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

by Heidi Eljarbo

  The witch-finder held up the cup “Excellent, and these cups are from Holland, too?”

  Smiling at the witch-finder was becoming tedious. “No, they are imported from France. My husband has had many wares brought here…cups, oil lamps, furniture…” Abigael fiddled with her necklace. So many questions. Patience was not a virtue she possessed.

  “Right.” Mr. Hill cleared his throat. “Mrs. Steen, I would like to know what you think about the residents in and around the village of Berg. Do they live righteous lives? Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?”

  Finally, the conversation was heading more toward why she had invited the witch-finder. She folded her hands in her lap and coyly tilted her head.

  “Such serious questions. Have another piece of cake, and I will gladly answer.” Abigael handed him the platter then leaned back in the chair. She had to know if he had read her letter and more importantly, acted upon her message.

  “Berg is in trouble. Here at the estate, we live such pure lives, estranged from the ugly truth of troll women and magic spells.” There. She had said it. She folded her hands in her lap to keep from sticking her fingers in her mouth to bite her fingernails.

  The witch-finder lifted his chin. “I am not after simple people who believe in folk magic, but rather I am here to cleanse the area of those possessed of evil, those who have given themselves to the adversary of all Christendom. You will soon see an escalation of witch hunting happening right here in Berg.”

  “And how are you progressing, Mr. Hill? Have you found any witches?” Her voice was painfully cheerful.

  “We have a few. Just yesterday, we brought a woman in. She was in possession of a black book and cast curses on all around her. She was a wild creature and reminded me of…” He stared toward the window. “Never mind.”

  Abigael slipped to the edge of her seat, her eyes wide. “Does she have an infant, and is her name Siren?”

  The witch-finder immediately turned his head and fixed a piercing stare on her. “Yes, how did you know?”

  Abigael breathed out. The conversation was finally going in the right direction. “Oh, I have heard about that witch. She is well-known around here for her…witch things.”

  “I received an unsigned forewarning about her. But it is always nobler when someone is willing to stand up and testify regarding a witch’s doings. I know the courtroom is a foul place for a fine lady like yourself, but would you be willing to come and bear witness of that woman’s evil ways.”

  “I certainly will. Let me know when, and I will be there.”

  “Excellent. You are a remarkable woman.” He looked at her uncle. “Your niece has such courage.”

  The purpose of having the witch-finder come for tea had been accomplished. He could leave now. There was just one more thing on her list. She sprang to her feet. Goodness, not so quick. She placed her hand on her belly and gently stroked herself. “Excuse us, Mr. Hill. I must talk with my uncle about a family matter.”

  She nodded to her uncle, and he followed her out into the hallway.

  “Abigael, what is it, my dear? Is your husband’s health growing worse? Has something happened?”

  She laughed. “No, that’s not on my mind at all. He just lies there, and I haven’t seen him for days.”

  “But, Abigael—”

  “Enough about that old man. I have something important to tell you.” Abigael’s heart raced. Finally, she would be able to fulfill her dream.

  “Dear girl, you seem merry today. What is it?”

  She looked around to see if any of the servants were about then pushed the padding under her gown back and forth. “Look. A cushion.”

  “A cushion?” He frowned and pulled the words slowly.

  “Stop frowning. This is a good thing. I have been planning this for a long time. It’s simple. I want a child, and my incompetent and nauseating husband cannot give me one. Not that I would want him to. Angus Hill has a child who needs a mother.” She put both her hands out. “Voilà. I will be that mother.”

  Her uncle scratched his head. “I never…”

  “Uncle, you know I will be a wonderful mother.”

  “Yes, I have no doubt you will be. But how do you intend to pull it off?”

  “The whole village has seen me great with child. My maid is the only one who knows…and now you. She will stay silent about this; I have made sure about that. Let Angus Hill know you will take care of finding a home for that child. Tell him, then bring the child to me.”

