The Impaled Bride

by Rhiannon Frater

  My mother looks up from her task and smiles. “See, Erjy. Her skirt will be mended in time to dance with the fair folk in the forest tonight.”

  I giggle as I watch my mother’s slender fingers creating the tiniest of stitches to fix the tear in the hem of the doll’s skirt. She’s mending the dress of my favorite poppet. It is a cloth doll that Ágota made out of bits of scrap material. She has long strips of black fabric for hair, embroidered golden eyes to match mine, and a blue dress that my mother sewed for her.

  My doll sits patiently, her small cloth hands folded on her lap. I tug on her hair and the doll swivels her head to gaze at me.

  “Will you dance with the fair folk?” I ask.

  The poppet covers her mouth, miming that she is giggling.

  My mother laughs with delight, continuing her sewing.

  “Does she really dance with the fair folk?”

  “Sometimes. When I send her out to see what they are plotting.”

  I frown at the thought. “Do they plot against you?”

  “Oh, no. I give them trinkets, sweets, and liquor to keep them out of our garden and home. But sometimes they cause mischief among our neighbors and that is not such a good thing. We do not want to be blamed for the misdeeds of others.”

  The people in the small town nearby know my mother is a witch. They come to her at night to seek advice or have her cast a spell. The men sometimes come to try to kiss her, but she sends them away with a twirl of her fingers. The priest despises her, but his fiery sermons against her fall on deaf ears. People in town know if they come to my mother with a sick child, she will always help them.

  “They will not blame you, Mama. They love you.”

  “Until they become too afraid of me. Remember what I told you.”

  “Always be good to others.”

  “And?”

  “Be kind to the fair folk.”

  My mother smiles at me, her eyes filled with delight. “And?”

  “Keep my true name a secret from everyone,” I say solemnly.

  My mother nods. “You may tell people your Hungarian name, but never your true name. Not even Agy.”

  “Because it can be used against me,” I whisper. The thought frightens me.

  “Yes, my love. That is correct.”

  My mother finally whispered my true name in my ear when I reached the age of six. She told me in the dead of night when the moon was absent from the sky and Ágota was snoring in her bed. My Romanian name, the one she whispered into my being when she was carrying me in her belly, is never to be revealed. Death cannot find me and other practitioners of magic cannot spell against me if they do not know my true name.

  “Does Agy have a true name?”

  She scowls. “No. Her father was foolish and named her openly when I was carrying her. It was too late then. Stupid Hungarian.”

  Ágota and I do not have the same father. Ágota’s lives far away from the Black Forest and mine is dead. I also understand that Ágota is half Hungarian, while I am fully Romanian. Yet, even deeper in our blood, we are descended from witches that fled a world hidden in the shadows of the human one. Sadly, I have yet to exhibit any of the abilities of my lineage.

  My mother concentrates on her work, her dark eyebrows lowered over her eyes. Sometimes I wonder why my mother does not use magic to enrich herself, but I never ask. The question feels wrong somehow, tainted by my own selfishness. Our life is happy and comfortable, yet I long to live like my mother and Ágota once did when my father was alive. What would it be like to live in a grand house with servants? To wear fancy dresses with my hair piled on my head? To wear gold bracelets and jewels?

  I shift on the stool I am seated upon, my feet brushing over the hard earthen floor. My mother raised our cottage out of the ground with her magic. The walls are a framework of twisting roots plastered with clay, and the roof is covered in thick grass and wildflowers. The simple table and stools where my mother and I are seated were gifts from a man thankful for the potions that saved his wife’s life. My mother’s bed is hand-carved from tree trunks and covered in the softest silks, which were given to her by a fey admirer. Ágota and I sleep in the loft on mattresses filled with downy feathers under soft, thick blankets. I am not certain where all the tiny luxuries we enjoy came from, but I know most were given to my mother out of thankfulness. Yet, I cannot help but wonder why she does not elevate herself in status.

