Robbergirl

by S T Gibson

  "We should leave her be," Wilhelm said, from a safe distance off. "Don’t anger her."

  Helvig readied herself to lecture the lot of them on how foolish their fears were, but something gave her pause. She knew what would happen if she managed to convince them that there was nothing supernatural about this girl. They would rob the girl and send her on her way, and Helvig would spend the next few days turning her existence over in her head like a riddle that needed solving. It would prick at her, day and night, a secret wound to occupy her mind during the dull stretch of winter.

  Something told Helvig she wouldn't be able to forget the color of the girl’s eyes either, or the way she kept her hands primly folded even while facing down someone who was in a position to do her harm.

  Helvig didn’t believe in witches, but she found herself transfixed by this one’s unwavering gaze. All of the silver Helvig had stolen over the last fat and spoiled summer felt like dross compared to this girl. She wanted time: to study her, to question her, to admire the slope of her straight nose and swan neck while the boys minded their own business.

  Helvig’s fingers itched the way they always did when she saw something worth putting her life on the line to steal.

  She held out her hand to Jakko and snapped her fingers. When he passed her the knife he had picked up off the ground, she spun it deftly through her fingers in thought.

  If the boys wanted a witch, she would give them a witch.

  "We'll do this the old-fashioned way," Helvig said.

  She grasped the girl by the wrist and pulled her in tightly. She squirmed against Helvig's body, but Helvig cut her off before she could speak.

  "Play along," Helvig said quietly, too quietly for her men to overhear. "Don’t cry out."

  The witch’s frightened expression turned wary with intrigue, and Helvig smiled. Then she pricked the girl in the palm with her own knife.

  A jolt shook the traveler’s body, and blood was briskly drawn. She clamped her lips between her teeth and uttered not a sound, not even when her face turned white as sugar dust on a Linzer tart.

  When she opened her mouth to take a shaky breath, a spot of red appeared on her lower lip where her teeth had pierced the skin.

  Helvig idly remembered how mother bears nursed their cub’s wounds, with a gentle lap of their tongue.

  The archer thrust the other woman’s palm out towards her men, showing the thin trickle of red that dripped down to stain the snow. Overhead, the crow who had been winging tight circles in the air came to perch in the trees.

  -kai! kai!

  "She feels no pain," Wilhelm hissed. "She bleeds but does not cry!"

  "I’ll be damned," Jakko said, and whistled lowly for good measure.

  Rasmus' face brightened.

  "A real witch, just like in the stories! Helvig, if we prod her with a hot poker do you think she’ll give us wishes? I heard witch wishes were the best kind."

  The witch fixed Helvig with ferocious eyes as her blood pattered gently against the snow. Helvig surveyed the girl’s bone-smooth face and the sharp lines of her jaw, cataloguing her features the way she would take inventory of stolen gold.

  She squeezed that thin wrist before releasing her, and felt the steady strum of her pulse. Somehow, she was surprised. She imagined a woman so cold and fair to have ice in her veins instead of blood.

  "No, Rasmus," she said, never taking her eyes from the witch’s face. "She’s far too valuable for that. We’ll present her properly before the Robber King as a spoil, and he can decide how best to employ her."

  TWO

  They tied her by the wrists with a mangled piece of twine Rasmus had in his pocket, despite Wilhelm’s protestations.

  "No rope can hold a witch! She’ll slide out of her bindings as soon as our backs are turned and call down the birds to peck out our eyes! It happened to a Berliner I met on the Danish border; I saw the scars!"

  "Stop your moaning," Rasmus snapped. "Do you know how lucky we are to have captured a genuine witch? Imagine what life would be like if we could see wealthy merchants coming miles away, or if we had someone to whistle up a storm for us whenever we liked! This is fortune befalling us."

  The arguing had continued as they traveled off the path and deeper into the woods, with Jakko occasionally interjecting his inane opinion. Helvig hardly paid attention. She was used to the background din of squabbling men, and she focused on navigating by the dying sun back towards camp.

