Trailing the Hunter

by Heidi Eljarbo

  Touching David’s arm, she spoke in a low voice. “Angus causes havoc wherever he goes. Yet dignitaries believe his lies and support him. Commoners are lured by his words. Even good leaders in a town can be misled. I’ve seen it before.”

  “Maybe the witch-finder did not write that note. Maybe somebody else did. But someone in our beloved village had the audacity to threaten the Ivershall family.” He leaned in close to Clara’s ear. “Right now, the captain of the guards and his men cannot be trusted.

  Thank goodness, Dorthea had been taken to a safer place. Clara’s arms fell to her sides, and she let out a long breath. One less person to worry about.

  Loud noises came from the crowd below. The boys were still on the rock, as if waiting for further instructions.

  David looked at Clara and straightened his coat. “Let’s go. Something is happening.”

  The wagon from village hall appeared by the thicket of trees where the road met the lakeside landscape. The rough, bumpy slope did not symbolize even a smidgen of what was ahead for the poor prisoners in the back.

  Clara did not like to call them prisoners. They were not guilty of the criminal acts Angus and his supporters had accused them of.

  The executioner, dressed in wide breeches and a loose-fitting shirt made of unbleached linen, jumped off the wagon and waved at the guards to help him.

  “David, I don’t think the boys should be here after all.” Clara was short of breath and rocked back and forth. “Keep them at a distance from the atrocities. Don’t let them be in the middle of it.”

  “I will take them back to the hunting cottage. They do not need to witness this,” David said.

  He turned and pulled the boys, who began screaming and kicking, away from the crowd.

  Clara pushed her way through the mass of people who moved toward the wagon. Tempers rose as people stretched their necks to see who the executioner had brought. Obviously, curiosity had surpassed their fear of witches.

  Angus had not spoken about the witch-burning. Not that Clara had heard. His plans seemed to have been carried out in a hushed and discreet manner. The bailiff must have known who the accused were. Clara had gone to see him in his office one day, had tried to carry on a civil, intelligent conversation with a man who had avoided the subject and suggested she should go back to the cabin and take care of children and household chores.

  Women dressed in long, dirty shifts were lifted out, hands tied behind their backs, faces smeared with grime and tears. People moved out of the way and cleared a path.

  The guards carried or pulled the women through the passageway in the crowd. The two beggar women from the weighing tried to remain huddled together, and they screamed as the guards separated them. The little woman who had been accused of cursing a spinning wheel was also there. She fell on her knees as the guard dragged her along.

  Disturbingly placid, although unsteady in their gate, the women stumbled forward. Scarcity of food and drink in prison, together with harsh testing and mistreatment, seemed to have robbed them of the little confidence they had in themselves and their worth.

  “On your feet,” a guard said gruffly, gnashing his teeth at the spindle woman. He looked at the bystanders. “She is able to fly but not walk a few steps by herself.”

  Some of the onlookers laughed viciously, and the guard seemed pleased with himself.

  Then came Ruth. She walked by herself, looking down, appearing distant, as if she were trying to detach herself from reality.

  “Ruth,” Clara called out.

  The young woman looked up and searched the crowd.

  “I am here, Ruth,” Clara shouted again.

  She finally received eye contact and through the noise tried her best to convey an impression of love and hope to Ruth. One of the guards came up behind the poor girl and gave her a shove, and Clara lost sight of Ruth in the crowd.

  Something inside Clara shattered, and she fell to her knees on the ground, crying convulsively. “Ruth…Ruth.”

  A pair of gentle hands pulled her back up to her feet. She turned around and looked into Else’s face, which was also covered in tears. Clara flung her arms around Else’s neck.

  “Ruth was there, Else. We have to do something.”

  “I saw her brothers with David. They must be devastated.”

  “They are. Seeing their sister—knowing what her fate will be…it is unthinkable.”

  Clara wiped her hands on her apron. “Siren is not there,” she said. “And neither are Peter and Ellen.” She pulled her sleeve across her wet cheeks and let out a long breath. “They made it…for now.”

  “Thank goodness for that,” Else said.

  But there was one more. A woman in her mid-twenties was lifted out from the bottom of the wagon. Braids styled in ringlets around her head were falling apart, and her arms were bruised and scratched. She wore nothing but her shift and a pair of shoes made of embroidered red silk.

  Clara tugged at Else’s arm. “Who is the last one? I have not seen her before. She is certainly not a beggar woman.”

  “That is the daughter of one of the councilmen, unmarried, keeps to herself.” Else frowned. “Why would she be taken?”

  “Who can understand why the witch-finder has taken any of them? I aim to find out. Will you come with me?”

  Else nodded. “Of course.”

  They marched around the outskirts of the crowd to John Pywell. He stood off to the side of the main gathering, sorting through a stack of papers. Clara barged up to him, but he barely lifted his gaze.

  “Of what crimes has the last woman been accused?” Clara asked. “That young woman is from a well-known family in the village.”

  In Clara’s eyes, all the accused were equal and of the same worth. Rich or poor did not matter to her, but she was interested in why Angus had picked a councilman’s daughter.

