“You remember the stories, don’t you, Schätzchen? Not just the ones I’ve told you, but the others?”
“Everyone knows those stories, Mutti, but they aren’t true. They’re make-believe.”
“No, Rune, they are very real, especially one in particular—a story no one knows.”
“And which one is that, Mutti?” I whisper against my will. The stone in my hand begins to wiggle and I hold it tight, confining it to a small space against my skin. My stomach clenches, as if knowing deep inside what she is about to say.
“The one about the witch from the forest,” she gauges my reaction, “and the daughter she had.”
At first I think the silence left behind by the wind is warping her words. I am not sure if I can trust my ears, because all along I’ve thought my mother to be a lost soul, someone worthy of pity. I’ve been saddened by the fact that she had to give me away as her life was cut short.
Matilde takes my hand and holds it steady.
“No she isn’t, she wasn’t.” I’m not.
“Yes. It’s all true,” she nods slowly. “You, my dear, are the daughter of a great and powerful witch.”
Chapter 11
Laurentz
I am relieved to find my horse still tethered outside the old woman’s house. Dusk has fallen upon the village and the bleak square is a dark and dreary gray. The forest, as I see it, is blacker and more sinister still, and I am anxious to be on my way. I step over the crumbling stone threshold of the ailing house I’ve been inside for the last hour, glad I chose to do the unthinkable and intervene, for tonight could have ended very badly for the two women inside. Only now I am left feeling twisted and confused—about Rune, about what she did for my arm, and about what lies beyond the hedge, deep beneath the veil of the Black Forest.
“Hedge Witch,” I say to myself. I’d never heard the term before. Aren’t witches old, scraggly hags who spent their time concocting potions and spells? That’s what I’d grown up to believe. Yet the girl I’d met today was young and beautiful, and yes, I was most pleasantly bewitched by her. Still, there is no explanation to what she did with my arm. A mossy bandage seems innocent enough, but healing the cut completely? It certainly seemed magickal.
I have no proof she is indeed the girl who lives with the old crone called Matilde; I am simply venturing a guess based on the word of an old woman from the village. I lead my horse to the far edge of the market square, near the wild growth that rises alongside the forest. The mushroom is in my pocket where it can do no harm, and I intend to throw the miserable thing into the trees, but something prevents me from going through with that plan. Instead, I leave it there and find myself staring off into the dark foliage, wondering about Rune and wanting to know more about who she is.
It will be dark soon and I know I should set out for Eltz now. Even on the brightest of days, the forest is like night and I’ve no doubt that the sounds and shadows I will encounter will play tricks on my mind, only I can’t seem to mount the saddle and leave the village just yet. There are still a few traders along the street hoping to make some money before the end of the day, and walking slowly through the square toward them is the hooded woman I saw earlier in the forest. I crane my neck, wondering if she could be the famed Matilde I’d just learned about. I yank the bridle of my horse and follow her, making sure I stay at a distance, knowing that I’m still a stranger here, and it’s best not to stand out.
There is just enough room between the hedge and the outer buildings to walk along without being directly within the market, and I follow the narrow path there, feeling anxious when I lose her from my view. At last, I round a corner, finding she has stopped by a craftsman’s shop. She removes her hood and a crown of blonde hair falls around her face. She is neither old nor scraggly, and my heart sinks as I am convinced she cannot be the crone the old woman spoke of.
The glassblower she’s facing holds up four fingers. He is standing near a pole, leaning heavily against it, sweating. A hot oven roars behind him; long metal poles protrude from its open mouth.
“Two,” the woman tells him. “No higher.” Her face is somewhat soft from this distance, but her voice indicates that she is determined and not willing to spend what he asks of her.
