Forest of Whispers Read online

  His foot balances on the unstable edge of the bank, the hem of his robe deepening to a shade of blood as the water tastes it. “This was my brother’s way of ‘curing’ me after I told him his new bride was unfaithful, after I accused his wife of witchcraft. This was my brother’s way of sentencing me to a cruel death while he surrounded himself with finery and a village that adored him. He took all that I had, all that I was, and destroyed me, ordering me to pledge myself to God so my soul might one day be forgiven. Only I don’t blame my brother. I blame the witch who shared his bed.”

  His breath reeks with blame, and I am struck with the realization that he was the reason my mother gave me away. How evil he must have been that day, ending the lives of those girls. How evil he still is.

  “Had I known my brother’s witch birthed an heir I would have killed it and taken what was rightfully mine. So you see, the witch was clever to keep you hidden from me. From her own husband as well, I imagine.” He takes a step closer. “Her execution was my vengeance. But it seems my work is not yet finished.”

  He does not know my mother is alive today—in this forest that surrounds us, in me—and a horrifying vapor manifests between us.

  The bishop’s back stiffens and his eyes go wide. He loses his footing and slips along the loose rocks at the edge of the stream, tumbling into the cold water beside me. Catching himself, he grabs onto my arms, nearly knocking me over as he struggles against his robe, which is drenched and heavy with water, and then he looks into my face. He looks long and hard.

  You may have destroyed me, but my daughter will be the end of you…

  If ever there had been horror laced among the words my mother whispers, it is now.

  The hatred in the bishop’s eyes turns to fear as my mother’s vengeance settles in my bones.

  Laurentz looks at me. He’s worried. He cannot hear or feel what I do. My hands burn as my mother’s spectre prepares to use me as her vessel. The forest that surrounds me feels horrifying and dark. Across the gurgling stream, Laurentz’s eyes beg me to tell him what is wrong, but I cannot.

  Where would I even begin? I am witch-born and possibly more powerful than my mother, but how do I tell him that my veins are filled with such vengeful blood?

  Even worse, how do I face Laurentz, knowing the bishop is my father’s kin—and that it is my family’s blood that destroyed his mother all those years ago?

  Chapter 49

  Rune

  You cannot escape the past… my mother warns. I stare back at a man who has become more evil than any witch. He is far more cunning than any of us could have ever imagined.

  “Trickery!” he yells. “Even in death the witch has cast a spell that I would believe you are of my blood!”

  Gasps grow behind me as the others take in his words… but more audible than their rising voices is the silence that comes from Laurentz as he stares at me.

  “Fools! All of you!” The bishop’s fists shake as if they still hold the little magick my mother taught him so long ago.

  One of the older villagers has stepped closer and stares at us both. “It was y—” His voice cuts off as the bishop’s hand punches the empty space between them. He utters strange, terrifying words and swipes his hand from left to right. It is like the dagger from the vision my mother allowed me to witness, and suddenly there is a ghastly gurgling. I spin around in time to see a thick line of blood form where an invisible blade has separated the loose flesh of the man’s neck. He falls to his knees. Without hesitation I climb out of the stream and drop to the man’s side, pressing my skirt to his throat.

  In this moment, the bishop is an evil more real than the tales of the forest witch, and the villagers scatter, some tossing their torches to the ground, running from what will surely be their end.

  The dry leaves quickly ignite and the forest is awash with a blood-orange glow.

  “Rune!” Laurentz cries for me, for I am stuck now on the side that burns.

  “What a vile enchantress your mother was,” the bishop seethes. “Pushing me aside so she could rule what should have been mine.”

  His words are hollow and muffled as the crackling fire inches its way closer to me and the moaning man I hold onto. A woman wails nearby, and I am certain it is his wife. She did not leave with the others. I wonder if she cries for him, or for what she fears I will do.

  I stretch my fingers across the ground and am relieved to feel a patch of Sphagnum Moss curling against the rocks. Pulling at it, I yank a cluster free and press it against the dying man’s throat. His eyes darken with confusion until I slowly take my hand away. His wife’s tears are silenced at what I have done, yet her eyes are still filled with fear, for the fire looms.