  “Abigael, this is certainly unconventional…and a shrewd suggestion, even for you. Very well. I can see how much you desire this, and the child will need someone if the mother is executed for her crimes.”

  Abigael threw her arms around her uncle’s neck. She straightened her dress and turned her chin up before she flowed gracefully back into the parlor.

  “More cake?” She held out the plate.

  Uncle Winther put another piece of cake in his mouth and swallowed it swiftly.

  “Mr. Hill, you mentioned a child,” her uncle said. “Let me take care of that for you. Surely, you are engaged in more important matters. I will find a suitable family.”

  Angus spoke with his mouth full. “Right you are. I smoke out the witches, and no man understands the grave responsibility I have. I should not have to make arrangement for a witch’s bairn, as well.”

  Abigael’s feet were about to dance her across the floor. Her voice was bursting to sing with joy. But she held her head high and said calmly, “Certainly not, Mr. Hill. An important man like yourself should leave such details to others.”

  ✽✽✽

  Late that same evening, Bailiff Winther snuck into Abigael’s chambers and placed a healthy newborn into her arms. Taking the child from his true mother had been the hardest thing he had ever done.

  Abigael was his joy in life. Mrs. Winther was barren. They had not been able to raise a family of their own. When his brother was on his death bed only days before Abigael’s wedding, Winther had vowed to watch over the young woman as if she was his own daughter. Even though she was married now, he still watched over her. She’d always been willful and spoiled. He did everything she asked of him, and she knew just how to control every situation. Nevertheless, he let her have her way.

  “There is a need for absolute secrecy, Abigael. I am serious. No telling tales about how you received this child.”

  Abigael threw her head back. “Silly you, Uncle. I would never do that, and if anyone asks, tell them I have given birth to this child.” She rocked the infant in her arms and cooed.

  She seemed happy, but he questioned whether Abigael was capable of true love. He walked to the window and looked out.

  “Have you bribed your coachman?” she asked.

  Winther nodded and turned to face her.

  “Sweet Abigael, to see you content brings tremendous joy to my old heart, but I want you to remember one thing: it was not an easy task to pull the infant out of his mother’s arms.”

  “Don’t spoil everything now. The hag is a witch, undoubtedly without feelings.” Abigael thrust her lips out and looked at him with doe eyes.

  Winther shook his head. He gave in every time. He could not help himself and watched Abigael swaddle the blanket tightly around the babe and touch his cheek.

  “Don’t worry, Uncle. Everyone will think this is my son. He will receive my full attention and be the most privileged child in all of Berg and the land beyond.”

  Bailiff Winther did not answer. He left the room, the sound of Abigael humming to the child following him as he made his way toward the staircase. As he passed Mr. Steen’s room, he paused for a moment, wondering if he should knock on the door and tell the master of the house what had happened. But he did not have the strength. Even if Abigael did not always behave like it, she was a grown woman and would have to face the consequences of her choice.

  He continued down the stairs, slipped out the front door, and stepped into his carriage without looking bac
k.

  CHAPTER 18

  ✽✽✽

  PETER WAS SITTING on a grassy patch by the village, squinting at the mid-day sun peeking out from behind a billowy cloud. The bright light was suddenly blocked by a person casting a shadow over Peter’s face. The man did not budge. Who was he?

  “On your feet.”

  The voice was gruff sounding, and a quarterstaff poked Peter in the chest.

  Bewildered, he arose, brushing the dust off his trousers. Immediately, handcuffs were locked around his wrists.

  “What is going on? You cannot do this.”

  Two guards pulled him along, saying nothing. One time, Peter fell to his knees, but they dragged him back up. The handcuffs cut into his wrists, and the pain made him cry out. People on the market square stared. No one lifted a finger to help. Why should they? They did not know him and could not possibly know why he was being arrested. Peter himself did not understand why.

  “What are you doing? What are you arresting me for? Tell me.”

