Forest of Whispers Read online

  “You and I both know it will take a long time for me to claim Pyrmont, if I ever do. According to the law, I own nothing. I have no rights. Besides, we all know it’s more than that. I’m a descendant of…”

  “Ah, yes, the infamous Witch of Bavaria.” Angeline nods her head, acting as if it’s not a weighted subject.

  “The Witch of Bavaria?”

  There is a fresh gleam in Angeline’s eyes that tells me she is getting better, returning to the vivacious woman she must have been before falling ill. “Are you surprised I know something about your mother that you don’t? Oh no, your mother was quite the lady, so much more than an Electorate’s wife. She was a wild thing, one I do believe her husband felt nearly impossible to contain.”

  After all the trivial conversations Angeline and I have shared, this one is most surprising. She leans closer so that I can see how the sparkle in her eyes makes the circles beneath them darker.

  “You know there are others like your mother.”

  “Other Electorates’ wives? Or others being accused and burned at the stake?”

  She shakes her head, keeping her voice low, savoring the chance to gossip. “No, others who practice. Some who followed your mother, and others who have gone off on their own.”

  Angeline’s hand feels heavy on top of mine. It makes me feel like I’m sinking.

  “I don’t want to be like my mother, Angeline. I will never be like her.”

  “You’re right. You will be what the Sacred Mother has planned. You’ll see.”

  My breath catches in my throat. She notices and her smile grows. “I see I’ve surprised you by my knowledge of the Great Mother.”

  “Did you…” I swallow hard. “Did you follow my mother?”

  Angeline sits up straight, and her face switches from sneakily playful to serious. “Let’s just say I knew of her many years ago.”

  I don’t know how, but I’ve offended her. I feel something strange pass between us, and I worry that Angeline is darker than I understand her to be. I wonder if I should be careful around her, and without being aware of what I’m doing, my body inches away.

  “Rune, you can trust me.”

  Can I?

  “Oh poor Rune, you’ve been without a mother for so long.”

  There’s pity in what she says, but she’s wrong again. Matilde has always been a mother to me. I haven’t gone without.

  “And poor Laurentz. He’s been through so much.”

  We are interrupted as a young girl enters, carrying a tray. She sets at her lady’s bedside a plate of Schupfnudeln, rolled dumplings made of rye and potato, but my presence disrupts her duty and she topples the entire plateful onto the floor. Angeline curses the girl for her clumsiness. The girl mutters apology after apology, that she herself will ride to town for more rye, as it seems Cook’s supply has run low.

  It is a side to Angeline I never would have imagined witnessing. The room has become quite warm, and I stare at the flames in the fireplace—a volatile element tamed. I am beginning to wonder if I’ve been foolish to think Angeline has been my friend.

  “Yes, he’s told me of his brother.” I continue our conversation after the chambermaid has left us.

  “I’m not speaking of Freidrich. I’m speaking of the first Lady of Eltz, his mother,” Angeline says. “I don’t follow witches like she did. I don’t run off looking for trouble, believing in what is child’s play. Oh,” she says innocently, seeing my reaction to her words. “You don’t know about the Electorate’s first wife? Did you know for years Laurentz’s father has covered up the fact that his first wife was murdered?”

  “Murdered?”

  “She was among those found in the woods that terrible morning just outside your village all those years ago.”

  Horror spreads across my face. Images flood my mind. The girl hanging from the tree, her heart cut out of her chest. A girl lying in blood-soaked leaves. No wonder Laurentz ran off after watching what I am capable of. No wonder he and his father exchanged strange looks after I told them who my mother was, when I told them where and how she had died. I lift myself off the bed and begin pacing, ready to burst from my skin. But it’s more than that. It’s Angeline. It’s why she is telling me this.

  “Laurentz’s mother knew your mother. His mother and yours are dead. Is that a coincidence?”

