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

by Heidi Eljarbo

  Clara had stumbled over rocks, tripped on solid ground while carrying heavy weights in both hands. She had lost her balance beneath uneven burdens.

  The power of a simple prayer had always given her hope and the strength she needed to continue. She had always been able to feel a comforting answer, and her worries had often been put at ease. Now, Clara had not prayed for a while, and she was on her own.

  Deep inside, she knew that a sincere prayer usually changed her feelings about demanding burdens. She kneeled on the floor and poured out her soul. She did not want to be alone anymore. Life was hard enough, and she needed to learn to trust again.

  A feeling—a voice—emerged inside her chest. Clara, this is not about you. Carry on. Have faith that goodness will prevail.

  How long she lingered in that position, she did not know, but after a while, she got up on her feet and straightened her gown. Thoughts on how to solve the tribulations facing the villagers were still there. Agony for those who grieved and the fear of the unknown were still present. Still, in the middle of turmoil, terror, and desperation, she’d attained a sense of peacefulness.

  A knock on the door brought her out of her musings. She pulled up the corner of her apron and wiped her face. Who would come calling this early? Could it be Ellen? No, she would not have knocked.

  Clara opened the door. Christian stood on her front steps. She pushed her unkempt hair back and rubbed her hands on her skirt.

  “Hello…come in.”

  He lowered his head and stepped inside. “How are you, Clara?”

  Her shoulders sagged. “I am not sure.” She paced around the room, not looking at him. “Things are getting out of hand. I am so determined to fight all this, but now…”

  He stepped in front of her and gazed into her eyes. “I came to see if you were all right.”

  She responded by turning her back on him. Was she all right? Well, she wanted to curl up into a ball on the floor. She would most likely cry the rest of the day.

  He walked around and faced her again. “Clara? Talk to me.”

  “I am beyond words.”

  “I understand that, but you must know that you will get through this. You will continue to do your best, and that will have to be good enough. Spending time worrying is wasteful. It is time you could be spending on your good deeds.”

  Poor Christian. He truly cared. Here he was, willing to listen, and she was being ill-mannered, pushing him away.

  “How can you believe in me when I don’t believe in myself?” she said low, her voice brittle.

  “Because of who you are.”

  “Christian, I know Angus is a monster, but could you have done anything else to stop the burning? You have authority here, and the villagers look to you.”

  He shook his head. “The witch-burning took place despite my efforts to stop it. I did not receive word it had been moved ahead until after I arrived last night.”

  “And Dorthea?”

  “Our friends will bring her back today. Mother knows I wanted her far away in case of a witch-burning, but she doesn’t know about the threatening note. I don’t want her to live in fear, burdened with worry that the witch-finder could show up at her home to arrest her.”

  “Oh, Christian, I’m so sorry.”

  “She asked about you. I promised her to keep you safe.”

  Closing her eyes, Clara bowed her head. How long would the horror continue? Once again, Angus had a whole village turned upside down. Was he aware of the turmoil he’d created? Did he ever lie in bed at night, hearing the cries of pain and anguish, like Clara did?

  Christian touched her shoulder. “I will find a way to stop him, Clara. One way or another, Angus Hill’s days in Berg are numbered. Last night, I dispatched two riders to journey to our neighboring towns and ask for reinforcements in case of more problems with the guards. I sent another one north to Christiania to speak with the authorities there.” He paused for a moment. “I also came to tell you that I have found Peter.”

  Clara clutched at her stomach. Her Peter? She had wondered if she would ever see him again.

  “He is in the dungeon. Come, sit down, and I will tell you what I know.”

  Clara followed along and pulled up a chair. Peter was alive, but why was he in the dungeon? Her eyes were locked on Christian as he sat down.

  “Hill had him arrested,” Christian said.

  “Arrested? On what charge?”

  “Treason.”

  “Treason against what? Angus is an Englishman. He has no right to decide what is treasonous in this country.” She put a finger in the air. “I know him and how he works. I have seen it before. He uses his oratory skills and manipulative ways to twist everything to suit his version of the truth.”

  “The bailiff should return later today. When he finds out what’s happened, he’ll want to meet with the council right away. And if he doesn’t, I’ll run the witch-finder out of Berg myself.”

  “I want to go with you. There’s also Siren and the child to consider.”

  “Let me do this.”

  She nodded and gave him a small but grateful smile. He was willing to share her burdens. Right now, that was a heaven-sent deed.

  Is there anything else I should know?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment then burst out, “Yes. Angus has a recipe book that belongs to my friend Bess. The book is part of her legacy and heritage, and he has no right to keep it. I need to find out if he has brought it to Berg.”

  “I will see what I can find out.” He took a breath. “Why is your faith so strong?”

  “Lately, I do not think I have been strong. In fact, I believe I’ve been slow to hear and even ungrateful. I have not felt like myself. But I want to choose that which is good, Christian. I believe the key is that we serve one another, no matter their or our status in life.”

  “You speak as if you are standing on the pulpit.”

  “That comes from being a minister’s daughter. I have attended my fair share of sermons.”

  No one fell asleep during her father’s talks. Clara had even enjoyed listening to him as he practiced during the week. Naturally, she’d picked up some of his reasoning.

