Chapter 1
Rune
My feet fly across the soft ground, away from the footsteps that chase me.
With a pounding heart and my skirt gathered in my hands,
I dodge my pursuers and run into the haunted forest.
There is just enough time to squeeze myself under a low
branch, and while the pines are thick enough to swallow my
small frame, my heart beats a painful rhythm against my ribs as
a boy no older than me inches closer to the edge of the path-
closer to where I hide. Sap-coated needles glue themselves to
my cheeks as I hug the closest branch and peer out. One of
the boys, the fearless one, raises an arm to signal the direction
he believes I've gone. But while his expression is hard, he
doesn't dare venture too far from the path; the trees are dark
and foreboding, even for a determined ruffian with a fistful of
pebbles.
"She's gone," he sighs.
"You mean vanished?" The second boy has joined him.
His eyes are wide as he scans the sky, as if I have taken flight
and disappeared altogether.
Blood trickles a thin line of red down my ankle where
one of the small rocks nicked me, but this childish witch hunt
does not frighten me. I am hidden-having outrun them,
outsmarted them, like I always do. They call the forest black for
a reason, and today it has proven true, hiding me well within
its cage of branches, safe behind the fear it breathes and the
animals who scream their devil calls.
Soon enough, the boys give up their chase and head back
toward the village. When I am certain they cannot hear me, I
pull myself free from the camouflage and stretch my limbs,
noting the small welts that dot my arms. This is not the first
time the boys have been cruel. After all, I am the strange girl
who lives in the forest, apprentice to the one they say is a witch.
The boys' backs become shadows as they cross the hedge,
leaving me alone in the wild, dark space that borders the
village-until something warm and unbidden kisses my ear. I
turn quickly, spying nothing but the endless stretch of forest.
Then it comes again-a whisper, a faint touch against my skin,
the gentle glide of fingers through my hair. The trees are still.
No breeze sweeps past, yet I am certain I am not alone.
Rune... My name carries on the air, its breathy tone so clear
that I know this is not some trick of the mind or emotional
game. This is real.
That is all I need for my body to react. My fear explodes
inside me, and soon the village is far behind as I dash deeper
into the forest, toward my home.
Come to me, Rune...
Against my will, I pause, knowing that what I do is a terrible
risk. The snap of a twig startles me, and the birds in the trees
fall silent. My arms are chilled in gooseflesh and I know that
something, someone is dreadfully close. There is movement, and
beyond the needles and boughs I see what appears to be a
tendril of hair as dark as pitch...as dark as mine. My breath
stills inside me, though there is nothing I can do to calm the
hammering of my pulse as it races through my veins, as if it
too flees from the shadow forming within the trees.
The whisper comes again, closer and from all angles, pelting
me harder than any stones those miserable boys could have
thrown. It seeps beneath my skin and severs all that is rational
from my mind, filling me with a sour horror. A howling wind
wrenches itself free from the heart of the forest and sweeps
closer, twisting loose branches, lifting tender roots. Leaves fall
like rain around my head, swirling, taunting, wrapping me in
arms that I feel but cannot see. And then, it is as if the leaves
come to life, taking shape, fixing to an invisible, gentle curve
of a cheek, the soft definition of lashes against translucent
skin. My eyes snap shut and I will the ghostly image away, for I
am not certain of anything anymore.
My breath catches in my throat and, somehow, I am able
to open my eyes. I know well the tales of the dark forest and
the shadows it keeps, for I live with them every day. For sixteen
years, Matilde warned this day would come, and I was a fool
to believe I could escape it-that I could escape her. Just as the
forest appears calm and still and dark before my eyes, there is a
land that sleeps within it. A land that separates the dead from
the living with only a thin veil-a land my mother has woken
from, seeking me at long last.
Perhaps it is the shuffling of the birds in their nests that
gives me the courage to reach my hand out and test the cool air.
I wiggle my fingers, and then, growing braver by the second,
I test myself even further and whisper to what I cannot see.
"Mother?"
Only stillness answers me, so I say it again, louder.
"Mother?"
I turn my open hand a few times, clench and unclench
my fist, and then...a touch grazes the back of my hand. I am
startled at how it feels-so tender, so human-until it tightens
to a grip so excruciating I fear my hand will be crushed before
my very eyes. Four thick lines materialize upon my skin,
resembling fingers. The sight leaves me breathless as fear seizes
me. I yank my hand away, nearly stumbling into the thick ferns
behind me.
