Forest of Whispers Page 8

  She takes an enormous bite of the cake and chews, intentionally ignoring the bewildered look on my face.

  “I told you there was nothing in the cupboard.”

  “But where has it all gone?” My voice reaches an unnatural pitch. “It was all here yesterday. Where are the stones?”

  Last night’s fortune haunts me. There’s no need to ask Matilde to read the future again, not to mention that I don’t want to relive it any time soon, but this was how Matilde earns her living, by readings and tea leaves. Our lives have been shaped by predicting people’s futures, and now, the most precious of her mediums is gone.

  There is only one stone left, the tiny one that cleverly found its way into my hand last night. I was reluctant to relinquish it, so I slipped the rune into my pocket and placed it beneath my pillow before falling asleep. I didn’t realize how powerful that single stone could be, and I remember feeling restless, not knowing what my dreams were until early this morning when Matilde woke me. I wonder if the stone of the Woman was the reason I dreamt of my mother. Perhaps she is represented by two stones, and not just Poison, like Matilde told me.

  Still, Matilde offers no further explanation for the missing items in the cupboard and I cannot help but wonder. Did she trade them? Did she sell them to buy the ingredients for the cake?

  “Mutti?”

  “Sit down and eat, Rune.” She rocks back and forth in her chair. I sit, but my mind is racing as I stare at the corner of the room where the cupboard door hangs open, empty. When I’ve given up all hope of hearing more, she whispers, “Years ago, terrible things happened in the village. The crops turned to dust; the livestock starved, and the people who lived there grew very sick. All fingers pointed to a small group of girls who seemed unaffected. Mind you, these girls were a bit older than you, some married, but they were young, vibrant, as close as sisters. They went on with their lives, taking no notice of the devastation that had begun around them, until one day, one came running into the village, hysterical and covered from head to toe in blood.”

  I walk over to the fire and drop to the floor at her feet, spellbound.

  “The girl pointed toward the woods, claiming there had been a murder. When a group of men searched the forest, they found one of her friends hanging from a tree. Her heart had been cut out of her chest.”

  My hand is at my mouth and the mental picture her words are painting creates a horrifying scene in my head. If I look out the window I might see that girl hanging from the birch tree.

  “The body of another was thrown across the stream, lying in a pile of leaves, and the last girl,” Matilde continues, “couldn’t be found. Many long days and nights of searching passed, and the town came to the conclusion that the missing girl had vanished into thin air. The truth finally came out, however. The missing girl was a witch, capable of causing unspeakable harm, and the cause of all the unfortunate experiences in the village.

  “The hedge was planted soon after, strewn with Yew seedlings in order to keep her out. The last she was seen was in the Black Forest, and if she ever returned she would have to cross the barrier, and the town would know of it.”

  “What happened to the first girl?”

  “Life wasn’t easy for her, if that’s what you’re asking. She was taken into custody and placed on trial for involvement in witchcraft. The judges believed she was part of a coven, and that she and the other girls would sneak off to the forest at night to dance beneath the stars and practice spells. Some said they cavorted with dark and malevolent beings in order to maintain their youth, while the rest of the village suffered. Of course she denied this.

  “She was accused of heresy and of creating a union with the devil himself. And when they found she was with child, they forced her to give the baby up, so they could destroy it.”

  “Mutti, no! Don’t tell me she let them!”

  “What choice did she have? By giving the life of her child, she was able to save her own.”

  “But—”

  Matilde reaches out and cups my chin in her soft, papery hand. “You would have given your life for the child’s, I know that. Just like your mother did for you.”

  I can’t help bristling at the mention of my mother. After last night I have no idea what to think of her. Was she really a witch? Is she still? Is she good, or evil? And what will become of me should she ever manifest into my world and get ahold of me? Sheer terror runs through me and I am shaking because there is a connection I’m beginning to make here, only I don’t want to give it life yet.

  “Nearly a year later, a beautiful young woman wandered into the village, and someone recognized her,” Matilde continues.

  “Was she the missing girl?”

  Matilde’s cloudy eyes are wary, but I urge her on. “Yes,” she whispers. “She was taken immediately and placed on trial for the murder of her friends.”

  Silence falls between us.

  “She was my mother, wasn’t she?”

  Matilde nods slowly. “Yes, Schätzchen. She was.”

  I don’t have to look at Matilde to know that she guards every second of silence passing between us. She knows me too well, knows how I absorb things, knows how I process my thoughts. The fire’s dance is hypnotic, and I find it easy to lose myself while looking into the burning hearth. I am so captured by the flickering embers that I barely hear her.

  “Be careful, Rune. I believe she will use you as her instrument against everyone who’s crossed her. Against the entire village, if she can, for what they’ve done to her,” says Matilde.

  But the fire speaks too. The hiss from the flames is already a steady whisper, like a message it wishes for me to know. I am listening, caught somewhere between the truth Matilde reveals and the endless stream of secrets the fire has to tell me.

  “What did they do, Mutti?”

  Matilde is careful with her words. “They burned her at the stake, my child. In the center of the market square, they burned her until the devil was expelled from her soul and there was nothing left but ashes.”

