“Plague?” The word is foreign on my tongue.
“Have you and Matilde ever treated anyone with Plague before?” he asks, and it’s like a knife thrusts into my heart.
“You know about Matilde?” I whisper so low that he moves toward me, bending his head to hear better.
“I know you and she help people—treat them for illness, as well as…other things.”
Beneath his voice, I hear what he dares not say out loud. I hear his thoughts, and they twist and battle with themselves as he wonders if he should tell me what he really thinks. That I might be a witch. That I might be able to do the impossible and protect others from this illness he speaks of. That he wants me to trust him.
I take one more look at the uniform he wears, and all I can feel is fear. I turn and run as fast as my legs will carry me, deep into the forest where I know he will not follow. Even from this distance his thoughts reach me, and I know he is standing there watching me. I’ve hurt him, but he doesn’t understand that I cannot be hurt. Not now. I’ve no more room for it. My lungs burn; when I feel I am far away enough, I force myself to slow down, leaning my back against the rough bark of a tree. I peer around the side, searching for Laurentz. His thoughts are quiet. It shouldn’t surprise me that he is no longer there.
Chapter 19
Laurentz
My horse whinnies when we come to the hedge. I am sure she remembers nearly trampling Rune, and is worried we will attempt to jump over someone else today. I pat her neck and lead her along the border to where it splits open to a proper road stretching into the village.
Letting out an exhale of regret, I look over my shoulder toward the dense darkness behind me. I should have followed Rune when she ran off. She’s out there somewhere, among the trees where no one will dare wander. I’ve upset her by mentioning Matilde’s name and now I am here, while she is still out there, alone.
Now I am certain Rune is the girl who sold the mushrooms to the old woman. Perhaps that is why she ran away. She’s afraid of being accused of a mistake. Or perhaps she is afraid of what I will think if her name is associated with Matilde’s? If I settle things, Rune might understand I only meant to help her, that I was only trying to convince her to put whatever she and the old woman do for a living to good use and keep the sickness of the Plague at bay. That I would pay her back with kindness like that she had shown me.
Pleased with my idea, I strain to see the roof of the little cottage among the trees, knowing the height from my horse should make it easier than from the ground. But it isn’t visible from here. Like the witch’s house in a fairy tale, it has disappeared, swallowed whole by the evil forest. I laugh to myself and pull the reins to the left, venturing back into the trees, determined to find it. I will straighten this out with Matilde and put Rune’s mind at ease.
I am both a little excited and nervous to meet the famed Hedge Witch, and as my horse steps across the forest floor, I picture what she might look like. I imagine her to be toothless and old, with a great big wart stuck to the side of an enormous pointy nose. Silly. This is how I’ve always thought a witch would look, and I know that I am creating quite a vivid picture that is most likely far-fetched. Rune, for example, is beautiful, and ethereal, and…
My eyes look at the path from which I’ve come, half-tempted to retrace my steps and find her.
The smell of charred wood floats toward me before the cottage ever comes into view. And then I realize that there is no cottage. I slip from my saddle and stand at the threshold of what I believe used to be Rune’s home. It has completely burned to the ground. Nothing of it remains intact except the stone foundation.
“Rune,” I whisper, remembering how her eyes shone with fear when I surprised her at the stream. “You have nothing to come home to.” Everything is black and ruined, burnt beyond recognition. What was metal has melted; what was wood has burned to ash. A sudden chill comes over me as I place my hand in my pocket, my fingers touching the delicate stitches of the linen square. I forgot to return it to her. Now, as I feel the beautiful cloth and look at the remains of Rune’s and Matilde’s home, I wonder, was this an accident? I climb back onto my horse and hurry toward the village. If Rune’s home was destroyed on purpose, I intend to find out why.
The village is bustling this morning and a group of women huddle a few feet away, whispering urgently. “It happened before my very eyes!” one woman says to the others in secret. “Over and over she was dunked in the stream until her lungs could hold no more air!”