  The girl had stood still for Helvig when she knotted the twine three times around her wrists, and she hadn’t winced when Helvig bandaged her bleeding hand with a kerchief filched from Wilhelm. There been no thrashing and no tears, just the stony set of quiet rage on her features. The girl kept her silence even as Helvig pulled her into the damp of the forest and trekked ahead of her, pushing away fir branches to clear their path.

  To tell the truth, it was getting unnerving.

  Helvig cast a glance over her shoulder. The three men were dragging behind, with Rasmus regaling Wilhelm and Jakko with his growing list of wishes.

  "You put on a fearsome show," Helvig said with casual affect. "But you needn’t try so hard to play the part of the heartless devil-wife."

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about," the witch said.

  "The boys can’t see you from where they are, so you can drop the sorceress act. I’m not so easily frightened."

  The girl’s eyes flashed with anger. God, she could cut with a look.

  "Then why take me for your prize, if my power is of no value to you?"

  "Didn’t say you were of no value, just said I wasn’t frightened of you. I took you because it pleases me to look at you, and because it pleases me to hear you speak. I need no other reason." She tramped through the snow with heavy steps, content to leave the subject there. But it occurred to her that if she wanted to unlock the other girl’s secrets, she may have to be a bit more forthcoming about her own. "Although I wasn’t fond of the idea of watching the boys subject you to their ‘tests’ before abandoning you to the weather."

  The witch laughed, a sharp bark without any humor.

  "A good Samaritan! How charming."

  Helvig was a bit injured by this. It wasn’t every day she stuck her neck out to do the right thing, and she expected a little thanks for it.

  "Do you even realize what direction you were heading in? The only thing you’ll find at the top of the world at this time of year is a slow death."

  "Your opinion holds little weight under the present circumstances."

  "Oh? So you really feel nothing, fear nothing?" Helvig had a spiteful streak, sharpened by a childhood wrestling in the dirt for stolen bread or scheming pranks to get back at bigger children. That streak reared its head now, eager to get a rise out of the unflappable girl. "Not even the Robber King?"

  Her captive hopped across a fallen log, sure-footed despite the terrain.

  "There are things in this world I fear, but a man with a title is not one of them."

  "Well, you ought to consider it. He can be fearsome when angry, and has been known to kill strangers on the spot simply for having a suspicious air about them. It’s his decision whether you live or die, so you should approach him with courtesy, if nothing else. He’ll want to know where you come from."

  "My stories aren’t his to demand."

  "I can tell you’re Danish, at least. You speak Swedish like you’ve got marbles in your mouth."

  The witch resumed her unnerving quiet. Helvig felt a fool for trying to make smalltalk with her prisoner, and hunched her shoulders forward as she continued on her trek.

  Thus far, this was not as enjoyable a trip as she had imagined. Maybe she should have just swallowed her pity and sat on her greedy hands and turned the girl loose when she had the chance.

  They walked for a time with nothing but the sounds of the forest settling around them and the chirruping of the crow to break the silence. Then, the witch spoke. Distantly, as if roused from a dream.

 
"Are you really a princess?"

  Helvig looked back at her, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips.

  "Are you really a witch?"

  The witch turned her cheek towards her crow, who had been bobbing along on her shoulder through most of their walk. They had been at it for almost twenty minutes now, and the crow didn’t look bothered.

  "I don’t know. Am I a witch, Svíčka?"

  -kai, Svíčka responded.

  "Very clever," Helvig said. "What sort of name is that?"

  "Czech. It means little candle."

  "Do you have a name as well, or is it only the bird?"

  "I’m not in the habit of giving away my name to strangers."

  "Well, we’re not strangers, are we? Me and the boys gave you our names. That was a gesture of good faith."

  The witch snorted in an undignified way that made her nose wrinkle.

  "Fine talk from a kidnapping thief."

  They came to a brook cutting a dribbling path through a bed of moss, and Helvig leapt over the water as easily as a reindeer. She waited for the witch on the other side with her hand extended, polite as any gentleman helping his lady out of the carriage.