In my ears, my breath is a frantic, terrible force as I run
toward the tiny cottage. I hurl myself inside, but she has
followed me and rattles against the door, begging to be let in.
My fingers find the flimsy lock and work at it until it clicks in
place, assuring that I am safe from what I fear the most, and
soon, I find I am convincing myself that all is well. My morning
gathering, the taunting boys-they have simply unnerved me,
for there is nothing but gentle comfort in this room. Burning
wood crackles in the hearth. Lavender, Coriander, and Blessed
Thistle dry in bundles overhead. The pungent peel of the
Bergamot orange boils in the kettle over the flames. Its citrusy
aroma fills the room.
"Schätzchen," Matilde looks up from the heavy table at
the center of the room. Her eyes are cloudy with age and they
linger on my face, surely seeing the fear I try so hard to conceal.
"You've been out early."
The fear I felt moments ago dissipates and, with a quick
smile, I step away from the door and cross the room, lifting
the edge of my dress against the table to reveal what I had
collected in the woods just moments before the village boys
found me.
"Five in all, not a bad clutch for this time of year, eh?"
Matilde's mouth grows wide, nearly all gums. With hands as
dotted as the grouse's eggs, she turns each one over, diligently
inspecting for cracks. I am sure she hears my sigh of relief that
my run through the trees hasn't wasted our meal.
"Did you give thanks to the Mother, like I taught you?" she
says, noticing the light-green stalks inside my pocket. I look
down and smile at the herbs that have somehow survived the
fury outside.
"Of course. You taught me that long ago."
"And why, Schätzchen? Why must we always remain in
good favor with the earth?"
I let out a quiet sigh. "We only take what is needed, never
more. We should never be selfish with what the Sacred Mother
provides for us."
A smile creeps to her lips, and I know I've answered well.
This lesson has been ingrained in me since I was a child, yet
she still asks me to repeat it. I'd like to learn other lessons,
though. I'd like to read the leaves at the bottom of our chipped
cups instead of only seeing soggy tea. I'd like to tell the silly
girls who sneak off into the woods that they will find love
someday, like Matilde does.
Her gentle hand presses against my forehead, taking me by
surprise, and I wait for the questions to come. Why was I in the
forest so early? Why am I still trembling so?
My fear followed me home, Matilde, I want to say, but I keep
silent. I don't give evidence to the one person who has the
ability to sense the unseen.
"Rune," Matilde says softly. "Sit with me."
I cross the floor and hold onto her elbow, easing her into
the old, worn rocker. Matilde lets her eyes close with a sigh,
and I try to remember when she didn't appear so frail.
"I'm an old woman, Rune."
"You're not old, Mutti," I say back, smiling at the old joke.
Matilde has been an old woman forever, it seems. I begin
to pour the tea that is now ready, then hand her a cup of it,
making sure her hands are still before I let go. I bite my lip as
her eyes meet mine.
"I've taught you well, haven't I? Well enough that you feel
capable and strong?" she asks.
"Yes, you've taught me well, only..."
"Only?" A deep, guttural noise wells up from her throat,
preventing her from finishing. I press my fingers to the bottom
of the cup, gently lifting it, prompting her to take a sip. When
her chest no longer heaves, and the rise and fall of it appears
relaxed once again, the question is forgotten, but not by me.
Only I wish I could see the future like you can, Mutti, I want to
say, wishing with all my heart that the tiny tea leaves would tell
me she'll be all right. But I know they are dark and tea-logged
and won't offer any sort of fortune that will ease my worries.
Her coughs have worsened these last few months, and I cannot
bear to think of the day she is called home to our Mother.
Matilde is the only mother I have ever known. How long will
she and I have together? Will she see the next snowfall? Or will
I spend the coldest, darkest days of the year alone in this little
cottage?
I settle myself at her feet and feel her bony touch upon my
shoulder. I am not ready to look up just yet, so I stare into the
fire and will its heat to dry the threatening tears I hold back.
But it is too late, and Matilde knows.
"Now, my Schätzchen, tell me your troubles."
I know she does not need my words to figure out why I
am so afraid. Her hand gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze.
The air is thick with what I know will come next, with words
I can already hear inside my head. She will reassure me that
the Sacred Mother bides time well, and then she will ask the
question I dread the most-if I have seen my birth mother, if
the woman who haunts my dreams now haunts the hours I'm
awake.
"Tell me, child. Has she come?"