  “Erjy, please go fetch your sister. I need the water for our stew and she’s been far too long,” my mother says.

  Reluctantly, I slide off my stool. I want to stay inside with my mother and watch her work, but I do not dare disobey her. I pull open the door and step outside into the bright sunshine. I blink against the glare and tip my chin to observe the clouds gliding high over the forest to cluster around the mountaintops. The clearing is ringed with towering pine trees and the crisp breeze gliding through the branches is laced with their fragrance. The birds sing in the branches of the oak tree that looms over our home while the insects hum in the flowers growing on the roof.

  With a little skip, I seek out my sister in the garden behind our small cottage. Ágota is not by the well at the rear of our garden. Instead, she is leaning against the trunk of the oak tree with the neighbor’s daughter enclosed in her arms.

  I regard their amorous kissing with annoyance, then say in the very loud, shrill voice only a younger sister can wield with great effect, “Agy! Mama wants the water for the stew! Stop kissing Enede!”

  With great annoyance, Ágota releases the blushing blonde girl. “I shall bring the water shortly.”

  “Mama wants it now! For our stew! So we can eat!”

  “Go away. We wish to say our farewells,” Ágota hisses at me.

  “You wish to kiss her more,” I retort.

  “Bah!” She waves her hand at me, the golden bracelet on her wrist glinting in the sunlight.

  Enede giggles, her pretty blue eyes shyly downcast.

  This isn’t the first time I have caught Ágota kissing one of the German girls from the village. My sister isn’t beautiful like my mother. At seventeen, she is tall, slender, and rakish in her gait and manner. The disheveled appearance of her clothing only seems to add to her allure. Her dark hair is cropped close to her shoulders and always messy, giving her the appearance of having just awakened. Her hooded hazel eyes and wild smile make her appear a bit crazed and dangerous. Our mother often warns her about flirting with the girls from the village, but I suspect no power on earth can stop Ágota once she has set her mind to something.

  “Now, Agy!” I stomp my small foot at her.

  Jerking a basket from Enede’s hands, she thrusts it toward me. “A gift from Enede’s family. Give it to mama.”

  I take the heavy burden but refuse to move. “Get the water for mama or else I will tell her what you were doing.”

  “I will hex you,” Ágota grumbles, waving her hands at me. “Make you grow a tail so I can grab it and swing you about.”

  “No, you will not. Mama will never allow it.”

  “We shall see,” Ágota says, smirking.

  “I better return home,” Enede says reluctantly, eyeing the position of the sun. “My father expects me.”

  “I should walk you home to make certain you are safe,” Ágota replies, and they give each other secretive smiles.

  I may be a little girl, but I am not naive. Enede’s family lives close enough that we can see the smoke from her family’s hearth rising above the trees. This is yet another ploy by my beloved sister to steal kisses.

  “Mama wants the water, Agy. Now.”

  Ágota growls in her throat and I swear that Enede stares at her with even more adoration.

  “Fine! I am getting the water!” Ágota kisses Enede’s cheek before stomping toward the well.

  With a very red face, Enede darts away, her long blonde plaits bouncing against her back.

  Satisfied, I twirl about and return to my mother’s side. I am pleased to see that she’
s finished her task. My doll twirls about to show off her mended skirt before dashing off.

  “Agy is bringing the water. Enede brought this.” I set the basket on the table.

  My mother flips back the covering to reveal a stack of unleavened bread and a slab of venison wrapped in a cloth. “Oh, how kind of her father. It seems his leg is feeling better if he is hunting again.”

  “Well, you gave him a potion,” I remind her.

  “Yes, but it was only honey water. He merely twisted his knee. It just needed time to heal, but he insisted on a potion.” My mother shrugs a shoulder. “If he believed it worked, that is good enough.”

  The door bangs open. Ágota trudges in carrying the heavy bucket filled with water. “Can I give Erjy a tail?”

  My mother raises her head, observes my sister for a moment, then bursts into laughter. “Did she interrupt your romancing?”

