by S E England
“She is here? I thought you said she was in Romania?” The vision – the circle of wagons in the woods – flashed before her.
“I heard two weeks ago that her condition was deteriorating, but it says here the family have been travelling for over a week already. I did not know her end was so close, but it seems the situation is now very urgent. I am ashamed. I thought we could go there, that there was time…” She pressed a handkerchief to her face and dabbed her eyes. “That she has had to come to us, when in such pain, it is shameful.”
Lenka saw her then – the old woman lying in bed with both hands stretched high in the air, calling out, pleading, for the pain to be over: Make it stop! I end this…I end this!
“No, I have the strongest feeling I must not go.”
Clara looked up sharply. “How dare you! This is your grandmother, and you will come with me, you selfish girl. Lenka, you have to grow up and take responsibility now – you are sixteen, not a petulant child. Your father is exhausted, and I cannot and will not go alone. Now pack and be ready in one hour.”
Profound dread took hold of her – a feeling of dirt flushing down a drain and taking her with it, down and down and down into a swirling abyss. “How long will it take to get there, to Mooswald?”
“If we take both horses and the trap, we should arrive before nightfall.”
The journey ahead appeared to her immediately – a dirt track cutting through a hilly ravine dense with spruce trees that creaked and groaned in the wind. Streams trickled down from the mountains, tinkling over the stones, but apart from that and the thudding of hooves on the earth, it was eerily quiet, devoid of life. Those woods, they were a place of death… The horses were nervous, and she saw herself gripping the sides of the cart.
“Why did they stop there, in that particular place?”
Clara had stood up and begun to knead the bread for baking. “The note says her time has come and they can go no further; she is in terrible pain. Hurry now – go and tell your father we need the horses and trap. We have much to prepare and a long way to go.”
Her mother refused to meet her questioning stare and clearly brooked no opposition.
There was something here that felt ominous, but further clarity did not come. Occasionally, the old lady’s face appeared in her third eye, but there was something elusive, too, as shifting as the mountain mists – information well-guarded and far beyond the threshold of her mind.
And so she went outside to speak to her father about the horses, then upstairs to pack. It would be best to get this over with. What choice was there? Perhaps it would not be so bad? But the weak morning sun seemed to hide and darken, and the alpine wind blew icily off the mountains. Steadily she folded her clothes.
She could not have known that once the true nature of the legacy was revealed, her life would be shattered beyond all comprehension and nothing would ever be the same again.
Or that Baba Olga’s death was nothing she could have mentally prepared for, not in a million nightmares.
***
Chapter Fourteen
The journey through the forest ravine was exactly as foreseen, but far colder. The storm had brought with it a freezing wind that permeated clothing and slipped under the skin. It ran in ice-cold rivers through their veins despite the blankets and furs, rendering their hands and feet numb, teeth chattering and faces frozen. It was with relief when they entered the shelter of the woods.
Clara took the reins and kept the horses at a brisk trot for as long as possible until the narrow track became too wet, rocky and steep. The horses picked and stumbled their way uphill. On either side the slopes were densely packed with spruce, the interior gloomy and grey. Overhead the wind soughed in the canopy, and angry clouds scudded across a charcoal sky. The trees shivered, and a high whistle blew down from the mountains, with the occasional crack of splintering wood resounding through the valley.
The horses shied and bucked at the slightest thing, ears pricked, sweat glistening on their shanks. Lenka cast a sidelong glance at her mother, at the set of her jaw and the feverish expression in her steely eyes as she gripped the reins.
“Come on, keep going, it is just a fallen tree. Come on!”
The urgency in her voice stabbed at Lenka’s stomach. Why was she so frantic? Something here was badly amiss, a feeling she could not place except this was a trip she did not want to make and a destination she did not want to reach. The forest appeared to be getting darker, the path narrower, the sides of the ravine steeper. And confusion over Oskar still weighed heavily on her mind. Who was he? Or what? Of course, magic did exist in elemental form. She had experimented with this herself, projecting images into the minds of others. A friend in the village, Erika, had sworn she had seen Lenka standing outside her window one evening, when all the time Lenka had been in bed imagining that she was there, laughing.