“Whatever you do, don’t visit the butcher. He’s done for,” comes the tattle of another woman. “Nearly all the animals have been slaughtered. They’re either diseased or they are nothing but bags of bones, and I hear she was responsible.”
“We’ve all visited her from time to time—how could we possibly know?”
This causes quite a stir among them, and a woman with a tight gray bun on top of her head leans in among them, quieting them all. “They say anyone who spoke with her or paid her for services shall be put on trial, so if I were you, I’d keep your good mouths shut!”
A well-dressed woman with a pinched face looks offended. “Well, I’ve done no such thing in all my life!”
One woman’s face pales as she spots me; with a short nod to her friend, she switches their topic to the weather. I keep a straight face, but inside, a knot forms around my heart. I know they speak of Matilde, and there is no coincidence between her death and the burning of her house, nor the fact that Rune has run off into the woods. It hits me then. Rune is afraid for her life. The way she eyed my uniform, the way she stepped away when I mentioned Matilde’s name. I hadn’t known Matilde was dead. I take a deep breath and clench my jaw. When I leave here, I will try to find Rune again. I will try to explain.
In the center square I try to focus on the parchment I hold while the bell tolls for the village to gather. I see that I am recognized from yesterday, and the faces meeting mine are awash with questions about my presence and regal state of dress.
“By decree of his Holiness the Prince Bishop, I am to inform you of the fall of Pyrmont Castle.”
There is an intake of breath from the crowd at the news, but I continue, “To protect the citizens of this village, Württemberg, from the destructive infection known as Plague, it is my duty to inform you to take heed.”
Another collective gasp and several women cover their noses and mouths with their aprons, as if my warning has increased the risk of infection among them, my words making it airborne.
“How did the infection start?” a man calls out. The mutter of the crowd takes on a panicked edge.
I hold my hands up and cast a sharp glance to the bellman. “Regardless of how it started, I’m here, in the name of the bishop, to urge you to take every precaution.”
Bits of what they think rise to my ears. I’ve created a frenzy by warning them of what has happened elsewhere. I only wanted to tell them to be aware, to take every precaution—to avoid spoiled food and to report any illness to the Bailiff. There is no way to tell if this little village will fall to what took down Pyrmont. There is no way to tell at all. The only person who may have been able to see that future, to warn and prepare us, has been put to her death.
“Surely the bishop knows the real reason behind our woes,” comes a feminine voice through the din, causing the voices to fall silent. The crowd shuffles to make way for the woman, allowing her to stand directly in front of me, and I know her instantly. She is blonde-haired and older than me, closer to the age of my stepmother. Her hooded cloak lies against the back of her neck, instead of concealing her as it did when we watched the glassblower make the glass bottle.
“It’s not only Plague we worry about, but everything else that allows our lives to be possible. What of the crops? Mice have overrun the fields to the north. Fleas infest our linens. Animals are starving and succumbing to disease, and we’re supposed to ignore this? Perhaps this is God’s way of purging the evil in this world. A way of ridding our t
own of something we all cringe to acknowledge.”
“And what might that be, Madam?” I ask.
Her eyebrows lift playfully, but her eyes remain serious. “This village is plagued, but not by the illness you speak of, Sir. Not yet. Pyrmont is just a warning to us all.”
The murmurs grow insistent among the crowd at the idea she has just given.
“Do you speak of the witch?” a faceless voice cries out.
She turns toward the anxious crowd, then slowly, returns her eyes to me. “Indeed, I do. Even in death does she find means to wreak havoc upon our village.”
We stand and stare at one another while voices rise around us. It takes me a few moments to realize the panic has started.
The madness manifests out of one idea. One word spoken out loud creates a stir within the minds of every person present—just one word, so tainted, so blasphemous, so soaked in every dark possibility the human mind or soul could ever comprehend.
I say it in my head, just to feel how powerful it really is.
Witch.
And indeed, it sends a chill up my spine.