Her voice is a profound whisper, which makes me look up.
There is a light behind her eyes I have never seen before.
I nod.
The sigh that sweeps through her fills the entire room. "I
prayed this day would never happen," she says softly. She is
as white as a specter, and I am on my feet leaning over her,
removing the shaking cup from her hands and wrapping my
own around them. "May our Mother help me, I can still see the
fear in her eyes as she handed me the bundle."
I watch, wide-eyed, as Matilde stretches her trembling
arms out past me. My eyes follow, but I see nothing. It is her
memory, not mine.
"You, Rune, you were the bundle I took from her. I
promised I would take you and keep you for her, that you would
be safe from the others. She knew it was the end. Goddess help
her, she knew."
"Others?"
"In the village. There is a reason we don't meet the eyes of
those who stare." She pauses, then leans close. "They might
remember."
Matilde's eyes seek mine with an immeasurable
determination. "Sometimes when a person faces the most
trying circumstance, they become stricken like a wild animal.
Corner them, and they will do anything to escape. Give them
a voice, and they will make the most desperate of promises."
I swallow the lump in my throat. "What promises, Mutti?"
But it's clear that she is somewhere else, far away, lost in her
story.
Before I have the chance to wonder where, her eyes focus
sharply on my face. "Has she spoken to you, Rune? You must
tell me."
"I...I don't know." I don't remember exact words, only
indecipherable whispers.
But there is fear in every line of Matilde's face, and I cannot
lie to her.
"Yes. I think so."
"The boundary has been crossed, then..."
I wait for her to finish, but nothing comes after. "What
boundary? What are you talking about?"
"The hedge." Her voice trembles. "She has crossed the
hedge."
I shake my head, willing it to clear of confusion. "The
hedge between the forest and the village? Is that the hedge
you're speaking of?" Surely she is tired, or ill. I'd rather her not
be either, just a little muddled. "Please, lie down for a while,
won't you? You're not making sense."
The strength Matilde exuded is now gone, and I watch her
shoulders slump into their normal bend, leaving her weary and
old...and afraid.
"What is it, Mutti? I've never seen you like this before."
"You will need to be very strong, Rune. Stronger than I've
ever asked you to be."
"I don't understand."
"The world is changing, my sweet, as it always does. Do
you know where your name comes from, Schätzchen?"
"Yes." I pause, thankful that she has calmed a bit. "The
stones told you I was coming."
"That's right," Matilde says, remembering. "I rolled the
stones that morning, and by afternoon, I had a tiny babe in my
arms. The woman who was your mother had not named you.
She had the foresight to see that a child cannot be found if it
bears no name, so she left that task to me." Her smile grows
wide with pride, and I can't help but wrap my arms around her.
But something bites at the tip of my tongue, as if I've tasted
something sour, or burned it. Something Matilde just said...
A child cannot be found if it bears no name...
Who would be looking?
I resume my position on the floor. Despite my proximity
to the hearth, I am freezing inside as I wait for what Matilde
will tell me next, though I don't suppose this will be like any of
the stories she's ever told before. This is not a fairy tale meant
to hide the ugly truth. I see it in her eyes. I can feel it waiting
within the very air of the room, hiding behind the appealing
scent of the little orange that tries to sweeten our reality.
There is a knock at the door that makes me jump, and
although unsteady, Matilde rises from her chair.
"The Blessed Thistle, Rune." Matilde points to the batch
of green on the table. "Quickly."
I sigh, knowing it is the butcher, come for us to cure his
stomach pains, putting pause to our conversation.
"Now Schätzchen, be nice to the man. He's promised a
good-sized pig for two months' ration of herbs, and you know
how I love my black pudding."
I do as I'm told, but find I am biting the inside of my
cheek, wishing she and I could spend just a few more moments
alone to finish.
The Blessed Mother is not the only one who bides time
well, for I feel the dreaded truth deep in my stomach. What
Matilde will tell me later will not be just another story.
Whether I realize it or not, it is the one I have waited my
whole life to hear.
Chapter 2
Laurentz
Eltz Castle, 1627
She is dying. Anyone can see that.
My boot scrapes across the stone floor outside my
stepmother's chamber, where I wait. When the door finally
swings open, a weary, gray-haired man emerges. "Has there
been any improvement, Father?"
Clearly, I know what his answer will be. Still, he humors me
and replies, "No, Laurentz. Not yet."
