bouquet.

Chapter Three

Haggen, Switzerland, 1950

The pair of Sennähönd sat at attention outside the barn door, tan and white forelegs straight, paws together, snouts in the air. Chol paced in front of them, from the barn to the edge of the field and back again. Finally she strode into the humid enclosure, where the s’Veech waited to sleep, and counted bovine heads for the third time.

We lost one, she said, once she was ready to admit defeat. The Sennähönd gazed at her expectantly, poised for her next command. Müesli, Cobb, you feeling all right? You’ve never lost one. Trying not to worry, she crouched in front of them and patted their heads the way she did at the end of each workday. They’d taken the herd to the middle pasture that morning, and nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, so how had a cow disappeared, or—she had to consider the more disturbing option—how had someone stolen one? Müesli and Cobb nudged her with their noses. We’ll find it, she said, as if to reassure them. Got any sunshine for me?

Disciplined stillness erupted into a flurry of anarchy. Black tails thumped on the gravel, dirty white front paws padded on Chol’s chest, hind legs danced, and tongues plastered her face and hair. She ruffled backs and scritched little tan eyebrows as usual but could think only of the missing Braunvieh. After receiving and giving as much love as she could handle in one sitting, Chol whistled a dismissal. The Sennähönd each slurped a final canine kiss on her cheeks and raced around the west side of the barn to their water trough. She dried her face on her sleeve, pulled the barn doors shut, and ran into the fields. The beast simply had to be there, somewhere.

Slight, sturdy legs whispered through the low grass not far behind. Chol increased her pace, determined to ascend the slope between the lower and middle pastures before the Sennähönd caught up. She checked over her shoulder. The sun had fallen behind the Alpstein, leaving only a thin seam of red limning the jagged peaks. The light was fading, and the Sennähönd were gaining on her. Sprinting across the land, enveloped in cool air, Chol felt free and small and, in a way, beautiful. She knew she was no beauty, but in moments like these, she felt she had some within her.

At last the slope levelled off into the wide plateau of the middle pasture. Between heavy breaths, Chol called out a command. Müesli barked first, then Cobb, and, in a split-second, they passed on either side of her. As they sped off into the dusk, she suspected they’d been holding back for the past fifty metres, allowing her to imagine she had the lead.

Show-offs. Adrenalin pulsed through her with a rush of giddy power. If you could speak Schwiizerdütsch, or any other human language, you’d brag about me. You’d say, ‘our human can run faster than your human’ to any Hünde that would listen. They’d point their snouts at me and laugh and say, ‘Wia as Lama,’ and you’d make me compete against their human to prove I was no llama. I’d run fastest, I would! She slowed to a walk, pressing fingers into a side cramp. The adrenalin waned and left her kicking at grass nubs, feeling heavy and bemused by the cow’s disappearance.

Craning noses high and low for a scent, the Sennähönd dashed up the slope to the high pasture, towards the northeastern fence where Chol’s land met the forested parklands. The nearest point to public access and cover of the forest, that corner seemed the most likely avenue for a cattle thief, though Chol still harboured resistance against the idea of someone committing such a crime in Haggen. The fence, while sufficiently formidable to a cow, consisted of aged posts and beams easily removed and replaced by almost anyone over the age of twelve.

The Sennähönd snuffled and circled the area in silence. Nothing. Chol sighed. A clue there would have pointed to the most rational explanation. She whistled for them to return to the middle shelf of land and looked to the Alpstein, wondering what to do. The western sky had shrouded itself in darkening mourning cloth until the sun’s return. The lights of Haggen glimmered below. She wished she’d thought to bring a lantern, wished all the s’Veech were accounted for and that she was relaxing in the farmhouse like usual.

Reviewing the day in detail produced no clues. She had minded the stock the entire time, except for a short nap, during which the Sennähönd would have noticed a stranger on the land or a Braunvieh wandering off. Renfer had once warned her about napping shepherds, but she couldn’t recall the story. Just the moral, which was basically don’t nap when watching sheep. Little good it did her now.

She circled to the east, where darkness had had more time to settle. A moon sliver had appeared on that horizon, and Chol was grateful for the dim glow. She sat in the grass and watched it rise until the Sennähönd, having swept the middle pasture perimeter, returned and sat at attention, awaiting her command. Chol whistled for them to sweep the lower pasture and they raced off before Chol could get up. She was halfway down the slope when Müesli bayed, then Cobb. They sounded unthreatened, but they wanted her to come. Chol whistled for a guide and Cobb’s white, river-shaped chest marking appeared on her left. The Sennähond circled Chol’s feet and led her to the south end of the pasture where Müesli hovered over an object roughly the size of a deflated football.