  "In my defense, I never robbed you. Don’t think I didn’t notice that fat little purse weighing down your right pocket, either."

  The girl gauged the distance to her captor warily, then reached out with her bound hands to grasp Helvig’s fingers.

  "If you do not give me a name," Helvig pressed on. "I shall have to gift you one, and be warned, I’m no poet. What’s a proper name for a witch, anyway? Knucklebones? Hemlock?"

  The witch crossed the brook in one tottering lunge and nearly landed in Helvig’s arms. Her long skirts dragged through the water, picking up moss and greenery along the way.

  "Gerda," She huffed. "My name is Gerda. I’ve got no idea what you intend to do with it."

  "Call you by it, of course."

  "Why, if your men are just going to slit my throat when I refuse to knot winds into rope for them?"

  "That, my duck, is your prerogative, and I won’t be held accountable for how you choose to conduct yourself among my men. In the meanwhile, I’ve got manners, so I’ll call you by your name. We’re gentlefolk, are we not?"

  "If it’s my money you want, you can have it. It isn’t worth being delayed like this."

  "You were out there wandering blind towards your death. I did you a good turn."

  "Why not let me wander towards my death in peace?"

  "Are you joking? This is more fun than I’ve had in ages. Do you know how dull it is, getting sent out with the boys to make sure they don’t go pissing on some soldier’s campsite?" Helvig puffed out her chest and stiffened her stride as she marched through the forest, dropping her voice to a gravely timbre. "Get out there with the boys and teach them the ins and the outs, Helvig. They’re learning yet, so you’d better not lose any of them. If they get killed, I’ll take it out of your cut of the spoils."

  Helvig turned to Gerda, her voice returning to its natural brassiness. "Why is it that I get punished for being good at something, hmm? That oughtn’t be the way of things."

  The witch blinked vacantly as though Helvig were speaking in another language. The archer sighed, disappointed that her captive had not taken the bait of conspiratorial girl-talk. This wasn’t going her way at all.

  Helvig shouted at the men shoving and chattering some yards off.

  "Boys, stop dragging your asses! We’re almost home!"

  Rasmus jogged to catch up with the girls, wearing a foolish grin. His black hair fell out from underneath his threadbare cap and curled at the nape of his neck like a girl’s.

  "Say witch, do you keep a black book? The Devil must have given you one when you renounced your baptism and took him for husband." Gerda rolled her eyes, but Rasmus pressed on. "Come on, let’s see it! There’s no way you can keep all those enchantments between your eyes; you must have them written down somewhere."

  "Tch," Gerda said derisively, but there was a bit of amusement in her eyes. Rasmus took the inch she gave him and did his damnedest to stretch it into a mile, spreading his arms and walking backwards in front of her like a street urchin hawking wares.

  "There were men in the trenches who wore runes round their necks like yours, and I never saw a single one of them die. They fashioned them from pictures in the black books they found in abandoned houses on skirmish lines. They said they saw spells to break fevers, and divinations to determine the outcome of a war. Enchantments, even, to make a man richer than God himself. Oh, miss witch, my kingdom for one peek into your black book!"

  Gerda swallowed a smile, and Helvig prickled. Gerda was her treasure, and she didn’t like the idea of Rasmus swooping in and befriending her witch in an attempt to win any supernatural favors.

  "Are you sure they didn’t kick you out of the army for talking too much?" Helvig snapped. "Now turn 'round and walk right; your fool ass is going to fall headlong into a ditch, and I won’t cry for you."

  "The only thing you’ve ever cried is piss and vinegar," Rasmus grumbled, but he fell into line all the same.

  They were heading down a steep slope now, skittering through birch trees on their way towards a valley clearing. The scent of smoke and slow-roasting meats pricked at Helvig’s nose. Judging by the clank of cutlery and clamor of rowdy voices drifting her way, the evening meal had already begun.

  Helvig gnawed the inside of her cheek. She would be getting an earful tonight.

  "You all keep your mouths shut," she said to her men. Her eyes drifted over to Rasmus. "I’ll do the talking for us."