He places his hand upon my shoulder as he shuffles past
toward his own chamber at the far end of the hall, and I tense
at the unusual display of affection. Surely he has not slept, at
least not well. There are few servants in the Countess's quarters
these days. We've asked for all who dwell and serve at Eltz to be
considerate of my stepmother's needs, to let her die in peace.
That's what will undoubtedly happen.
She will die.
Her chamber will become empty, the house will fall as
silent as a shroud, and my father will become a bitter old man.
Perhaps that is why I ask after her condition each and every
time I see him leave her chamber, such as now. Though I have
no real interest in her life, or her imminent death, my fate does
rest in hers, and I fear once she has passed, my father will
either require eternal servitude of me or ignore me altogether.
At this point, I cannot decide which outcome would be worse.
I stare back and forth between the two doors that have
just closed, and then find myself turning the corner of the
hall, walking toward the other end where another door faces
me-the door my mother used to live behind until the day she
fled into the forest. My hand skims the handle, but I let it rest
there instead of turning it. I will not find her behind it, for she
resides beneath the earth upon the knoll outside the castle. My
brother lies beside her, reminding me I am all that is left to
bear the family name, that I am all my father has left for a son,
and every bit a disappointment as he braces himself to endure
another loss. He will not speak of the dead we have buried, but
leaves them to another time he refuses to revisit. When I ask
him of them, it only gives him another reason to turn away.
Shrill, girlish whispers swell from the stairwell behind me.
My memories melt away as I let go of the latch and turn to
find two red-faced handmaidens. They quickly curtsy and avert
their eyes as my presence reprimands their intrusion. The
servants at Eltz live in a different world than I, one that is keen
on invading privacy. They whisper and assume and speculate
from dawn until dusk, sometimes alluding to the rumor that
my family is cursed. After seeing so much misery, I don't blame
them for coming to that conclusion, for I am certain there may
be some truth in it.
It's clear the two girls are up to no good, probably sent
on a mission from the kitchen, and I squelch their adventure
immediately. One has the audacity to peer up through her dark
lashes in hopes of appearing demure, but she will not garner a
smile from me just yet. Perhaps later I will visit her chamber,
but until then, I stare them down until they scurry away like the
rats that burrow beneath the castle.
I take one last look at my mother's door and hold on to the
little memory I have left of her. She is forever the faint scent
of lemon, the whisper at bedtime, the cool kiss on my cheek,
nothing more, and I make my way down to the lower level of
Eltz.
"I beg your pardon, My Lord." A voice summons from the
bottom of the stairs as I descend, and I am soon face to face
with the house messenger who stands in the middle of the
Great Hall. Try as I might to recall his given name, it will not
come to me, and I stare back at him with eyebrows raised as
invitation to speak, hoping his delivery will be swift.
"There is a visitor in the chapel," he announces with a
small degree of urgency.
I peer beyond his shoulder, past the heavy brocade draperies
that suffocate the windows at the east side of the castle, and
see a large ornate carriage waiting outside. Of all days to come,
the bishop has chosen this one. I swallow my annoyance, even
though I'd like nothing more than to roll my eyes and be on
my way, doing as I please. Instead, I nod my dismissal to the
man and listen to the light step of his boots as he leaves me
alone in the grand room. Even after I can no longer hear him, I
make no attempt to hurry off to the chapel. Part of me doesn't
care if the bishop waits; he really isn't here to see me. I glance
up the elaborate staircase to the landing above and wonder if
I should tell my father. I can still feel the pressure of his hand
on my shoulder, but ultimately decide against it. He was weary
when I left him. Besides, earning my father's respect is crucial,
as is proving to him I am more than capable of standing on
my own and making him proud. Eltz, and all its affairs, will be
mine one day, and proving I am worthy might change things
between us. The gesture upstairs was small, yet significant to
me. I want to believe my father feels something for me other
than blame and disappointment.
The path to the chapel is overgrown in a wild sort of way
my brother would have loved. I stop and listen, hard enough
that I'm sure I hear his laughter surfacing from behind the
vines, and suddenly, I am little again, hiding among the shrubs,
waiting until one of us comes close enough to send a thin
branch snapping at the other's backside. It is a memory of
my childhood that grips me with such force that I quicken
my pace and push past the rotund Provence roses my mother
once tended. They still bloom as large as cabbages. I pass the
Elderberry and the bright orange Calendula. She taught me all
their names; my brother had no patience for such things, and I
smile a little at the fact that I can still identify them. For years
I believed beauty no longer existed at Eltz, that my home was
as cold as the bitter winters blowing through all of Germany.