“What was I doing in this dream of yours?” she’d asked Erika with a puzzled look on her face, trying not to smile with her knowledge and power.
“Laughing,” said Erika. “Just laughing.”
But the thing was, she had touched and talked to this boy, had known him and felt him inside her. Had she fallen in love with a ghost? Perhaps his spirit had not left this earth and still lingered in the home he loved? Did he not know he was dead? One thing for sure, her love was real and it hurt. It hurt so badly it was blinding; it kicked in the gut as powerfully as a horse and had sent her half insane. How could a ghost do that? How?
The journey was long and arduous, yet far from wishing to speed up their arrival, the feeling of dread within her was mounting. It sat like a rock in her heart, weighing heavier with every lurch forwards of the cart. Eventually, the incline levelled off, the path opened up to reveal a plateau ahead, and the oppressive overhanging rocks and trees were left behind. But the relief was short-lived. The flat grasslands ahead were open to the full force of the wind and rain. Her mother cracked the whip, and the horses galloped flat out.
Closer and closer to the destination, Lenka gripped the sides of the cart, swallowing the onslaught of the rain as it battered them from all sides. Over and over, her mother whipped the horses on.
“Mutter, slow down. The horses are tired.”
Clara had tied her headscarf tightly around the ears and either pretended not to hear or refused to.
“I’m tired as well. We should rest when we get to Mooswald.” She tucked her hands inside her cloak. The boards of the cart were rough, and every bone was jolted and bruised. “Please can we stop for something to eat?”
“Soon.”
“Mutter!” It had been six hours. “I am hungry, starving.”
“No time, we have to hurry.” She cracked the whip again until, finally, a thick copse appeared in a blur of rain on the horizon.
“There!” Clara shouted, her face set in grim determination. “Mooswald!”
These woods were infamous. No one ever entered them after dusk or before dawn. Everyone knew they were haunted by those who worshipped Saturn and Hecate, offering blood sacrifices and screams of terror in return for earthly desires. Within living memory, satanic witches had been dragged here and burned alive by local mobs – and many a criminal, or one deemed criminally insane, had been hanged from its branches.
They entered the woods through an arch of holly, and immediately both the wind and the temperature dropped. The horses’ breath steamed on the air, their great shoulders sagging with fatigue. Although calm within the trees, a deep chill emanated from the green-hued interior, a twisted, gnarled wonderland of haunting beauty. Every branch was coated in emerald moss, the lifeless, spiked tentacles fruitless and leafless. It dripped like a cavern, with water from hidden streams that would soon be frozen. But not a single sound of life came from within. Here, there were no owls, prowling foxes, or howling wolves. Occasionally a wolf’s call came from a distant mountain, but as soon as the trees closed behind them, it was as silent as a church crypt.
“Can we rest now?”
/> “Not here,” said her mother, passing over a package of bread and cheese as they slowed to a trot. “Eat something if you want.”
The horses, however, baulked at going any further into the woods, sidestepping and putting down their heads.
Clara cracked the whip and yanked the reins. “Come on! What is the matter with you?”
Lenka put a piece of bread into her mouth. The animals were shivering, sweat drying on their coats in ripples. “Enough,” she said. “Stop a minute. Let me down, and I will walk with them.”
Jumping off the cart, she caught the older horse’s bridle, stroked his neck and coaxed him on. The younger one followed the elder’s lead, and together they walked into Mooswald towards the notorious crossroads, where legend had it scores of witches had been buried with stakes driven through their decapitated bodies, and criminals left hanging. Why in hell’s name had they brought her grandmother to die in a place like this?
