by S E England
“Come on, Lenka – images? Thoughts? Speak what is coming to you!”
The words burst out: “I think a man came to me. I think he is here inside my mind…very dark brown eyes, glinting eyes, long legs with one crossed over the other…a glass of liquor, golden liquor…I think some kind of college or school—”
It would be, she thought for the briefest moment, easy to dismiss this as madness, to say she had just made that up, although why or how she could not say. The man, though, oh yes, he had come to her on that blackest of clouds.
“When we get home, I will be discussing with your father an idea I have. I think it is a good idea for you to join your uncle in Ingolstadt as soon as possible. You will like it there, I think.”
As Wolfsheule came into sight, her heart tugged at the golden memory of a lost life. It all seemed so long ago, but that life was now over, and besides – the company of this woman who had betrayed her so badly was unendurable. It did not interest her enough to ask how her mother was so ready with these plans for Ingolstadt in Germany. The ties with her were severed, and it no longer mattered.
“Yes, I think I will. When can I go?”
“I will tell your father you need better education and discipline. There is no one more suited to that task than his brother. He will not object. You must understand, Lenka, that the world will be very different to you from now on. Few people can see other realms, let alone accept their existence, but you now know there is something more. Those who do not know this and cannot see it are called ‘Mundanes’.”
“Mundanes?”
“They accept only their own perceptions of the world. They work, rest, eat, have families, chat and pass the time…never knowing what pawns they are. In fact, they are also spirits and have far greater power than they know, but most, well, they have to survive and thus will never push beyond the barrier of what they are told. Your father is one – mundane to the end of his fingertips. And what a Mundane does when he is threatened or does not understand something is to get angry. Ah, the irony. A good Christian, and yet he thinks nothing of beating his wife and daughter should they make him fearful. So you see what you are up against? Take this from me if nothing else – never speak of who you are or what you know. Never. Or you will be destroyed. Look around you, see all the hundreds of graves for women they called witches but probably were not. That is the level of fear we are talking about.”
“I wish I were a Mundane. It is easier.”
“Yes, it is. But you are not.” Clara took a deep breath and slowed the horses on the downward slope into Wolfsheule. “Lenka, we are almost home, and you must take heed. Your father and I will make arrangements for you to travel. Until that time, we must keep him under the illusion that you are a girl in need of tutoring and refinement. This is how we will get you out and not only save your life but fulfil your purpose. Keep your eyes down, and do not defy him or incite his anger. Soon you will be in the town, and your future path will be laid before you. After this, you will not see me again.”
Lenka blinked back the tears.
“Once in Ingolstadt, you will be introduced to the person who will take you to the next level, and you should accept his invitation. Do not be afraid. Our family has had this gift for centuries, and we must take care of it. Only remember, you must pass it on before you leave this mortal world or it will go with you into the afterlife.”
Each word her mother uttered was the hammering of a nail into her coffin. So it was all decided, it seemed… Yet what was the point in railing against it? When deep in her bones she knew it to be true, that all would transpire precisely as her mother said?
At the sound of horses clattering into the yard, her father appeared, and as clear as the sparkles of dew on grass, she saw how he would walk over and grab the bridle to take them into the stables. Never in her life had she felt so alone or so frightened. What would become of her? How did her mother know about this man who would take her to the next level? What next level?
And what would happen if she refused to do any of this?
As if in answer to the question, a memory surfaced suddenly of her grandmother’s body, of the jaundiced, emaciated concave of her stomach and the skin that rose over her abdomen like an opaque egg covered with a spider’s web of purple veins. She had been lying in a pool of her own soiled blood, her fingers black and gangrenous, her skeletal body oozing with sores.
Get out of my head!
In response the image expanded, becoming ever more gruesomely detailed, accompanied now by the stench of decomposing flesh and human waste, of stale breath and disease, death and infection. Lenka’s inverted reflection stared out of Baba Olga’s deep, black eyes, and she tried not to gag.