Today is different, because the roses are blooming. Because
of the little gesture my father has given me, I have reason to
notice it again.
I stop still upon the chapel steps and force the thoughts of
happier times to the pit of my stomach. The bishop stands at
the arm of the front pew with a measured look draped across
his face, and I struggle with the reason he is here.
"My boy," he greets me. "But forgive me, My Lord, you are
no longer a boy, are you?"
I bristle at this personal observation, for the bishop is not
my friend. He is cold and guarded, and always has been, making
it difficult to warm toward him easily. I'm sure he is well aware
that he makes me uncomfortable, especially since his visit is
not a planned one, but still we keep up the charade. I am only
here to prove I am worthy of being Electorate one day, and to
earn my father's trust.
"Your Holiness." I bend my head. "It's always a pleasure to
see you." My welcome is forced, and my words feel as though
they are made of a thick, unpleasant substance I am sure he
can see. As long as I am respectful and pretend to agree, as my
father would, then this meeting should be a brief one.
"Your father?" The bishop looks past my shoulder in
expectation.
"Detained."
I watch as he nods, believing the Electorate of Burg Eltz is
preoccupied with important business. He doesn't need to know
my father has confined himself to his chamber, dreaming of
a way to save the wife who wastes away a few doors down
the hall. The bishop wipes the perpetual beads of perspiration
from his brow with a small square of cloth, and I watch as his
meaty hand tucks it somewhere within the thick folds of his
robe, where I'm sure it will become lost.
"I'm afraid I come bearing grave news," he says steadily.
"Your neighbor, Pyrmont, has fallen."
I stare at him silently with narrow eyes as the cogs of
my mind shift. I'm well aware that Eltz's Guard has not been
alerted, nor has the morning's breeze carried the telltale horns
of a breach, even one that is miles from here.
The bishop can see that I am not following him.
"From Plague, My Lord." He says this appearing as if he
too is stricken.
Suddenly, I regret not taking the time to rush upstairs and
find my father.
"Are you certain?" I don't mean to question that he could
be wrong.
"Nearly half the family," he nods, finding the embroidered
cloth again and twisting it to and fro. "I'm afraid the rest will
be dead by nightfall."
I grip the worn, wooden pew behind me as I mentally map
out the distance between the two castles, noting it is only a
half-day's ride from here. I've never seen Plague before, only
heard of it, along with stories of the horrible, swift deaths it
causes.
"Have you been there yourself?" My face must show I am
in the midst of making a terrifying assumption, one that is
perhaps accusatory-has he brought the infection with him,
possibly condemning us all to a similar fate?
"Goodness no, Laurentz," he insists. "Word was sent last
evening to the nearby friary. By moonrise, the surrounding
village was wiped clean. It's spreading quickly, and I don't
advise either you or your father making the trek to look for
survivors. By morning, I suspect the halls of Pyrmont will
echo with the silence of death." His words fall, and there is a
strange hum between us. More souls will be lost by tomorrow.
It's nearly unfathomable, and I struggle to digest the news.
At least a hundred people live within the walls of Pyrmont-
the Electorate's family, servants, guests, the armed Guard.
Yesterday they were alive, and by sunrise, they will be dead.
"But I believe you might be safe," he says, sounding
hopeful. "Eltz is mostly surrounded by the river, with one side
exposed to the forest."
"What will that do to protect us?" My voice bears no
reverence, and the bishop stares at me, dumbfounded. I assume
he wants to say something that would make me ashamed and
fear God, or both, but I see he bites his tongue, for I am in a
position he is not. I stand to become Electorate of Eltz one
day, and if Plague is on the horizon, with my father slowly
deteriorating, that day could come sooner than either of us
realizes.
He turns his back to me and faces the altar. His hand
touches his forehead, chest, then shoulders, then meets the
other and tents in prayer in front of him. I've offended him.
Just as I am about to say something I hope will make amends,
he changes the subject.
"I trust you are aware of necessary tactical maneuvers,
Laurentz? This is your second year in your father's Guard, is
it not?"
"It's my third." I wait for him to turn around, curious that
he would discuss military strategies at a time like this. "You
speak of the feuds?"
