Forest of Whispers (4 page)

Chapter 4
Rune

I
should be quiet and do what Matilde asked of me, but there is a heavy stone inside me telling me to do otherwise, a wild, willful part of me that is desperately tired of being treated like a child. I am half-tempted to press my ear to the door and listen in on the fortune being read, but I decide I am too annoyed to want to know what’s in store for that strange woman. Let Matilde be the one to tell her. Let the woman in the fancy cloak walk off into the arms of a handsome man, or a pouch full of money. I don’t really care.

The rushing sound of the stream breaks my thoughts. It calms me, even at this distance, but I cannot bring myself to find it among the trees. Suddenly I am angry at myself. I’m angry at being too young and incapable of what Matilde can pass down to me. I’m angry for being scared this morning at nothing but the wind playing tricks on me.

I am angry for being gullible.

My basket is empty and I don’t feel like filling it, but a small cluster of wild mushrooms grows just beneath the Larch tree, and I quickly pull the tender flutes from the soft earth and place them into my basket, just so I can say I gathered something. The forest is dark for such an early hour, as if rain will fall at any moment. I pull my cloak closer and welcome the damp grayness I’ve stepped into. Perhaps it will wash away the horrible feeling brewing inside me, the one that begs me to realize much of my life has been in the dark. My past, my present, my future—all of it, shadowed as heavily as this forest I have always lived in.

My feet find the trail that leads to the hedge. I usually don’t care for market day, but I am drawn to the voices and clamoring I hear from where I stand. There is life there, even if the faces are cold and stone-like. Even if they eye me strangely.

When I am standing at the waist-high wall of green, I am reminded of Matilde’s vision, that my birth mother has somehow crossed the hedge, coming from the Other World into mine. My birth mother is dead. The whispers and dreams are nothing but a bunch of fairy tales, and I have been frightened for no reason for far too long.

I hoist my skirt to my knees and squeeze myself through, feeling the sharp sting of thorns hidden between the soft leaves, but I don’t care. I don’t complain. I am used to scratches on my legs and tears in my dress, and soon, I am all the way through, breathing in all that is the village of Württemberg.

My shoulders are straight and my chin higher than usual as I pick my way around the cobbled square. The air doesn’t feel as damp here, and the doors of the houses and stores are wide open. There are fruits, and meats, and cloth for garments, and iron, all laid out for buyers, and I am so caught up in the wonder of it all that I don’t take notice of the stares aimed my way. For once, I feel I am part of the town with every right to walk among the vendors and admire.

But whispers do float to me and stop me for a moment, as they always do. I lean over a table of beautiful linen, admiring the handiwork. I will not look up; I am determined not to let it bother me today. Today is decidedly different.

Only I
am
gullible, and I lift my chin just a little to try and peer around me. There are shoppers, just like me, but that is all I can see. No one is whispering nearby, at least from what I can tell.

I hold up one of the handkerchiefs and focus on the delicate stitching.

“It would look lovely on you, my lady.”

I am stunned by how she has addressed me, and my face must show it because the woman staring at me gives a little laugh.

“It’s too fine for me to wear,” I say timidly, and place it back among the others for sale.

“Nonsense,” she replies, leaning over the small sampling of cloth she peddles. She fetches the one I’ve just returned and holds it up against my cheek. “The silver stitches match the sparkle in your eyes quite nicely, just like fairy dust woven between the threads.”

This is the first time anyone has seen my eyes up close. I’ve been too fearful to raise my head any other time, always too afraid to draw attention to myself. I am beaming beneath my skin, and am drinking her praise like it is some strange nectar I cannot get enough of.

“Only a thaler today, it’s my special price for such a beautiful lady.” She is sweet as she tries to convince me to make my purchase, but I have no money, and Matilde is an experienced trader whom I’ve followed around this market many times, so I wonder for a moment.

I extend my basket across the table. “I have these delicious mushrooms. Perhaps you’d consider taking them in exchange?”

The woman eyes me curiously, then, bending her head, she peers inside the basket at my offering. “I did spend an entire week on this one. My fingers don’t bend the way they used to. Perhaps you have something else to give me?”

