The Wild Girl

by Kate Forsyth

  Her father saw the look on Wilhelm’s face and pushed her back. ‘Get inside. Mia, you too.’

  Just then there was a shout, and two soldiers rushed up, carrying a man on a makeshift litter. Their faces and hands were stained black with soot, and their clothes stank of smoke. ‘You must help us,’ one cried. ‘He’s badly hurt. A flaming beam fell on him.’

  ‘Who is it? Is it Jakob? The librarian at the palace?’ With terror in his voice, Wilhelm flung himself down on his knees beside the litter and raised his lantern so he could see the injured man’s face. It was not Jakob. The stranger moaned and turned his blistered face away from the light, lifting hands that looked like black claws.

  ‘Bring him into the shop,’ Herr Wild commanded.

  As the soldiers carried the litter into the hallway, both men had time to notice Dortchen, pressed back against the wall, clutching her shawl close. They flickered warm glances of appreciation over her figure and face.

  ‘Dortchen, get dressed,’ Herr Wild snapped. He flung open the door to the shop and led the soldiers in. Mia ran after them. As the door swung shut behind her, the hallway was left in darkness, the only light coming from the lantern in Wilhelm’s hand as he crouched outside the shop. ‘Thank God it’s not Jakob,’ he said.

  He got up, staggering a little, one hand to his heart. Dortchen rushed to help him. He put one arm about her and she felt the burn of his touch. He felt it too, and flinched away. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, trying not to look at her but unable to look away. His face was all shadows and golden planes.

  ‘You must get back inside,’ Dortchen said. ‘It’s freezing out here – you’ll get sick.’

  ‘I must make sure we have some water, in case the fire spreads.’

  ‘Hurry, then,’ she said. ‘If the queue for the pump is too long, send Lotte to our kitchen – she can fill her bucket there.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  They stood together on the doorstep, staring at each other. The air between them seemed to fizz and spark. Slowly, Wilhelm raised the lantern so he could see her face. Dortchen’s skin heated. ‘I did not know your hair was so long,’ he said.

  Gently, he picked up the end of her plait, which formed a tiny curl. Her hair was a thick golden rope between them. He tugged on it ever so lightly, and she took a step towards him. Their eyes were steady on each other’s faces.

  An explosion rent the air, and fiery sparks shot up over the rooftops and lit up the square. Dortchen remembered where she was, and how she was dressed, and pulled away. ‘I must go.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, like a man awakening from a dream. He drew a deep breath and let the end of Dortchen’s braid go.

  Dortchen stepped back inside the house, leaving the door open just a crack. She peeked through. Wilhelm was still standing on the doorstep. Their eyes met, and involuntarily each smiled. With her lips still curved, Dortchen shut the door.

  She ran back up to her room, shivering violently from the cold, and hurriedly dressed in her oldest gown.

  In the shop, her father was tending the injured soldier’s burns. Dortchen went to help him, silently preparing honey and healing herbs. Mia was rolling bandages swiftly, and Old Marie came in with cups of hot coffee. The two soldiers had gone back to fight the fire, which glared ever brighter through the shop windows.

  ‘What shall we do if the fire spreads to us?’ Mia cried.

  ‘Fight to save the house,’ Herr Wild replied, his gaze on the injured man. ‘It is all that I own. Without it, we’re destitute.’

  The bells had not ceased their insistent clamour.

  ‘Fill the buckets,’ Herr Wild said. ‘And get all our spare blankets and dampen them down. Dortchen, go and calm the animals. They’ll be frightened by the smell of smoke.’

  The sisters obeyed at once. As Dortchen hurried down the pathway, a lantern in her hand, she saw that the silvery mantle of frost on the garden was marred with black smuts. Trudi was restless in her stall, tossing her head and dancing about, trampling down her straw. The cow was mooing plaintively and the birds were awake and squawking.

  Even with the smell of smoke thick in the air, and the air itself full of tiny black flakes, Dortchen smiled to herself as she went about her work.

  Wilhelm wanted to kiss me.

  By dawn, the danger had passed. The night had been so cold that the fiery sparks and embers had fallen onto frost and been extinguished. The Palais Bellevue was nothing but cinders and charred timbers. Jakob had managed to save most of the books, but now they sat piled in the courtyard, at the mercy of the weather.