My father taught me several things-never let your guard
down, be civil with your neighbor, and stock the Keep. Feuding
between territories is as rampant as the wind that rushes
through the Black Forest, and like the forest, you should never
turn your back upon it. I feel the presence of the door behind
me and wonder if I should excuse myself and make my way
back. My father worked hard to establish amicable ties with
Pyrmont; surely this news will weigh heavily upon him.
"In a way, it is a type of feud, one I firmly believe is
responsible for the fall of many places, Pyrmont included,"
he says.
My mind whirls as the soldier inside me begins to organize
all there is to do. If there is a band of vagrants unleashing
infection upon the strongest of sovereigns, being prepared
is of utmost priority. I mentally ready myself for the tasks
ahead-alert my father, the Guard, the servants, and pray
the knowledge the bishop has given me will keep Eltz from
succumbing.
The air in the chapel is heavy and the bishop's information
warrants telling my father immediately, yet he makes no attempt
to leave so I can do so. Instead, the bishop moves slowly, and
I wonder if he really believes Eltz stands a chance against the
affliction. Perhaps he is reluctant to face whatever lies outside.
"Disease and famine have made their mark on Bavaria
in the past, and so they shall again. But mind you, Laurentz,
nobility has always prevailed."
He is telling me this so I won't worry, but I can't help
hearing how his tone has changed from that of a nervous,
fearful man to one who speaks as if he has a plan. He paces
back and forth before the pulpit, his knuckles bone-white as
his hands clutch the cloth.
"The villages surrounding the region are tainted." His voice
is low and secretive. "They harbor all manner of contagion and
are responsible for many of the afflictions upon this world.
Forgive me for being so bold, Laurentz, but you are well aware
of the difference between nobility and the rest of them."
"Them?"
"Certainly you understand your place in this world, my
young Lord, and that the Church has always protected those
with souls worth saving."
My eyebrows arch at the words that hang in the air between
us.
"It is my understanding that the Church protects all souls,
does it not?" I make no measure to hide my surprise at his
implications of how degraded the villages are. I have grown up
knowing my place, knowing theirs. Peasantry is not admirable,
not by any means, but it should be respected, as should all
forms of life. But to hear it spoken out loud, by this man
especially, fills this space with the strangest of emotions. I may
have grown to be bitter about things-my father, the death of
my family, what the future holds for me-but I certainly do
not hate the world and wish harm to befall anyone in it.
"What exactly are you saying?" My question implies
challenge, and by the grave expression his face holds, I see he
is up for it. He plumps around his thighs the fabric that nearly
drowns him, seats himself in the first pew, and gestures for me
to join him. He studies my expression, and then tells me, "You
look like your brother."
I find this hard to believe, because my brother never
reached eighteen. He never had the chance to bear scars of
disappointment, or of death. He never carried what felt like
the weight of the world upon his young shoulders or faced
bitterness from the one he pledged to serve.
"You've been through your share of dark times, haven't
you, my boy?" he says, making up for the strange silence when
I don't answer him. "I am afraid to say there will be dark times
ahead as well, but it's best to be prepared."
I give a nod, for preparation is what I've already begun
to do, and I cannot quite understand why we are sitting here,
speaking of things I'd like to forget, when there is so much at
stake. The look on my face sparks a light behind his dark eyes,
as if I've just opened a gate that he is now eager to lead me
through.
"There is a source for all the wrong in the world, an evil that
gives birth to all other evil. Darkness is a sneaky thing hiding
among us, undetected. The sooner we stop it, the sooner we
will all be saved."
"You mean to say there is something more than the
Plague?" I ask.
He leans forward and looks into my eyes. "I ask that you
keep this between us, Laurentz. As successor to your father
one day, you will have an advantage if you are aware of the
real dangers among us." The bishop twists the gold band on
his finger. "Heresy is at play here. Be mindful of the cunning
woman who hides from the others, if you value your soul."
Chapter 3
Rune
My breath is suctioned to the back of my throat,
because when Matilde opens the door, it is not the butcher,
but a cloaked figure, and my venture into the forest hits me all
over again, hard.
"Are you the crone?" a cautious feminine voice pushes
through the open door into the small room where we stand.
Matilde and I are silent, and I feel the fine hairs on the back
of my neck rise. I do not like the word "crone." It is degrading
and harsh, and it bothers me to no end that Matilde assures me
she has been called much, much worse. I ignore that she tells
me I am much too protective of her and stare at the stranger
with enough suspicion for the two of us.
Matilde hobbles forward. "It depends who's asking."
