Trailing the Hunter: A Novel of Misconception, Truth, and Love

by Heidi Eljarbo

  Clara shook her head. What more could she do? There were days Siren’s words and actions did not add up. She seemed to be keeping vital truths from Clara. Why? To protect herself and her unborn child? There had to be more to Siren’s background and story.

  CHAPTER 9

  ✽✽✽

  THE NEXT MORNING, Clara stared out the window. Peter had still not returned from his errands, and she had not seen Siren since the day before when she had done Clara’s hair. What if Siren had given birth to the babe by herself?

  Clara sighed and turned away from the window to make herself a cup of peppermint tea. She had just finished pouring the hot water into the mug when Ellen barged through the open cottage door.

  “I brought a book.” Ellen’s eyes shone, and her voice was filled with excitement. “It’s the only book we have at home, and I thought I should learn how to read it.”

  “You did? Let me see.” Clara left her cup on the table and took the small book Ellen handed her.

  Small pieces of parchment had been folded, stitched together, and bound with black leather. Clara carefully flipped the pages, tracing her finger over formulas, rhymes, and instructions. A black book! Clara stifled a gasp. Ellen had to be told what kind of book she’d brought. How could Clara put in plain words the danger of the writings she held in her hands?

  Lips trembling, Clara sank into a chair and motioned for Ellen to sit down opposite her. “Listen, sweet Ellen, this is not the kind of book we read in a school.”

  Puzzled, the girl put her hands out. “Why? It has words in it, doesn’t it?”

  “It does, but we do not want everyone to know what this book says.”

  Ellen looked even more perplexed. She rubbed her forehead and stuttered, “B-b-but, Clara, my grandmother had this in a chest in the cottage. Slowly she would turn the pages, and when she did, it seemed important. She sounded like she was chanting, sometimes singing. I heard some of the words. Some rhymed, and others were more like instructions.”

  “I am sure she took it seriously.”

  As a diversion to soften the conversation, Clara put a cup for Ellen on the table and poured apple cider from a bottle. Clara searched her mind for a way to explain what a black book was without tarnishing the memory of Ellen’s grandmother.

  Speak the truth kindly. Clara bent forward. “Ellen, this is a book of knowledge.”

  Eyes wide, Ellen nodded. “That’s a good thing.”

  “Yes, it is, but not all the knowledge in here is good knowledge.”

  “What do you mean?” Ellen frowned and scratched her head.

  “A black book usually has advice for ailments. How to stop a bleeding, help someone with an aching tooth. You know, that sort of thing. And some parts may sound like short prayers.”

  “I don’t understand. That’s good, too, isn’t it?”

  Oh, the kindness of that girl. She’d been brought up to help others. Clara sighed. Now came the hard part.

  “Healing others with good knowledge and nature’s remedies is a wonderful thing to do. But this kind of book goes into other realms. For example, the book may have verses about how to foresee future events or about such things as bringing forth dead folks.”

  Ellen’s eyes lit up, as if a new thought had appeared in her head. “And finding a true love?” she asked eagerly.

  “Yes, but…” Clara slowly shook her head. “Remember this, Ellen, as great as it sounds, most of this is not possible.”

  But Ellen seemed fired up now. “What about casting a hex on a person?”

  The question was not unexpected. Clara finished her peppermint tea, her thoughts racing to find the right words to say. “Some black books contain formulas or so-called magical rituals, like chants for finding a witch or a thief, winning at games, or words on becoming invincible.”

  “Hah. I could use a spell like that now and then.” Ellen rubbed her hands together. “Who else has a book like this”

  “I have heard of black books hidden in churches. Maybe some priests did not dare own them and hid the books where they thought they would be safe and not fall into the hands of evil folks.”

  There. Explaining the difference between good and evil practices was not easy. Ellen seemed to have calmed her excitement slightly.

  The young girl looked pensive for a moment. “I don’t think our grandmother could read or write, but she looked in the book when she chanted.”

  “Could be she knew the verses by heart; maybe her mother or grandmother taught them to her.”

  “Perhaps, but who wrote the words then?”

  “This was probably written a long time ago. We don’t know who wrote the black books. They exist, and some use them and believe in their power. A collection of verses like this is looked upon as evil, what someone who sees themselves as a witch would have. And as I mentioned, even some priests have been known to possess a black book.”

  “Ha-ha. Goodly priests who always yell at others, and some have a book like this?” Ellen bent forward and wrapped her arms around her stomach. Her girlish laughter filled the room for a moment before she turned to Clara with a solemn gaze.

  “Why is it so?” she asked.

  “Not everyone fits the mold they are placed in.” Clara leaned back. Had Ellen understood? Inevitably, the question Clara had been waiting for came.

  “Was our grandmother a witch?”

  Before Clara could answer, Ellen continued. “One time when I was little, I was out walking with my grandmother. We met a man who had a horse with a bad leg. He asked my grandmother to get some water for his horse. She answered, ‘I am too old to carry water, but I can teach you how to heal your horse’.”