  ‘It’s a symbol,’ Herr Wild said. ‘There’s no palace for the Kurfürst to return to, no throneroom. Hessen-Cassel is gone. A thousand years of Hessian rule is over.’

  The small family sat at the breakfast table, their bread tasting like ashes. Frau Wild drooped over her plate like a wilted flower. ‘I knew that comet was a bad omen,’ she said.

  ‘Perhaps the fire is what it foretold?’ Dortchen said, hoping to reassure her. ‘Maybe we’ve had the worst of it and our luck will now turn.’

  But that night, as she knelt in her bed and looked out at the skyline, the comet was brighter than ever.

  THE SINGING BONE

  January 1812

  After Christmas, Frau Wild and her two unmarried daughters travelled to Nentershausen to visit Hanne and her husband, Johann. Hanne was expecting another baby, and Frau Wild wanted to see her grandson, who was already seven months old and toddling everywhere.

  One morning in mid-January, the sun came out and the sky was brilliantly blue. The snow was so white that it hurt the eyes, and the icicles hanging from the bare branches of the trees glittered like magical swords. Dortchen and Mia both wrapped up warmly and went out to walk in the garden. Both felt so light-hearted and free that they romped like children, making snowballs and flinging them at each other.

  Then Dortchen saw a tall, dark figure walking towards them, muffled up in a dark coat and with a tall hat on his head. Something about the slightly stooped posture, and the way the walker looked about him with eager interest, made her stomach flip. Her hand flew to her mouth. Surely not … How could Wilhelm be here, so far from Cassel? Unable to help herself, Dortchen ran towards him, crying his name.

  He smiled at her. ‘Good news,’ he cried. ‘My book is published! Look, here it is.’ He pulled out a small leather-bound book and opened it to the title page, his fingers clumsy in his thick gloves. Dortchen took it eagerly, examining the drawing of a knight and a musician, surrounded by twining vines, birds, butterflies and a plump, smiling angel.

  ‘Old Danish Epic Songs,’ she read. ‘Translated by Wilhelm Grimm.’ She looked up at him in delight. ‘Wilhelm, that’s wonderful! A book – a real book!’

  ‘I know. I could not let myself believe it till the book actually arrived. I doubt it will make me much money. Who is interested in old Danish songs, apart from me? But at least it is something to show for all those months of hard work. There were times when I thought I’d be better going off and getting work as a stablehand or signing up as a soldier.’

  ‘No, no,’ Dortchen said, distressed at the idea. She cradled the little book as if it was the most precious treasure, then reluctantly passed it back to him. ‘Do you think … If they want your translations of old Danish songs, perhaps might they want your collection of old German stories?’

  ‘Oh, Dortchen, I hope so. Achim came to visit us for Christmas. He read our manuscript and loved it. He’s going to show it to his publisher!’

  He held out both his hands to her; she took them and he swung her about. She laughed for joy.

  ‘We need more stories, though,’ he continued, ‘and who else should I come to for stories than the girl who knows them all?’

  ‘All this way? Wilhelm, you really came all this way, just for some more stories?’

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ he admitted. ‘And show you the book, of course. I knew you’d be happy for me.’

  Dortchen blu
shed and smiled, then, realising he was still holding both her hands, drew them away gently. ‘You had best come in and have some coffee. You must be chilled to the bone. Come and see Hanne and meet her little boy. He’s a holy terror!’

  ‘Just like Hanne herself,’ Wilhelm responded, smiling. They walked together back towards the house, past a grinning Mia, who had been amusing herself by throwing snowballs at a tree. When Dortchen’s boot slipped on a patch of ice, Wilhelm’s hand shot out to steady her. Her heart sang with joy.

  Hanne and Johann made Wilhelm welcome, although a quick, knowing glance passed between them. Frau Wild was troubled by his appearance and murmured a few incoherent phrases, which Dortchen hoped Wilhelm would not be able to decipher. They had coffee and strudel, and talked a great deal about his book and the fairy tale project. Wilhelm was both very hungry and very happy, and so the small, messy, crowded room rang with laughter and talk.

