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

by Heidi Eljarbo

  The sun was high in the sky. There was plenty of time, but she did not want to be late for Dorthea’s luncheon. She closed the front gate and headed for town, practicing her speech along the way.

  ✽✽✽

  Clara stopped by a small shop in the village. Some lace would make a nice gift for Dorthea.

  The witch-finder stood by the weigh house next to the market square. Why was Angus gesticulating and pointing at the building? It looked as if he was deep in conversation with a member of the village council. As always, John Pywell was right by Angus’s side. Clara turned her back on the witch-finder. Maybe she could sneak away behind a stand, where a couple of farm women were selling chickens.

  “Clara. Clara Dahl.”

  She stopped and cringed, pausing for a moment with her eyes closed. What now? She finally took a deep breath and turned around.

  “Mister Hill. Mister Pywell.” She bowed her head and curtsied.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet someone I know,” Angus said. “I am not here to make friends; still, I must say, folks in Berg keep to themselves.”

  Clara gave him a blank stare. How was she supposed to react to him sharing personal thoughts with her? Pretending sweetness was difficult when facing a murderer.

  Angus continued, seemingly unaffected by her silence. “I have just spoken with the bailiff about a wonderful new conception. Well, new to this country anyway. Evidently, a weigh house can be used for more than weighing and pricing wares. The bailiff has full control of how goods are to be traded and taxed and so on and so forth.”

  He was up to something. The witch-finder seemed enthusiastic, almost cheerful. Where was Angus going with this information about weighing wares? Clara was at a loss for words, but her silence did not seem to hold Angus back.

  “You know the wooden scales hanging from the ceiling in the weigh house?”

  She had to act civil. “Certainly, it has two swinging tables.”

  “Come, I will show you,” Angus said. He pushed his cape back and stomped off first, as if he expected her to follow. He put his hand out toward his interpreter. “Go somewhere else, John. I don’t require your services at the moment.”

  Reluctant, yet curious, Clara followed Angus. A farmer was trying to put a live sheep on one of the hanging tables as they entered. On the other side, a man was ready to place different-sized weights on the board in front of him. The animal struggled to get free and kicked its legs in all directions. A third helper tried to hold the ropes still. The wooly creature wriggled off the slab and hopped away, the men chasing it around the room.

  In a few weeks, crops from nearby fields would be brought in for weighing. Hopefully, the farmers would get their harvesting done before freezing temperatures set in. Unpredictable weather was always a concern. If the harvests failed due to storms and icy cold, many families would face a long winter of struggle and illness.

  Angus touched the scales with his skeletal white hand. “This is a perfect way to test those accused of witchcraft. Did you know that King Charles V, who ruled over the Spanish and Roman empires, approved of this type of test over a hundred years ago?”

  Clara stiffened. “Scales for witch-testing? The poor people around here are thin because they don’t have enough to eat.” She shook her head. “How do you propose a fair examination? Do you not believe this type of testing may predispose the accused to guilt and punishment?”

  “Certainly not. The scales are accurate enough to expose the evidence.”

  Clara had difficulty holding her tongue. Of all the ridiculous witch-testing methods, this must be the most ill-advised. Thin girls, feathery as dandelion-seeds, and skinny, grown women were plentiful, especially among the poor. Food was scarce, and hard physical labor was a must. Their gardens did not always yield good produce. Many did not have the extra padding around their waists like the wealthier members of the population. Her heart ached already, as she visualized innocent, sweet womenfolk, young and old, who had not had a morning meal or even a meal the night before. They’d be placed on the wooden weighing board, while braggarts with their noses held high swung them on the scales and decided those poor women’s fate.

  Angus pushed the balance-board, making it sway.

  Clara held a hand to her throat. Breathe, breathe.

  “What do you think? Maybe we should try it out. Would you hop on the scales for size?” Angus sounded almost cheerful, despite his squeaky but piercing voice. “Ha-ha, you are too heavy, Miss Dahl. You would not be able to fly. This is the point, you know. Some witches weigh next to nothing and therefore, can fly in groups to celebrate their Sabbath.” He pulled out a large handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Then he pushed the scales hard. “Of course, those who are a good weight in comparison to their height and size will be sent home.”

  A bird could fly, not a human being. Harassing a woman unable to defend herself was wicked, but weighing a human being to find out if she was a witch was plain ludicrous. Clara had concealed her underground work so far by being well-mannered around the witch-finder, albeit certainly not pleasant. Lashing out at Angus would not help the women she hoped to protect. But as God was her witness, nothing would please her more. The man deserved a good talking to.

  Angus had mentioned the emperor who approved of weighing women. Peter had told her about the man. The king had ended up in a monastery, probably trying to find peace and forgiveness. Spending his life acquiring power and dictating life and death to others must have been exhausting.

  “Excuse me, I must go,” she said.

  The bailiff was on his way in as she was leaving. She paused in the doorway to hear what they talked about.

  “I believe a witch-burning is not far hence,” Angus boasted. “We need to set a standard and stir up the emotions in this sleepy village. People here need to start thinking seriously about who the witches are. It’s for their own safety so they may continue their tranquil, good lives.”