  Clara hugged herself. Her sole intention for coming to Berg was to rescue women from the clutches of Angus Hill, a witch-finder she’d had the misfortune of dealing with before. Witches—the kind folks talked about who flew on broomsticks and performed magic tricks—did not exist. She put her hand gently over Ellen’s. “I did not know your grandmother but have the impression she was knowledgeable in the use of herbs and plants of the forest, that she helped others and did well.”

  Ellen nodded and pulled her hand back to wipe a tear rolling down her cheek.

  Clara stood up and paced the floor. The book had to stay hidden. It belonged to Ellen’s family. Keeping it there would probably be best.

  She stopped and folded her arms. “Does anyone else know about this book?”

  Ellen was biting her nails. “I don’t think so. I never saw my grandmother take it anywhere, but Ruth knows some of the verses.”

  Owning a black book was dangerous enough, but if Ruth was actually using some of the spells, her life could be in danger. Clara dropped her arms to her sides. “She does?”

  Ellen nodded. “Ruth always went with our grandmother to help when women in the valley were in labor. Grandmother taught her everything. Now, Ruth visits the homesteads herself and chants when she helps deliver newborns.”

  Clara took a slow, deep breath to calm her nerves. The day had just gotten worse. The task of teaching and protecting these young girls had not been easy. Ruth and Ellen had a black book and knew about chants and incantations. Having a black book containing rituals this close would further endanger Clara’s work with the women in the Berg area. If the witch-finder found out, he could perceive the girls in Ellen’s family as witches.

  “You need to understand that this is serious, Ellen. A black book often has recipes for ways to control people and situations.”

  Ellen widened her eyes and clapped vigorously.

  Had nothing gone into that girl’s head? Did she not perceive Clara’s intended meaning of the danger of the black book? She took hold of Ellen’s shoulders. “No, no, there’s nothing to be joyous about in that. This is a book meant to manipulate and have power over others. It can also have spells or formulas for causing pain or harm to other folks. But, Ellen—and listen closely now, because this is most important—this little book could get you burned as a witch.”


  Ellen pouted. “I am no witch.”

  “I know that.” Clara sighed. “But others may think so if they see you with a black book. I’m afraid you cannot tell anyone you have this. It may be dear to you because it belonged to someone you care about who is gone now, but you must keep it hidden away.”

  “But, Clara…”

  If only this conversation were a horrible dream. Oh, that she could wake up and find the world safe from evil witch-hunters. Angus’s list of supposed witch’s traits was long. Clara’s feet were heavy. Shuffling the floor, she dragged her fingers through her hair. What else could she tell Ellen to warn her of the danger involved?

  “Say something, Clara. What’s wrong? Can you stand still, please? I’m getting dizzy.”

  Clara stopped and faced Ellen. “I want you to take this book back to your cottage. It belonged to your grandmother, but you cannot bring it to reading class or into the village.”

  Ellen started crying.

  Clara gently wiped the girl’s cheeks. “I’m sorry, dear. You have not done anything wrong.” She held the notebook up in front of Ellen’s nose. “But you must take seriously what I am telling you. Keep this book hidden, and never let Angus Hill or any of his accomplices know about it. Trust no one. He already has Bess’s recipe book, and it only contained methods for healing. Nothing about magic or witchery.”

  Ellen still sniffled. “Who is Bess?”

  Bess was on Clara’s mind every day, and thoughts of her dear friend kept her awake at night. She sat down. “Bess is my closest friend. Angus Hill tried to have her burned as a witch when he and his men searched her cottage and discovered her recipe book. They took it, and I intend to get it back for her one day. To her, it’s a family heirloom. Traditions and knowledge passed down through several generations. Every time she learned something new, like the use of an herb, she recorded it.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  Clara smiled. Tender memories of sitting at Bess’s kitchen table, herbs all over the table and Bess dictating their usage and purpose, floated gently into Clara’s thoughts like autumn leaves in a breeze.

  “I often helped her record her findings. Bess is not fond of writing.”

  “You said the witch-finder tried to have her burned. Where is your friend now?”

  Clara did not answer at first. The truth was she did not know. Ellen was gullible and innocent. Simple, one could say, but with a pure heart. Still, if Clara knew where Bess was, she would not tell. Not with Angus in town. Clara had to keep some things to herself.

  “She’s somewhere safe.”

  “Good.” Ellen grabbed the black book out of Clara’s hand and grinned. “I met the witch-finder today.”

  Oh, heaven help us! Overcome by a wave of dizziness, Clara reached out for the table so as not to fall. Her hands trembled, and she sat down and folded them firmly in her lap, trying to appear calm.

  “You did? What did he say?” For a moment, time seemed to stand still as Clara waited for an answer.

  Ellen rocked back and forth. “He asked about my family. He sure is interested in all of them and wanted to know about our upbringing, who raised us, and what we have learned.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Surely. He asked if I knew any old songs or verses, and if I chant them when I’m angry or when I want something badly. It was silly, really. Of course, I chant verses. We always have in my family.”

  Clara stood up and took hold of Ellen’s shoulders. “You cannot and must not let Angus Hill know about the book or special traditions in your family.”

  “But he says—”

  “Yes, Ellen, I know what he says, and this is what he does. He’s a magician with words. He twists any situation to suit his purpose.”