  Chapter 13

  Rune

  By evening, Mutti is at it again, cooking and baking away. Encouraging me to eat more than my full stomach can hold.

  “Eat, Schätzchen. You must fill up. You’re too thin.”

  “Mutti, I can’t eat any more. I’ll burst if I do.”

  There is more food here than I’ve seen any other time of the year, even at Yule, or any of the other Sabbats. Matilde has yet to explain why the sudden extravagance, the sudden need to create each and every one of our favorite meals all on the same day, gorging ourselves until we practically burst at the seams.

  “If I eat anything else, I’ll be bigger than Rolf!” I half-joke, but at the rate she is insisting, I will surely pass him.

  We are finishing up our day, lounging by the fire, quizzing each other about herbs and their medicinal properties. Now that night has fallen, Matilde is tired, but she is restless and hovers near the window more than usual, as if waiting for someone. I hope she doesn’t open the sash. I have no desire to let the storm that is the spirit of my mother inside these walls again, nor do I wish to sweep the leaves off the floor.

  “Why are you pacing so much?” I ask. She’s done nothing but sit and eat, then pace the floor, for the last hour or so, and now she is at the window again, searching the darkening sky.

  “Remember everything I’ve told you. All the herbs, what they mean, how they’re used.”

  I nod my head. “Yes, Mutti, I know them inside and out.”

  She crosses the room and bends in front of me, creaking as she lowers her face to be level with my own. Her expression is grave, though I can see she tries to be soft. She tries to be the calm Mutti I’ve always known, but her eyes tell me something entirely different.

  “I should have taught you so much more.”

  I begin to worry. She is acting so strange. Now I am the one rising to my feet and crossing the floorboards. She and I hear it at the same time. Rustling and snappi
ng, footsteps coming closer. At first I think it’s another person from the village approaching after dark and feel sour that the cupboard holds absolutely nothing to predict their future, that we will have to turn them away, but the look on Matilde’s white face has me fearing the worst.

  “Take this and go. Now!” She hands me a cloth sack, and I can smell the food it holds inside. Before I can object, she is pushing me from behind and into the doorway of my bedroom. “They won’t find you if you are careful.”

  I realize the gravity of what she’s saying. They’ve come for me—the bailiff, perhaps even Rolf. They are pounding on the door now, the light from their lanterns cutting beneath the seam, bleeding into our quiet home. With each fist that raps against the wood, I hear their voices yelling for Matilde to let them in.

  She places her hands on both of my cheeks, leaning her forehead to mine. “Listen to the Sacred Mother. Follow the path she leads you on, no matter how frightening it might be. All steps we take make sense later. You’ll see, Schätzchen.”

  I can barely focus on her words of wisdom, even though this might be the last solid piece of advice she ever gives me. All I hear is the pounding at the door, the scuffle of boots outside, the angry voices. “I’m not going!” I tell her. “They’re going to take you away for something I’ve done!”

  “Not if I can help it.” And with a final shove, she pushes me all the way in and shuts the door behind me.

  “Öffnen Sie die Tür!”

  I hear her cross the room and open the door as they’ve ordered. Low, disturbing voices quickly fill the room. I press my face to the door, hoping to catch a phrase, a fragment that will tell me what is happening—anything to let me know Mutti is safe on the other side of this door without me. I should be escaping through my window and into the trees, but I cannot move out of fear. Now I know what Matilde has done today. She’s fattened me up because she knew they were coming. She knew all along she would force me to leave, perhaps never to come back. I want to cry and pound my fist against the door for what she is doing for me, but I’m resigned to staying hopelessly quiet.

  I hear their boots scrape across the floor. I imagine they are staring around, scrutinizing the scarce belongings we have, trying to find fault that will jump out at them. Finally, one man speaks, and because his voice is so precisely calm, it is the one that scares me the most.

  “Are you Matilde?” he asks.

  If I close my eyes I can picture Matilde standing in front of him as she worries the ends of her apron.

  “Yes. I am.”

  “You have been accused on good evidence of the crime of witchcraft. In the name of the Holy Empire, you are to come with us immediately.”

  There is silence, while on my side of the door there is disbelief.

  “What ‘good evidence’ do you speak of, Sir?” “Poison and murder, old woman,” he spits the words into her face.

  “I’ve neither poisoned nor murdered. You must have the wrong person. Now if you’ll kindly leave my house, I’d like to go to bed.”

  Footsteps come closer to where I stand. I hold my breath, as if the person on the other side can hear me breathing. Dishes clink. Someone is going through our things.

  “An old woman like you needs all this food? Are you a thief as well as a murderer?” another voice asks. He doesn’t wait for her to answer, and I am shivering because that is exactly what I believe myself to be.

  “Looks like a feast fit for the Prince Bishop himself.”

  Sounds of tasting what lies on the table are as clear as day, and I struggle not to fly out of this room, ready to yank our precious food from his vulgar mouth. They have no right to be inside our home, rummaging through our belongings, eating what is ours. There is a bit of laughter, dark and grimy-sounding, and something slides across the floor.

  “Do you ride this at midnight, too?”

  She doesn’t answer him. A swishing noise strokes the floorboards again, and I know he speaks of the broom.