  Trying to probe for an answer seemed useless. The guards were closemouthed, and Peter followed along so as not to cause a scene. To his surprise, he was taken behind the village hall and pushed down the stairs to an underground dungeon. The iron gate clanged closed, and keys jangled as he scrambled back onto his feet. He arose only to see one of the guards turn a key in the lock. Still wearing handcuffs, Peter tried to push the iron gate with his shoulder, but the heavy bars would not budge. He called out, but no one answered.

  Had Angus Hill discovered information about Peter’s visit to the printing press? That had to be what this was all about. But how had the witch-finder found out? Peter had been extremely careful, and his trip to Fredrikstad had been a success. As far as he had been able to tell, everything had gone well and according to his plan.

  Evening came and went. During the night, he shivered in the cold draft. Morning light arrived early and revealed that he shared the cell with a couple of rats.

  The sun rode high in the sky when, finally, noises sounded on the stairs, and the key turned in the lock. His mouth felt as though it was full of sawdust, his stomach rumbled with hunger, and confused thoughts filled his mind. Why had he been incarcerated?

  A guard pushed the gate open, and Angus Hill entered the dungeon.

  “Leave us but stay close enough to hear me shout if I encounter a problem down here,” the witch-finder commanded the guard.

  Angus strode around the murky dungeon with his hands linked behind his back. “You are obstructing justice and hindering my work here in Berg,” he said.

  “You do not have anything on me, Hill. I am a merchant and trader, and I work for a mission in the Far East.”

  “Well, yes. What are you doing here then, if you are such a fine and prudent man?”

  “I am on my way southward to Europe and decided to spend some days with friends here.”

  “And that friend would be Miss Clara Dahl?”

  “It would.”

  Angus had still not mentioned the manuscript or the printing press. Had the witch-finder ordered Peter’s arrest for a different reason? But if so, what could it be?

  “Hmm. I am still perplexed.” Angus narrowed his eyes.

  He stopped in front of Peter, and Peter stepped closer to the man.

  Angus took two steps back. “Back off, man. I will have you know I have a knife in my belt, and I-I…am not afraid to use it,” he stuttered.

  Peter shook his head. The infamous witch-finder was not as brave on his own. Peter stepped away and leaned calmly against the back wall.

  Angus rubbed his pittance of a beard. “We are all Christian here.”

  “The things you do are not the acts of a Christian.”

  “It is so. The devil is recruiting witches as we speak. This is war, and I intend to fight this evil influence. I aim to win.”

  “By murdering innocent women? The women you accuse and condemn to punishment, torture, and death are not evil.”

  “Are you both blind and ignorant, man? The evidence is overwhelming every time. You may read my dissertation on witchery and see for yourself.”

  “I have read it. You probably believe you will attain a university degree from your essay.”

  “Certainly. I am working on an improved edition.”

  Only because someone stole and destroyed the original version. Peter fought back a smile, wiping his nose to hide his amusement at the pitiful look on Angus’s face. The man’s expression was like that of a small child who’d had their favorite toy taken away. Angus clearly did not know who had stolen the manuscript.

  Peter faked a cough. “Angus, you made it all up, the imaginary ramblings of a disillusioned man who does not understand which side he’s on and who he’s worshipping. I have never heard you mention anything uplifting about the message of the gospel of peace. If you speak so much of evil, why don’t you also encourage Christianity?”

  “Enough,” Angus screamed. “You are on your own here. I don’t care if you never set foot outside this dungeon again. Miss Dahl will marry me. We are as good as betrothed. Before this summer is over, she will be my bride. You mark my words.”

  Peter shook his head and frowned. “Is that what this is all about? You want Clara?”

  Angus held his head high, pacing back and forth. “I must say I admire that woman. It’s not the first time she has been surrounded by witches. Still, she stays strong. I can hardly wait until we are married, and I can be her master and protector. She needs me. All women have weaknesses and are inclined to follow evil, some more than others.”