  ‘Have you heard the news?’ Wilhelm cried. ‘Achim and Bettina are to be married at last.’

  ‘She has decided to succumb to the evils of domesticity?’ Dortchen teased.

  ‘Achim has wanted to marry her as long as I have known him, but he could never persuade her that marriage is not a living death.’

  Hanne snorted. ‘She could have asked me. I have never been happier.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but you were lucky to land a jewel of the first order,’ her husband said. ‘Once I was taken, what was this Bettina to do?’

  Dortchen entertained them with a few of Bettina’s exploits, and Hanne and her husband laughed till they almost cried.

  Baby Hans, meanwhile, had been cruising around the room from one piece of furniture to another, holding on with both hands, laughing happily as the adults laughed. Whenever the gap between the furniture was too large, he would drop down on all fours and crawl, before pulling himself up again. The skirts of his white dress and the heels of his hands were quite grubby, and he was dribbling profusely, but he was such a chubby, merry little fellow, with a crest of fluffy yellow hair and one charming, protruding tooth, that when he pulled himself up by Wilhelm’s trousers, Wilhelm smiled and picked him up, tossing him up in the air. Hans shrieked with laughter. ‘Da-da-da-da,’ he said.

  Dortchen was struck with a piercing longing for a baby of her own, one with ruffled dark curls like Wilhelm’s. He would be a wonderful father, she thought. He would not beat his children, or force them down to pray at his feet. He would play with them and sing them songs and tell them stories. A vision rose up before her, of Wilhelm sitting by the fire with dark-haired, dark-eyed children clustered about his knee, reading from a book, while she sat opposite, darning his stockings and smiling. It was such a potent vision that it blew all the laughter and chatter away from her, and she fell silent.

  ‘But you are here to listen to Dortchen’s stories,’ Hanne said, coming to whirl her son away from Wilhelm. ‘Why don’t you go out to the summer house? You can be quiet there. Mia can help me put this limb of Satan to bed.’

  ‘Come, I’ll light the stove for you,’ her husband said, standing up. ‘It’s quite cosy out there. And certainly nice and quiet.’ He gave Hanne a wicked look. She smiled back over her shoulder at him as she carried Hans away, drowsy against her shoulder. ‘Mia, come with me,’ she ordered, and reluctantly Mia followed, turning back to stare at Dortchen and Wilhelm as they stood, awkward and self-conscious, to follow Johann out into the glistening, snow-draped afternoon.

  The summer house was a small round building made of stone and glass. A porcelain stove in one corner was soon roaring away, and Johann brought them thick fur rugs, hot mulled wine and a small writing desk. The room was so small that Dortchen’s and Wilhelm’s knees were practically touching once they settled down on the cushioned seats. Dortchen busied herself smoothing her dress, while Wilhelm sharpened a few quills. Then he looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Once upon a time,’ she said, and took a deep breath. For some reason her lungs felt unable to get enough air. She went on, faltering a little at first, then strengthening as she remembered the story.

  ‘Once upon a time, in a certain country, there was great concern about a wild boar that was destroying the peasants’ fields, killing the cattle and ripping people apart with its tusks. The king promised a large reward to anyone who could free the land from this plague, but the beast was so large and strong that no one dared to go near the woods where it lived. Finally, the king proclaimed that whoever could capture or kill the wild boar should have his only daughter in marriage.’

  Three poor brothers decided to try their luck. The elder two were clever and shrewd and cruel. The youngest was innocent and kind. As Dortchen told Wilhelm this, she felt a sudden misgiving. Would he think she meant Ferdinand? But she had begun the story and so had to go on.

  The two elder brothers stopped at an inn for some wine to embolden them. The youngest went on into the forest, where he met a dwarf who gave him an enchanted spear, as a reward for his kind heart. With the spear, the third brother was able to kill the boar. Having hoisted the huge beast onto his back, he travelled towards the palace to claim his prize. But on the way he met his brothers, who, furious and jealous, killed him as they crossed a bridge. The body of the youngest brother fell down into the stream, and the elder brothers went on with the boar to claim the reward.