  “We’ve been kind enough to allow you to live your life quietly for many years, old woman, but we haven’t been blind to the sort of business you keep. You’re a crone, a witch, telling fortunes for money…but you hide secrets, as all witches do, and for that reason alone you are being arrested.”

  “Is this where you keep your spells?” a voice interrupts, and the handle of the door jiggles near my waist. I step away from it. Every bone in my body quivers. There is a man in front of me. The door is the only thing between us, and when he opens it, he will find me.

  I am light on my feet and cross the room until I am at the window, lifting my legs one after the other to climb through into the icy night. Just in time, I drop to the ground. Leaning my back against the house, I hear the door swing open inside my room.

  “There’s a bed in here, and a bed out there. Surely you sleep in only one,” the man shouts loud enough for the others to hear, and just feet above me as I hide.

  “Is the other for your demonic lover? Or is it for the girl you keep?”

  Finally I hear Matilde’s voice, and I want to cry and run to her, to pull her along with me while we make a run for it through the trees. The forest is haunted. They won’t dare come after us.

  “There is no girl, Sir.” Her quiet, steady voice rings out against the gruff tones that chafe against all that is warm and comforting in our home.

  “Tell us where she is. Or perhaps you conjured her to send along your magick, thus making you a witch in every sense of the word, which gravely changes matters. You are to come with us immediately.”

  There is no sound of struggle. In fact, Matilde goes along with them without argument. I peek around the corner of our cottage and watch with wide eyes as their lanterns shed a flickering path along the forest floor, leading them back to the village.

  “Torch the house,” the tall man says.

  I press my hand to my mouth, careful not to let the scream I hold slip out, alerting them that I am only a few feet away.

  A figure steps toward my home, tossing the lit torch he holds through the open door, and soon the main room is bright with a sinister orange glow. All we own is at the mercy of that brightness. It eats everything it touches—our food, our clothing…our memories. The look on Matilde’s face is absolute devastation. I wonder if she fears I am still inside, trapped. I’ve already betrayed her today. Did she think I wouldn’t listen again?

  The men lead her away, and I am left with the smell of burning wood, the snapping of timber, and all I have ever known withering to a pile of ash. When they are a good distance ahead, I hug close to the sharp-needled trees that hide me, knowing I should run in the other direction, into the dark that is far away from them.

  But I can’t.

  I know they are taking Matilde to the village. I know in my heart what they will do to her. The story she told of my mother comes to life behind my eyes, only it is Matilde’s face I see. This is all my fault, and I cannot bear it. That is why I must follow them, and then, when I can stand it no more, I’ll do as Matilde warned me to do. I’ll run away from here, deep into the Black Forest to save myself.

  A few yards ahead, Matilde struggles to push through the thick hedge. No one helps her. Instead, the men appear to be amused by her difficulty. Just past the cobbler’s store, in the center of what was the market today, a large man keeps warm beneath his ankle-length cassock. The bishop greets the group, his eyes narrowing at Matilde as if she’s a living contagion. The men push her along with a cattle prod, jabbing her in the back every so often.

  If I follow too closely, I risk being seen. If I’m seen, then everything Matilde has done to protect me will have been in vain. There’s a hollow space that nestles against the blacksmith’s outpost, where he keeps wood for the furnace, and I curl myself into it. Since the blacksmith is a farmer most of his time, he isn’t here to catch me. I can stay all night if I need to.

  The break in the hedge along the village proper bends because of the stream, the very stream Matilde and I use
daily. That stream, the Berg, runs its course, cutting in here and there, before spilling into the Danube. Württemberg’s pretty, arched bridge sweeps over the moving water, and I see now that they are stopping beneath it instead of crossing to where the bishop’s courthouse is.

  One man holds the stool and a handful of rope, while another pulls a cart of heavy stones behind them. They bind Matilde’s hands together and attach the rope to the bottom of the stool. Then they yank at her clothing and begin filling the front of her dress with the large, dirty stones. Her blouson is lumpy, making her body appear sinister and distorted in the candlelight, and she begins to wail. One by one, windows across the square fill with light, doors open, and people begin to pour out into the street to see what’s going on. I crane my neck for a better view, wishing more than anything that I wasn’t confined to this tiny hideaway.

  There is shouting, which grows louder by the second, and soon peaks in a deafening uproar. I’ve never witnessed a riot before and stare wide-eyed at the disturbance.

  “Witch!”

  “Condemn her!”

  Finally, the crowd hushes as the bishop at the top of the arched bridge speaks.

  “You are accused of communing with souls, of manipulating the grace of God, and therefore we strip you of all rights. You are no longer a free citizen, having chosen to live your life beyond the protective borders of this village, allowing the curse of Satan to destroy your soul. Matilde of the Forest, you are hereby sentenced to death by dunking without trial and without jury.”

  The bishop motions to the man standing closest to Matilde, and I can see he wears a coat with dozens of tiny buttons that reflect the light.

  “Admit you are a witch and renounce the devil; it will very well save your life,” he tells her. I recognize his voice immediately as the composed man from our cottage, the one who spoke with such confidence that he scared me.