Forest of Whispers (2 page)

“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 is 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

E
ltz 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.