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

by Heidi Eljarbo

  “Come, sit down with me, Ellen. I know it must be hard to be in hiding, but I still believe it’s the best thing for your family to do right now. The witch-finder is escalating his work these days, and I am afraid he will not go away anytime soon. For now, you and your brothers and sisters are safer away from the village. Do you have what you need?”

  “With the provisions from Ivershall we are better off than we are used to.”

  “Then what is ailing you, Ellen? Gloom and fear have replaced your normally cheerful disposition.”

  “We are not free. We are in the woods we love and have food on the table every day. But we are restricted, unable to go where we want to go. I am usually not afraid of anything, but now I find myself lying awake at night, constantly worrying.” She started sobbing. “I hate that witch-finder.”

  Clara wrapped her arms around the young girl and held her tight. “I am so sorry. I understand what you are saying, and I feel your heart’s anger and pain. What Angus Hill is doing is wrong and evil. Still, hate is a strong word. We don’t like what he stands for and what he is doing, but we cannot allow ourselves to descend to his level.”

  When Ellen calmed down, Clara loosened her grip, took hold of Ellen’s shoulders, and looked her in the eyes. “I don’t want to add to your fear, but I must tell you; they have taken Siren.”

  “No.” Ellen’s eyes widened. “Is it my fault? I gave her my grandmother’s book; is that why she was taken?”

  Clara shook her head. “No, it’s not your fault. Don’t you think such a thing.”

  Ellen lowered her voice to a whisper. “And the child?”

  “I’m afraid little Hassel is gone, too. Prison is no place for a mother and her newborn child. Now, the witch-finder has them, and I am racking my brain, trying to think what to do about it.”

  “What will happen to Siren?”

  “I do not know. She has not had a trial yet.”

  “Don’t you ever give up, Clara?”

  “I cannot afford to give up. If I do, then I know I have failed. We must believe there is a way to stop this madness and that the women have a chance.”

  “And Hassel…he needs a chance.”

  Clara nodded. “That child is all Siren has in this life; he is like the embodiment of her true love.” Clara took Ellen’s hand and led her to the door. “Now you see how serious this is and why you must remain in hiding. Go back to your family. Stay out of sight.”

  CHAPTER 19

  ✽✽✽

  THE FOLLOWING DAY, a thump outside the door startled Clara. Someone had left several items on the bottom front step. She gazed up and down the road, stepped outside, checked the garden, and went around back to the cabin. Nothing.

  She sat down on the steps and picked up a well-used quill pen with an unfastened nib. She wiggled it. It could still be used for writing if one took great care. Along with the pen was a tiny ink bottle and a notepad the size of a man’s hand with pages that flipped over at the top. She opened the notepad and found annotations of people in Berg, observation of their undertakings, and a glossary of Norwegian words.

  She put a hand to her mouth and gasped. This was Peter’s handwriting. Who had left his belongings on her front step? His silk cravat lay beneath the items, soiled and wrinkled. She picked it up and smoothed the material with her hand. Eyes closed, she held the cravat up to her face to draw in the scent of Peter. But the cloth reeked of unpleasant malodors…and blood. Her eyes flew open, and she stared at the scarf. Blood splotches covered Peter’s neckwear.

  Clara grabbed all the items and ran inside. The floorboards creaked as she stomped back and forth, talking to herself. “What happened? Where could he be?”

  Scenes from that evening he’d come to her cottage, telling about how he’d destroyed Angus’s manuscript, swirled in her head. She had scolded him for not including her. He had pleaded with her to slow down, beyond himself with worry about the danger of her mission. Now, she wished she had done more to let him know what he meant to her and how grateful she was for his endless support. Would she ever be able to tell him?

  Love was not for the faint-hearted. How could she know how to choose, who to choose? How could she be certain that a man had chosen her? A painful thought emerged and tore her apart: was Peter still alive to be chosen?

