“I will not use anything from such hellish servants. I want my life as it was.”
“What – that of an ignorant peasant girl? Who prides herself on being the prettiest in the village? What use is that a few years down the line when you have many children and you are poor, living in the dirt? Human life is brief and useless – you are lied to by the church, so you live in fear, and enslaved by landowners, so you live in poverty. Whereas we are the old believers, of magic and other realms. We are free, and we have the kind of power they will never have. Do you not see who you are and what you have been given?”
“No. It is diabolical and sick. I don’t want any of it.”
“You have no choice. You are a demonic sorceress, and your task is to use the demons given to you in the name of the Dark Lord. It is the highest of honours.”
She glanced to where the horses snorted and pawed at the ground under the trees. On the outskirts of the camp, they seemed so far away. Could she run, even now, and take the bareback gallop back to Wolfsheule? But after that where would she go? And what could she tell her father? For sure he would denounce whatever she said as evil lies.
“I do not think that would be wise,” said Clara, noticing the direction in which she was looking. “Not after what you have drunk.”
There was truth in that. Indeed, everything was fuzzy, the tiredness overwhelming. She sank to the floor.
“See, they are feasting now. The celebration begins, and it is all for you!”
Through the smoky haze, the revellers were gnawing on the flesh of sacrificed animals, masticating bleeding tissue with what few teeth they had. Cups of blood were passed around, from which they guzzled thirstily. And a group of black toads had been released for entertainment. These were scampering in all directions, some leaping into the fire. It seemed a game, to be quick enough to catch one and bite off its head.
She crumpled onto her side, drifting in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the beat of drums, a steady thump-thump-thump. Through her eyelashes she watched as robes were discarded and they began to writhe and gyrate in a macabre dance of seduction. The stench of burning flesh and fat was sickly, and the fire, the woods and the dancers loomed in and out of focus. The beat pounded into her head as the party began to whirl and spin. They were dancing themselves into a frenzy, whipping their own bodies with sticks until they bled. Faster and faster they spun around and around until, one by one, they fell to the floor, pawing at each other until the whole became a seething, moaning orgy.
She forced her eyes to see, unable to believe the spectacle of such ancient beings with emaciated bodies, their skin hanging in folds from the bones, committing such… With a stab of understanding, something became clear… they were not having sex at all. They were only simulating it, sucking and licking and gyrating but not actually having intercourse. Because they couldn’t.
All the men had been mutilated. In the light of the flames, through the veil of smoke and burning oils, she realised their groins were scarred, deep hollows. Not a single male had genitals.
Except for the one who’d raped her. And he, whoever or whatever he was, had vanished.
Chapter Seventeen
The journey home was utterly silent.
Lenka had been woken at dawn with only a blanket covering her naked, bloodied body, the previous night a blur of frenzied dancing, wailing and feasting.
Her head ached, cuts and bruises smarting with every fresh jolt of the cart. And whatever darkness had been invoked now travelled with her in a cloud, along with the strangest feeling of being observed. She pulled up her skirt and looked at the brand mark on the inside of her thigh. At what point had that happened? The sight triggered a vague recollection of a claw hand holding her still, of gritting her teeth, of searing pain. A cloth covered the spot, and she peeled it back. The sigil consisted of a circle, within it an inverted pentagram, and in the very centre, a black spot with what looked like pins sticking out of it – a child’s drawing of a sun, but black.
“Don’t touch it,” her mother said. “Or it will become septic. Keep it dry.”
“You are not my mother anymore.”
Their silence continued as the cart rocked from side to side along the narrow forest track. Water dripped from the trees and trickled down the steep slopes on either side. It seemed to Lenka that Mooswald was not as menacing as it had been the night before. Or perhaps her fear had gone? What did she care anymore? Nothing could be worse than last night. Nothing. She sat swaying in the cart, seething with shock, rage and hatred.
Grandma Olga’s funeral had been both swift and brutal. At midnight, after the ceremony, when Lenka had lain by the fire drifting in and out of a drugged and exhausted stupor, her grandmother’s body was taken to the crossroads. It had been hard to see what was happening – the men were working quickly and in total darkness, the flames from the dying fire picking out shadowy, robed figures.
The most disturbing part had been the sound of a saw cutting through bone. Had Olga not been butchered and violated enough? Something was then hammered, followed by the solid, dismal echo of grave-digging – spades slicing through soil and the cold finality of a lid clamping shut.
“They had to do it,” her mother explained as they packed up the cart. “Come on, don’t dwell. We must set back.”
“Saw her into bits?”
“A sorceress cannot find her way back to earth. For that reason, she must be decapitated and her head buried deep in the forest, separate from the body. The limbs must then be severed and the heels cut and stuffed with hog hair. It is the way. And an aspen stake is hammered through the chest. Is that what you wanted to know? That is what we do or her body could be used.”
“Used?”
“By the demons that remain attached. Or anyone who raises her spirit after she has gone, by means of necromancy.”
“And one day that will be my fate, too?”
“Yes, of course.”
After they loaded the cart and began the journey home, a great gulf of silence settled between them, broken only with the exchange about the sigil. And it was not until they were on the final leg of the journey, after many hours, that Lenka could bring herself to ask the questions aching inside. In less than an hour, they would arrive back in Wolfsheule.
“I did not see any demons at the ceremony,” she said. “Was that not the point of the thing – to hand over these unseen creatures? Well, I can tell you – there was nothing.”
“What did you expect to see?”
She shrugged. Her jaw was clenched so hard her teeth were grinding; every sinew in her face was tight and every muscle tense. “I don’t know,” she snapped. “Devils with red eyes—”
“Ha! All the fearful images fed to you by your Sunday school teacher? Images are so powerful – you should learn this trick quickly, Lenka.”
She turned away to hide the loathing contorting her features. “So what did you see, then, Mutter? The demons were summoned, so what did you see?”
“Nothing. But I am not the sorceress. I have some small gifts but not the brilliance, the vibration you possess. I would say that particular place held a great deal of sadness, pain and anger. The blackness will never lift from there – throats cut, witches hanged, the soil drenched in blood, terrible hatred and fear trapped within its confines – such sickness, a place of death. But that is as far as I go. I stop at the door, at the threshold of being able to see further than earthbound spirits. My limits are thought transfer and simple spells. Simple magic. The demons are not interested in my kind of energy. They are far more interested in yours.”