***
Chapter Fifteen
Baba Olga’s camp was pitched at the crossroads in a small clearing. Here, a level piece of grass by a fast stream had been settled on by a dozen wagons and carts, exactly as foreseen. Unhooking the cart, Lenka led the two horses over to the stream for a drink before securing them to a tree in case they bolted. They shied at the shadows, eyes wide as darkness descended.
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “We will go home tomorrow.”
But the horses, she knew, were right to be afraid. The place had been bled of human spirit. It brooded, dank and lifeless, the mossy trees so gnarled and warped they resembled otherworldly creatures. Long green twigs poked out like fingers, and whorls on the trunks resembled faces. Some bent crookedly away or into each other as if one or other was dominant. Stare long enough, she thought, and you could see people in those trees. Menacing people…
A shout made her jump. “Lenka!”
Her mother was beckoning. Throwing blankets over the horses, she left them under the trees and walked towards the candlelit wagon. Behind, the blackness of night descended with finality, a door slamming shut. A prison door. Her stomach clenched in a fist of iron. Whatever was coming wasn’t good, and there was no way back, no way out.
Inside, a group of old women huddled together in long black robes, scarves covering their hair. On first impression they resembled gypsies who lived a hard, outdoor life. On closer inspection they were nothing like them. Ancient rather than simply old and wrinkled, their skins were of a dark mustard hue and deeply etched with crisscross crevices, their eyes almost totally obscured by drooping lids. Sunken-mouthed and mostly toothless, all possessed unusually long fingers, which grasped at Lenka’s flesh and pulled her inside. The dream from last night snagged and lodged, something off, something not quite human about them…and a chill passed through her. The hands and fingers digging into her arms were sharp as claws.
She found herself pushed towards the deathbed.
Baba Olga was clearly very near the end. The stench of smouldering herbs overlaying that of human waste, sepsis and disease hit the back of Lenka’s throat, and she tried not to breathe too deeply. Her grandmother was delirious, murmuring and groaning, every now and again shouting, “Stop! No, please wait, not yet…not yet…”
The crone dabbing Baba Olga’s forehead turned at Lenka’s approach and immediately gripped her wrist, anchoring her to the spot. “You must take the gift now or she cannot leave this earth.”
Instinctively, Lenka tried to step back, but the grip cranked tighter.
“Her body, look…” Peeling back the blankets, she revealed the dying woman’s emaciated form. Behind, Lenka’s mother gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Of course, Lenka reminded herself, Olga was not a particularly old woman. The ones around her were, but Baba Olga could only be in her fifties. Yet she lay here cadaverous, the jaundiced skin puckered and withered, dark purple patches spreading underneath the surface as the tissues bled. Her ribs jutted sharply above the concave hollow of her stomach, tissue skin hanging from the white bones of stick limbs. Olga was a toothless, hairless, living skeleton.
“She is here, Olga!” the crone said, prodding the cadaverous woman. “Wake! She is here.”
Baba Olga’s mouth worked into a grimace, and her hands flew up in the way Lenka knew they would. Like a bird’s wings, they flapped as if drawing the young girl to her on the air.
“Come closer,” she croaked. “Closer! Let me see.”
Pushed by several pairs of hands, Lenka stumbled onto her knees beside her grandmother, trying not to inhale the fetid breath. “I am sorry you have so much pain,” she said, baulking at the sight of her close up. She had to get out of here really quickly, even if it meant bolting through the forest in pitch darkness.
Blindly Olga scrabbled at the air with claw hands. “Clara! Clara! It is your time. You must take your place. Please, do not let me suffer any longer. Take the gift or they will wait for me on the other side.”
Lenka shook her head, confused. She turned around. “Mutter, she calls for you!”
Her mother had vanished.
Scanning the room, she tried to see beyond the small crowd, and a pang of alarm shot through her. The old crones were closing in. “Mutter! Mutter, she calls for you!”
Where was her mother?
“Clara, is this you?” Olga had clasped Lenka’s hand in her own, pulling her close with surprising strength. “We must prepare at once. I cannot last much longer. You have seen what it has done to me, but you are stronger, you will do better than I. I feel the strength in this young hand.”
