Forest of Whispers (15 page)

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.

I thought I had been so careful not to be seen. The village was empty! But now, arms grab at me and pull me in one direction, then another, like a leaf caught in an angry storm.

“She’s the one!” the old woman cries out. Her eyes carry a crazed, determined look, which makes me believe my worst fear has come true, that I am responsible for the deaths of her daughter and grandchild.

“Rolf, please!” I try to plea. “You know me!”

His eyes are dark little beads that won’t acknowledge my helpless state. With or without his help, I try to break free from the hands that grasp me, but I find his grip is the tightest one of all.

“You,” he grumbles.

“I had nothing to do with your horse.”

“I couldn’t care less about my horse,” Rolf says, “Stupid animal.”

I stare at him, astonished, and then the glimmer of recognition in his eyes sets off a series of alarms deep inside me.

“You look like
her
.”

I swallow hard.

“
Her
,” he says, and I follow his eyes that dart toward the forest. “
The witch
.”

I shake my head.
No. No, I don’t. You don’t recognize me. I am no one
.

All the trips to the market, all the times I spent watching my shoes instead of looking around, all those efforts to make sure I was safe, are melting into this one moment.

The old woman pinches my arm, and I cry out in pain.

“She welts!” Her eyes nearly glow with glee. “She’s a witch!”

“I am not a witch!” I try to convince them, but it’s useless. Even lying does nothing to save me.

Let them take you. Make them pay…

The whisper cuts through the riot. No one else hears the voice that chimes against my ear. No one can hear my mother but me—and she wants them to take me. I was a fool to call out to her, to allow the slightest bit of trust, the thinnest bit of hope.

They drag me past storefronts and houses toward buildings I’ve never seen before. I turn my head for one last glimpse of the trees, my home, hoping to see even a tiny portion of the hedge, but I’ve gone too far. We pass the cobbler, the bakery, but everything else is unrecognizable. Everything is dismal and on the verge of deteriorating. How could I think this was a thriving, wonderful place to be? We hurry along and I see the real Württemberg—how poorly constructed the buildings are, how the horses’ bones are rivets just beneath their girths, how the smell of this place nearly chokes me.

We trudge up a slope like a slow-moving horde. At the crest should be a painstakingly beautiful view of the land surrounding the village. It’s the only time I’ve been able to see it in all my life, but instead of appreciating the lush farmland that allows the village to thrive, I see it with large, fearful eyes. Fields stretch far and wide like an ocean keeping me confined to this place, where all around me are shouting voices and hateful eyes. The more I take in of the countryside, the more it sinks in that I am far from where I belong, and in a most terrible predicament.

The townspeople continue to pinch and swear at me. A little girl half my age spits at me, and instead of scolding her, the adults surrounding us encourage her and congratulate her for being so brave.

There is a large, regal building looming just up ahead, and although I have never seen it before, I know it must be the bishop’s courthouse. No other building would demand such honor. Instead of climbing the steps to the front door, I am handed over to two angry-looking guards who wait at a large wooden door near the lower part of the building.

The arms of my new captors are covered in gold-corded rope, entirely different from the uniform Laurentz wore. The sashes knotted at their hips do not have stags emblazoned upon them. The guards serve the Prince Bishop, and once my arms are in their grasp, they yank me mercilessly toward the darkness that waits below.

Inside, it is dreadfully gloomy. I stand still, waiting, as the two men lock the door behind us. The heavy scraping of the iron bolt slides into place just as my heart drops into my stomach. There is no escape. Soon enough, I am being led further away from the outside world. I cannot see well inside this hall, but I am able to make out the distinct outlines of two doors. Before I can slow my feet to try and see where they might lead, I am whisked past, my arms aching with every pull.

I think there are people behind those doors. Noises creep beneath them, and those noises follow us—whimpering voices that tell me I am not the only person these two armed guards have locked away here. But I’ve heard too many voices today—voices that told me I will never be alone, voices that happily accused me and inflicted pain. I have no desire to hear another human voice right now, except one that will tell me this is a terrible mistake and allow me to go home to the remains of my cottage in the woods and be left alone.

“Why am I here? Please?”

The guards will not look at me, but lead me deeper into the dark. At last we stop and I am facing a big, wooden door that is open, revealing an empty space inside. I realize this is for me. A calloused hand grips my elbow and thrusts me inside.

“Please tell me what I’ve done,” I ask the man closest to me. He refuses to meet my eyes.

So it has come to this after all, despite Matilde’s efforts to keep me safe, despite my misinterpretation of the rune stones last night.

“You will await your trial here,” the guard says. Then he turns the key in the lock and walks away.

I take in the sight of the cell. Its interior is cold stone, and it reeks with a musty smell that clings to the inside of my nose. Straw covers a small portion of the floor in one corner. I suppose that is where I am meant to sleep. I walk slowly toward it and, seeing that it appears to be somewhat clean, I settle myself on top of it, hugging my knees to my chest. Something rustles beneath the pile, causing me to jump, but I am too devastated to move to another spot.

“Why am I here, Mother?” I ask quietly, knowing if anyone were to hear me, my sanity would most definitely be questioned. They would be convinced I am a witch and put me to death immediately.

You must bide your time
.

“Is this what they did to you? Did they take you away and put you in a place like this?”

You will be luckier than I was, my daughter. Bide your time and wait. It won’t be long now
.

I shiver, and pull myself into a little ball to keep warm. “Wait for what?”

There is silence. I count the breaths that flow in and out of my mouth while I wait, and then, I hear the whisper.