With slender fingers, the woman pulls the grey hood back,
revealing a shock of dark blonde hair that frames a clean, pretty
face. She is fairly young, but not as young as I, and dressed
nicely from what I can see beneath the heavy wrap that covers
her.
"Forgive me, I mean not to offend. I was told to follow the
path that divides the village from the forest; there, I would find
the crone who could help me."
Still feeling the sting from her lack of tact, I let the bundle
of Blessed Thistle slip from my hand and rest upon the table.
Strangers have called at odd hours before. It's not unheard
of. I suppose it's not as unusual as anyone assuming Matilde
is anything but a crone. She has lived in the woods for much
of her life, preferring solitude to the bustling, gossip-ridden
village. What seems strange here is how obviously Matilde
doesn't try to hide her discomfort.
I study the woman's face, pay attention to her movements.
Her eyes flit around, agitated, while Matilde assesses her in a
calculated sort of way. And still, Matilde asks her to step in
further. I cannot place what her trouble could be, since she
appears neither sick nor in pain. She doesn't clutch her stomach
or ask for tea. Matilde takes on a peculiar determination,
ushering the woman to one of the few chairs we own, and
then setting about to fill the kettle unasked.
"You seek something," Matilde states as she adds more
kindling to the fire. It is an odd thing, because Matilde usually
doesn't trust guests enough to turn her back to them, although
we have very little for her to be interested in stealing. Perhaps
Matilde feels confident that I am her second set of eyes and
will notice anything out of sorts. When Matilde straightens,
kettle in hand, she is very stiff, despite her usual bent stance. "I
doubt you will find it here."
The woman is taken aback. "But I've come so far to see
you. I am positive you are the only one who can help me with
my...my ailment."
I am a little shocked myself. What bothers this woman is
apparently invisible to me, and I fear I will never be as trained
as Matilde to be able to read another person well enough that
they need not explain.
"Mutti, surely we can at least see what troubles her."
I have not intervened before, and the woman eyes me
curiously. Surely she wonders why I've called the old woman
my mother, and suddenly my face warms at my error. I am
Matilde's apprentice to anyone who visits, nothing more. The
look Matilde gives me makes me wish I had kept my thoughts
to myself, and I feel a strong prickling sensation behind my
neck. She slowly walks closer to our guest, who now has a
sweaty sheen coating her forehead and temples, causing the
ends of her yellow hair to twist and curl ever so slightly. Her
face is ashen.
Matilde holds out her hand, palm up, implying that the
seated woman should rest her own on top of it. A shiver
courses through me, but one of excitement and anticipation,
and I cannot help wonder what the delicate lines in her hand
will say. Despite the odd air to the room and the look she had
just given me, I am thrilled Matilde has not ushered me out
of the cottage yet, like she has from time to time. My heart
hammers away. I realize I might finally be able to see the old
magick Matilde often shields me from. "Folk Magick," she calls
it. I've learned a little, but I've often felt there are some lessons
Matilde believes I am not ready for. Hopefully, today will be
different, and I amuse myself with wondering if this is what I
am to be strong for.
"What do you see, old woman?" The woman's ill appearance
does not match the tone of her voice. She seems too intrigued
by the vision Matilde may or may not be able to see.
Ever the wise businesswoman, Matilde barters, "What are
you willing to give me?"
The woman pulls a small purse from beneath her luxurious
wrap, and unravels the cord looped around her wrist.
"I will give you two thaler. Will that do?"
Matilde wrinkles her already-lined face and purses her lips
at the offer.
"Your palm speaks, but does not reveal that which you
wish to know."
The audible sigh from the woman makes me uncomfortable.
Matilde is not one for causing annoyance. She's accepted far
less for her fortunes, and I wonder what she could possibly
sense by insisting on higher payment.
At last an exchange is made. The thin sound of coin against
coin chimes as they fall into the open palm, and Matilde's voice
rings clear. "Bring the stones to me."
Within seconds, I am at the cupboard on the other side of
the room, twisting open the wooden knob and brushing aside
the rabbit that hangs there curing. I grab the old drawstring bag
sitting at the back. It is filled with smooth, marked stones that
shift when I carry it back to her. She instructs the pale woman
to come stand beside the edge of the table. The string is untied
and the bag emptied; its contents, wrapped in a lumpy cloth,
fall to the wood with a dull plunk.