  A harsh hand clutches at my hair, yanking me to my feet. My scalp screams with a searing pain as I am dragged along the forest floor toward a patch of dry brush not yet consumed by the flames.

  “I didn’t have the pleasure of watching her die,” he tells me. “I thought it would break me. But now I think I will like very much for you to meet your end as she did.” His face twists with a dark smile.

  My back scrapes the tree as the bishop pushes me against it, his weight leaning into me so that I cannot move freely. “You are the embodiment of all who have wronged me, and for that, your suffering will be magnified a thousand times more.”

  In his eyes I see how dark his soul has blackened, and his thoughts—vile images of how he’d like to see me die—slip between us.

  Beyond him a dark shadow forms, stretching, undulating, a ghostly forest tale come true. He pivots at the cold presence at his back. A loud crunch echoes, and the blackness fades to reveal the man I have just healed, standing shakily, a large rock tumbling from his hands.

  The bishop stumbles against me, the forest now aglow in heat and orange and fear.

  “You,” he spits, but he does not have the chance to finish, for a stillness washes over us and then comes a whisper…

  Forgive me, my Sacred Mother, for I never thanked you for your most glorious gift…my child…my daughter…who will prove to be all that I never was, never could be…

  He hears her as clearly as I do, and his face is a stricken mask as a tiny breeze spirals at the water’s edge before us, growing, spinning, pulling the flames inside it as it cyclones closer… closer… It grabs onto the bishop’s robe and consumes it, the water from the stream hissing out of it, leaving him to flail and scream in a wall of flame…and I know, as all falls to a deafening silence, that this is my mother’s final offering to the Sacred Mother.

  Chapter 50

  Rune

  Like a gentle breath extinguishing a candle, the fire in the forest fades. The bishop is gone. It is as if nothing had ever happened. But I know that is not true, for his empty carriage still sits, his impatient horses waiting to ride from this haunted place. My birthright has never been more than a dream to me—and it will remain as such, one I’ve conjured in my head to hide the ugly truth.

  “Rune.” Laurentz stands across the bank, upon the leaves that once knew such violence, and my heart breaks for him. “Do you see what they are doing?” he asks me and I turn, looking back toward the village. It seems as if the hedge has been replaced by skin, arms…people. A human fence separates the village from the Black Forest and it moves, not away from the witch, but toward, and not with torches or flames or angry accusations, but with smiles and hands reaching forth to touch me.

  Leading them into the forest is the old man, his wife dabbing at old blood now staining the skin at his healed neck. He is frail, yet moves along at a steady pace as he assures the wary group there is nothing to fear.

  For I am just a girl…

  Behind him a young girl limps, an old woman with white-blind eyes steps softly upon the mulch ground, and a woman, heavy with the child that grows inside her, follows. They come to me as those before them sought Matilde in this wild place, and a thickness grows in my throat.

  Beyond the trees, a tower beckons and in my bones I feel
the silent cries of the children there. They wait for me, as does the boy across the stream. He follows my eyes and wonders if I will choose the forest over him, his face creasing with worry the longer I stand here contemplating the borderless, limitless future waiting for me.

  And when the morning light finds the stones from the bishop’s ring scattered among the pine needles, my eyes drift to them. They tell me that Laurentz and I are bound to each other with a power much stronger than we know.

  I step into the water, feeling it swirl around my legs, moving with me as I make my way to the other side. My mother’s whispers are at my back, softening, fading with each step I take, for while I am a witch, my power shall know no boundaries as long as it serves the Mother, as I was taught long ago. My foot lifts onto the bank. It slips in the mud, making an ugly scar in the earth. The water will wash it clean. It will heal. Laurentz stretches his hand out to me, waiting, and I take it, lifting myself out of the stream, and onto the soft moss that greets me.

  The End

  Author’s Note

  While this novel is a work of fiction, there are historical references I feel I must mention. All places, including villages, castles, and streams are real—only the circumstances involving them within these pages have been bent in order to tell a story.

