Werelord Thal: A Renaissance Werewolf Tale

Chapter 18. The Great Question

Altea felt conspicuous walking by herself. Trying to dispel her discomfort, she casually swung her empty basket and lifted her chin. Carts, riders, and pedestrians passed her in both directions as she headed to the New Tower gate. Its immense presence jutted up from the Old Town wall like a knight in bulky jousting armor.

When she passed beneath the hulking tower, fresh air greeted her. The scent of green land reminded her that the odiferous grime of city life was not necessarily desirable.

The innate freedom beyond the city walls beckoned her. With more confidence she hurried down the lane that she had traveled with her mother in happier days.

Cottages, taverns, stables, smithies, and shops sprawled along the roads radiating out from the gate, but their arrangement was looser than within the walls, and muddy livestock paddocks and green gardens filled the gaps. She took several turns on the crisscrossing roads until she was following a track up a hillside. Dwellings became more infrequent and the traffic diminished until she was alone on the road.

The empty path ahead was unnerving. She looked back at the jumble of small holdings clustered on the lower reaches of the hill. Bushes and mature trees crowded the weedy track. Boulders bulged out of the vegetation like the weathered tombstones of giants. If she went around the next bend, she would be out of sight of the nearby dwellings.

She drew courage from the warm sunny day. Birds were singing and in the distance she could still hear children playing. An empty hill was nothing to fear. Altea continued up the half forgotten path toward the cottage where Gretchen had lived.

"Oh!" she cried sadly when she saw the burnt out rafters and blackened stucco walls. The thatch was all gone except for some singed chunks on the ground. The fire had burnt part of the big old tree that shaded the cottage. A wound of blackened branches undercut the remaining green crown.

At the threshold she hesitated for a long time. Ashes spilled out the charred door frame. Rain had left little indentations across the ashes. Inside only black hunks remained of Gretchen's meager furnishings.

Looking over the sad ruin, Altea scolded herself for her stupid adventure. Her nagging curiosity about Gretchen's witchcraft had compelled her to come out here. She had wondered if she could find some magic relic. Mostly Altea had needed to convince herself that Gretchen had indeed been evil as everyone now claimed.

Altea was about to step over the threshold when she noticed boot prints in the ashes. There were more tracks throughout the cottage along with the paw prints of a small dog. She supposed the neighbors had looted pots and pans, and she expected to find nothing left of value.

Cautiously she stepped inside. The collapsed roof left the cottage open to the sky. Altea recognized the arrangement of charred furniture. The bench and table in front of the single window. The chair in front of the hearth. The cot where an old woman had curled up to sleep alone every night.

While growing up Altea had come here several times a year with her mother. For every pregnancy her mother had come to consult with Gretchen. She had sometimes traded for medicinal herbs, especially for her young boys. Seeing the cottage in ruin emphasized the loss of her mother. A nostalgic wave of pain hit her. How she wished her mother was alive and everything was as it had been.

Many times Altea had sat with her mother and Gretchen and sipped tea that tasted like flowers. She had listened to the women talk and learned about the mysteries of womanhood that would be hers to experience someday.

Altea rushed out of the cottage. Her plan to poke through Gretchen's things struck her as nearly sacrilegious now. Yet she lingered and went to the southern side of the building. The herb garden was trampled and a few of the larger bushes uprooted. Altea remembered when the spot had been lush and blooming. Gretchen had crafted her medicines from her clever harvesting. Although Altea was generally a healthy person, once she had fallen ill with a bad cough and Gretchen had concocted a relieving poultice for her chest. Altea had trouble reconciling the helpfulness of that medicine with the witchcraft that Gretchen had died for.