“Executed or not, the witch wields her power!” The woman continues, knowing she holds the attention of the crowd. “You must be wary of whom you trust, for the cunning crone’s dead eyes see among the living. Mind you, she cloaks herself in the skin of our neighbors.”
Murmurs fill the square and soon argument replaces the woman’s warning. The man who wears a bloodied butcher’s apron climbs upon a sturdy barrel and clenches his fist above his head. “They must take the devil’s maidens to the Drudenhaus and lock them behind prison doors!”
Heads bob in agreement. Shouts fill the air. “Only then will we be safe!”
Mention of the Drudenhaus chills me, for I’ve heard it is more than a prison. It is a place of torture and death—its new walls already stained with blood.
From where I stand I can see the little house where the old woman and Anna live. The door stands wide open, askew on its hinges. I look away and focus on my hands, folding the parchment no one wants to hear, and then push my way through the throngs of people to where my horse is hitched to the fence. I have only a small window of time before they remember there is another person they can blame. I mount my horse, making sure I keep her steps slow, so that we don’t draw extra attention. Once I am at the hedge, we make a break for it—trot, canter, gallop—until the only sound in my ears is the heavy pounding of hooves.
The forest is deep and foreboding. It might be the only place Rune stands a chance at surviving, and I realize she must already know this. Although the townspeople’s tongues are cruel and hateful, they only speak that way because they are frightened. They will not search for Rune in the haunted forest.
The stream dwindles considerably until I find myself at the base of a great thick tree. I am sure this is where I found her earlier, but she is not here now.
“Rune!” I shout, turning in all directions so that my voice can be heard. “Rune!”
She doesn’t answer. The forest is silent. My heart beats hard in my chest. All I want is to find her, to say how sorry I am, to warn her, but she is gone without a trace into the fairy-tale forest where only witches are safe.
Chapter 20
Rune
I awake to my name carried on the wind and sit up stiffly. I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember seeing Laurentz’s face behind my eyes. It fills me with the strangest feeling, and I don’t know whether to be wary of him or to allow myself to smile at the warmth I feel when I think of him, when I try to recall the way his hand touched my face.
The day has slipped away, and I rise to my feet, knowing much of the walk back to the tree will be in darkness. My stomach is tight and rumbles like thunder. At my feet is a cluster of mushrooms and I shake my head, stepping over them. “I won’t make that mistake twice,” I say out loud.
I begin searching for food as I make my way back, spying shiny blackish-blue berries. They look inviting, but I remember Matilde once warned me never to eat them. “Tollkirsche,” she called them. I thought the other name she sometimes used was by far prettier, and I would have fun saying it over and over. Belladonna, Belladonna. I cup the tiny bunch in the palm of my hand and take a closer look. Pretty little things, I think. I hear they are sweet, but I know one taste will stop my heart, and I release them, wiping my hands across the front of my dress.
A few yards away I see wild tomatoes, and I know they will tide me over. They are small—the pink-purplish fruit fits into the palm of my hand. Gathering a few, I walk slowly back to the tree and the tiny stream.
Darkness fully hushes the forest by the time I have finished my little meal, and I feel an exhaustion I have never known spread through my limbs, into my bones, making me long for sleep. All day, I had hoped Laurentz would come back, but he never did. He went to the village, and I wonder if he is still there. I’m afraid of going back home to where the cottage stood, but for a strange reason, it pulls me.
I take the drawstring bag into my lap and tug at the bottlenecked opening. A soft cloth inside holds Matilde’s precious rune stones. My name came from these. A sad smile comes to my lips. With trembling fingers I carefully unfold the cloth, finding its softness comforting. I’d watched Matilde read the runes many times, and she kept this cloth as pristine as age would allow, but here in the dark I feel a marking in the center of it. I panic, hoping I haven’t torn it, but as I run my fingers over it, I feel tiny pinpricks clustered near the same spot. The feeling reminds me of an old piece of stitchery someone had changed their mind about, the old threads removed so it could be reworked. Matilde must have taken it as payment long ago, thinking she could turn it into something else.