  I have no doubt Angeline is feeling better, stronger, for she seems intent to wound me with her words. She doesn’t appreciate what I’ve done for her. She only sees me as a threat, a witch, and the friendship I thought we might form is being challenged with every question that bounces back and forth between us.

  “Was Laurentz’s mother a…”

  “Witch? Goodness no. They found Laurentz’s mother on the other side of the stream, Rune.” She picks up the goblet, tilting it this way and that. The water sways back and forth, creeping up the sides of the glass, then slipping back down. Angeline takes a long, exaggerated sip, then smiles and says, “You and I both know witches can’t cross water.”

  Chapter 41

  Laurentz

  “Friedrich!” I’ve called out into the dark for hours, getting closer, yet further away.

  Behind every tree I hear his voice. Around every bend is the distinct crunching of hooves. I was convinced he’d led me here, but I can’t find him. I never will. And what would I say if I did? I would break down at his feet and ask for forgiveness. But what sort of forgiveness would he give for taking his life? Mine has been haunted by my guilt. Isn’t that enough?

  Finally, I can take no more and lean over my horse’s neck, willing this outrageous goose chase to come to an end. My brother is not here. This is a trick of the forest—an illusion. I should have known better. This is how men die in the Black Forest—seduced by the voices they think they hear, like pirates falling to the whims of the sirens at sea.

  I will my heart to stop beating so quickly. I will the voice of my long-dead brother to fade away, to let reality set in. In the end, when I do, there is only one voice I hear, and it is hers. I try to let that fade, too. It is apparent that for hours I’ve done nothing but ride in circles, becoming completely turned around, and the part of the forest I am in is not familiar to me. My horse leads me wherever it wants to go. At this point, I don’t care where I end up. I know, after what I’ve done, I can’t go back to her.

  But there she is, tall and majestic, whispering to me through the treetops as if telling me she’s been watching over me all along. It isn’t really her, but Pyrmont’s Keep, that I see. My horse, it seems, has led me to somewhere after all, as opposed to the anywhere I originally set out for.

  Softly, we approach, following the thinly marked path along the ground. As soon as we reach the briar bushes lining the walk, I pull the reins hard and cover the mare’s snout with my hands. Two carriages are parked beside one another, and my blood runs cold as I tread closer, immediately recognizing them—for one belongs to the Prince Bishop, and the other belongs to my father.

  I jump down from the saddle and approach the door, my hand resting just above the latch. Knowing my father and the bishop are inside disturbs me greatly. This place is a tomb, a death trap, yet they are within these walls, placing themselves in great danger if Plague still lingers here.

  The latch turns beneath my touch, and the door slips open, letting me step into the past. I imagine ghosts still walk these halls after having been torn from this earth too quickly—ghosts that will forever be bound here. I think of Rune living among them one day after she claims her inheritance. Only this is not where Rune should be. She belongs in the Black Forest where the trees create an eternal night, where the fern blows wild in the breeze, not penned in by stone walls.

  Inside, a strange sound finds me—a wailing that is soft and desperate, that makes me think of Anna’s crumbling little house in the village. The sound drifts to me from the upper floors, and I follow it. I nearly cover my mouth with my sleeve for fear the infection has not cleared, but then realize Plague must have
been a game of deadly foolery. My father would never have set foot here otherwise. I soon find myself in a hall facing a half-open door. Movement stirs within.

  “Shhh. There, there, my little one,” a woman, who is very much alive, whispers. She cradles something in her arms no bigger than my shoe. It squirms and wriggles, and soon the bundle is set down carefully, as if it could break with the slightest movement. The room comes fully into view and I see now that there are dozens of other cradles filled with more squirming bundles.

  It is a nursery.

  I stay close to the wall, peering in. The woman is familiar to me. I know her—the way she bends over, her meticulous movements, the way she inspects each bundle as she walks past row after row after row. She turns to the side where I can see the angle of her face, and I am stunned to see it is the woman from the village, the woman who stood waiting for the glassblower to make the witch bottle, the one who met the bishop’s carriage and took the money in exchange for the bellermine. She was the one who I saw sneaking away from the Drudenhaus.

