Forest of Whispers Page 16

  I’d like to lose myself in thoughts of birthdays past, but then I look around at the reality the breaking dawn reveals. It’s clear those days are gone, replaced by this day, which is unbearably monumental over all the others. I have given up trying to resist what I am. The truth is, I am a witch—one who unfortunately is capable of wielding poor judgment, not spells, and not one whose very being is made up of a strange, dark substance. What happened yesterday, the breaking point I reached, the way my fingers nearly sparked with a terrifying power, was an illusion. I have to believe that. It will not happen again. It is not who I want to be.

  Anna lets out a moan, and I make my way to the bars, kneeling next to her. Her skin is shiny and waxen. I try to encourage her to take the thin slice of bread from my hand, but she ignores my coaxing. It’s clear she won’t eat, so I place the bread back on the tray and reach between the bars, giving a gentle tug to the knot beneath her dress, tucking it as flat as I can possibly get it. Last night, in a feverish panic, she told me she’s certain the next time the guards come for her they’ll be able to notice the swelling in her stomach. By the light of the low moon pouring through the window, we tied a ripped piece of my underskirt tightly around her middle, in hopes of hiding it.

  I suck my breath in sharply as I notice the deep bloom of crimson that soaks through her skirt.

  “Anna,” I whisper softly, not wanting to alarm her. “Are you in pain?”

  She moans and rolls away from me.

  I’ve seen this before. Matilde told me not every pregnancy comes to fruition, that the Sacred Mother will take a child she feels is not ready for the world. It’s no wonder the Mother intervenes now.

  In a matter of moments blood is everywhere. I can’t help staring at it as it fans further out, staining the strands of straw beneath her. Hemorrhaging, Matilde called it. My pulse thrums a steady beat in my temple. Without Matilde, I cannot think of what to do. I can’t remember the steps to take to prevent the loss of a mother, and suddenly, I’m desperately afraid.

  “Anna, it will be okay,” I whisper, trying to hide the worry in my voice.

  She leans her head against the cool hand I place on her cheek, and I’m almost grateful she isn’t conscious enough to understand.

  You know how to help her, daughter… It is time…

  The words are easy to ignore as I watch as Anna’s life slowly bleed from her.

  “I won’t take her life. I’ll give it back, if I’m able.” Insistent, I push myself away from her and begin smoothing the surface of the dirt floor with my hand. I have no idea what I’m doing, what I’m thinking of attempting. I only know that something deep inside drives me to do what I can to save her.

  End this and she will not suffer… Save her, and they will know what you are…

  “Isn’t that what you want, Mother? Don’t you want them to know I’m a witch? If she dies by my hand it will give them more reason to take my life!”

  If you save her it will be a miracle, an act of grace they will not be able to explain… It will seal the sentence they have given you…

  “I’m already dead,” I say out loud. There is no hope within these walls, and the truth is devastatingly painful.

  All at once, the symbols of Matilde’s rune stones take shape behind my eyes. The words she used in the forest as she beckoned to the elements, invoking their power within the circle, form on my lips. I mark four points, tracing my finger on the dusty ground. I don’t know how, but the words come to me, as if they are alive. There is the deepest need to let my soul free for the sake of the child that struggles to live in Anna’s womb.

  I reach between the metal bars that divide me from her weak body and take a bundle of red straw in my fist, pressing it between my hands before placing it in the center of the floor. The rocks of the window’s edge are rough as I drag my hand across them.

  “My blood for the baby’s… Let this child live… Let it live… No more death… Let me do something good…”

  But death is everywhere. Against my words, hammering resonates from the little patch of green outside. Guards have begun to assemble the gallows and pyres that will send us to our deaths. Branches and bales of hay wait to be stacked against tall stakes, and nails are driven into coffins for those who will meet a different end.

  A scream meets my ears. It does nothing to shake me until I realize it comes from Anna. I’m at her side, reaching for her as far as my arms are allowed between the dividers.

  “Just breathe, Anna. The baby’s coming.” I try to soothe her, reassure her that all will be fine, but she fights against me.