With a reluctant nod, the glassblower wipes his gloved hand across his heavy black apron and pulls on one of the poles, bringing it out of the furnace and onto a metal table, where he begins to roll it back and forth. Once cooled, he brings the end of the pole to his lips and blows into it, then covers the other end with his thumb. I am mesmerized, as are the others who’ve also stopped to watch. Slowly, the other end of the pole grows, and a beautifully colored bubble is formed. His gloved hands work quickly and he taps on the bubble with a block, shaping the molten glass before our eyes. It’s a deep garnet. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see that the woman next to me is very pleased.
“Will it cool quickly enough?” she asks him with an irritating impatience, and he nods, pulling on the end of the bottle with a jack, elongating the neck of the bottle. “Make sure it’s perfect. I don’t want the face to be noticeable.”
It is obvious the glassblower grows annoyed with her demands. He places a couple of drops of water where the glass meets the metal pipe. With a hiss, the glass disconnects from the metal and is set to cool while the woman next to me rummages beneath her sleeve and pulls out a beaded pouch that is connected to her wrist by a cord. She hands him two coins. It is not nearly enough for what he has created for her.
“It’s beautiful,” I comment, nodding toward the glass bottle that lies on the table cooling. “Is it to contain perfume?”
Her head turns slowly, assessing me. “No,” she answers curtly, and offers no other purpose for which the newly made container will serve.
Her rudeness doesn’t bother me. Her reaction would be different if she knew I was the Electorate’s son, but that is something I am not willing to share simply because I want to be respected. I watch as she walks away with her purchase, but she pauses, pulls what appears to be thin strands of thread from her sleeve, and stuffs them into the bottle. She is soon on her way again, and I am left wondering.
“Not from around here, are you?” A burly man twice my size stares at me from beneath two thick eyebrows. He pulls his pants higher and spits on the ground as he approaches. “If you were, you’d recognize a bellermine when you see one.”
“Bellermine?” I ask.
The man leans toward me, lowering his voice. “Bellermine, Bartmann, same difference.”
When it’s clear neither rings familiar, he steps even closer and bends his head toward mine. My horse shifts next to me, and I pat her neck to soothe her. The man reeks of ale and musky sweat, and I try not to cough, knowing it will insult him. Men like him have been known to hurl a man of like size clear across a town square for offenses like coughing at body odor, and I don’t plan on having my bones broken today.
“Witch bottle,” he says, enlightening me, and I nod, pretending I know what he’s talking about.
“Usually they’re stone, but the face she told the glassblower to imprint into the glass gave it away. Not to mention she just filled the glass with hair.”
“I beg your pardon,” I grimaced. “Did you just say ‘hair?’”
The brawny man nods. “Seems she wants to protect herself.”
“Protect herself? From a witch?”
“Now you’re catching on!” he says with a throaty laugh.
“But why would she need to protect herself from a figment of one’s imagination? Surely a big man like you doesn’t believe in nonsense.”
He stares at me, and so does his friend. I’ve said the wrong thing, apparently.
“Like I said before, you’re not from around here, are you?”
“Sadly, no. Should I be worried? Should I ask the glassblower to create a…bellermine, as you call it, for myself?”
This earns me a scowl from the smaller man.
“Might not be a bad bit of advi
ce. If you’re visiting Württemberg for very long, you’ll learn to sleep with one eye open.”
Just as he’s about to say more, a rickety cart pulls up to the tiny shop that fronts the slaughterhouse across the square, and it quickly becomes the center of attention.
“It’s begun again!” a man shouts out loud. I presume he is the butcher, since he holds a long apron that is splattered in blood and gore. He’s a rotund man with a bulbous nose and ruddy complexion, and he makes every effort to stand on the seat of his wagon. The people gathering take a step back, and I laugh a little, believing it’s because of his size. They must be worried he’ll topple himself out and crush his audience.
He holds up a withered slab, with bones and hooves intact. The gatherers furrow their brows at the sample their trusted butcher holds before them, realizing the telltale snout of the beast is the only way they can determine what hangs in front of them.
“This! This is what is happening! Tell me the crops aren’t as deteriorated as this swine. Tell me you aren’t running out of food and are scared of going hungry.”