  She seized her shawl and walked out. Maybe someone in the village had heard news about him.

  Two small boys ran past her as she walked out the cottage gate.

  “Hey, what is going on?” she called out.

  “The weigh house is opening,” one of them yelled. “Hurry.”

  Clara hefted her skirts and ran.

  Several minutes later, out of breath and her chest aching, she entered the weigh house on Market Street. The building was already full of villagers, council members, and even children. Chattering voices filled the room.

  Right inside the door, a group of boys and young men were placing bets. Each of them laid colored stones and feathers into a hat on the dirt floor. One deposited a spotted seagull egg, and a couple of long-haired little boys carefully placed tiny quail and swallow eggs into the cap.

  One of the young men turned around and met Clara’s gaze. It was Amund, the hired boy from Ivershall.

  He sauntered across the floor to her. “Do you know where Ellen is? We had planned to meet on the outskirts of the village earlier today, but she never came.”

  Clara grabbed his shoulders. “Amund, what do you know about Ellen? When did you see her last?”

  He shrugged and appeared as if he truly did not know. “I saw her yesterday. But now she’s just gone. Don’t know where.” He spat on the floor. “I like her. She’s cuddly, you know.” He wiggled out of Clara’s grasp. “Maybe you should ask the witch-finder.”

  “Wait, Amund. The witch-finder? You must tell me if you know anything.”

  His gaze wandered. “I don’t know anything, but the witch-finder seems to show up everywhere, doesn’t he?”

  Clara’s next question was harder to ask. How would young Amund react to it?

  “Why do you carry a witch-bottle?”

  “Huh?” He stared at her for a moment, biting his lip. “I traded for it that first day the witch-finder spoke in the village. Someone had a stand with various items like that. I thought it could help me if Berg had an abundance of witches like the witch-finder said.” He turned to leave again.

  “Just one more thing.” Clara put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Is John Pywell bothering you?”

  Amund looked around, leaned in, and whispered, “He wants me to be an informant for him, but I am not interested in betraying my friends in the village.”

  Resisting the urge to hug him, she patted his shoulder. “Thank you for choosing to do the right thing. And, Amund, I hope Ellen is well.”

  He nodded and lumbered off.

  She had judged Amund. Obsessed with suspicions about which side he was on, she had behaved unreasonably. Who was she to estimate anyone’s value? The young boy had a purer heart than she had hitherto understood. Ellen must have snuck away to see Amund before going back to the hut in the woods. A careless act, but Clara understood the girl’s frustration. Hopefully, Ellen had come to her senses and was safely back with her siblings.

  A few of the women from the luncheon at Ivershall caught Clara’s eye. As expected, Mrs. Winther was present. She and the grocer’s wife had their heads close together, pointing at the scales and giggling.

  “Did they not understand anything I said? Why are they amused?” Clara mumbled beneath her breath.

  Finally, she spotted a friendly face. Clara took a few steps into the room as Else approached.

  “Oh, Else, I am pleased to have an ally in this crowd.”

  Else gave Clara a quick hug. “This is a sad day. My mother is here, standing over there by the door.” Else nodded in the direction of her mother. “I am afraid she does not understand how grim the situation is. I have spoken to her many times and tried to explain, but she seems b
lank to the notion that women cannot be witches. I get so mad at her, but she seems immovable.”

  “It is a lack of understanding, more than anything else. Your mother is probably swayed by old beliefs.”

  “But she is a Christian woman. She goes to church every Sunday.”

  “Still, many carry with them an acceptance of blaming others for things they cannot understand. You know how people around here fear woodland creatures?” She leaned closer to Else. “Have you seen Abigael Steen here today?”

  The Steen woman was always fawning over someone, be it the bailiff, the witch-finder, or Christian. Clara did not trust her. Abigael had practically ridiculed the presentation at the ladies’ luncheon. Was the woman not curious about the weighing?