“Lenka, are you sick?” her father said, lifting her down from the cart.
She ran for the back door, aware of them both watching.
“She was given strong wine at the funeral,” her mother said. “She will be fine, don’t worry.”
“Strong wine?”
Behind Lenka a small disagreement erupted. She filled a cup with water from the jug on the kitchen table and drank deeply. Aware, when she had finished, of a song trilling in her ear. She swung around to find the source. Was there a child in here?
But the house stood empty, and her parents were still in the yard. So who…?
The high, tinkling voice of a small child was clearly singing an old German folksong:
Muss i’ denn,
Muss i’ denn,
Zum Städtele hinaus,
Städtele hinaus,
Und du, mein Schatz, bleibst hier.
The voice stopped. Replaced now by another – this one a deep male voice, low, echoing and distorted, the same voice that had mocked her in the nightmare about Oskar.
Wenn i’ komm,
Wenn i’ komm,
Wenn i’ wieder, wieder komm,
Wieder, wieder komm…
She stood riveted to the spot. The songster was standing right by her ear, but she was alone. Her eyes bore into thin air. Who was here? Could they see her?
A shudder ran through her to the core, the acknowledgement sharp that this was real and no longer a fun thing to have – all notions of it being a glittering intuition or a romantic notion obliterated.
A child’s peal of giggles rang around the kitchen, and a quick, cold breeze blew against her face.
Outside, although barely dusk, the evening dipped suddenly to night, the soft greys of moments ago snuffed to black. And with a stab to the heart, she knew without doubt that the man inside her head would become real very soon.
***
Chapter Eighteen
Ingolstadt, Germany
The preparations took less than a month.
At the end of October, Lenka was lying on the bed in her uncle’s spare room, wondering if the whole sorceress initiation had been a dream. Had that or the time with Oskar ever happened? What was real anymore? Nothing. The only reminder she wasn’t completely insane was the brand mark on her wrist. She turned onto her side. This place was horrible, and she was not going to enjoy it at all. A week here was already a week too long. The year was tipping into late autumn, steely clouds spitting rain onto cobbled streets and pavements. Soon there would be snow.
She shivered. Never before had she felt so ill. Her stomach convulsed in sweat-inducing waves, and her head thudded with the bone ache of concussion. Her mother had always tended to her when sick, with soothing potions and words of comfort – the mother she no longer knew. Now alone, she lay watching the shadows of dusk crawl across the walls, a chill creeping under her skin.
The house was a three-storey townhouse in the centre of Ingolstadt, near the university. Opposite was the church, and interspersed between similar-looking houses were shops of every description – butchers, grocers, bakeries, haberdasheries and ironmongers. There was a shop that sold only hats and one that made boots. On the corner stood a grand banking house, and many cafés lined the streets. Aunt Heide had bought Lenka ne
w clothing fit for town. Although these things were not to her liking, there was little she could say without sounding ungracious. But the gown was drab, long and grey with a plain shawl, the boots stout. And her hair had been braided into coils that sat atop her ears, a severe style pulled tightly back from the face. It did not make her look attractive; it made her look like a ridiculous schoolgirl.
She lay now with her flame hair fanning out across the pillow, gazing at the poppet given to her by Baba Olga. Strange thing. She’d forgotten about it until arriving here. Completely forgotten about it. In fact, it was only when unpacking her case that it had reappeared – discovered on top of the neatly folded blouses – presumably placed there by her mother. Oddly, though, it was comforting. And thus, she slipped it inside her pillowcase – a possession purely her own, something to hold on to like life itself.
The house here was soulless, a hollow shell that was absolutely silent apart from the ticking grandfather clock in the hall downstairs. Talking was forbidden at mealtimes, which were taken in the formal dining room at the back of the house; the room was bare of all adornments, with any kind of idolatry – as Uncle Guido described ornaments and pictures – banned. All was sparse, from the stone floors to the cold grates, the polished, dark oak furniture to the starched bedsheets.