  Once Clara had left the witch-finder’s presence and continued to Ivershall, she felt at liberty to breathe the open air and be herself again. The discomfort of being in his company drained her strength but at the same time gave her a staying power to halt and listen. That same perseverance had made her come to Berg in the first place. She had to listen to what Angus said in order to understand what he would do next.

  A weigh house for weighing witches was an outrageous scheme. But his last statement to the bailiff worried her even more. Angus Hill was planning a witch-burning.

  Clara walked slowly toward a small shop that sold a few sewing notions. Who did Angus have in mind when he mentioned a witch-burning? She had not heard any names mentioned. One thing was certain, the witch-finder had sounded impatient when speaking to the bailiff. That could mean an outburst of erratic behavior on his part. She had seen such conduct from him before.

  A small bell jingled as she entered the shop. Buttons, thread, ribbons, and lace were kept in a small box under the counter. Clara picked out a piece of white lace long enough to enhance the collar of one of Dorthea’s fine dresses.

  Angus had not mentioned Thomas Ady, which meant he probably did not know his fellow Englishman had visited Ivershall. The visit had been discrete. The women’s luncheon had not come up in the conversation, either. Then again, even the invitees did not know Clara would be speaking to them. Once the luncheon was over, she could not trust the ladies of Berg to keep anything to themselves. They were women, after all. She closed her eyes and let out a long breath. Angus would probably find out and demand an explanation, but she had to try.

  ✽✽✽

  Apparently, Dorthea had directed the maid to set a table contrastingly from the dinner with Thomas Ady. Vases with an abundance of floral arrangements from her garden were set around the room. A fine white tablecloth with embroidered garlands down the middle covered the dining table and held crystal glasses containing a deep-red cordial Clara guessed was red currant.

  “Are you ready, Clara?”

  “I hav
e a feeling they will not be pleased with my message, but I am used to that. It won’t be the first time.” She put her hand on Dorthea’s arm. “I am glad we are doing this.”

  “Me, too. I will let them mingle for a while then ask them to sit. I thought you could give your presentation during dessert.”

  Clara nodded. “They may come for cake and the chance to say they have been to Ivershall. My hope is that they leave enlightened.”

  Marna greeted the arriving guests and guided them into the dining room.

  Clara counted eleven women, some she had seen before. Abigael Steen was present, as was Mrs. Winther. The bailiff’s wife was elaborately dressed in a black gown with a red bow fastened on her chest. Her wiry gray hair was pinned up and adorned with a couple of feathers.

  Most of the invited women were new to Clara. She recognized Herr Salve’s wife from church and thought she looked tired as always. The grocer’s wife, who was often found behind the counter in the store on Market Street, stood by Mrs. Winther. Dorthea introduced the others as wives and daughters of members of the village council.

  Once the guests were all seated and had filled their plates with baked delicacies with cream and berries, Dorthea clapped to get their attention.

  “Ladies, ladies. I have asked Miss Clara Dahl to say a few words. She has a most interesting background and is an educated woman. She is also a minister’s daughter, brought up in a good Christian environment. Today, she has a special message for us.” She slowly looked at each face around the table. “I want you to know that I support Clara’s views on the subject she will speak about.”

  Most of the guests put their fork down. The grocer’s wife opened her mouth wide to add even more cake. Clara’s plate was still empty. She did not have the stomach to eat right now and would wait until after her speech. She pulled the shawl off her shoulders to have something to hold in her hands. The fluttering feeling in her stomach remained as she stood up and gazed at the women around the table. Thank goodness for Dorthea’s encouraging words. Clara gave each guest a genuine, pleasant smile.

  “Good day. I want to thank Dorthea of Ivershall for inviting us all here today, and I compliment each of you for the way you handle your responsibilities as women. You are mothers, daughters, grandmothers, sisters, friends. No matter which situation you are in, your life matters. Your contribution to your family and to this village is vital.”

  Clara paused for a moment and observed their faces. Their eyes were curious, hopeful, arrogant, kind, contemptuous.

  “I am fairly new to the village, yet I feel the need to warn and forewarn you.”

  The guests stared at each other, lifted their shoulders, and one rolled her eyes.

  Clara pretended not to see their grimaces. “Warn you because there is a witch-finder in town. His profession is to find those he believes are a menace to our community. And forewarn you because he will do things that will affect every one of us in this room.”

  Mrs. Winther banged a palm on the table. “Surely, no one here is in danger. You should be out there”—she waved a hand toward the wall of windows—“talking to the misfits who live in the woods. Look around, Miss Dahl, this room is filled with finer, more distinguished women. The witch-finder won’t find any one of us guilty of witchcraft or unnatural behavior.”

  Scattered giggles spread around the table.

  Clara faced Mrs. Winther. “You may be right. There will be women accused, and some will most likely be executed. Yes, it could be someone out there.” She pointed to the window then lowered her hand slowly. “Or it could be me or you.”

  She paused for a moment before she continued. “We have all experienced things in our lives that we cannot explain. Life is full of challenges. Sudden illness, cows that stop giving milk, crops that fail, the death of a loved one. When those kinds of things happen, we wonder why and feel like blaming someone. God, our neighbor, or ourselves. How do we choose what to believe?”