  “It can’t come! Not here!”

  “Anna, you must do this.”

  Her eyes are feral and she holds onto my fingers so tightly, I fear she will snap them off. “You promised you wouldn’t let them take my baby. Keep your promise, Rune.”

  Fear prickles at the back of my neck that it may be beyond my power to keep that promise, but I tell her what she needs to hear. Anna’s face contorts as she is seized by a vice of pain, taking every ounce of control to not scream out, which will ultimately bring the guards.

  “Look at me,” I urge. “It’s all right. You’re not alone. I’m with you.”

  This calms her somehow, even for just a moment, and she’s able to concentrate on the breaths she draws in and out of her lungs. I pry her hands from mine, placing her fingers around the cold metal to hold onto as I push as much straw beneath her as I can.

  “It’s time, Anna.”

  She doesn’t wait for me to tell her what to do. The straw is drenched in red. If I concentrate I can feel Matilde with me, knowing she’d be proud. And she is with me. Matilde is everywhere today.

  I catch something that feels small and slippery in both hands, but it’s warm and alive, and although Anna’s face is bone-white, she is smiling.

  “It’s a daughter! Anna, you have a daughter!” I stretch my hands toward her so she can see the beautiful baby in them.

  “Not yet, Rune.” Her breath is labored behind her relief. “Give me a minute.”

  The baby is so small she fits between the bars, and soon, I’m holding her in my arms, watching her tiny mouth open and close, watching her arms and legs extend, moving this way and that.

  “Anna, she’s wonderful.” I say, in awe of the tiny thing. I take a layer of my dress and wrap it about the miniature body to keep her warm, covering her bare skin from the chilly dampness of the room. There is a tiny raised blemish beneath her arm that I notice instantly. A birthmark. A normal thing. Only whoever sees it, a guard, or anyone searching for such a flaw, will determine it’s a witch mark—an imperfection upon her tiny soul, as opposed to a sign that she struggled to be born. Poor thing, I think.

  The only sounds are the baby’s tiny mews and the sucking motions she makes with her mouth. I gently lay the baby on the floor. Anna is silent. I’ve never seen such a grey tone to a person before.

  “Anna?” Her chest rises and falls slightly. “Your baby needs you.” I whisper urgently, willing her to open her eyes.

  The baby squirms behind me, but I can’t turn away just yet. I can’t leave Anna. I hold her hand in mine, rubbing it until the skin glows a deep, raw pink, but all she does is bleed, her life flowing out of her in a steady stream.

  The door scrapes open on her side of the divider and guards step into the room, their eyes wide at the sight of her still body. They peer across the partition to where I crouch beside her, and suddenly, there are shouts ringing through the two spaces, and into the hall. Footsteps pound closer until my door opens. Automatically, I rise to my feet and when I do, I turn, taking in the extent of what they see, and I too am horror-struck.

  Before us, the room is awash with red. A squirming newborn cries in the middle of a makeshift circle, surrounded by strange, inhuman symbols etched upon the floor. One guard reaches to take my hand, but he is wary, afraid to touch me. I watch the leather straps encircle my wrists, pulling against my skin, and notice the blood caked beneath my
fingernails.

  Anna lies still and pale on the floor in the other chamber. I’m too far away to see if her chest still moves. I want to tell the guards to save her.

  “I’m sorry, Anna,” I whisper, knowing her child lies on the floor, unprotected. “I couldn’t keep my promise.” Before I pass through the opening to the hall, I force myself to look back, my eyes tracing the ground and the markings that confuse me. I drew them, yet they are not familiar to me, not at all.

  Chapter 27

  Rune

  No one speaks.

  I’m led away quickly, leaving behind a girl who, for the briefest time, was my friend, and a hysterical infant lying on a dirt floor surrounded by what clearly looks like the work of a witch.

  I did it. I made the markings.

  But I did it to save the baby, not to harm it.

  Only that’s not how it looks. Even I am astonished at the impression it leaves. A baby lying in the middle of a strangely drawn circle of rune glyphs looks like…

  …a sacrifice.