And each evening, as was his habit, Uncle Guido recited a long prayer of thanks to the Lord, after which she and her aunt must wait until he’d piled his plate with food. Only when he had begun to eat were they then permitted to share what was left. The first time this happened, it was annoying. The second, and each subsequent day, her irritation grew. He chewed noisily, tongue flicking out to lick his lower lip after each mouthful. His lips, red and moist, were as startling as a campfire in the woods, his gingery facial hair tinged yellow around the mouth from smoking a pipe. She noted with distaste the globular particles of unknown substances lurking in the wiry coils of his beard. Of particular repulsiveness were his ears – protruding and large, the lugs full of curly, pubic-looking hairs and yellow wax. Guido was tall and angular, all knock-knees and pointed elbows, in contrast to her father, who was shorter but more muscular. And where her father was tanned with sandy hair and warm eyes, Guido’s complexion was the colour of limestone, his eyes as warm as flint.
She would be starting lessons at the university tomorrow, he stated that evening, with Herr Blum. Well respected, Herr Blum specialised in teaching the English language as well as French, and it was a great privilege for her to be taught by him. She should be extremely grateful.
“Thank you, Uncle, I am looking forward to it.”
“Your mother insisted on this particular tutor. She must indeed have saved hard; I am sure he is not cheap.” He was making a show of cutting up the Schweineschnitzel, popping it into his mouth, then dabbing at the corners with a napkin, all the while those flint eyes darting from Aunt Heide to herself. “Hmm? What do you say, Lenka?”
Aunt Heide kept her eyes downcast. It was rare for her to say anything at all, except to sigh or remark on the weather. Her head is made of ash, Lenka thought. She hates him so much she’s on the edge of combusting. She cleans and cooks and sews and shops. She washes and scrubs, goes to church and talks to others as much as she can in an effort to avoid him and stay sane. And at night she wears a long nightdress tightly buttoned, keeps her legs firmly pressed together and rolls away from him in a bed that pits in the middle… But no…I see…ah, he does not want her anymore… Sometimes he grabs and squeezes one of her breasts to remind her he can do so, but she hates it, the feel of those bony fingers mauling her. And when she is alone, she cries…
She made the mistake of looking up in response to his question. Uncle Guido’s penetrating stare locked with hers, and for an uncomfortable moment she flailed around before looking down again.
“What is wrong with your eye?” he asked.
All week she had kept her head down, spoken meekly and done what was asked. Waiting. Just waiting. For the true purpose to be revealed. Her parents had said she would go to private tutorials in the evening and during the day was to help Aunt Heide with the chores. Her aunt and uncle, childless, were both busy with the church, and Guido worked at the local orphanage as a Bible master. They would welcome the chance to get to know their niece, her mother had said, and she was sure Heide would be grateful for the domestic help. That was fine, well, this would not be for long…but here Uncle Guido was staring and staring; there was something about him so irksome, so detestable. And what was this about her eye? As far as she was aware, there was nothing wrong with her eyes. She had good eyes, steady and grey, perfect sight.
“I do not know what you refer to, Uncle.”
He made a little jabbing motion with his fork, dripping gravy onto the pristine white tablecloth. “There is something wrong with your eye. You are a little blind in one, are you not?”
It had been a mistake to look back at him like that. He was riled. Resentment seemed to rise in this man at the slightest provocation, a surge of temper he could not easily control. He preached about Christ, but he was about as Christian as Baba Olga. And it almost cost her. She should hide her knowledge better because he had seen something in her that made him fearful, something he very much needed to hide.
A good Christian, and yet he thinks nothing of beating his wife and daughter should they make him fearful…
Recovering quickly, she stabbed a piece of pork.
