The crowd is silent, waiting for word that she will confess. They are wondering if she is indeed a witch, and I myself wonder if anyone standing there as witness feels remorse for having sought her out over the years. In private, Matilde was treated with kindness, yet tonight, the town gathers to scorn her, to see her suffer, as if she is their entertainment. My fists clench and I wish with all my heart that one of them, just one, would be brave enough to speak up for her, to tell the bishop there’s been a grave mistake.
But no one says a word. Not even I, as I cower in the shadows and watch.
Her frail voice strains from the heavy stones upon her chest. “I am not a witch.”
I close my eyes, knowing the truth cannot help her.
When I open my eyes against the tears I see the bishop making the sign of the cross over the crowd. Between two shoulders I see four men lift the stool Matilde is tied to, and for a second, my eyes connect with hers across the cobbled square. I know she sees me, as I see her. Her eyes from this distance are two shining orbs in the light. They flicker brilliantly, wildly, off the stones, off the man’s buttoned waistcoat, off the open mouths of those yelling for her death.
Her lips part as if to tell me something, and then, with the fear of her own impending doom, she cries out, “Witches can’t cross water! Witches can’t cross water!”
She is telling me something. It is something important, but I don’t understand. The men pull her and struggle against the cumbersome weight of the stool; then, with a heavy heaving motion, they thrust her into the stream. A tremendous splash surfaces, sending those standing closest to her recoiling backward. They pull her up, and she gasps for air. Over and over her body is dunked, plunging into the icy water.
Watch how they delight in her torture…
I am startled at the whisper that comes close to my ear, yet I don’t allow it to fully frighten me. I’m too frightened by what I see with my eyes. I’ve heard this voice many times now. I know not to look for the lips that speak it—I won’t find them. But the whisper is right, and I watch with growing rage at the terrible scene before me.
They live to see another die… They gain over another’s loss… Tell me, daughter of mine. What will you do?
A man to the left of the bridge marks the number of times she is brought up and down, until at last, his hand is still. The stool is lowered one last time and quietly, the one person I ever loved, the one person who was my family, my world, sinks out of sight to the bottom of the black water.
I wait until the crowd thins and is gone altogether. Candles are snuffed. Windows grow dark. The water in the deepest part of the stream calms, its surface like a rippling window I can peer through, and if I were to, I would see the body of my beloved Mutti waiting patiently at the muddy bottom for someone to pull her up.
At last the rope is drawn. It is heavy and taut, and it takes seven men to lift her. I watch as her body is cut free and tossed upon the cart. The wheels scream as she is taken away from here, from this life, from me. I clasp my hand to my mouth to hold in my screams and squeeze my eyes shut, pushing the tears out and onto my cheeks.
And the voice comes again.
What will you do?
I break away from my hiding place and make a mad dash for the hedge.
You must make them pay for what they’ve done to the old woman, Rune. Make them pay for what they’ve done to you! my mother, the witch, whispers to me.
My hands cup my ears to keep her voice out of my head, but it does no good. I am distracted, confused, and I fall to the ground, tripping over roots and stones. Soon I am scrambling, up again, running faster, putting as much distance between myself and the horrific image of Matilde drowning, knowing no matter how far I run this night will haunt me forever.
If I had listened, done what Matilde told me to do, then I’d be far from here. I would have never witnessed what they did to her, and this night would haunt me in a different way, filling me with questions, the need to find out what became of her. I might even wonder if there was a chance she could still be alive. But now I know. I saw firsthand, and I can never rid myself of it.
With a burning ache in my chest, I try to catch my breath and realize I have run out of places to escape to. The cottage, my home, is in ruins, but I creep up to it hoping to find anything salvageable to get me through the night. There is nothing left.
Look what they’ve taken away from you, my daughter. You must seek revenge…
Her whisper is louder now, clearer.
“What good will it do?” I whisper back into the sooty
darkness.
It will prove to them they cannot play with what they don’t understand…
I raise my head, not quite knowing where to look. There is nothing but black around me—black smoke, black trees.
“Do you think I understand any better? Do you think I know what you’re speaking of?”
I turn in circles, because when her whispers come, they come from all around. They are everywhere and nowhere, all at once.
“You entrusted Matilde to take care of me. You gave me away, and now I’m supposed to look to you for guidance and revenge?”
Soon you will understand, daughter of mine. You will understand that the power of a witch stretches beyond the human mind. Mark that day, dear one, for it will be the day you come into your own powers.
“When? When will it come?” I shout. “Because I will make sure I never understand it!”
Silence presses back against me in the dark. I’ve angered her. I know it.
You have no choice in that matter…
The day you were born is the day I died. My legacy passes to you…
I press my hands to my head in an effort to squeeze her voice out of it. There has to be a way to stop the whispers; there has to be a place I can run to and be safe. Matilde’s last words come to me, pushing out the remainder of my mother’s urgent declaration.
Witches can’t cross water.
Matilde wasn’t a witch. Not a true witch. I’m not even sure if I am. But I am sure she was telling me something. She must have known that I wouldn’t listen to her, that I wouldn’t run off into the forest, but would follow her instead.