  Clara hung the shawl on the back of her chair.

  “Let me turn it around and give you an example. If a storm comes tomorrow and tears down the roof of your neighbor’s house, would it be right for your neighbor to blame you for witchcraft because you were in your yard that morning, looking in their direction?”

  “That’s different.” The grocer’s wife folded her arms on her plump stomach and leaned back in her chair.

  Clara gave her a gentle look. “But why is that different? Many innocent women have been blamed for similar crimes, crimes they never committed. A person cannot steer the weather. Nor can that person make the winds blow your neighbor’s roof off. If we could learn to support each other, like each other, care for each other, we would not want to harm our fellow sisters.”

  “But a witch can do those things, Miss Dahl.”

  The last statement came from the minister’s wife. Her apparel was less fashionable than some of the other guests. It did not help that she whined when she spoke, and her sad, weary eyes made her look as if she could burst into tears at any moment. Most of all, Clara wished the minister’s wife—a God-fearing woman who needed to be an example of faith in the village—had not spoken those words.

  Dorthea gave Clara an acknowledging nod. She took strength from the older woman’s support and continued.

  “I recently spoke with an author who has written a book that is different from any book I have heard of. Yet, I believe in what he is saying.”

  The bailiff’s wife wrinkled her nose. “Why do we as women need to know about books and authors. Let the men take care of those matters.”

  “That’s exactly who takes care of those matters, Mrs. Winther. And it has gotten out of hand. We, the women, are the ones accused of these things, and we are the ones who are blamed and subsequently charged with crimes we have not committed.”

  A murmur went through the room. The women were whispering, shaking their heads.

  “My friends, let Clara tell you about what the author says.”

  Dorthea’s gentle voice was soothing in the midst of mumbling frustration. The subject had gotten their dander up. Thank goodness, Dorthea was there to calm the vexed women.

  “Continue, Clara, dear.”

  “Yes…the author writes about how important it is not to judge someone due to silly notions that they are responsible for the weather, accidents, or even death due to illness. He discusses the misunderstanding that witches cause these happenings. There are several other books published about witchcraft, what women are like, and why they perform magic tricks. Let me tell you, these writings are not beneficial for the female portion of the population.”

  “How do you know? Have you seen books like that?” Mrs. Winther helped herself to more cream dessert.

  “I have.” Clara looked around the table. Better not elaborate on which books she had seen. She needed to choose her words wisely and not give them too much to chew on. Let’s see what they know. “How many of you have heard about the foreign witch-finder named Angus Hill who is presently staying here in Berg?”

  Slowly, as if they were a little reluctant, the women raised their hands, one after another.

  “We all know he is here, but, surely, this does not affect us?” The woman had a round visage, turned-up nose, and a mouth full of cake. “The females who are accused of witchery are troll people. They are senseless and unstable, women with warts and rare diseases.” She managed to speak with a cheerful lilt to her voice.

  Clara sighed. “It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. Yes, it’s true that the women accused are often single, older, simple, and smelly. But the women blamed for witchery are not witches. They may also be young, beautiful servant girls…or fine ladies from noble families.” She paused for a moment. “Even Angus Hill has written a witch hunting guide.”

  The guests mumbled again. Clara was stirring up emotions in the room. Hopefully, her presentation would help the women understand the graveness of Angus’s visit.

  “You are making this up.” The bailiff’s wife picked cake
out of her teeth.

  “I have seen it happen, Mrs. Winther. Intelligent, lovely women charged with witchery by Angus Hill.”

  “But he does not know us,” said the grocer’s wife, a protesting frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “Maybe not personally. But he will know of you. He will learn about your daughters, granddaughters, and sisters. He will listen to gossip about your maids, your servants, and your neighbors.”

  The jolly woman laughed heartily. “But that’s ridiculous. What on Earth would be incriminating about any of us?”

  The statement did not surprise Clara. Some would never understand. She tried again, hoping not to be interrupted. “Angus Hill, like many others, believes women are weak and easily seduced by evil. He can turn any little discrepancy into a valid accusation, and through torture—”

  “Torture? Please, Miss Dahl, seriously?” Mrs. Winther tone was tart, almost snapping.

  “Let her speak.” A young woman with long, dark hair sat straight-backed in her seat, apparently unafraid.

  Dorthea had pointed her out earlier as Else Rud, a councilman’s daughter.

  Clara chose not to give details on the matter of torture. She only wanted to get their attention not make them shut down due to details their minds could not bear. “No matter what you may think, Mister Hill takes his position very seriously. He believes he has come to protect and rescue the villagers, when in fact, good women will be charged.”

  “But how can you know that?” Else seemed to anchor her attention on Clara, not worrying about the disapproving tension in the room.

  Mrs. Winther picked up her purse and stood up as if she was ready to leave. Dorthea asked her kindly to stay, upon which the bailiff’s wife sat back down and snorted loudly.

  Clara carried on. “When women are brought in, they are tested and made to suffer. During these cruel torments, they admit to any horrid charge. It is that brutal. Some die as a result of the torture; others are burned at the stake. These women are not witches.”