Chol sniffed—it didn’t smell rotten, at least—and reached out a hand. Müesli nipped her wrist. All right. I won’t touch it. You’re like old man Renfer, you know that? Signalling the Sennähönd to withdraw, Chol unsheathed Renfer’s hunting knife and prodded the mystery. Tink. The blade hit something solid—glass? She nudged the object with her knife and caught a glint of green in the weak moonlight. Chol gave it a kick, and an empty wine bottle skudded across the grass. An empty wine bottle on the ground wasn’t so extraordinary, but the idea that someone had trespassed this far inside the bounds of her property was. Maybe someone had thrown it from beyond the fence? And a glinting bottle meant time hadn’t yet caked it with dirt. The bottle had arrived recently. On the same day her cow had gone missing? Could the events be linked? Well, she couldn’t discover much in the darkness. She’d conduct an examination tomorrow.

Gang hai. Home. She took a step and—Au!

Müesli nipped Chol’s heel and resumed her position where she’d found the bottle, raising her eyes to meet Chol’s.

Cobb whimpered—eyes darting from Müesli to Chol—and lay down between them.

What else?

Using Renfer’s knife as a prod, Chol checked the area again. Thunk. Metal? Chol tipped the thing up with her knife. Nothing exploded or snapped like a trap, so she figured it was safe to bring back to the barn for a closer look. Wanting to avoid another nip from Müesli, Chol checked her trousers for a handkerchief. No lantern, no handkerchief, no cow… At least irritation was better than fear, she thought as she pulled off her shirt and spread it on the ground beside the mystery object. After prodding it onto the fabric with the knife, she added the bottle, bundled them up, and looped and knotted the sleeves into a handle that she held out at Sennähond level. Müesli took it in her mouth. No gnawing, Müesli—I like that shirt. Chol shivered. Her arm hairs prickled and the nipples on her nearly-imperceptible breasts hardened. She whistled and they headed home.

Although she thought of old man Renfer daily, she now yearned for his presence. She felt sure he’d know how to deal with anomalies. When he plucked her out of the convent orphanage in Zürich, she’d been a terrified seven-year-old with curled fingers, gnarled from doing incessant rosaries as punishment for a multitude of sins that she later learned had nothing to do with her and everything to do with her less-than-girlish appearance. He’d taught her to herd and care for the cattle, and soon her fingers straightened and grew strong. And he, an ex-priest self-exiled from the church, taught her other ways to see and interpret the world, ways that didn’t condemn little girls to cupboards and eternal rosaries. He taught her other things too. One of them was how to heed her intuition.

Someone was near, watching. She could feel it. People hiking the Wanderweg that bordered the north edge of her land often paused to observe her working in the fields, so she knew the feeling. She never enjoyed it, and this time she liked it even less. Whistling a stop, she knelt to run her fingers along Müesli’s spine and found hackles raised. Suspicion confirmed, but the Sennähönd hadn’t found a scent to pursue, so Chol whistled the command to continue on.

At the barn, Müesli released the shirt bundle on the ground and withdrew. Chol unknotted the sleeves and held up the lantern. One very clean wine bottle, empty. She noted the label. Expensive wine. And a pair of…opera glasses? A frisson of unease ran up her spine. What kind of spy used such ornate binoculars outdoors instead of regular field glasses?

The day just kept getting weirder, Chol thought as she re-bundled the shirt and opera glasses and held them out to Müesli, but at least she had some proof now to confirm her intuition. Someone had been watching her, quite closely. Chol’s breath caught in her throat. Was that person watching now? She wanted her rifle in hand, immediately, for the whole night, maybe forever.

Chol secured barn and farmhouse doors in record time. The rifle was in sight now, leaning against the wall in the corner of the front room, ten quick steps away. All she had to do was load it. Heart thumping in her chest, Chol reached for the gun, but something in her hand clunked against it, and the rifle slid to the floor with a thump. Chol looked at the maladroit hand, and found the lantern swinging from its grip. Her fingers had curled around the handle and tightened into a fist as if clutching a rosary. Not now, dammit! She glanced from gun to lantern and back to the gun again. Finally, she sighed and left the weapon where it was.

Seating herself at the table, she began massaging white knuckles and prying at fingertips. Müesli had left the bundle by the door, and the Sennähönd were now snuffling about the room. At least they weren’t finding anything suspicious, Chol thought. She took deep breaths, the way Renfer had taught her long ago, and told herself everything was fine. After several minutes, her fingers uncurled enough to release the lantern.

Massaging and breathing and watching Müesli and Cobb, Chol knew everything was not fine. Instead of dozing in their beds like usual, the Sennähönd were patrolling the room. Plus, there was someone watching outside—and a missing Braunvieh.

Don’t think about it. Not yet. She pressed her palm to the table and forced her fingers to straighten the rest of the way. The situation reminded Chol of a murder mystery she’d read years ago, which unfortunately had proven that she had no talent for detective work. Flexing and extending her fingers freely now, she reached for the rifle.