  “Even for a sermon, it is an unusual way of speech and thought.”

  She breathed out. “Is it? You mean, not enough fire and brimstone?”

  “Yes, it’s refreshingly positive.” He stood up. “I need to go home and see if Mother has returned safely before I return to the village hall. It’s time to stop Angus Hill once and for all.”

  Clara’s knees went weak, and she held onto the back of a chair not to fall. “What can I do?”

  Christian grabbed her arm and helped her sit. “For now, you should stay here. I’ll come by later.”

  She tried to get up, but Christian put a gentle hand on her shoulder.

  “Get some rest.”

  She let out a long breath. How could she sit and wait for news? “Christian, let me know what happens…and be careful.”

  He nodded and walked out, closing the door behind him.

  Clara had the sensation of being in the still center of a large storm. The uncontrollable tempest raged all around her, but for the moment, she enjoyed a twinkling of calm. No doubt, the storm would catch up with her soon enough.

  ✽✽✽

  Half an hour later, after sweeping the floors and folding clothes, Clara had regained her composure enough to sit down at the table. Had Christian made it back to the village hall yet? Her mind was crowded with thoughts about what could or could not happen when Christian met Angus again.

  Suddenly, a harsh knock on the door startled her. Rapidly, she placed the notebook on a plank under the table. She had fastened the hidden board with a nail on either end and used it as a shelf for her list and a small journal with notes of happenings since Angus had arrived in Berg. Suggestions were jotted in the back of the booklet, her personal opinions on the left, targets on the right.

  Before she reached the door, John Pywell ba
rged in, followed by two sentries.

  “Good day, Mr. Pywell,” Clara said, startled.

  The interpreter did not answer but looked around the room, opened the lid on her clothes chest, and threw the garments onto the floor. Then he rummaged through the kitchen cupboard.

  Clara’s thoughts raced more rapidly than galloping horses. Her chest tightened as her eyes followed the men.

  She inhaled and asked, bewildered, “May I help you?”

  Pywell did not reply but continued combing the room. As he was on his knees, peeking under her bed, he commanded briskly, “Take her.”

  The guards pulled her hands back and tied them with rope.

  “What are you doing?” Clara called out. “Are you misguided? You have no jurisdiction here. You are an interpreter, John.”

  “Misguided?” He stomped up and faced Clara, so close that his spit splattered on her cheek. His scarlet countenance looked hateful, and he whispered hoarsely, “I am wrathful and infuriated, but am I misguided? No, miss. I am doing what should have been done a long time ago, had the witch-finder the courage to do so.” He looked over at the guards, straightened his back, and cleared his throat. “I’m here at Angus Hill’s command.”

  “I do not believe you. He knows very well I am no witch.”

  He turned to the guards. “Place a rag in that hole in her face. This sorceress is far more eloquent than the others. You don’t want her to lure you into releasing her.”

  Clara wiggled and grunted as one of the guards pushed a large, dirty piece of cloth into her mouth. She glanced around the room, eyes wide, as they pulled her out the door, and she silently sent up a grateful prayer that the girls from the attic were safe at Ivershall. John Pywell was more unpredictable than she had given him credit for.

  Clara would not go willingly, and it took all three of the men to lift her onto the back of the horse-drawn wagon. She lay quietly as they brought her to the village hall, a prison that had housed other innocents. She did not want to draw attention to herself in case any of her pupils were along the way. Thoughts of all the women who had been treated much worse went through her mind. Some she had known and loved; others she had tried to help. There was still so much for her to do. She prayed fervently that she could be spared to fulfill her goals.

  As they reached the village hall, the guards hauled her out of the wagon bed.

  “Stand up. Walk. I’m not carrying a witch.” The sentry must have been told she was a troll woman. It was not his fault. He most likely did as he was told and believed in what he had been taught.

  Clara shuffled her feet across the cobblestones in front of the hall. Several people stood nearby, watching, whispering.

  The gag prevented Clara from speaking her thoughts. Not to worry. It is a misunderstanding. Tell Christian Ivershall that I have been taken in.

  “Stand back,” the sentry commanded. “No talking to the witch.”

  They dragged Clara through a gate and into a walled area around the back. A separate stone building to the right had five small prison cells. The dungeon was underneath the extension of the village hall on the left.

  “Where do we put her? In the dungeon?”

  “No, Pywell said to put her in a separate cell farther back behind the jail.”

  Clara stretched her neck. Who else might they be holding prisoner? But the doors were all closed and the windows small. She strained her ears, listening for the sounds of voices but heard only moans and whimpering. Other than that, the area was eerily quiet.

  Peter was in the dungeon, but where were Siren and little Hassel? How were they faring? And Ellen…had Angus taken her, too?

  Clara tripped as a guard pushed her across the threshold. She fell onto the dirt floor in the cell. He followed her inside, removed the gag, and untied her hands.

  “Not so talkative now, eh?”

  She coughed and rubbed her wrists. The rope had been tight and had cut into the skin.

  “There’s a bucket in the corner there. You will get bread and water every day, sometimes gruel. Do you understand?”