A murmur, like a rushing stream of water, begins to build among those standing closest to him, and crests as the villagers take in the enormity of his meaning.
“Tell me, when the landlord comes to collect his share of the harvest, as well as the rent from your stores, will your feet shake in your boots? I tell you this has happened before, and by God, it’s happening again!”
The hum grows, and one by one, they all agree that something beyond their control is seemingly amiss, and that something that has the power to threaten their livelihood hasn’t escaped this one man standing before them, urging them to open their eyes. One by one, they begin to recount the misfortunes that have otherwise gone unnoticed until this very moment. One has witnessed a burnt crop. Another claims a garden is overrun by grubs, leaving only a handful of potatoes to be harvested. The horses are growing thin, too thin to pull the plows, and the fields surrounding Württemberg are just too vast for animals who cannot keep up.
“Should we look to the forest for food?” a woman timidly asks, loud enough for the butcher to hear.
“We should not! This poison I speak of grows in the forest. My own horse is dead because of it!”
At this precise moment the door of the small home I had been in a short while ago creaks open, and out steps the old woman, her fist raised in alarm. “He speaks the truth! There is poison surrounding us all, and the hedge cannot keep us safe!” she intervenes, stepping closer toward the crowd as all eyes turn to her. “What was meant to keep evil spirits out of our village no longer protects us. It isn’t enough to lock our doors at night, or hide the bellermines within our fireplaces, or bury them in our gardens.”
“She’s right.” An elderly man to my left hobbles forward, leaning heavily upon his walking stick. It’s obvious he is blind because he reaches out to find support and misses several times. “The witch is angry.”
There is a tangible fear in the air that moments before did not exist. The skin beneath my sleeves prickles at the words they shout out. There are accusations, there is blame. One woman faints and falls to the street, but those standing closest to her are too afraid to help her to her feet, as if touching her will cause them harm. All at once their voices ring out, fists punch the sky, and before my eyes a frenzied retaliation against an unseen evil is born.
“She stole my eyes!” the blind man shouts. “She took all that I have seen in my life and boiled it in her kettle, then drank it!”
Another person caught up in the fury cries out, “She conjures while we sleep! I’ve seen the green smoke that coils from the trees at the Witching Hour!”
“Is it like before, Mama?” A young girl tugs at her mother’s apron. “Did she really steal his eyes?”
The old woman across the way reaches inside the doorway and pulls with all her might. She produces an arm, then a shoulder, until the weak and wide-eyed Anna is standing outside for everyone to see.
“She nearly poisoned my daughter! She sent her apprentice to deliver the very evil I speak of, and tricked me into believing the lie that nearly killed my Anna! Look what she’s done to her!”
She thrusts poor Anna forward, and the gathered crowd gasps at her fragile state. They see her sunken eyes, her sallow skin, the limp, lifeless hair. Never do they acknowledge that her clothes are as threadbare as the ones they wear themselves, that she is merely a victim of natural circumstances, starving and suffering as they all do.
I go to raise my voice, to argue that Anna suffers not from what her delusional mother claims, but my voice fails me. I don’t know Anna. I don’t know why she is so delicately ill other than overhearing of her pregnancy. Anna and her mother are strangers to me, and if I speak up then they might turn against me and reveal to everyone that I forced my way into their home.
I can’t argue that.
I am guilty for entering their house, and the fact that I am indeed a stranger will work against me. Slowly, I begin to back away. Something tells me to turn and leave as fast as I possibly can.
Anna’s eyes scan the group, and for the briefest of seconds I believe she notices me, but I see that she is staring beyond where I stand. There is no way to ignore the way Anna’s face changes, how it registers alarm, then fear. I try to follow her line of vision, spying the cloaked woman in the distance. Their eyes meet, and soon, Anna is fleeing from our stares back inside her dilapidated home. This seems to please the peculiar woman, who stands away from the crowd. She doesn’t seem to be interested in the fear brewing here, and she walks toward the road that will lead away from the village. I pull myself from the crowd and follow her, hiding behind a large brown barrel that leaks ale; my heart skips a beat as I see the bishop’s red carriage waiting for her at the far end of the road. An arm extends from the coach window, producing a leather money pouch, and the woman takes it quickly. She opens it, but doesn’t seem satisfied, and holds out her hand. Within seconds, more coins drop into her waiting hand, and the witch bottle is handed over.