Nothing but the sound of three breaths can be heard as
we hover over the table. The cloth is unwrapped and within it
are nearly a dozen pale river stones, each etched with a black
symbol different from the next. Matilde carefully moves the
stones aside and spreads the cloth flat. She then turns each
stone face down so that the etchings are hidden for now.
"You will take a stone, one at a time, and place it upon the
cloth," she instructs the woman. "The stone must be faced
down. Do this until all the stones are laid."
The woman's hand reaches out, but Matilde's gnarled
fingers stop her.
"Do not be so quick to know what lies ahead for you. You
must let your hand sweep over the runes, like this." Matilde's
hand hovers just an inch above one of the little rocks. "Feel the
stone meant to be chosen first. It will call to you."
It takes a few moments, but soon enough, the woman
chooses a stone and places it upon the table.
"This is the rune of Past Influences." Matilde nods her
head for another stone to be chosen.
When the second stone is laid next in line, Matilde tells her,
"This is the rune of the Present."
As a third stone is settled in the row, Matilde says, "This is
the Outcome."
She guides the woman's hand to the pile of remaining
stones, and, after two more are chosen, they are each laid above
and below the middle stone. "Now, you must turn them over."
I lean over the table with wide, wondrous eyes, waiting to
see which stones the woman has chosen. Like our guest, I am
eager to hear Matilde interpret them for us.
One by one, Matilde turns the stones upright upon the
old, warped table. The woman leans over hungrily. "Tell me,
old crone. Tell me what they say." She is too fascinated by the
ancient markings to notice how Matilde leans close to me.
"You must leave, Rune," Matilde whispers. "Take the basket
into the woods, gather whatever you can, and don't return until
the sun is setting behind the trees."
"But...what's wrong? Tell me what to do, Mutti."
I want to stay, because I know something is not right.
Twice today Matilde hasn't been well. What if her coughing
spell comes back? What if she feels faint? Will this woman
know what to do? She shoots me a look telling me I must be
on my way. I think I see sadness lingering behind it, only I am
too stubborn to try and understand what it could be. All I can
see is, once again, I am being forced to leave, just when I had
thought everything had changed.
Confused and hurt I hear myself talking back, refusing to
do as I am told. "Why don't you trust me to stay?"
Her hand catches mine, but instead of the reprimand I am
so sure I will receive, she is soft and pleading.
"Do as I say, Schätzchen. It will be all right."
Defiantly, I take my basket, casting a sharp glance at the
woman whose fortune awaits her, and then at the woman who
insists I am still too much of a child to witness it. Fine, I mutter
to myself. I lift my cloak from the nail on the wall and fling it
around my shoulders. Then, basket in hand, and doing all I can
to ignore the earnest expression Matilde holds on her face, I
open the door and step out into the forest.
Chapter 4
Rune
Ishould 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 search 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.
Want to read more?
Forest of Whispers is available in paperback and e-book
editions wherever books are sold, including:
Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Forest-Whispers-Jennifer-Murgiaebook/
dp/B00MK3MJB8/
Barnes & Noble:
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/forest-of-whispers-jennifermurgia/
1118619871
Books-A-Million:
http://www.booksamillion.com/p/Forest-Whispers/JenniferMurgia/
9781937053567
Indie Bound:
http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781937053567
Book Depository:
http://www.bookdepository.com/Forest-Whispers-JenniferMurgia/
9781937053567
About the author:
Jennifer Murgia writes Young Adult Fantasy and
Contemporary novels. She has long loved the dark and
speculative-and it's from these dark places that she weaves
fantastical stories, often hoping to find truth in them. She is the
co-founder and coordinator of YAFest: an annual teen book
festival in Easton, PA. She currently resides in Pennsylvania
with her husband, her two children, and a very spoiled cat.
*****
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Murgia
Sale of the paperback edition of this book without its cover is unauthorized. Spencer Hill Press, LLC
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. Contact: Spencer Hill Press, PO Box 247, Contoocook, NH 03229, USA Please visit our website at www.spencerhillpress.com
First Edition: September 2014. Second printing: September 2014.
Jennifer Murgia Forest of Whispers : a novel / by Jennifer Murgia - 1st ed. p. cm.
Summary: A teenage girl is caught up in the witch hysteria in 17th century Bavaria.
Cover design by Lisa Amowitz
Interior layout by Kate Kaynak
Published in association with MacGregor Literary, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-937053-56-7 (paperback) ISBN 978-1-937053-58-1 (e-book)
Printed in the United States of America