  A familiar voice comes from the open door at the opposite end of the room and in walks the bishop, robe-less and in plain clothes, paying no mind that the house could still be carrying contagion.

  “A reformation, you understand, is the only way to preserve our society,” he says. “We shall build a new society, a pure society, governed by the Church.”

  Have I wandered into a hospital for children who have lost their families to pestilence? And why is it that there are only cradles I see, and not beds? Unless there are rooms full of other patients, other children tucked safely away within the halls of the house.

  The bishop cups his hand beneath the woman’s chin, and I am taken aback by the closeness. She is obviously someone with whom he is intimate. He drops his hand as two more women enter, each returning a bundle to a waiting crib. Both glance at the bishop with nervous eyes as they gather up other children and scuttle from the room.

  “So many souls.” The bishop surveys the number of cribs in the room.

  The woman bends to tuck in the edge of a blanket and quickly recoils her hand from the crib.

  “See there?” A worried look spreads across her forehead as she points. “What do you suppose we do with this one? She has a funny little mark.”

  “Dispose of it,” the bishop tells her plainly.

  I am frozen to this spot watching this peculiar moment unfold in front of me, horrified that he can so unsympathetically tell the woman to kill a baby.

  “Before long, these children will be cured and spared the memory of their parentage,” he continues speaking, not allowing the little matter of a birthmark stop him.

  “And how can you be sure the lineage will not be a problem?” A second man asks from the far threshold, and my anger boils inside me until I fear I won’t be able to contain it any longer, giving myself away, as my father steps into the room.

  “The line ends with the parents, be it either the mother or the father who carried the trait,” the bishop replies, happy to make his point. “Each one of these children has been orphaned, and will grow up without the face of evil tempting them. They will grow up in a world void of sorcery. They will never know of witchcraft in the way their parents did. Denying them the temptation will allow them to see the world for what it truly is, and that most of what we do with our lives is unfortunately the work of the Devil himself.” The bishop motions with his arm, leading my father away from the woman, so that they might speak privately. His voice drops to a near-whisper. “There is, however, one last issue to be addressed before the Viscount’s visit to the friary. Has there been any success finding the girl?”

  He means Rune. I am sure of it.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” my father replies back to the bishop. “There is no trace of her.”

  He does not reveal that Rune is alive and well, staying under his roof, and I am glad of it, because his willingness to lie to the bishop tells me she is safe.

  “Nonetheless, you will give word as soon as she is found.”

  “Of course,” my father nods as he places a leather pouch in the bishop’s hand.

  The bishop nods acceptance, a delighted grin raising his ruddy cheeks. “Your donation to the Church is always appreciated.”

  I don’t miss how my father’s eyes linger on the pouch, almost regretful that it has been handed over. I wonder why this disturbs him. I try and read him—his actions, his emotions. And while I draw a breath of relief that my father honors my wish to keep Rune a secret, today I am convinced I do not know my father at all.

  Chapter 42

  Rune

  Laurentz will find the letter I’ve pushed beneath his door when he returns…if he ever returns. I will be gone by then. I’m much too wild to be kept here. There is something in me I don’t understand; while I try to, I must be alone.

  These walls are too thick for me to breathe, lined with too many eyes that watch me. I don’t believe it is because they are curious. I feel that, without Laurentz here, I am stripped of an unseen protection I otherwise would have had. No, I need to go. I need to escape into the forest. It’s the only place where I feel I can truly protect myself.

  My slippers are soundless as I hide in the shadows of the pantry. Cook has already prepared lunch and will not be looking for ingredients among the shelves anytime soon, and from here I have the best view of the barn from the servants’ entrance. I wait, holding my breath until a young stable boy crosses the lawn, leaving the barn door open just a crack.

