Forest of Whispers (11 page)

The men lead her away, and I am left with the smell of burning wood, the snapping of timber, and all I have ever known withering to a pile of ash. When they are a good distance ahead, I hug close to the sharp-needled trees that hide me, knowing I should run in the other direction, into the dark that is far away from them.

But I can’t.

I know they are taking Matilde to the village. I know in my heart what they will do to her. The story she told of my mother comes to life behind my eyes, only it is Matilde’s face I see. This is all my fault, and I cannot bear it. That is why I must follow them, and then, when I can stand it no more, I’ll do as Matilde warned me to do. I’ll run away from here, deep into the Black Forest to save myself.

A few yards ahead, Matilde struggles to push through the thick hedge. No one helps her. Instead, the men appear to be amused by her difficulty. Just past the cobbler’s store, in the center of what was the market today, a large man keeps warm beneath his ankle-length cassock. The bishop greets the group, his eyes narrowing at Matilde as if she’s a living contagion. The men push her along with a cattle prod, jabbing her in the back every so often.

If I follow too closely, I risk being seen. If I’m seen, then everything Matilde has done to protect me will have been in vain. There’s a hollow space that nestles against the blacksmith’s outpost, where he keeps wood for the furnace, and I curl myself into it. Since the blacksmith is a farmer most of his time, he isn’t here to catch me. I can stay all night if I need to.

The break in the hedge along the village proper bends because of the stream, the very stream Matilde and I use daily. That stream, the Berg, runs its course, cutting in here and there, before spilling into the Danube. Württemberg’s pretty, arched bridge sweeps over the moving water, and I see now that they are stopping beneath it instead of crossing to where the bishop’s courthouse is.

One man holds the stool and a handful of rope, while another pulls a cart of heavy stones behind them. They bind Matilde’s hands together and attach the rope to the bottom of the stool. Then they yank at her clothing and begin filling the front of her dress with the large, dirty stones. Her blouson is lumpy, making her body appear sinister and distorted in the candlelight, and she begins to wail. One by one, windows across the square fill with light, doors open, and people begin to pour out into the street to see what’s going on. I crane my neck for a better view, wishing more than anything that I wasn’t confined to this tiny hideaway.

There is shouting, which grows louder by the second, and soon peaks in a deafening uproar. I’ve never witnessed a riot before and stare wide-eyed at the disturbance.

“Witch!”

“Condemn her!”

Finally, the crowd hushes as the bishop at the top of the arched bridge speaks.

“You are accused of communing with souls, of manipulating the grace of God, and therefore we strip you of all rights. You are no longer a free citizen, having chosen to live your life beyond the protective borders of this village, allowing the curse of Satan to destroy your soul. Matilde of the Forest, you are hereby sentenced to death by dunking without trial and without jury.”

The bishop motions to the man standing closest to Matilde, and I can see he wears a coat with dozens of tiny buttons that reflect the light.

“Admit you are a witch and renounce the devil; it will very well save your life,” he tells her. I recognize his voice immediately as the composed man from our cottage, the one who spoke with such confidence that he scared me.

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

“S
o 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

P
ine 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.”