  “And what is his purpose?”

  “He believes he is saving people from evil when in fact, he’s the one who’s misled.”

  Ellen looked down and mumbled. “He talked about people here in Berg being misled. Maybe it’s a matter of opinion?”

  “Sweet Ellen, he’s crawling up your sleeve. Don’t let him. He persecutes girls like you. Still, you are defending him. Why? How can your heart be so pure?”

  “Girls like me?” She frowned. “I am not that good. I just choose not to be evil.”

  “But he may think you are evil, and this is what we must fight. I have seen what he is capable of and have witnessed good women die by a flick of his hand.”

  “I only wanted to be able to read the little book to my sister, Ruth, seeing as she does not attend class with me.”

  “Ruth is welcome to learn to read herself. We have several other books.”

  “It’s not the same. You don’t understand; she is the healer in our family and takes care of us and other folks, too,” Ellen whimpered. She put the book in her pocket and ran out the door.

  Clara watched her go. What had Ellen meant? What kind of healer was Ruth? Being a midwife and healer was dangerous enough but using chants from a black book while aiding with cures and remedies could put her life in danger.

  Clara finished putting away the dishes and got her shawl down from the reindeer-bone peg on the wall by the door. She picked up her basket so she could stop in the village for a few things, but then afterward, she needed to go see Dorthea.

  ✽✽✽

  Walking through the village, Clara mumbled, “Hocus pocus, hocus pocus.”

  People went on with their everyday chores of baking and trading. Some chatted with friends. She passed the blacksmith standing under a roof, forging. The clanking sound of the hammer beating the iron into shape rang in her ears as she continued toward the bakery.

  She could not believe Ellen had brought a black book to Clara’s house. The poor girl had not known the kind of danger her family faced if someone found out and told the witch-finder. Clara had not told Ellen that many would pay a small sack of coins for such a book. It was common knowledge that owning one meant power, even over evil forces. Some might find it valuable for its door to knowledge of the past. Flipping through Ellen’s book, Clara had seen magical symbols and advice for spells and for the shaping of amulets. Even if Clara did not believe in the strength of the verses, she could not let the book fall into the hands of those who did. Peter had called the original spell gatherer Cyprianus. According to Peter, the mystic tradition was widely known in many of the countries through which he had traveled and was the basis for the Nordic black books.

  How fascinating it was that those tiny records were composed like real books with titles, indexes, and explanations. Whoever wrote the manuscripts must have had enough knowledge, not only about formulas and instructions but about how to author a properly written account.

  All in all, those books were not part of a Christian practice. Folks in Berg were not different from others Clara had met. The century-long belief in an afterlife underground troubled most folks. They feared the wrath of vitters, beings that came to suckle from the farmers’ livestock. Most people avoided locations where wraith-like creatures could haunt them on misty evenings. Even parents of children who had incurable illnesses or who had been born lame believed that the huldra had switched the child at birth, leaving her offspring in place of the human child.

  Hopefully, Ellen would heed the warning and understand how perilous it was to allow anyone else to know about her grandmother’s black book.

  As Clara made her way through the crowded street, she exhaled loudly. Good thing the villagers could not read her mind.

  Two other townsfolk had replaced the man and woman who’d had their arms and necks clamped in the pillories a few days earlier. Punishment seemed never ending. Bystanders still spat on the criminals, called them names, and harassed them. It never ceased.

  Clara could not change an attitude, but she could try to teach a better way. She might need to include more philosophy into her reading lessons.

  While feeding the enchained transgressors some bread she’d brought from home, she noticed a young couple on a ne
arby bench. The boy and girl were staring into each other’s eyes, and the tender scene pulled at Clara’s deepest feelings. Her compassion for the down-trodden was so strong, she did not sleep well at night. But this feeling nagged at her in a different way. She had never opened her heart to any man before. To let go and allow a man to fill her heart was an idea that crept up more often than she was willing to admit.

  She sighed. Concentrate, Clara. Continue down the road and remember why you are here.

  Another couple ahead of her, their arms around each other’s waists, laughed and ran across the road. They looked familiar, even from behind, and then the girl turned her head. Clara gasped. Ellen…and she was with the hired hand from Ivershall, the one who had dropped a witch’s bottle a couple of days earlier.

  As Clara got closer, Ellen ran off in the opposite direction, blowing a kiss to her male friend. They were both so young.

  Clara marched up to Amund and grabbed his arm. “What are you doing with Ellen?” She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I saw Ellen with you. What are your intentions?”

  Amund shrugged. “She’s a sweet girl, and I enjoy her company.”

  “Well, that better be all. I warn you. Someone is looking out for Ellen.”

  With a frown wrinkling his forehead, Amund backed away.

  Clara relaxed her fists. Too much was at stake. What if Ellen showed the boy her grandmother’s black book, and he in turn told John Pywell? On the other hand, maybe Amund was telling the truth. Ellen was indeed a sweet girl. No, Clara could not take that chance.

  Amund had walked away, and she decided to poke her head in the open door at the inn to see if Peter was there. The only customers were two guards having a break. Two bowls of gruel and two large mugs sat on the table between them.