  “No, but I have heard she has given birth to an infant boy. She is most likely convalescing and engaged in taking care of her newborn.” Else nudged Clara. “Look, they are bringing the women in.”

  Four women with their hands tied to a long rope were pushed into the room by two guards from the village hall.

  “Sit down,” one of the men said gruffly and kicked their legs.

  The other guard thrust a stick into their sides until each of the women fell to the floor.

  Else’s chin trembled. “Those poor women. They are terrified.”

  Clara stood frozen to the spot, staring at the women.

  “Are you all right?” Else touched Clara’s arm.

  Clara shook her head. No, she was not all right. A wave of nausea swept over her, and she had difficulty swallowing. The whimpering and cries from the four women brought back unwanted memories.

  “Show mercy,” one of the women called out.

  In the past, Angus’s gloomy attitude toward possible witches had been unyielding. Showing mercy was not something he was known for. The women were tied like animals, targets of scorn and ridicule. Even though some of the spectators appeared baffled, the crowd no doubt believed the witch-finder to be of sound mind and thought he knew what he was doing by having the women brought in to be weighed and tested. Would his wicked undertakings never end?

  The witch-finder was getting ready to start the weighing.

  Else nudged Clara’s shoulder. “It begins.”

  Overcome by the urge to rush forward and intervene, Clara clenched her fists. She had to stay put. There was too much at stake. Others depended on her, and she could not jeopardize her mission by attacking Angus.

  As if they dared not stand too close, the crowd had moved back when the women were brought in.

  A couple with two young children stood next to Clara.

  “Let us stand in the back,” the man said.

  His wife nodded. “If those hags cast spells on people here, we don’t want to be too close.”

  After the couple moved out of earshot, Clara huffed. “Typical.”

  Else tilted her body toward Clara. “What was that?”

  “Once Angus proclaims that someone is guilty of witchcraft, people suddenly believe their neighbors can create spells to conjure up anything.”

  Angus and John Pywell stood next to the scales. Angus planted his feet in a wide stance and clapped to get everyone’s attention.

  “Today is the official opening of using this weigh house to test witches. I am proud to say, it is the first one in this country. This type of trial is well-known in Holland. We are far behind the Dutch here in Berg. They started weighing witches about a hundred years ago. We have here an excellent weighing station with solid-oak scales. That is, we have everything we need for the testing.”

  A man with a white beard yelled from the crowd. “Mr. Hill, what does the weighing prove?”

  “Good question, my man,” Angus replied. “I will tell you. It is the principle of weightlessness. A witch is light enough to fly.” He made large arm movements, as if he was an eagle flying through the room. “This is what we will test today. Some of the accused may require further testing, but for now, we will see how heavy these women are. King Christian IV was in favor of this kind of testing, as is his son, your current king, Fredrik III. I am merely the humble representative of the crown in these matters. I hope that answered your question.”

  The man seemed pleased with the answer.

  “What nonsense,” Clara mumbled. Angus was in no way a representative of the royal court or anyone else. He was a man under a selfish delusion that he was a chosen messenger of peace. In fact, the king had ordered Angus banned from the west coast of Norway only the year before.

  Angus pointed to the four women who sat huddled together on the floor.

  “Three of their accusers are present. The fourth has been accused in the form of an unsigned letter. I can understand that some find it difficult and frightening to be in the presence of a troll woman.”

  He pulled out a document and held it up. “Let’s see what the accusations are.” He studied the paper for a moment then cleared his throat. “Cursing a spinning wheel. Hmm. Someone’s livelihood has been taken away from them. That is a serious crime. Then there’s an accusation of a quarrelsome hag who has been seen flying a broomstick above her hut.” He put his hand with the document down by his side and looked out at the crowd. “I do not know about you, but I don’t think someone like that even need to be put on the scales!” He shook his head, grinned, and continued reading. “The last two wretched creatures have gone from door to door, begging for substance while burdening good folks with various plagues.”