  I was a fool to believe I had a chance, that if I played my cards in a smart, calculated sort of way, they would set me free and I’d be returned home to the Black Forest. All the times the guards shoved me in front of the long table before the judges, I repeated the same answer. I am not a witch. Today I have proven that wrong. Today I have shown them that I am capable of lying, and that I am capable of much more than meets the eye. They will accuse me of everything and anything now. Today, I am as good as dead.

  Craning my neck, I look back from where I’ve just walked. The baby no longer cries. I hear a soft voice offering comforting words, even though no one else is in this stretch of hall but the guards and myself. The voices come from the chamber and only I can hear them. Someone is holding Anna’s baby, telling her that she will be all right. A cloaked figure steals from the chamber, arms wrapped around a precious package, and melts into the darkness. Soon after, two guards emerge carrying Anna’s lifeless body. One arm hangs down and her fingers slide along the floor. I turn my head, feeling the scream build in my throat, and then I swallow it. She’s better off now.

  A door scrapes open ahead of me and my eyes ache. They are not used to such brilliant light.

  The cool air rushes against my skin, and I know where I am, finally in the tiny courtyard. It is green with a clear blue sky overhead, and it is real. All the sounds and smells come to me, and I’m instantly transfixed as I am heartbroken. It has been so long since I’ve been outside. All I can think of is home.

  Gone are the sounds of mallets pounding iron into wooden planks. Gone is the commotion of preparing. As if the bright day before me is a magickal new reality, I am inexpressibly aware of the illusion that it hides. It is one that marks it is time. I am the center of it. All of this has been for me.

  How long have the people been standing there watching? I didn’t notice them when I was brought out, and now, I see there are dozens. They wait and watch as I am led toward a small riser of three steps. To the back of the little landing, a wooden pole stands straight and tall, reaching into the air. I should be trembling at the sight of it, but I can’t help stare up its length toward the sky it nearly touches. My bound hands ache to come loose from their binds, that I too might raise my hand high, feeling the coolness of freedom between my fingers.

  I never confessed, yet I am here.

  If I had given in, told them what they wanted from me, I would still be standing in this very place, cringing beneath the stares of those who have come to be entertained. They are here for one reason—to see a witch die.

  My back is shoved gruffly, and I’m forced to take a step closer to the riser. A symphony of noise rises around me, and I try to concentrate on the dark brown knots in the wood, saddened that this tree died for my own death. But I can’t shut them out. Shouts. Questions. Cries. It is overwhelming. I notice how the guard who has brought me lingers a few feet away, how he looks at me with something unspeakable in his eyes.

  After all, I am dangerous.

  The voice in my head is quiet for now, but she is here. She sees what I see, hears what I hear, and I wonder if it reminds her of that day, and if that is why she has been reduced to silence.

  Or perhaps it is because someone new stands to watch.

  My heart races when I see how elegantly dressed he is, how the folds of his sleeves swallow his arms, how the glinting ring on his finger shines in the brilliant sunlight that shimmers overhead. I’ve grown up secluded, but I know well the person I face.

  His balding head is covered with a white, skin-tight caplet. He is robust in size as well as shape, a sign of wealth and prosperity, and he reminds me of Rolf, which makes me feel angry. I notice he keeps his distance from me. Perhaps he believes the idea of heresy is a contagious one.

  “You’re a difficult one, they tell me.”

  Quickly, I think how to answer him. Sweat beads down the center of my back.

  “Tell me, witch, do you confess to your crime?”

  I am silent. After what I’ve done, I don’t attempt to defend myself.

  “Your silence tells me you truly believe you’ve done no wrong.”

  My mind is a flurry of questions. All I can focus on is his ring. It’s by far easier to look at than his face. From the corner of my eye I see him nod, and soon after, I feel the touch of someone taking hold of my wrists, leading me up those little steps. One foot after the other, I reach the top. I’m turned to face the courtyard and everyone in it. What I see are dark eyes and still mouths stretched into harsh lines. They hold their breath, as do I. The stake behind me has been shaved smooth. I feel it with my fingertips. Rising within my chest is a steady beat that threatens to burst. I cannot breathe. I cannot think. If it were not for the tight binds fixing me to the pole at my back, I’d have fallen to the floor of the riser by now; my knees no longer know how to hold me up.