  I slip outside, cross the warm sweet grass, and disappear into the stable. I don’t know why I haven’t come here before; it’s the closest thing to being in the forest. The hay is sweet and reminds me of the lichen that grows between the roots of the trees. It smells like the moss that carpets the hillsides and the pungent earth as the stream swells from the rain.

  I long for home in a way I am no longer able to contain. The boy who left must have just saddled the young stallion for a ride, but I take it as a sign from the Mother that it is for me and climb up, not needing anyone’s help. Once I am seated upon the beast’s back I begin to doubt my escape. I peer over the animal’s enormous neck and feel dizzy, feeling his body sway as his hooves take tentative steps, confused that I have not given him direction. I swallow hard and press my heel into the horse’s side. I feel his muscles tighten as he starts out through the back of the stable and into the open air. My arms wrap around the steed’s neck and I imagine it to be Laurentz’s back, feeling safe as the trees inch closer. I smell the pine, already feeling the cool shade from the trees as, with a strong leap, the horse scales a downed tree trunk and we become part of the black that inhabits the forest.

  Chapter 43

  Laurentz

  “Laurentz.” My father’s eyes widen as I step into the makeshift nursery.

  “What is all this?” I walk around the cradles. There are more than I thought, now that I am actually in the room. The woman stands off to the side, stifling her gasp as she recognizes me, and I can’t help wonder if one of these infants came from the witch prison where I saw her last. “Am I correct to assume Pyrmont is no longer a victim of the Black Death?”

  The bishop, not my father, is the one to walk toward me. His eyes tell me he is skeptical of my visit but his arms are open. “She is clear of rats, fleas, and sorcery, my good boy. Allow me to introduce you to the next generation of Bavaria. Before long, this area will be cleansed of all evil and a new generation will guard its borders. I’m sure in time, when you are Electorate, you will be proud to live in a pure and reformed Germany.”

  “I may not be Electorate for a number of years.” My eyes dart over his shoulder, resting on my father’s face. I refuse to promise my allegiance. I refuse to tell the bishop anything.

  “No matter,” he says simply, as if it isn’t a matter worth worrying over yet. “By that time, any number of the infants here might be worthy of serving in your Guard, Laurentz.”

  “Who are these children?”
I walk up one of the rows, looking down. The colored blankets signify whether the infant resting inside is a boy or a girl. Otherwise, each is marked only by a number. No names. No identity. Nothing that reveals who they are, or who they belong to.

  “Laurentz.” My father’s tone urges that I don’t ask too many questions.

  “It’s all right,” the bishop intervenes. “If the boy is to hold a position of power one day, then why not give him a taste of it now? Once he understands the importance of removing witchcraft and heresy from our villages, he’ll be with us, rather than against us.”

  The glimmer of his plan is becoming clear in my head. The bishop alluded to this that day in the chapel, and I see that his plan has been executed.

  “These are pure souls, Laurentz—each one a victim in its own right. Each one a product of a parent who has been stained by evil, and destroyed so that the sins they’ve harbored will not pass to the younger generation.”

  “These children were born to people accused of being witches?”

  It’s such a tainted word, witch. The woman’s face reddens before she slips through the door.

  “Your son is perceptive.” The bishop turns to my father. “He’s a leader through and through to have picked up on such matters. Yes, Laurentz, do you remember that day in the chapel? I came to speak to your father about the prospect of contamination throughout our regions. You showed interest. If that interest is still there, perhaps you’d like to join us. We have one more to collect.”

  “I don’t collect babies.”

  His laugh cuts through me. “No, she’s not a child.” He leans in, and I see the strong wish for power in his eyes. “She’s the very reason for the rectification of the sovereigns. Hers is a soul so black, it’s like peering into the eyes of the devil himself.”

  He doesn’t know her like I do. She isn’t what he says.

  “What do you plan to do with her?” I ask. “Keep her in an orphanage?”