Beside the coins, something shiny catches my eye as the arm retreats back inside the carriage. It is gold and glints in the sunlight before disappearing, and I am left watching, wondering, as the two depart in opposite directions, as if they’d never met at all.
Chapter 12
Rune
A faceless woman hovers over me. Her mouth moves quickly, like a violent wind, only I can’t hear what it is she’s telling me. Something warm touches me, and before my eyes, the face changes to a strong jaw, dark eyes, and chestnut hair. I feel myself smiling…
“Good dream, Schätzchen?”
My eyes open to see Matilde sitting on the edge of my bed, adjusting my quilt. I pull myself up and let the covers fall from me, chilled as the cool morning air touches my skin. I have a strong feeling she knows of the face that brought the smile to my lips. Suddenly, my senses are awakened as the most delectable smell fills the room. Floating on air is the delicious aroma of yeast, and citrus, and warmth.
Bread. She’s made bread, I think to myself. But not just any bread.
I look at Matilde and raise my eyebrows. She knows what I’m about to ask and begins to laugh.
“Stollen? Today? Yule is months away!”
I am out of bed before she can answer, and am practically skipping to the table, where I stand over the most beautiful sight—a dense oblong bread filled with raisins and candied citrus she probably traded way too much for.
“You could eat it with your eyes, child!” She’s pleased that she’s done something to make me so happy. “There’s fresh water in your room. Go wash up, and I’ll slice you a thick piece,” she says.
I can’t help staring at her, and cannot help the smile forming at my lips.
“You went out this morning for water?” I rush to the window and peer outside, determined to make it up to her if I’ve slept the day away. After last night, I believe I could have, but the sky is still dark with only the faintest orange and yello
w creeping between the trees. I do as she tells me, and in no time, I’m bathed and dressed, staring longingly at the Stollen again.
She cuts a thick piece as promised, and a slice of equal size for herself, then she settles into the chair by a fire that looks as if it’s been burning for hours. The room has never felt so wonderful this early in the morning, except when we’ve celebrated Yule.
I take a bite and savor the taste on my tongue, marveling how the bits of dried fruit insist on sticking to my teeth long after I’ve swallowed. I am so lost in the wonder of this morning that it doesn’t occur to me to ask why she’s gone to all this trouble. Then last night comes tumbling through the sweet taste in my mouth and crashes into me with all the might of a hailstorm, forcing me to place the cake in my lap.
“What is it, Rune?”
She’s gone through such trouble to make it up to me. Gone through the effort to hide what last night brought to us and make me forget, even if it’s just for a little while. Do I even dare bring it all back again?
“What does she want, Mutti? Why does my mother come for me?” I pull the thick afghan from the end of her bed on top of me, wrapping it around my shoulders. The fire crackles while I wait for her, and I pick at the Stollen, no longer as ravenous as I was moments ago. I don’t want to disappoint her. She worked so hard to make this morning special for me. And that’s just it. Why has she done all this? What exactly is she making up to me?
“You should eat, Schätzchen.” She points to the cake in my lap, but I am not listening.
The room holds no trace of last night’s ordeal. Every stone picked up. Every last twig and broken dish swept away. A new cupboard door hangs where the loose one used to be, and it catches my eye.
“What’s in the cupboard, Mutti?”
Without lifting her head she tells me, “Nothing. There’s nothing in the cupboard.”
I can’t help myself and I cross the room to the whitewashed doors with little round knobs that hide everything from tea leaves to rune stones to soap. She doesn’t stop me, not even when I reach up and pull the door toward me, and when I do, I step back, confused, because like Matilde said, there is nothing inside.
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