“Of course,” I say out loud to myself. I climb over the rubble, and cautiously walk into the trees. The stream greets me with its own whisper, and I reach into the frigid current, feeling around with my hand, not sure what it is I’m looking for, if anything at all. Minutes go by, and all I’ve got to show for my efforts are numb fingers. Even if I find something beneath the black water, I’d never be able to grip it tight enough to pull it up.
Just when I’ve about set my mind to giving up, my fingers brush against something soft. In the dark I believe I’ve touched the remains of a drowned animal, or that my fingers have brushed against the algae-covered rocks, but the texture is different, and I begin to clear away the heavy rocks holding it in place. The thought of what I’m doing shatters me. I could easily be freeing Matilde of her stony weights, helping her rise to the surface so she can breathe and live another day.
I force myself to keep at it, until at last I’m able to pull what is lodged beneath the water to the edge of the bank. I recognize it immediately. It’s the bag of rune stones from the cupboard, safe like Matilde said it would be. I want to open the drawstring and make sure they are all there, knowing the stone I saved is still in my pocket waiting to join the others, but a low hiss that is almost human forms within the mist around the Berg stream. Through the trees from where I’ve come, I can make out the distinct shape of my still-smoldering home, feeling how it calls me back. I need to think. I need to plan what to do, because no matter how I look at it, I am absolutely alone in this world.
The whispering deepens, solidifying into words, but I tune them out and step into the icy water that moves as if it knows its place in this world. I, on the other hand, must discover what my place is. When I step further into the water I am greeted with blessed silence, but also an invisible force that
stops me.
I cannot cross to the other side.
Chapter 14
Rune
“So I am a witch,” I sigh.
Deep down, I’d hoped Matilde had created that fantastical story—a fairy tale like the others—and was not telling the story of my life. When she called out to me about the stream, I saw it as a way to escape the horror of this night, to escape the insisting whispers and flee to the other side, leaving my mother behind. But I’m the one who can’t cross.
Dripping wet and shivering, I pull myself onto the muddy bank and stare at the other side. How far did Matilde believe I could go? How safe did she think I would be if I listened and ran away?
The voices in my head have grown eerily silent, leaving room for me to pay attention to all the other frightening sounds the night brings. My imagination stirs. Specters scream for my soul, ghosts come back from the dead to keep me company as the darkest hours begin to pass in slow sequential order. I wonder if they call out because I am one of them. I am a witch, and the ghost of a girl I used to be.
It is too dangerous to stay here. Every twig snap is a foot making its way closer. Every hoot from the owl is a secret call between the villagers signaling that they have found me. My heart beats strong, confined against my ribs. I imagine the men coming back for me. I imagine my fate much worse than Matilde’s, for I am the thief and the poisoner. I am the one who has put everyone’s lives in danger. I am the daughter of a witch they burned sixteen years ago.
A light breeze moves the treetops, revealing a waning moon. It offers enough light to make my way across the rubble, and I am able to see what I can find that will be help me survive. I scan the ground, but there is little for me to take. A button, a spoon, an acorn from the oak above the ruined cottage. I tuck it all in the precious bag of rune stones. It is all I have. It will have to be enough. I make my way back to the stream, intent on following it until my feet can carry me no further, praying that what frightens everyone else will welcome me and keep me safe.
Chapter 15
Laurentz
Pine needles fall from my coat as I shake out all evidence of the forest. I didn’t realize how long I’d been gone. The sun has already set, and the aroma of the evening meal greets me as I step into the kitchen.
“Would you like to explain where you’ve been all day?” Cook smears her hands across her apron and stomps toward me. Her eyes are wide and anxious; now that I see her up close, I notice they are rather bloodshot, strangely matching her round, ruddy cheeks. “Your father’s been worried.”
“I doubt that.” A bored sigh escapes me as a plate of butterbrot catches my eye. I reach for a slice, not realizing how starved I am, only to have my hand slapped with a wooden spoon.
“What is this?” Her voice reaches an octave short of explosion. She points the spoon handle at my arm, jabbing at my bloodstained sleeve. “Have you been fighting?”
Before I can make something up, she is in a full rant, sending the rest of the kitchen staff scurrying out of her way. “Don’t let your father see this. You know as well as I do he doesn’t condone fighting. You’re supposed to be respectable.”
This is Cook’s usual speech—how I am an Electorate in training. I am a member of Eltz’s regal Guard. I have no business exploring what lies beyond our land, no reason to venture out and show the world the man I am becoming, or try to prove anything else. Who I am should be plenty enough proof to anyone wishing to inquire.
“Well?” she asks, not taking silence for an answer. “Where were you?”
“I went to the village today. I was bored.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full!” Cook is not in a good mood this evening. I shove a piece of the bread into my mouth and wipe my lips against my sleeve, earning myself another glare.
She clucks her tongue against her teeth as she inspects my arm, and I am silent, watching to see if I somehow missed a mark on my skin. Was the light in the forest dim enough that I only believed Rune had healed me? Cook finds nothing that will explain the blood, and she drops my arm in disgust.