  I think of Matilde. I think of the Sacred Mother.

  I try to be strong.

  And then, it comes—the fierce whisper I’ve been dreading.

  Let them burn. Let them all burn…

  My eyes are filled with the man who walks closer, torch in hand, flames bouncing in the same gentle breeze that kisses my cheeks. I want to scream out. I want to tell the voice that is my mother she doesn’t make sense. That it’s I who will burn, not them.

  The flame is closer, hovering over the wisps of straw that poke out from beneath the branches. It has not been lit yet, but I already feel the heat beneath my feet. I am already stamping out an invisible fire that feels so real because my fear has made it so.

  The town will burn from the flame that takes you. I will breathe life into the air that will carry it to our home and beyond, to any village that has wrongly accused, wrongly condemned, a woman for what she has not done. And then, my daughter, then you and I will be together… This is how it ends. We will all burn. We will all burn. We will all burn.

  The bishop steps closer, a sneer stretched across his wide face as he looks into my own, anxious to taste my panic—but to my surprise his expression changes, and his eyes reflect something close to the fear I hold inside me. He shakes his head to and fro, then closes his eyes. When they open, he takes a deep, long look at me.

  “Wait,” he says, holding up his hand.

  The man with the torch stops.

  I bite the inside of my cheek for fear of speaking out loud.

  Look closer, and you will see me… My mother’s voice stirs.

  As if commanded to do so, he leans in inches from my face, close enough that I smell the ale and meat from his lunch souring his breath, and then he draws back, like an animal sensing what humans cannot.

  A woman’s voice floats invisibly between us.

  And all I hear is laughter.

  Chapter 28

  Laurentz

  I round my horse along the exterior wall of the Drudenhaus courtyard, where a good portion of the city has gathered, their murmurs heard from the street. The height my horse ele
vates me to is ample to peer overhead without drawing attention to myself, and I see a good number of empty wooden stocks and containments.

  The bishop’s carriage is at the gate. It is easy to recognize, and I look at it in disgust, understanding now that what he has set in motion will result in the deaths of many innocent women. I am not defying him out of spite. I am not choosing to save Rune because I want to play with fire.

  I am doing it because the bishop is wrong.

  My anger motivates me, as does my conversation with my father nearly two hours ago. My horse enters the gate and I see Rune at the far end.

  “Now! Do it now!” The bishop orders a guard to light the straw and timber, but the guard is distracted. The sound of a crying infant slices the gathered silence. A woman in a hooded cloak carrying a small bundle to her chest creeps along the wall of the prison. Her previously inconspicuous escape is now the center of attention, and people begin to whisper among themselves.

  The wind picks up and her hood is thrown back. It is the woman from Württemberg—the witch bottle woman, the very one who had accepted payment from the bishop’s carriage. Her eyes meet the bishop’s in a moment of steely acknowledgment. There is a slight gesture across the courtyard, and in a matter of seconds, she is gone. When the bishop turns to resume the burning, the wind has unpredictably turned stormy, and the guard’s torch now lies at the base of the pyre Rune is fixed to.

  Screams rise as the sudden gale fuels the flames, sending spectators to flee in panic for the open gate. The small flame has managed to ignite the entire courtyard, and there is nothing but an orange inferno surrounding us.

  A shriek of terror has me running and I stop short to see the bishop’s robe has caught. He and the guard are swatting with all their might to extinguish it, leaving the flames to creep upon the elevated stand toward Rune.

  She is more beautiful than I remember—dark hair against light skin, strong against what should be her most fragile moment. Her hands work at the knot that holds her arms behind her, but she can’t concentrate. Her eyes are filled with what is happening around her, so I slip behind the stake, knowing the thick smoke conceals me, and yank my dagger from my boot. I slice the thick rope, and she crumples down.