The horses shied and bucked at the slightest thing, ears pricked, sweat glistening on their shanks. Lenka cast a sidelong glance at her mother, at the set of her jaw and the feverish expression in her steely eyes as she gripped the reins.
“Come on, keep going, it is just a fallen tree. Come on!”
The urgency in her voice stabbed at Lenka’s stomach. Why was she so frantic? Something here was badly amiss, a feeling she could not place except this was a trip she did not want to make and a destination she did not want to reach. The forest appeared to be getting darker, the path narrower, the sides of the ravine steeper. And confusion over Oskar still weighed heavily on her mind. Who was he? Or what? Of course, magic did exist in elemental form. She had experimented with this herself, projecting images into the minds of others. A friend in the village, Erika, had sworn she had seen Lenka standing outside her window one evening, when all the time Lenka had been in bed imagining that she was there, laughing.
“What was I doing in this dream of yours?” she’d asked Erika with a puzzled look on her face, trying not to smile with her knowledge and power.
“Laughing,” said Erika. “Just laughing.”
But the thing was, she had touched and talked to this boy, had known him and felt him inside her. Had she fallen in love with a ghost? Perhaps his spirit had not left this earth and still lingered in the home he loved? Did he not know he was dead? One thing for sure, her love was real and it hurt. It hurt so badly it was blinding; it kicked in the gut as powerfully as a horse and had sent her half insane. How could a ghost do that? How?
The journey was long and arduous, yet far from wishing to speed up their arrival, the feeling of dread within her was mounting. It sat like a rock in her heart, weighing heavier with every lurch forwards of the cart. Eventually, the incline levelled off, the path opened up to reveal a plateau ahead, and the oppressive overhanging rocks and trees were left behind. But the relief was short-lived. The flat grasslands ahead were open to the full force of the wind and rain. Her mother cracked the whip, and the horses galloped flat out.
Closer and closer to the destination, Lenka gripped the sides of the cart, swallowing the onslaught of the rain as it battered them from all sides. Over and over, her mother whipped the horses on.
“Mutter, slow down. The horses are tired.”
Clara had tied her headscarf tightly around the ears and either pretended not to hear or refused to.
“I’m tired as well. We should rest when we get to Mooswald.” She tucked her hands inside her cloak. The boards of the cart were rough, and every bone was jolted and bruised. “Please can we stop for something to eat?”
“Soon.”
“Mutter!” It had been six hours. “I am hungry, starving.”
“No time, we have to hurry.” She cracked the whip again until, finally, a thick copse appeared in a blur of rain on the horizon.
“There!” Clara shouted, her face set in grim determination. “Mooswald!”
These woods were infamous. No one ever entered them after dusk or before dawn. Everyone knew they were haunted by those who worshipped Saturn and Hecate, offering blood sacrifices and screams of terror in return for earthly desires. Within living memory, satanic witches had been dragged here and burned alive by local mobs – and many a criminal, or one deemed criminally insane, had been hanged from its branches.
They entered the woods through an arch of holly, and immediately both the wind and the temperature dropped. The horses’ breath steamed on the air, their great shoulders sagging with fatigue. Although calm within the trees, a deep chill emanated from the green-hued interior, a twisted, gnarled wonderland of haunting beauty. Every branch was coated in emerald moss, the lifeless, spiked tentacles fruitless and leafless. It dripped like a cavern, with water from hidden streams that would soon be frozen. But not a single sound of life came from within. Here, there were no owls, prowling foxes, or howling wolves. Occasionally a wolf’s call came from a distant mountain, but as soon as the trees closed behind them, it was as silent as a church crypt.
“Can we rest now?”
“Not here,” said her mother, passing over a package of bread and cheese as they slowed to a trot. “Eat something if you want.”
The horses, however, baulked at going any further into the woods, sidestepping and putting down their heads.
Clara cracked the whip and yanked the reins. “Come on! What is the matter with you?”
Lenka put a piece of bread into her mouth. The animals were shivering, sweat drying on their coats in ripples. “Enough,” she said. “Stop a minute. Let me down, and I will walk with them.”
Jumping off the cart, she caught the older horse’s bridle, stroked his neck and coaxed him on. The younger one followed the elder’s lead, and together they walked into Mooswald towards the notorious crossroads, where legend had it scores of witches had been buried with stakes driven through their decapitated bodies, and criminals left hanging. Why in hell’s name had they brought her grandmother to die in a place like this?
Chapter Fifteen
Baba Olga’s camp was pitched at the crossroads in a small clearing. Here, a level piece of grass by a fast stream had been settled on by a dozen wagons and carts, exactly as foreseen. Unhooking the cart, Lenka led the two horses over to the stream for a drink before securing them to a tree in case they bolted. They shied at the shadows, eyes wide as darkness descended.
“Don’t be afraid,” she whispered. “We will go home tomorrow.”
But the horses, she knew, were right to be afraid. The place had been bled of human spirit. It brooded, dank and lifeless, the mossy trees so gnarled and warped they resembled otherworldly creatures. Long green twigs poked out like fingers, and whorls on the trunks resembled faces. Some bent crookedly away or into each other as if one or other was dominant. Stare long enough, she thought, and you could see people in those trees. Menacing people…
A shout made her jump. “Lenka!”
Her mother was beckoning. Throwing blankets over the horses, she left them under the trees and walked towards the candlelit wagon. Behind, the blackness of night descended with finality, a door slamming shut. A prison door. Her stomach clenched in a fist of iron. Whatever was coming wasn’t good, and there was no way back, no way out.
Inside, a group of old women huddled together in long black robes, scarves covering their hair. On first impression they resembled gypsies who lived a hard, outdoor life. On closer inspection they were nothing like them. Ancient rather than simply old and wrinkled, their skins were of a dark mustard hue and deeply etched with crisscross crevices, their eyes almost totally obscured by drooping lids. Sunken-mouthed and mostly toothless, all possessed unusually long fingers, which grasped at Lenka’s flesh and pulled her inside. The dream from last night snagged and lodged, something off, something not quite human about them… and a chill passed through her. The hands and fingers digging into her arms were sharp as claws.
She found herself pushed towards the deathbed.
Baba Olga was clearly very near the end. The stench of smouldering herbs overlaying that of human waste, sepsis and disease hit the back of Lenka’s throat, and she tried not to breathe too deeply. Her grandmother was delirious, murmuring and groaning, every now and again shouting, “Stop! No, please wait, not yet… not yet…”
The crone dabbing Baba Olga’s forehead turned at Lenka’s approach and immediately gripped her wrist, anchoring her to the spot. “You must take the gift now or she cannot leave this earth.”
Instinctively, Lenka tried to step back, but the grip cranked tighter.
“Her body, look…” Peeling back the blankets, she revealed the dying woman’s emaciated form. Behind, Lenka’s mother gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. Of course, Lenka reminded herself, Olga was not a particularly old woman. The ones around her were, but Baba Olga could only be in her fifties. Yet she lay here cadaverous, the jaundiced skin puckered and withered, dark purple patches spreading underneath the surface as the tissues bled. Her ribs jutted sharply above the concave hollow of her stomach, tissue skin hanging from the white bones of stick limbs. Olga was a toothless, hairless, living skeleton.