  Pywell lifted his chin and peeked through half-closed eyelids toward the prisoners. “Ah, that one. She had an illegitimate child last year, and no one knows who the father is. A very mysterious case. When interrogated, she would not name him. Good thing she did not name an innocent bystander in town. Can you imagine what that would do for a good man’s reputation?” He spat on the ground. “No, an independent woman is a menace to our society. Just think of what evil she can come up with without the controlling presence of a husband.” He looked Clara up and down and frowned. “You are a single woman, are you not?”

  Clara pinched her lips together. Not wanting to hear any more, she took hold of Else’s hand and walked away. The interpreter was as difficult as the witch-finder, always coming up with ridiculous statements. The poor women had most likely gone through horrible ordeals. Was Angus’s translator involved in the process? His job was merely to make the conversations between the witch-finder and the villagers comprehensible.

  “How does the witch-finder go about charging these women?” Else asked.

  “To be charged with a crime of witchcraft means more than being thrown into a prison and fed scarce meals. Most of the accused are tested in several ways. The outcome is usually the same, as if predetermined. Angus’s list of reasons for finding an accused guilty is as lengthy as a seven-year drought.”

  “I cannot believe this is happening here. What does the witch-finder accomplish by torturing the women if he has already condemned them to death?”

  “Many times, the accused are forced to name additional witches. When subjected to the unbearable pain of torture, some give in and name others as accomplices, even if it is someone they care for. In the cases of these women, it seems like Angus did not take the time to put them through a proper witch-trial before the execution. However, in my experience, a legal proceeding does not help, either, not when Angus is involved. In this instance, Angus seems to have built his cases on the word of several witnesses.”

  In Clara’s mind, there was always a chance, always a small flicker of hope that they could be set free. She scurried across the grass and headed straight for the witch-finder. />
  Angus looked pleased. “Ah, there you are.” He lifted his gaze. “Look, no thunderous billows in the distance. I must say, I thought an hour ago that we would have to postpone the burning.”

  He pulled his lips into a wide line resembling a smile. “Now look at the sky. The sun is about to burst forth from beyond those clouds. I take it as a sign of God’s approval and proof the burning should not be deferred.”

  “You think God wants this witch-burning?” Clara tried to sound civil. She was tired of being calm when the witch-finder needed more than a stern reprimand.

  “Of course. Evil must be destroyed, and this is how I can assist in that.” He put a hand flat on his chest. “It is my divine calling.”

  Clara breathed in and out slowly several times before answering.

  “If I can prove to you these women are innocent, will you let them go?” she asked, trapped in a state of anticipation. She almost did not dare to hear his answer, but it came perfectly clear, as expected.

  “Dear Miss Dahl. I do not want you to have to worry about these solemn matters, as I have already done all the thinking for you. All of these women were found guilty, and they are witches as true as I am standing here.”

  “But if I could show you doubt that—?”

  He put a finger on her lips. She wanted to wiggle away; she did not want him touching her but stood firm until he had finished speaking.

  “Hush, let me take care of this,” he said. “I know you care for all people in a way I do not comprehend.”

  He grabbed her shoulders, turned her around, and pushed her away. “Off you go.”

  With a determined look Clara turned around again. “I can prove they are innocent.” She did not know how yet but was willing to try anything to stop the burning.

  Angus shook his head and waved her away then stepped away from her to grab John Pywell’s arm. Clara could not hear what they were talking about, but Pywell nodded and walked up to the executioner. The man had placed five ladders in a row on the ground. The women jerked and bawled as several guards began to tie them down.

  Herr Salve made his way through the throng and spent a moment at each ladder, speaking softly to the women. Clara could not hear what he said with all the noise and commotion but supposed he offered consolation and gave them hope. It was his duty as their spiritual advisor, but he seemed sincere, as if he wished to comfort them in their distress and final hour.

  A witch-burning attracted the curious and the fearful. The event was a gruesome display meant to deter criminal behavior for all who witnessed it. Still, Clara wanted to throw the wood into the lake, pull the ropes off the women, break the ladders, and throw rocks at anyone who came near those poor women, but before she could try any of her far-fetched notions, Else came and held her arm.

  “Let me go,” Clara pleaded. “I must do something.”

  “It is too late,” Else said.

  “It is never too late.”

  Else continued to hold Clara back. “I cannot let you go and risk the chance that they will add you to their list today.”

  “But, Else…” Clara sobbed helplessly.

  One by one, the ladders with the cast-outs were dragged across the grass and tipped into the blazing fires on the shore. Clara cried loudly with each one then looked up at the heavens with her palms up. All hope seemed gone. She would never get used to such horrible acts. Oh, to be done with this day.

  Horror spread across the beach as innocent women died in the roaring flames. When Ruth’s turn came, Clara ran closer until the heat from the fire forced her to stop. She tried to keep eye contact with Ruth, to offer one last gesture of comfort to a good woman…a good friend. As the flames licked Ruth’s body and her screams subsided, Clara took a few steps back, tore her gaze from the flames, and turned away.

  The councilman’s daughter was the last one brought to the fire. She repeatedly cried out her innocence. An elegant couple tried to interfere, calling her name, but the sentries held them back.