This is the first time I’ve been able to hold the runes for any length of time, and I run my fingertips along them, wishing Matilde had taken the time to teach me what they mean. I miss her more than anything, and without her, I wonder what’s to become of me. Before I allow the sadness to consume me all over again, I spill the stones over my legs, keeping very still so they don’t tumble out of the tree. By touch I feel each stone faces downward, and even though it is nearly impossible to see in the dark, I close my eyes and let my open hand hover over them, waiting to feel the familiar tickle against my skin.
To my surprise, it happens, and I am so overjoyed I nearly spill them. Eyes still closed, I choose stones, one after the other, until the peculiar warmth in my hand fades and disappears. I’ve chosen five stones, and slowly, I turn them over just as the moon pokes its light overhead, allowing me to see. But I don’t know what they mean.
Try, my child… Listen to what they tell you…
I wish it were Matilde’s voice and not my mother’s, but I do as she tells me and I listen hard. The fortune does not come to me in words, or a voice, but as an odd feeling that speaks clearly to me, as if I’ve understood all along. The first stone, hagalaz, looks like two pillars connected by a slanting line. I remember this stone in many of the fortunes Matilde read, and although destructive, it means something new will arise from my loss, and it fills me with hope. I look over the others, which promise protection and change, as well as hardships to be overcome, but in the end, there is happiness.
The fortune washes over me like flowing water, and I know instantly what I am supposed to do. I am to follow the stream, not further into the forest, but back… Widdershins… Away from the unknown and back to my home. That even though there is food and water here in the forest, I cannot stay here any longer by myself. I have to go back. I must face fears in order to become strong. Matilde would want me to do that. She wouldn’t want me to cower.
I carefully collect the stones and place them back into the bag, tying the cord to keep them safe. My mother is silent. I can feel how she relishes that I’ve decided to return. I will go back for myself. I will go back to make things right, not because the witch seeks revenge. I will go back because facing what I’ve run from is the only way to fight, to survive, not because wit
ch blood runs through my veins.
Chapter 21
Rune
The hedge looks easy to cross as I approach it, crouching low. The morning is still new. Fog covers me. I am hidden. I pretend I am invisible as each footstep I take lands with silence upon the ground. No one beyond the green border stirs. The square is empty; it is too early for vendors to be setting up for Market Day. I only hope my stomach is quiet enough not to draw attention to me.
I walk through the village, head down, palms sweating. Fear overtakes me; in an instant, all changes. My resolve has vanished, leaving me with the blinding fear that I’ll be recognized, taken, imprisoned…executed. The enormity of what I’m doing crashes into me and suddenly, the unthinkable happens, and I find myself asking, “Mother, are you there?”
I’m always here…
“I feel so alone.”
You are never alone…
I want to believe it.
Be careful who you speak to…
This unseen force that is my mother sounds completely authentic—telling me what to do, warning me against harm. It frightens me to wonder how long she has been with me, yet I can’t help appreciating the reassurance I just asked for. I coil the drawstring of the rune stone bag around my fingers until I am left with a numb ache that travels up my arm. The contents are the only valuable thing I have, and I cannot bear to lose them. They remind me of why I am here, why I’ve chosen to leave the protection of the forest to make my way through the streets, where I run the risk of getting caught.
Bright red apples spill from a basket outside a baker’s door. They will meet their doom to become pies today, and my stomach growls fiercely at the sight of them. I am so hungry despite Matilde’s attempt to stuff me like a sausage. It stretched my stomach and now works against me, instead of keeping me full. I have nothing to trade, but can’t help spying the reddest, plumpest apple in the bunch. My hunger and ideas of wagering are interrupted by a flurry of movement. Voices. Legs. Arms. They zero in on me from all directions, and I am surrounded by a group of people, with only two faces that I recognize. Rolf, the butcher, and the old woman I gave the mushrooms to.
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