Uncle Guido badly needed to hide that true nature of his. He would not want anyone looking into his soul and seeing what was there. Oh, how right he was to be defensive and fearful. She tried not to flinch at the pictures being shown to her, one after the other in a cinematic reel… There was a small recess inside the church, which was set apart for Bible classes. With the swish of a moss-green curtain, this small room was utterly private, an area for a child to be comforted or to speak in confidence. And it was here that he stroked the parts of them that he should not. Here where he touched the nape of their necks while they read passages from the New Testament, admiring their plump, unblemished skin, cherubic mouths and small stout chests.
The boys were trusting, learning to read and trying to please. While he watched, licking his moist red lips and telling them to come to him with their secrets, their dreams, their fears and their worries. He was their teacher and friend, the one to trust in a world where they had no parents to turn to and the teachers were strict – telling them all this as he began to touch a little more and sit a little closer.
Do not push my hand away. It is a caring thing to do, to stroke a friend, to comfort them.
No, no, I don’t like it, please, don’t…please…stop…
“Lenka!” Uncle Guido’s voice snapped her out of the vision. “I asked you a question.” He was chewing methodically, his eyes trained on her face.
Every nerve ending popped as if there was no barrier between them, as if she had no skin, no protection. Her fingers shook. “I am not aware of there being anything wrong with my eye, Uncle.”
“Then you should have it looked at. I will make arrangements for you to see a specialist, for spectacles to be fitted.”
Spectacles? So she was to be dressed like a nun, hair braided into two ridiculous coils, and now spectacles, too? Not two weeks ago, she had been running free, barefoot in a pretty dress of white cotton, her red hair streaming behind her in the sun. The thought was a kick in the gut. He was deliberately deconstructing her identity. Look at Heide…there was nothing of her true self left…just ash…a head of ash…
“Thank you, Uncle, but I can see perfectly well. There is no need for all this trouble to be taken.”
“Do not argue with me, Lenka. It is my responsibility that you are well cared for while you are here. And as such, we will have you examined. Heide, will you make sure to organise this? I do not want to send her back to Wolfsheule blind.”
How had she survived the rest of that meal without stabbing him with a fork? Even so, she lay on the bed worrying about it. Wh
at could he have meant about her eye? As far as she was aware, there was nothing whatsoever wrong with it.
She wandered over to the dresser. This room overlooked the street, and the dresser mirror faced into the room. With the light behind it, her reflection was shady, but the moon shone over the top, directly into her eyes. She stared hard. No, there was nothing wrong, really nothing.
Puzzled, she picked up a hairbrush and began the nightly routine of one hundred strokes, the silky feeling pleasurable, as was the sight of her own beauty in the mirror. In the high-necked white nightdress and braids, she felt like a child, but now with the buttons undone and her hair shimmering under the moonlight, she was once again a woman. She was a woman. Illusion or not, she had known what it felt like to lie with a man and to feel love, had encouraged it, wanted, desired…demanded more…
Leaning into the mirror, she examined her face, the cut of the high cheekbones, the sharp angle of the jaw, the fullness of her lips. Then back to the eyes. Deep grey, there was a ring around the pupils, flecked with gold. First she focused on the left eye. The pupil dilated a little, but there was no sign of a defect, nothing different at all. Now she focused on the right one, the eye he had intimated had something wrong with it. No, nothing. She stared and stared until it seemed she would go mad…
Then suddenly there was something – a tiny flicker in the pupil. Alarmed, she leaned closer and closer towards the mirror, watching intently. There! She had not been wrong. And look there… it came again…a shape shifting inside the pupil. Instead of it dilating or constricting in the normal way, it looked as if there was something inside it. Inside of her! Her heart squeezed, and a fresh wave of sweat broke out.
Reeling back, she stared aghast.
At that moment the moon, which had been shining almost as brightly as the sun, was eclipsed by a mass of cloud, plunging the room into darkness. The candle by the bed flattened as if in a high wind, despite the stillness of the room, and she caught her breath. Swinging round, she stared into the unlit room, determined to face this down, to defy the fear even though her heart was hammering. Face this, face it!