I am getting nervous. I am ashamed that all I have to offer in trade are a measly bunch of mushrooms that grew outside my doorstep, that I picked out of spite. Suddenly, I wish I had taken Matilde’s instruction to heart and spent more time gathering so I would have a suitable exchange. Quickly, I think of Matilde, and wonder if she has finished telling the cloaked woman all the wonderful things her future holds. They are probably marveling at the message the runes have given, and with a sudden jolt, I am jealous.

Before I realize what I am doing, the words fly from my lips, “These aren’t just ordinary mushrooms.” Then I bite my tongue in regret, and pull my basket closer, but it’s too late, I’ve already caught the old woman’s attention.

“They look like regular mushrooms to me.”

“Oh, not by any means,” I say quickly, drumming up a way to appear worldly and helpful. “They…”

My brain is whirling madly and yet I cannot think of anything suitable for what these ridiculous mushrooms can offer this woman. Why did I let myself become so enamored with a piece of fabric! I cannot carry it anywhere but in the forest while I scavenge for food. It was a silly idea for me to think otherwise, but my head continues to think, and think, and then, it comes to me.

I stare at the woman’s twisted fingers as she holds the fine square I desire, noting how she used a bit of fantasy to entice me.

“They are healing mushrooms.” I whisper beneath my breath, half-hoping she cannot hear me, while on the other hand, hoping she does. I’m almost fascinated by the lie that slips from my lips.

“Healing mushrooms, eh? And why should I believe you?”

Why? Why would anyone believe me? Suddenly I can’t believe I’ve woven this incredible story all for the sake of owning something beautiful. “Because they came from deep within the forest, further than anyone has ever been.”

Consideration lights her weathered face. She turns toward the hedge I slipped through just a short while ago, and stares for a moment.

“The Black Forest, you say?”

“Yes.” I try to sound convincing, but I cannot help my voice from quivering, so I thrust the basket in front of her, hoping it will persuade her as she had persuaded me.

Her eyes stare at the line of trees just past the blacksmith’s fire, and I am struck with the strong feeling that she is superstitious, which may just work in my favor. She looks into my eyes, then motions toward the open door behind her, leaning across the basket between us. Bringing her face closer, she whispers, “My daughter is with child, but the fool of a man does not love her,” she tells in a tone that is desperate and hushed. “Do you suppose your mushrooms will heal her heart?”

I had expected to persuade the woman because of her hands, yet I’m captured by what she’s revealed to me. How horrible to be unwed and expecting a baby, and to be cast aside as well. My heart lurches, and I find I am searching within the darkened doorway for a glimpse.

Before I can tell her that I suppose they will, she is speaking again.

“Tell me about where they come from. Is it very deep in the woods? Do they possess magick?”

A strange chill spreads to my entire body. Magick is a word that carries the weight of a thousand stones. I know well that a word is just word, without the meaning small-minded people like to give it, and I am inclined to continue my bartering.

“They grow just past the cottage that is there.” This seems to spark renewed interest in the woman’s eyes, and I know I’ve said the right thing. Matilde is well-known for her healing magick, and although it is always in secret that people find her, I’ve seen how the visitors hold her skills in high regard.

The woman extends the beautiful cloth out to me. “It is yours, then.”

Gingerly, I take it, allowing her to spill the contents of my basket into a bowl beneath the table. She gives me a measured look, probably because I am trying to smile back, and not doing a very good job at it. I can imagine my mouth is more twisted in pain than appreciation.

The space behind me suddenly feels as though packed with people, when in fact, it is not. My guilt is suffocating, and pressing, and my breath bursts from me in short jets of panic. I turn around and attempt to walk to the next vendor, even though I have nothing left in my basket to barter with. Somehow I doubt I will find anything else to catch my interest and I quickly make my way past food that now looks terribly spoiled, and horse shoes and tackle that are dented and old. It is as if everything here has suddenly lost its luster. Nothing is as shiny and appealing as it was when I first arrived.

It is a horrible thing I’ve done. Matilde will be so upset with me. My cheeks are burning as I walk toward the last house in the square, the one that is nearest the hedge. If I cross now, I can leave my worries here. But I am certain all eyes are on me, and if I do cross, they will surely know who I am, and where I’ve come from. Perhaps my birth mother
was
a terrible person, and soon the village will piece two and two together, realizing my ebony hair is not an anomaly, that I remind them of someone dangerous, that I remind them of
her
.