  “You knew! You sent her out on purpose!” Ágota looks quite miffed. She staggers over to the hearth, water dangerously close to sloshing over the rim.

  “How many times must I tell you to be careful, Ágota. The young women of this town will marry men and have their babies. Your future lies elsewhere.” My mother attempts to smooth Ágota’s wild hair, but my sister dodges her and sets the bucket down.

  “What if I do not want to be elsewhere?” Ágota sticks out her chin defiantly, her hazel eyes aflame.

  Our mother sighs, shaking her head. “Agy, you know that we can never stay in one place for more than a few years. It is too dangerous.”

  “Maybe we should not have let the villagers know we are witches,” Ágota mutters.

  My mother sighs. “Agy, you know that it is our nature to serve others with our magic.”

  “To our detriment!”

  “Can you hide who you are?” my mother asks, her gaze troubled.

  Ágota fidgets, her fingers flexing at her side. “Maybe I want to remain here. Maybe I enjoy it enough not to move away. Maybe when you decide to move on I will stay here.”

  My mother flicks her hand and the water from the bucket arcs into the pot over the fire. “Will you?”

  Pressing her lips into a thin line, Ágota does not answer.

  I am troubled by the thought of being separated from my sister.

  “Will Agy get married, too, if she stays here?”

  “No!” Ágota exclaims in horror. “Men are disgusting!”

  “Agy will not marry if she does not choose to,” my mother answers, ignoring her older daughter’s outburst.

  “I will never marry. Never! No one can make me!” Ágota sets her chin in defiance.

  My mother pinches her cheek affectionately. “No one will, Agy. Now help me chop up the vegetables for the stew.”

  “Will I marry?” I ask, curious.

  I had not thought of the possibility before. My life with my mother and sister feels so perfect, I cannot imagine another.

  “Yes, you will,” my mother replies.

  I sense that she is troubled and stare at her fearfully.

  Seeing my expression, my mother kneels before me, a smile gracing her red lips. Taking my hand, she turns it palm upward. Her long finger tracing over the lines, she says, “You will marry once for love and once for power. And you will love with all your heart two people.”

  “Two great loves?” Ágota peers over my mother’s shoulder at my hand.

  “Is that good, Mama?”

  My mother folds my fingers over my palm. “Yes. To love is good. But remember, even love does not protect you from heartbreak. Guard your heart, Erjy. Love only those worthy of you.”

  Staring at her own palm, Ágota says, “What of me?”

  “How do you think I know you will never marry?” My mother pats Ágota’s cheek before striding to the basket of vegetables gathered from the garden.

  My sister thrusts her palm at my face. I never noticed before, but there is a lattice of lines crisscrossing in all directions. “What do you think it means, Erjy?”

  “You will kiss many, many girls,” I decide after a moment of contemplation.

  Ágota grins. “Good.”

  I lean against the table and watch my mother slice the venison into chunks while Ágota furiously chops the vegetables into pieces. The poppets that Ágota has made for me help tidy, sweeping away the refuse and disposing of it. The smoke rising from the fire forms a snake that slithers along the ceiling before vanishing into a regular plume as it escapes through the flue.

  The conversation turns to the coming new moon and the possible spells they should create together. Every new moon my sister and mother set new spells deep into the ground beneath our feet. Though I am unable to assist them, I am allowed to watch from within a protection circle. I am always mesmerized by how the intricate golden designs float in the air before settling into the dirt, glowing brightly until they vanish at the end of the casting.

  “We need to refresh all the wards,” my mother says. “It is time. They are beginning to fade and we cannot move on until summer.”

  “Must we leave?” I ask sadly.

  We have lived in the Black Forest in Germany for many years, moving from time to time to a different village. My mother will make another cottage that looks much like this one, but I like our home.

  “I thought perhaps we should travel higher into the mountains,” my mother answers. “It will be beautiful up there.”

  Ágota makes a disgusted face. “We are always moving.”

  “We have been here two years,” my mother reminds her.