Aghast, Lenka realised her grandmother was totally blind and had mistaken her for her mother, but the eyes…there was something about them… Mesmerised, steeling herself against the stench of decay, she leaned forwards to take a better look. Olga’s eyes were tiny black glints hidden deep inside folds of reptilian skin…black glints, black glass…she peered closer and closer…black mirrors…
“Heilige Mutter Gottes, bitt’ für uns…”
She leapt back. Her reflection! It was upside down!
In a flash, Olga’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.
Desperately she tried to wrench it free. “No!”
Her grandmother’s grip had locked around her wrist in a handcuff. “If I do not pass the legacy to you, I will take this agony into eternity. They will torture me forever. Clara, it is your duty!”
“But I am not—” She tugged hard to get free, shouting over her shoulder. “Mutter! She calls for you, she is confused. She calls for you, not me. Why? Why does she think I am you?”
But the dying woman had begun to chant in a low voice, “Clara, my daughter, I give to you the servants of our Dark Lord.”
A low humming broke out behind her, the old ones swaying and murmuring in tongues.
She tried desperately to wrench free of the cast-iron grip, turning her head to seek out her mother…she had to be there…somewhere… where was she? But Olga yanked it back with such force it could have broken her jaw.
Then, thrusting a small poppet into Lenka’s hand, she folded her fingers around her granddaughter’s. “Take it. From me. To you.”
The instant the transaction happened, the atmosphere changed – the crowd sank back in a hissing recoil, and Baba Olga’s body began to fit violently. Her eyes rolled back, her neck jerked, her legs kicked, and then just as quickly as it had begun, the convulsions stopped. Her body slumped, and the life force, the breath from the old woman’s lungs, exhaled in a long wolf’s howl that echoed throughout the valley.
Then it was over, and the spent, crumpled body collapsed like a rag doll.
“All hail the Master! Lord of the Dark Sun!”
“All hail the Master!”
“All hail the Master!”
Hands reached down and pulled Lenka away. “We were just in time,” said her mother. “She has gone.”
Lenka turned around, holding out the poppet. “What is this doll? It is for you, I think, she wanted you. Where were you?”
“Ah, that is handed down from the very beginning. You must keep it safe always. There will be a celebration now. It is good. Very good.”
Lenka disengaged her hand. “I must keep it safe? She thought I was you – it is for you, Mutter.”
“No, she passed the legacy to you.”
“But why would you be missed out?”
“I don’t know, sometimes this is so. I explained all this.”
“Take the poppet, Mutter. She called your name. She wanted it to be yours.”
“My dear, it is too late. Whoever takes the gift takes the legacy.”
The colour drained from Lenka’s face. “What? I don’t understand…”
The crone who had been tending Olga shouted, “Where is the girl? Come now, we must prepare you.”
Lenka was still glaring at her mother, uncomprehending, stunned. “You said it had to be me – that the gift had missed you out. But she was blind and thought I was you. This was supposed to be you, wasn’t it?”
Clara stared down at the deathbed. “You are stronger than I.”
***
Chapter Sixteen
Lenka found herself gripping the poppet so tightly the hemp was cutting into the palms of her hand. Her own mother had tricked her into taking this terrible, horrible legacy.
“Come, child, drink with us,” said one of the crones. The German she spoke was like nothing she’d ever heard before, heavily accented and antiquated. “You are tired, and your grandmother has passed. It is a difficult time for you.”
The proffered drink, a greenish swill of tea, looked repulsive, and she averted her head despite having a throat as dry as parchment.
The woman smiled encouragingly. “It is a simple herbal tea, calming, good.” Over her shoulder she snapped to one of the others, “Fetch food; this child is starving.”
A cushion was brought over. She sat down, and a dish of thick yellow soup quickly followed. “Eat, drink, you will feel better, yes?”