  ‘After many long years,’ Dortchen continued, ‘a shepherd was driving his herd across the bridge when he saw a little snow-white bone lying in the sand below. Thinking that it would make a good mouthpiece, he climbed down, picked it up and carved out of it a mouthpiece for his horn. When he blew into it for the first time, to his great astonishment the bone began to sing by itself:

  Oh, my dear shepherd,

  You are blowing on my little bone.

  My brothers killed me,

  And buried me beneath the bridge,

  To get the wild boar

  For the daughter of the king.

  ‘“What a wonderful horn,” said the shepherd. “I must take it to the king.” When he brought it before the king, the horn again began to sing its little song. The king understood it well, and ordered the earth beneath the bridge to be dug up. Then the whole skeleton of the murdered man came to light. The singing bone sang and sang till his brothers could no longer deny their murderous deed. They were sewn into a sack and drowned alive. The murdered man’s bones were laid to rest in a beautiful grave in the churchyard.’

  Wilhelm laid down his quill and shook his aching hand. He looked pale and troubled. ‘Do you think …’ he began.

  Dortchen could not bear it. ‘No,’ she cried, seizing his hands and drawing him closer. ‘It was not your fault. It was the opium. You could have done nothing different … Oh, Wilhelm. Drinking laudanum is like dancing with the Devil. There’s no happy outcome.’

  Dortchen thought of her own weary, worn-down mother, whose only joy seemed to come when she drank down her drops, and tears sprang to her eyes.

  Wilhelm’s face softened. He drew Dortchen closer, and she subsided against his shoulder with a sigh. His arm was strong about her. Outside, a sudden wind shook snow against the frost-glazed windows, but inside, all was warm. She looked up at him. There was only an inch or so between them. It was natural that she lifted her face, and he lowered his. Their lips met.

  It was the merest brush, yet it acted like a spark to tinder. He shifted and drew her closer. Again their mouths met, and this time the contact was closer, longer, harder. His hand crept up to cup the back of her neck. She uttered a soft sigh.

  They kissed again, separated, then swayed back together. Involuntarily, their mouths opened. Dortchen felt like she might swoon. There was the lightest touch of tongue against tongue. Wilhelm groaned, and the sound made Dortchen press herself closer. Slowly, with absolute daring, his hand found her waist and traced its curve. They kissed again, drew away, then fell back against each other, hands finding skin at the nape of the neck, the modest dip of the neckline, the soft blue-veined wrist.

 
; It was overwhelming. They had to fall apart, panting, staring at each other with wide eyes. Neither could speak.

  ‘I did not want him to kiss me,’ Dortchen said at last.

  ‘I know … I’m sorry … If you could but know how it hurt me to see you in his arms.’

  ‘I thought you were angry.’

  ‘I was. But not with you.’ He kissed her again, swift and hard, then fell back, flushing. ‘That’s not true. I was so angry with you. And I did not know why.’

  She nestled against his shoulder. The stove roared and spat. It was so hot in the summer house now that the windows were running with condensation. He bent his head and kissed her behind her ear. She had never known how much the soft, sensitive skin there had longed to be kissed. He nuzzled lower, and she turned her head and kissed the corner of his mouth. For a moment there was absolute stillness between them. She felt dazed, drunk, exultant. He kissed her back and one finger grazed the curve of her breast. At once, both backed away, flushed and embarrassed.

  Dortchen could not look at him. ‘I know a beautiful love story,’ she said.

  He cleared his throat and turned away to fuss with his paper and ink and quills. ‘Will you tell me?’ he asked.

  So she began the tale of the six brothers who were turned into swans, and their young sister who could not speak or laugh for six years, till she had woven shirts from nettles to save them from their enchantment.

  ‘After she had already spent a long time there, it happened that the king of the land was hunting in these woods. His huntsmen came to the tree in which the girl was sitting. They called to her, “Who are you?” But she did not answer.

  ‘“Come down to us,” they said. “We will not harm you.”

  ‘She only shook her head. When they pressed her further with questions, she threw her golden necklace down to them, thinking that this would satisfy them. But they did not stop, so she then threw down her belt, then her garters, and then – one thing at a time – everything that she had on and could do without. Finally, she had nothing left but her shift.’