Though she hated to admit it, she also had little talent with a gun. Her aim was so bad, she couldn’t hit an elephant if it stood a metre in front of her, but shooting a rifle into the air could scare away lots of things. She hoped whatever had left the bottle and glasses was one of them. After loading the weapon, she checked every room and window latch in the house. She even boarded up the Hünde hole in the front door. Then she let the horrible question come.

Who would drink wine in her pasture while spying on her with fancy opera glasses, and for what purpose? Things she’d read in books came to mind. Drunkards? Murderers? Who loved the opera… No, who had murdered someone at the opera? That seemed ludicrous, but she was fairly certain it was someone up to no good. Maybe someone had simply sat in her pasture and drunk a bottle of wine and enjoyed the day. But with binoculars? Perhaps they were bird watchers? Quite innocuous. Still, Chol couldn’t stop trembling. Nor could she lose the feeling that whoever had been watching her outside was still near.

There is comfort in ritual, Renfer always said. Comfort and serenity, she told herself as she ran the bathwater. It was unsettling, going about her evening chores as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, but what else could she do? Sit in the front room with the rifle in her lap all night, startling at every sound? She leaned the gun against the bathtub and immersed her hands in the warm water.

Whenever she drew a bath, Chol remembered Renfer’s broad smile the day they completed the bathroom addition seven years ago. He’d always wanted a plumbed toilet, sink, and tub, and he’d only gotten to enjoy them a few months before his tired heart gave out. Chol had decided long ago that life was full of ironies like that.

Here I go! he said, standing in the doorway with one hand clutching his towel high in the air like a trophy. His few white-blond hairs were matted to his forehead by sweat. One giant step towards divinity! Even with the door closed, Renfer’s great Ah… resounded throughout the little farmhouse whenever he got into the tub.

Chol heard something—a knock, or a thump. She shut off the water and grasped the rifle. The Sennähönd were still as sentries at the bathroom door. Whatever she had heard, they hadn’t. She released the weapon and gave the command for bath time.

Badwannä.

The Sennähönd scrambled up the makeshift stairway of overturned crates at the end of the tub and jumped in. While plucking bristles from fur and scrubbing the day’s mud away, Chol wracked her mind for a sensible solution to the cow, wine, and glasses mystery. It was unfathomable, though, and made her feel like a child trying to comprehend the reasons behind rosary abuse. Renfer always said that life was full of mysteries, the greatest to be solved only in death. She hadn’t feared any until now.

At last, Chol finished her chores, and eventually fell asleep with her rifle against the wall, Renfer’s old hunting knife unsheathed under her pillow, and the Sennähönd on the bed at her feet. She dreamt of rifles and rosaries.

Chapter Four

Haggen, Switzerland, 1950

All the s’Veech were accounted for—all but one, again. Chol stepped away from the barn doors and walked past the farmhouse into the lower pasture, scanning, listening. Nothing. The sun perched on the Alpstein like a molten sphere, pinkening the western firmament. Flat-bottomed clouds fringed the valley, ready to tuck in Haggen and the surrounding hills. On the eastern outskirts of the town where her land lay, the sky had already turned a light shade of night. Things had returned to normal, she thought, since the cow’s disappearance and the wine bottle and opera glasses advent two weeks ago. Normal until now. She whistled for the Sennähönd and headed back to the barn. Perhaps the two incidents were unrelated. Regardless, she had to investigate.

Müesli and Cobb arrived with chins dripping from the water trough. Tails thumped and ears perked up when Chol grabbed a coiled rope and a lantern and shut the barn doors. Yes, said Chol, what could be better than a day full of herding and running? She knelt as she fastened Renfer’s sheathed hunting knife to her belt. An evening of herding and running. Briefly, she considered bringing the rifle but decided against it. If something out there attacked, odds were that she couldn’t shoot it, but she could run, and a rifle would only slow her down.

The Sennähönd sat on either side of her, eyebrows raised, heads tilted. Chol was not one for sentiment, but she felt compelled to say something meaningful, or lasting—something to help instill the belief that everything was all right, and would be all right, missing Braunvieh and wine-guzzling spy mystery or no. They call you the pride of Entlebuch, she said. Tails thumped in the dirt. And you couldn’t make me prouder. She hugged the Sennähönd tight. They wriggled and yipped softly, noses snuffling her cheeks and hair.

The pack of three ran into the fields as the last spark of sun sank beyond the Alpstein. At Chol’s command, the Sennähönd pulled ahead to do a wide sweep of the upper pasture, and she lost sight of them in the encroaching darkness. The air grew misty as it cooled, chilling the sweat on her skin, making her long-sleeved work shirt clammy. Slowing to a walk, she reviewed everything—opening the barn in the morning, the Sennähönd driving the herd