  Clara approached them and patted the old woman on the arm. “I am so sorry.”

  What more could she say? The councilman’s wife seemed inconsolable, her body shaking.

  Clara put her arms around the old woman and held her tight, shielding her from the fire. “Don’t look. It will be over very soon.”

  Terrified screams from the councilman’s daughter filled the evening air. The villagers watched, their faces solemn. Some had left the grounds before that point, but most had stayed.

  The councilman pulled his wife away from Clara. “I will never forgive the people responsible for this,” he snapped, red in the face. “Come, wife, let’s go home.”

  Mrs. Winther walked up and poked Clara with the tip of her parasol. “I know that one,” she said and pointed at the councilman’s daughter, lifeless in the burning flames. “The other four women I can accept, but why is a fine lady one of the witches?”

  Clara pressed her lips together. Had the ridiculous woman completely forgotten what they had spoken about at the women’s luncheon at Ivershall not too long ago? Finally, Clara could not help herself. “Mrs. Winther, you are lucky you don’t have a daughter because your child could be next.”

  The bailiff’s wife stood as if someone had cut out her tongue. Clara turned her back on the fire and walked away.

  It did not matter if a woman was married or not, rich or poor, young or old. Anyone, regardless of their place in life, could be condemned to death by fire when Angus Hill was involved.

  With Else’s help, Clara staggered back up toward the trees. She could not bear to hear any more comments for or against a witch-burning. There was nothing more to do; she was limp and helpless.

  The ground beneath her feet felt as if it was spinning, and her vision blurred. She swayed on her feet, her knees buckling, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist.

  “Here, let me help you.” Christian guided her to his horse and lifted her up onto the saddle.

  “You came.” Her mouth fell open when she saw his bruised cheek and torn sleeve.

  “I just had an encounter with Anders, the captain of the guards. He will not get away with the disobedience he displayed today.”

  “Did you see Angus?”

  “No, he’d already left.”

  Moved by utter loss of hope, Clara sobbed. “Those poor women. And Ruth…good, sweet Ruth.”

  “I heard.”

  “God will judge them.”

  “Yes, Clara.” He looked toward the dying flames. “But before that, I will punish them.”

  The burning may have come to an end, but her friends were still missing. Peter…Siren and the baby…and Ellen. Where were they?

  “Christian, we still don’t know where Ellen is. What will happen to the children?”

  He released his clenched fists and turned to face her, his expression grave. “We will help them. For now, I will take you home.”

  Clara tried to think, but only jumbled words and half-sentences formed in her mind, as if her common sense had gone up in flames, as well.

  Christian nodded to Else. “Will you be able to make it home on your own?”

  “Yes, of course.” She looked over her shoulder. “I brought my father’s wagon. I’ll be fine.” She glanced up at Clara. “Take care of her.”

  Clara gave Else a feeble smile. Christian climbed onto the horse in front of Clara then pulled her arms around his waist. He held on to both of her wrists with one hand while steering the stallion away from the meaningless horror by the lake.

  Slowly, he walked the horse to Clara’s cottage. She leaned her head against his back, drawing in his strength and warmth. When they arrived at the cottage gate, she forced herself to straighten, sitting still as he dismounted. He reached up and lifted her off the horse and carried her into her home, put her on her bed, and gently pulled a blanket up around her shivering body.

  Not a word was spoken. Clara still found it impossible to think clearly, and thankfully, he seemed to understand. He turned t
he oil lamp down low, then left her alone, closing the door softly behind him.

  CHAPTER 22

  ✽✽✽

  CLARA SLEPT A few hours that night but had dreams of beasts and angels. When she woke up, vivid memories of the witch-burning overwhelmed her. She lay in bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and gathering strength to get up.

  Thoughts of Bess’s recipe book filled her mind. Suppose Angus had brought it to Berg? Clara would approach him and ask him straight out. Her patience with the witch-finder was wearing thin.

  Hunger pangs usually hit her as soon as she woke up. Today, her stomach was tense from crying. She forced herself to get dressed and sat down to eat, if only a little.

  Her thoughts seemed benumbed. She preferred it that way—at least, for a short while. After staring out the window for a good part of the morning, she decided to make herself useful and started cleaning up the cottage.

  Clara had gathered all of Siren’s belongings and placed the items on a small table in the corner of the room. The trays with flasks and dried herbs were also there.

  She’d recognized something different about Siren the first time Clara had seen the young woman, had realized Siren had to be kept away from Angus. But she’d been willful and independent. She had to roam free.

  By the looks of the items on the trays, Clara knew exactly what Siren had been up to. She had been dabbling in things that had to do with more than becoming knowledgeable in the kitchen or with healing wounds and headaches. Siren’s lifestyle was a perfect model for Angus’s witch-woman.

  Sitting on Siren’s bed, Clara looked up at the ceiling. Where was God when she needed Him? Why did bad things happen to people she loved? Failure seemed close at hand. Clara had not been able to prevent a witch-burning or the disappearance of Siren and her son. And what had happened to clever, good-hearted Peter and naïve Ellen?

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