  “The villagers will miss us,” I decide.

  A few times people from other villages where we lived for a time find my mother. They seek her out, desperate for her help. Some journey great lengths to find her. Every time this occurs, we leave the area.

  “Oh! I forgot! There is an alp tormenting several women in the village,” Ágota says. “Enede says her mother is having awful dreams.”

  “Why do you believe it is an alp? Could it not be regular nightmares?” My mother starts to drop the meat into the boiling water.

  “They complain of something heavy upon their chest. It is only a matter of time before they suspect it is supernatural.”

  “I shall have to prepare a vanquishing spell.” My mother adds the vegetables and wipes her brow with the back of her hand.

  I ask the question burdening me since her earlier comment. “Did someone find us?”

  My mother’s eyes dart toward me. “Why would you ask?”

  “Because you are speaking about moving.”

  Ágota notices my mother’s subdued expression and arches her eyebrows. “Mama, have we been found?”

  Hesitating, she cleans her hands on her apron before walking to the center of the room. Stretching out her fingers, she calls for the intricate pattern of the protection ward. It glows beneath our feet, delicate swirls alive with power. The design is a vibrant glorious gold, except for one section near the door. It glows an ominous red.

  “What does that mean?” Ágota asks worriedly.

  I’d never seen the protection ward alter in color.

  “It means danger is nearby. Something powerful. Maybe it is the alp,” my mother answers. “We shall deal with it, renew the wards, and—”

  The knock on the door startles us all. The chimes that ring a warning when any mortal approaches are silent. The light streaming through our one tiny window is dim in the fading day.

  “Is it him?” Ágota whispers.

  My mother stares at her with wide frightened eyes. “I do not know. I sense nothing.”

  “Neither do I,” Ágota answers. “But if it is him—”

  “Do what we discussed. Do not falter, Agy. I trust you to take care of your sister if it is him.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  When they do not answer, fear blooms in my chest. What dark secret are they keeping from me? Why is my mother so afraid when she is so powerful?

  My mother calmly removes her apron with trembling fingers and sets i
t aside. She gestures to the loft. “I love you, my darlings. Never forget that. Now go!”

  Without another word, Ágota sweeps me up in her arms and carries me to the ladder that leads to the loft. I scramble upward as she floats past me. I crawl to my bed beneath the low ceiling while Ágota takes her position in front of me. Her long, skinny fingers flex as she raises them toward the door, ready to assist my mother.

  The ward fades into the earth as my mother tucks her hair back from her face and squares her shoulders.

  The knock comes again. More urgently this time.

  My mother hoists open the door and seals her doom.

  Chapter 4

  I am weak.

  So very weak.

  My body struggles to heal what it cannot. The blood I drank is dwindling in its power while the man I stole it from smolders in the corner of the mausoleum. The cruel irony is that feeding may quench my unbearable hunger, but the aftermath is sheer torture. My spine is severed and the bones attempt to mend around the stake only to be broken again.

  Yet, I am glad for the pain. It releases me from the terrible memory of my mother’s demise.

  I do not understand why my thoughts have turned to the morbid aspects of my past. My mind has always wandered whenever I go mad with pain and hunger, but my memories have never been this vivid, nor have they flowed in sequential order. Is this Vlad’s doing? A new way to torment me in hopes of breaking my spirit so I will relent to his will?

  Smoke, thick and cloying with the scent of burning flesh, pulls me back to the night I do not wish to remember. This is the one memory I wish to forget, but it clings to me like the web of a spider trapping me in its power.

  I dig my fingers into the bier, striving to fight against the sensation of being sucked down into the mire of my memories. Tears flood my eyes as I strain to retain my hold on this wretched reality, but darkness fills my mind and I fall into an abyss.

  And then I am a child again, cowering in my bed, peeking over the edge of the covers into the room below. Ágota crouches beneath the low roof, fingers flexing at her side, swirls of her magic illuminating the air.

  The door to our cottage creaks open.