  Clara remembered the women she had heard about in the inn a few days earlier. They had probably been forced to carry glowing iron rods; their hands were blistery and scorched. She ached for these women. How brave they were to still not give in when being tested for ridiculous crimes.

  Maybe some thought Angus was witty the way he mocked those poor women. Around Clara, several villagers laughed or yelled insults at the victims. After all, even hangings were sometimes considered entertainment. Why could they not shake their heads and cry out against the injustice of this farce of a proceeding? But most of the onlookers in the room appeared horrified and stood with their heads close together, pointing at the accused women.

  Angus sneered and clapped again.

  Standing on a chair, John Pywell looked out at the crowd. “Silence,” he yelled. “The honorable Mr. Hill will now continue.”

  A sudden hush filled the room, a looming, odd mix of both gloom and excitement.

  “Those who have a fair weighing and are found to weigh more than the allotted heaviness will be acquitted,” Angus said loudly. “That means, good people of Berg, they are too heavy to fly.” Hands on hips, he continued. “Let the weighing begin…and start with that one. Strip her down to her shift and undercoat.”

  A woman who looked poverty-stricken and desperate struggled as her dirty gown and apron were torn off her body. She hugged herself and stared around at the crowd with eyes as large as moons. Two sentries grabbed her arms and lifted her onto the scales, and with Angus pointing and instructing, a guard placed cast-iron counterweights on the opposite oak board.

  “Don’t forget this,” Angus said. He placed a large Bible on top of the counterweights. “We are Christian men here. This Bible will help unveil who is truly evil among them.”

  Angus watched the scales, but the board holding all the weights remained up in the air.

  He stared at the woman and said in the deepest tone his weasel-sounding voice could muster, “Cursing a spinning wheel? Why on Earth would you do that?”

  “It…it…was not like that,” the poor woman stuttered.

  “Don’t be daft, woman. Who do you take me for? I have witnesses saying it is so.” He poked her with his walking stick, nearly knocking her off the scales.

  Angus turned to a sentry from the prison. “We will test her another way. Place her on a chair with her back to the audience.”

  The woman whimpered and struggled as she was forced onto a chair. Angus held a handkerchief over his mouth and stepped a little closer to her. He faced his interpret
er.

  “John, get my set of needles from my bag.”

  John handed a tin box to the prison sentry. “Prick her to see if you find an evil spot on her,” he said.

  Else frowned and pulled Clara’s arm. “What are they doing?”

  Clara took a long breath. “They will prick her with needles to check if she has any marks on her body that are insensitive to pain. Supposedly, an evil mark will not hurt or bleed. My guess is that Angus has some dull needles in his collection to get the results he wants.”

  “But that’s ridiculous.”

  “Everything here is a charade and mere entertainment for those who do not know any better. Angus will get what he wants one way or another.”

  The woman screamed as the sentry tore the shift off her back and stabbed needles into her pale flesh. Else hid her face in her hands. Clara put an arm around Else’s shoulder and looked around to see how the crowd reacted to the testing. It seemed as if most of them had never witnessed a witch-testing before. People stood stupefied, watching the sentry prick the woman again and again. Some covered their ears with their hands.

  Else took Clara’s hand. “If someone is found insensitive during a pricking test, is that enough to convict her of witchcraft?”

  “The pricking test is only one piece of evidence, but with Angus it is impossible to guess the outcome. As a witch-finder, he earns extra money every time he has someone tested, but I think he believes in what he is doing.”

  The screaming subsided. Blood trickled down the poor woman’s back, and she seemed numbed by the continual pricking. The sentry had evidently found a tiny spot that did not draw blood.

  Angus turned around and flipped his hand. “Take her away. Next.”

  The second accused, a sturdy farmer’s wife, was brought forward to the scales. Angus rolled his eyes, no doubt thinking he would never be able to pull off the witch-test. He read the accusation and smirked. What was the charge this time?