Do you care if they know?

I have never spun around so fast in all my life, yet there is no one near who could have spoken so loud, or so close.

You’ve done well…

I am falling ill. Perhaps the woman I left Matilde with
was
suffering from something after all, and the short amount of time I spent at the cottage was enough to become exposed to it. My hand has been twisting what it holds, and I look down, ashamed. The exquisitely sewn handkerchief is ruined, after what I’ve done to get it.

This is my punishment for stealing away to the market and becoming a thief. I push myself forward and have one foot inside the bristly growth of the hedge, about to hurl myself into the forest and run for home, when I hear laughter behind me. My eyes catch a hint of black creeping behind the corner of a building. It is a cloak, and my breath stills in my lungs. A few moments later a black horse rounds the corner, its tail flicking away the flies as it trudges along behind the man that pulls it.

The laughter comes again, this time from a different direction. It is hollow and thin, and I spin around, determined to find it. There is nothing. I panic and leap into the thorny border at the edge of the forest.

Chapter 5
Laurentz

T
he bishop finally prepares to leave, wrapping his thick robe around him as he steps carefully onto the foot iron of the red lacquered carriage. He extends his hand for me to kiss the gold and garnet ring that adorns his chubby finger, and I do so quickly. My thoughts are torn. Do I tell my father of the visit, or sort through what the bishop has just shared with me in effort to understand it better?

The bishop’s heated accusations have irritated me. There is something in his words I cannot quite put to rest. If the infection that has infiltrated Pyrmont spreads to the South, where Eltz lies, then I doubt the bishop will return anytime soon. Since today the South is still safe, I must see for myself if the small hamlet nearby is not as vile as he made it out to be, despite the thorny past rumored to be associated with it. That it is still home to the good people my father has worked to earn respect from, not caught in the grip of one woman harboring ill secrets and heresy.

I take the reins of my steed and head toward the thick line of dark green trees at the base of the hill. It is an impenetrable wall that appears murky and sinister as I approach, and my horse whinnies and slows with reluctance. I stroke her muscular neck, whispering words that I hope will calm her, and apologize for not fixing the shadow roll to her bridle before leaving. She settles beneath my touch, and I gently dig my boots into her girth, guiding her through a patch that is not as dense, until we are swallowed whole within the mouth of the forest.

It is like night has fallen before my eyes. I blink, adjusting to the dimness that steals my breath for a moment, and then we are off again, trailing along what appears to be a trampled path. “Shhh,” I whisper. If I do this at regular intervals, I find I am not only calming my horse, but myself as well. It’s not easy to ignore the tricks my mind conjures as we continue along. This is the Black Forest, the very forest my mother ran into. And when she returned to Eltz, to us, she was dead.

The hooves of my horse clop along, leading me deeper and deeper into the suffocating darkness, and I find myself peering upwards, searching for a sky that is completely obliterated by arching branches. Shadows are cast, creeping along, hiding behind trunks. There are whispers I am sure are not the wind; from both my left and my right, I hear sounds so strange I am convinced they are otherworldly, more than simply the magnified crunching of needles and underbrush.

At last I see a structure forming within the shadows before me. It is small and constructed of crooked stones. The smell of charred firewood greets me as plumes of dancing smoke roll from a stubby sort of chimney in its thatched roof. A cloaked figure flees quickly from the door, and I am certain it is a woman by the slight build and the agility with which she moves. Could this be the witch the bishop spoke of earlier? I am immediately on guard and let my eye follow her to where she disappears between a thick wall of green.

I give my horse a kick, and once again, we are off. The cloaked woman I am following seems to disappear into thin air, and I find myself trapped behind a fence of greenery that divides the eternally dark forest and a seemingly lively village on the other side. Yanking the reins, I lead my horse in a half-circle away from the hedge in order to round back and jump over it, but to my surprise, instead of leaping over the waist-high shrub, my horse rears, responding to the small shriek welling up from the mass of twisted green beneath her hooves. The hedge is alive, and from it a girlish screech rises. Before my eyes the thorny patch sprouts two arms and a leg, scrambling for all their worth to be free.