“Someone else’s, then? You’d better clean up and change your shirt. And be quick about it; your father is waiting for you.”
“Is he…?”
“Angry with you?” Her eyes widen. “I would say he is, and mind you to be respectful for once. He’s had some bad news.” She begins to sniffle. “We all have.”
The other servants avoid my eyes. Cook is on the verge of crying. She can be emotional; she can be overbearing, but breaking down in front of everyone is not like her, and my stomach sinks, wondering what I missed today while I was off in the village. I can’t help thinking that my family has grown one less, and I peer around the corner into the neighboring room to see my father at the table with his head in his hands.
How he will handle another death in our family? How will it be with just the two of us now? I’m his only heir, his only company. Will it heal what’s fallen apart between us, or drive a deeper wedge?
“Father,” I say softly, approaching the table. The Weisswurst on his plate is untouched. It looks cold, and I wonder if he has been waiting for a son he thought would never return. He looks up at me, finally. I see how the lines around his eyes have deepened. I see the slump of his shoulders, and how he doesn’t bother to hide it.
I kneel at his feet. “Is she…?”
My father pushes his chair out, and before I can rise, his hand comes crashing across my face. My eyes sting with the force of his slap.
“How dare you not call for me when the bishop arrived.”
“Father, I didn’t want to disturb you. I only thought…”
“You have no right to think, especially when it comes to business that is mine, not yours. You are not Electorate yet, merely a boy pretending to fill shoes that are much too large.”
His words are cruel, lashing harder than the strike across my face. Words cannot describe the look in his eyes, yet I can’t say I didn’t expect it. I know I made a terrible mistake when I chose not to tell him of the bishop’s visit. Even later, when I had the chance to, I didn’t, wanting to let the bishop’s words sit with me to try and understand what it was he was really telling me. I was surprised to learn the bishop believes a witch is at work, how he thinks it will cause the other half of society to fall. Does my father believe this as well? That is why I couldn’t go to him. I have no idea what my father thinks, or what he wishes to hide from me.
I step away, out of his reach. “I was only thinking of sparing you one less concern. I planned on telling you about it at dinner tonight.”
“For which you are late.” The look on my father’s face disturbs me. This is not the face of a man mourning a dead wife. My assumptions have been wrong.
He takes his finger and points, with an exaggerated flip, at my coat. “Burn these outside. Pyrmont is gone, and I don’t want Eltz to be next. For all I know, you could have picked up every disease known to man in that despicable village.”
“Despicable?” He’s never spoken of Württemberg, or any other village for that matter, as despicable. “How do you know where I’ve been?”
My father looks at me and my cheek stings in anticipation of his hand.
“I make it a point to know everything. That’s what it means to be Electorate—something you are far from understanding, it appears. I’m sure the people of Württemberg didn’t appreciate your visit as much as you’d like to think they did. Can you imagine, the Electorate’s son bringing contagion to their homes? Did you ever think what this could do to the alliances we’ve made?”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t have.” But it’s a possibility that I could be a carrier. I took it upon myself to step inside the small, rundown home of Anna and her mother. The inside was filthy. But I am certain the news of Plague hadn’t spread yet. If it had, the entire village would have been hiding behind closed doors, not mulling around the streets.
“We are closer to Pyrmont than the village,” my father says. “We are
at a greater risk than they are. You don’t think ahead, my son. You never have.”
My father turns away from me, leaving me with angry words that bite and kick from the outside in.
“The Prince Bishop has been at the cathedral all day, praying for the souls that have fallen to this pestilence. He’s in need of a messenger to spread word of the epidemic to Württemberg to warn them. Since it seems to be a place you’re suddenly fond of, I’ve sent word that you will be his messenger.”
I remember the bishop’s carriage. If the town was already contagious, would the bishop chance being there? And what of the witch bottle? Is the bishop taking his own precautions?
“You have no choice but to honor me and do as I say. You will return to the village tomorrow, deliver the message, and leave immediately. And then you will promise me not to visit there again.”
I stare down at my boots, knowing I cannot disobey him. Not now. “Yes, Father.”
He tosses his napkin across the platter of untouched food and turns to leave. “One more thing.” He faces me with a measured expression. “The bishop wishes to pray for your soul and a swift journey tomorrow. I suggest you repay the favor and pray tonight.”
I draw a sharp breath into my lungs. “You know I don’t pray, father.”
“Then pray for your stepmother, and pray for us, that we make it through this dark time. Pray for your safety and quick return. The bishop believes the epidemic will spread to the village more quickly than we think. He seems to believe there is a distinct possibility it will bypass Eltz altogether.”
The bishop’s words are nonsense, but I can’t reveal that to my father, who is more faithful than I am. The bishop believes the church saves souls only if they are noble and worthy. What of the others? Who calculates the worth of their souls? Must they be wealthy and high-born to deserve that chance?
Perhaps returning to Württemberg will prove to be worthwhile, because there I will be among those who have souls whose worth is in doubt, and I wonder if I will find mine among them.
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