  “Then why marry Clara? Is it her inheritance or her intellect? Do you admire her because she is a respected woman?” Peter slammed the stone wall. “You will not get her as your wife, not ever.”

  Angus stopped and smirked. “You covet her for yourself.”

  “No one possesses a woman like Clara,” Peter said. “She is a strong and independent lady who follows her convictions without fear.”

  “All that will change when we are married. Then she will see who is in charge.”

  Peter’s skin tingled. Time seemed to slow, and he wanted the witch-finder out of the cell. “You are right. She will see who is in charge, and it won’t be you.”

  By now, Angus was perspiring profusely. He showed his teeth like an angry wolf. “Put him in chains,” he screamed.

  A couple of guards came running down the steps to the dungeon.

  “And while you are at it, beat him.” The witch-finder then removed the knife from his belt, walked up to Peter, and slashed through the sleeve of Peter’s coat. Blood gushed out, and Angus grinned like a madman. He spat on the ground and stomped up the stairs into the daylight.

  ✽✽✽

  Clara had been visiting a family on the outskirts of the village and came home to find the cottage door standing wide open, chairs toppled over, and Siren’s things thrown about the room. She paused for a moment and looked around, barely able to draw in a full breath. Something told her that her worst fears had been realized.

  Without hesitation, Clara had run to the village hall and had tried to find out if they had taken Siren, as Clara suspected. And if they had taken Siren, where were they holding the poor girl and her newborn son?

  The guards would not say a word; either they did not know or had been ordered to keep quiet about the abduction.

  Clara then continued to the bailiff’s office, but he was gone. Not even the minister could provide any clues as to Siren’s whereabouts.

  On her way back home, Clara had asked people she passed if they had seen or heard anything. Based on their responses, it was as if Siren and the child had ceased to exist. No one could tell Clara where they were.

  Christian had said he would be away a couple of days. His help was sorely needed. She repeated the search the next day. First the prison, then Winther’s office. She was certain the guards and the bailiff had lied when they said they did not know anything. Now, Clara stood in the street in front of the inn
with the intention of facing the witch-finder. She watched the entrance, trying to build up the courage to climb the stairs and knock on his door.

  As she paced back and forth, the innkeeper’s wife stepped out front and threw a bucket of dirty water onto the road.

  Clara approached her. “Excuse me, is Mr. Hill in?”

  “Nah, haven’t seen him since this morning.”

  Forlorn, Clara started back for home. Siren was often away for days but would not have left the cottage in the condition Clara had found it. Something was wrong.

  She finally met an older man carrying wood on his back.

  “Aye, I was in the village when the guards brought the woman and the child.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Did you see the witch-finder there?”

  “He was there, but I could not hear what they were saying.”

  Sobbing convulsively, Clara collapsed to the ground. No, not again. Angus was there to gather what he called witch specimens. To him, a beautiful young woman like Siren was not even a person.

  The man put his stack of wood down and helped her back up to her feet. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Nearly blinded by her tears, she looked at the old man and shook her head. “You are kind, sir. I just want to go home.” She left, dragging her feet the last distance to her cottage. Someone had finally explained what had happened, and although she wished it was not so, her fears were well-founded. She walked in the door, fell onto the floor, and again let the tears flow freely.

  “Clara?”

  She looked up to find Ellen standing just inside the cottage door.

  Clara stood up and wiped her wet cheeks. “Ellen, what are you doing here? I asked you to stay away until things have calmed down.”

  The young girl’s arms hung slack at her sides, her lips were trembling, and her eyes were wet and dull. Clara went to the girl, wrapping her arms around Ellen’s quaking shoulders and rocking her like a babe.

  “How long must we hide? My sister always calms us down,” Ellen said between the sniffles. “She is like a mother to me and my brothers and sisters. Worrying that something will happen to us, she senses danger in every shadow, and every sound in the forest becomes a potential threat. She hardly eats and is ever so thin.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.