  "He’s going to be cross with you," Wilhelm sighed, with all the weariness of someone accustomed to giving good advice that was never taken. "He told us to bring back gold, not strangers."

  The ground leveled out underneath them as they crossed into the robber’s camp.

  Helvig thrust Gerda’s lead into Wilhelm’s hands.

  "You let me handle the king. After all." She wiped a bit of grime from her palms and smoothed her hair. "How can a man refuse the request of his only daughter?"

  THREE

  The smells of cooking and unwashed men enveloped them as soon as they entered the clearing. Helvig pressed ahead, punching shoulders and shouting hellos as she wove her way towards the center of camp. The boys followed at a more ambling pace, with Gerda trailing behind as far as her lead would allow.

  Rasmus ducked into one of the sturdy cold weather huts half-buried in insulating snow, and emerged a moment later gnawing on the remains of a chicken leg.

  "Can’t wait to see what old Bertie makes of you," he said to Gerda, slurping and smacking his dinner loudly. "It’s gonna be a riot."

  "He’ll probably just have Helvig gut her and steal those embroidered shoes off her feet," Jakko grumbled.

  "You’ll keep your peace until the King says his," Helvig shot back.

  The camp was not arranged in any particular design, but Helvig had memorized every winding footpath. She remembered her life as a blur of noisy village alleys and roadside shakedowns punctuated by long, sleepy winters dug into remote hideaways. Her father always knew the quietest places to settle in during the cold months when pickings were slim and local constables were bored and eager to sniff out trouble.

  She had grown up scraping her knees during forest footraces and dog-piling on top of boys twice her age in the snow, and even though the cast of criminals and runaways who passed seasons under her father’s command were in constant rotation, the landscape of woodland and river stayed faithful to her. She could navigate the wide expanse of her father’s territory blindfolded and still trust it to lead her home.

  Now, she was drawn towards a large bonfire in the middle of camp over which a wild pig rotated on a spit. The ne’er-do-wells were congregated more tightly around the central fire, swapping sips from flasks or cursing their way through tall tales as they warmed their faces on the flames. An old man squatted near the fire, poking at the coals, while
two blonde children of grammar school age turned the spit with valiant effort.

  Most of her father’s company was made up of men, but there were a few women as well, many of whom had shown up at camp attached to exiled husbands or on the run from their own crimes. The thieves were seated on the ground, or on mildewing crates.

  One man, however, was seated on a carved wooden trunk with all manner of deerskins and wolf pelts thrown over it. It would not have impressed the king in Stockholm, but it made a fine throne indeed for the ruler of purse-pickers and throat-slitters.

  The Robber King had a plaited red beard and a chest like barrel, and he pulled deeply from a churchwarden pipe as he sat with legs spread and boots planted. He was listening to the supplication of two young thieves.

  By the look of things, they were squabbling over a golden pocket watch that kept passing between their hands. Eventually, the Robber King plucked up the watch and slid it into the breast pocket of his coat. Like the vest Helvig wore, it had been specially outfitted with all manner of hidden compartments perfect for stowing away contraband.

  The Robber King dismissed the two thieves with a jerk of his head. They exchanged crestfallen expressions but did not argue as they slithered back into the crowd.

  The King surveyed his realm with the keen agility of an animal on the hunt. When his eyes alighted on Helvig, pressing through the crowd with a fool’s smile on her face, they narrowed to slits.

  "God’s blood girl, don’t you think you’re cutting it a bit close? Dinner started a half hour ago; I was about to send the dogs out after you."

  Helvig bounded to him with breezy nonchalance and clasped her arms around his shoulders. She leaned down to give his bristled cheek a kiss.

  "We were busy, papa."

  "Busy with thieving, I hope. What did you and the boys bring me? Something better than yesterday's heaping barrels of nothing?"

  "Now papa," Helvig began diplomatically.

  The Robber King shook his great head, taking Helvig’s hands between his own. She had the calloused, nail-bitten hands of a highwayman, but they looked smooth and dainty between her father’s.