  Clara nodded and was about to open her mouth to ask about the other prisoners, but he stopped her.

  “I don’t want to hear anything you say. Mr. Pywell warned us not to speak with you. You’ll probably be in chains before the day is over.”

  He slammed the door behind him, and the key rattled as he turned it in the lock.

  She turned the bucket over and stood on it to see out the cubicle window. The guards were leaving. The back of the hall was quiet, not at all like the hurried and lively scene that usually took place on Market Street in front of the building.

  She cried out, “Peter…Siren…Ellen.”

  But she received no answer.

  There were certainly other prisoners there. Women were sometimes brought in for being pregnant out of wedlock. Sometimes, they had to confess to the whole congregation in church on Sunday. Children and youngsters were imprisoned for trifling thefts. In smaller villages like Berg, many crimes happened when people were in a drunken state. Brawls and squabbles in the street and domestic violence were punished with a fine, but a person, young or old, who stole items or money from the church or the state or who made counterfeit coinage could end up at the gallows.

  Clara pulled the upside-down bucket away from the wall and sat down. Thank goodness it was summer. Days were warm, nights were not fully dark, and the temperature remained bearable, even without a blanket. Her thoughts went to the horrid chamber in her hometown, Rossby, where Bess and other friends had been kept for so long. Those poor women.

  It didn’t take long before John Pywell entered her cell.

  “How are we faring?”

  Before she could answer he laughed loudly.

  “Hah, as if I care about your well-being.” He put his hands on his hips. “It has been an eventful day, Miss Dahl, and you missed all the excitement. Angus and I water-tested a woman—bound her hands and feet together and threw her into the lake. As you well know, the water would have repelled her body and spat her back upon dry land if she was guilty, but she drowned. Therefore, Angus said she was innocent according to the rules of dunking, but I had my doubts. That woman was not without blame and had witch written all over her. Oh well, she was dead when the guards pulled her out of the water. Good riddance to her.”

  The interpreter was clearly enjoying himself and spoke with vivacity and drama. He put up a finger. “Then we tormented a woman to see if she would cry. Witches are not able to spill tears under torture.” He grinned broadly. “She kept all the tears in while we badgered her in all kinds of ways; not until we had finished did she let it out. She howled like a wolf. Alas, it was too late, and the test proved her guilty.”

  The moment he paused to draw in a breath, Clara took advantage of the silence. John Pywell was not a mere interpreter; he was a man who seemed to take pleasure in the monstrous treatment and harassment of those accused of witchcraft. How long had he been like this? Did he take on the job as Angus’s translator only to learn the trade of hunting witches? And what had happened to her missing friends? The agony of not knowing where they were vexed her deeply.

  “John, the women in these cells are victims of cruel and undeserved treatment. The ones already dead merited so much more.”

  “What do you expect for a female witch? A stone sarcophagus displayed in the church? Or a golden casket with carvings of birds and trees?”

  “No.” Clara pulled a sleeve across her wet cheeks. “I want justice. I want good women to have a decent burial. Every person deserves respect when they leave this life.”

  “Well, you will leave this life earlier than you think. I will have you tested in every way possible until you’re found guilty.”

  “Guilty of what, John? You only want me out of the way.”

  “You will give in, and once we commence, you will plead for us to stop and will confess to everything.”

  “Everything what?”

  “You are hiding witches
.”

  “I have a spare bed I rent out. Do you know how many are homeless? There are whole families who need a roof over their heads. I will give you an example. You have Siren and her newborn child here somewhere. Where are they, John? She is my assistant, for goodness’ sake. We teach children to read. There are no witches under my roof.”

  John gestured to a guard. “Gag her. I’m through listening to her yarn of lies. And while you are at it, put a chain around her ankle.”

  He crouched on the dirt floor and for a while just stared at Clara.

  “You talk too much. I’m mightily tempted to cut out your tongue right now. Where I come from, convicts are often transported to British America. Some have a hand cut off; others are put to death for crimes like theft, blasphemy, and treason. An execution makes for enjoyable recreation. But mark my words: witches are always hung. Fortunately, we are in Norway, and you will be burned. It’s costlier that way but more efficient, and there’s no need to handle a witch-body afterward.”

  He got up and stood in front of her, once again with his hands on his hips. “If there is any way for us to reinstate righteousness, it is through a cleansing process. I believe in purification through flames.”

  He wiped his nose with a dirty cloth and continued. “I know some men are after a woman’s wealth and therefore sentence her to death; although, in most cases, the witches are coinless. But, Miss Dahl, when you die by fire, all your belongings will fall to me, as the one who exposed your wicked ways.” He rubbed his fingers together. “I understand you have substantial means. You probably did not think I would go that far. Ha, why not? I will certainly try.”

  He started leaving but turned around one last time. He stood and watched her, a wicked grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “Oh, by the way, your friend Peter is dead. Good old Angus Hill went too far on the Irishman. The poor chap did not last long in the dungeon.”

  Clara wilted onto the dirt floor. Oh, if only Christian would come and take her away from there. She hung her head and barely heard Pywell’s last words.

  “And, Miss Dahl, you don’t have to worry about his funeral. It has already been taken care of.”