  When we think of witch hunts, it is the most often unfortunate circumstances of Salem or England that come to mind. Germany—particularly Bavaria and other southwestern territories—prove to be most significant in modern European witch-hunting. The hysteria peaked between the 16th and 17th centuries in an attempt for religious and territorial control, and thousands of women, children, and men were tried and executed in the city of Bamberg alone. When found “guilty” they were often taken to the Drudenhaus, a famous witch prison built in 1627. Known for its rooms of torture, those on trial would endure countless hours of horror and pain, often coerced into admitting their association with spells and sorcery.

  The Black Forest has been shrouded in mystery for decades. Rumored to be haunted by witches and banshees, it has carved its place within old German folklore. Matilde’s cottage, however, did not exist. If it did, it’s coincidence.

  The village of Württemberg was a duchy and did not join with the nearby village of Baden until 1952, becoming a Federal Free State of Bavaria. I recently found out my own family hails from these parts of southwestern Bavaria, fueling my imagination to dig deep and write this story. It is not surrounded by a hedge, as depicted in the story; however, old European villages often referred to the boundary between village and forest as a “hedge,” and oftentimes, an herbal practitioner lived there.

  All plants and herbs mentioned in the book are native to the Black Forest, as are the afflictions of the time period—famine, Bubonic Plague, and a disease called St. Anthony’s Fire (now known as ergotism). Ergot of Rye played a large role in the witch hysteria. Its symptoms include hallucinations, trancelike states, rashes, and uncontrollable twitches and convulsions. It is now believed to have played a major role in the Salem Witch Trials.

  The Electorate of Eltz’s territory did not fall as far south as Württemberg. His region was Mainz and Trier during the Holy Roman Empire, but I felt Castle Eltz was so perfect for the story that I created an extension to his region. As far as I know, he did not have a son named Laurentz. Castle Eltz is a place of wonder and thousands of tourists visit yearly. And yes, Pyrmont Castle is its neighbor, a short three-hour hike away.

  As for the Witch of Bavaria, she is quite real, although cannot be named as one particular person. Thousands of innocent women were accused of witchcraft and executed. The idea of a Witch of Bavaria encompasses all of the souls lost during this hopeless time in our history.

  A Spell of Thanks

  A whole lot of magic goes into creating a book.

  You need inspiration: AKA as an intuitive literary agent who looks into her scrying glass and informs you that you MUST write this book. Amanda Luedeke, you are priceless to me. Thank you for pushing me to be my very best and for finding the perfect home for my story.

  The universe must align: Kate Kaynak, thank you for falling under my manuscript’s spell. All is well in the world when an editor shares the same vision as the author. Nothing can compare to the warm arms Spencer Hill Press has embraced me with.

  A pinch of encouragement: Cyn Balog & Molly Cochran, I am grateful for our friendship. Thank you for being the first to read Forest of Whispers (back when it was a little file called The Hedge Witch).

  A veil of mystery: Lisa Amowitz, thank you for creating such a hauntingly beautiful cover. You are indeed the other half of my dark and twisted brain.

  A dash of spice: Otherwise known as Publicist Extraordinaire. Brooke DelVecchio, I am in awe of you and the creativity you wield.

  A bloodline: I always knew my family had secrets…including one my mother traced back to pre-Germanic times and a hint of a great, great, grandmother…who was a witch.

  A flame: Tremendous thanks to my Coven of Secrets Street Team—especially ReaganStar Baldwin—for virtually whispering about my book to the world.

  A cauldron: There’s nothing like family to help stir the past into present. Thank you to my parents for always encouraging me to walk my own path and for my grandmother, who will gladly sit and listen to me talk about writing over a cup of tea.

  The elements: Immense gratitude to my husband, Chris—and my children, Christian and Megan. The journey would be nothing without you along for the ride.

  About the Author

  Jennifer Murgia writes Young Adult Fantasy and Contemporary novels. She has long loved the dark and speculative—and it’s from these dark places that she weaves fantastical stories, often hoping to find truth in them. She is the co-founder and coordinator of YAFest: an annual teen book festival in Easton, PA. She currently resides in Pennsylvania with her husband, her two children, and a very spoiled cat.