Revenge
.

Hours later, there are footsteps outside my door. Before I am fully awake, I hear the key slip into the lock and watch with sleep-filled eyes as the door swings open.

“Come,” the guard says gruffly. His face is not one I recognize, and the lines surrounding his eyes are deep, giving him an almost terrifying appearance. I rise from the makeshift bed of straw and find that I can barely move. My bones feel splintered, and the slightest motion, such as straightening my skirt, brings dull pain to my arms and back.

“I said come, you lazy girl!” he yells at me and sets a foot just inside the door, making it clear that that he’ll come fetch me himself if I don’t hurry.

I scramble toward him quickly and feel his fingers pinch my arm where I’m already bruised. From the corner of my eye I see this amuses him, so he does it repeatedly before yanking me into the dark hallway, and then we begin to walk. I want to ask where he’s taking me, but to speak to him could be a decision I might regret making, especially since I can only assume it’s to stand before the judges who will decide my fate.

“I hear you’re trouble,” he whispers harshly behind my ear, gripping my elbow until it twists painfully behind my back. “Girls like you shouldn’t cause trouble.”

I don’t answer him. It will only promote more taunting if I do, and I can hear the sneer in his voice as clearly as if I were facing him. This is apparently the part of his job he enjoys best, and I almost find myself wishing the other guards had come for me instead of this one, who is not nearly as quiet and much more egotistical.

The fingers of his other hand twirl my hair at the nape of my neck, and I feel sickened. Between the pain he inflicts in my arm and the almost tender exploring of my skin, it’s somewhat of a relief when we approach the stairs at the end of the hall. I climb the steps fully aware that he is behind me, probably enjoying the view, and pray this will lead me out of this suffocating darkness with this stranger. When we reach the top, sunlight streams through the long windows, blinding me, and I have to blink several times. My head is kept down as he leads me toward another door, and I begin to think what awaits me can’t be much worse than spending another moment alone with this brute.

Four men in tall black hats and buttoned coats are seated at a long table at the far end of the room, and I freeze. They are ones who took Matilde, the very ones who tied her to the dunking stool, killing her for a crime she did not commit. The guard behind me senses my fear. With a low, evil chuckle he pushes my back, and I am sent stumbling into the room.

“State your name, girl,” one of the men orders me.

I tell them who I am, but their faces tell me I haven’t spoken loud enough, so I say it again, hearing the unmistakable tremble in my voice. “My name is Rune.” I say it louder this time, determined to hide how scared I really am.

Their eyes see right through me, and I can’t figure out which is more demoralizing, the expression in them, or the lingering touch of the guard who still stands behind me. His fingers play with my back and I am sure he means to irritate me.

“You were apprentice to the old woman who lived in the forest, were you not?” The man who asks stares at me with such ferocity that I am forced to look down at my feet.

“Yes,” I answer hesitantly.

It is clear he must be the one in charge of my interrogation, and I hear him rise out of his chair. The table creaks as he leans his weight upon it. When I find the courage to look up, they all stare at me as if I am a dangerous thing.

“Tell me, child. What services would you and your employer provide to the good people of Württemberg?”

I frown in confusion. “Matilde was not my employer, Sir.”

“It’s a simple question,” he says, smirking. “Surely you don’t mean to begin your trial with a lie.”

“What do you mean?” my palms are sweating but I am afraid to let them see that.

“You have already testified that you were an apprentice to the old woman. I assume she paid you like any other indentured servant, did she not?”

His eyes sear through me, waiting, relishing how I might explain myself.

“Matilde did not employ me, Sir, or hold papers for me. She raised me as a daughter. We tended the sick—the usual ailments.”

“‘Ailments.’ I see.” He comes to the front of the table and slowly paces, his dark, polished boots echoing off the floorboards.

“And what else, child, tell me. Did she entrust in you the skills of midwifery? Did she teach you to read the future, or perhaps to accept money for lies?” He steps closer until I can smell the tobacco on his breath, and my head begins to spin. His face is inches from mine. “Did she train you to become a witch?”

My heart thuds unevenly within my chest. I can feel my mother with me and I hope with all my might she does not whisper to me. This is not a good time to be hearing two voices, not when my life is perched so precariously on the decision of these men.

“Are you a witch, Rune? Answer the question.”

“No,” I tell them adamantly, but already there is a deep-rooted fear that I’ve answered too quickly, or perhaps I’ve taken too long. They all stare a while longer, as if picking me apart to see the lies I might hide beneath my clothes, my skin.

You must lie to them…

“Say you are, and this trial will be easy for you.”

Lie, my daughter. You must lie!

There is a vicious tone in her whisper that matches the gleam in the man’s eyes. It is contagious and I want to yell and scream at the men sitting at the table for what they’ve done. I want to tell them they’ve destroyed the life of a simple woman who’d only kept to herself, that they took away the only family I’ve ever known, destroying my life as well.

He stares straight into my eyes, and asks, “Will you not confess to heresy, girl? On the Holy Bible itself, will you not admit you are a witch?”

“I am not a witch.” My words disintegrate into the air between us.

“You have given us just proof. By associating yourself with witchcraft, telling fortunes by means of sorcery, and offering the devil’s payment, you
are
indeed a witch.”

“I’ve told you nothing!” I watch as the others finally rise from their seats at my indignant reply. I am not meek, nor reverent, and it’s clearly a display of trouble that I even respond at all, but I don’t care. I’m being accused for something I am not. I am not a witch—despite the whispers. I am not. Then, I realize something he has said.