Tanglewood Grotto

by Susan Finlay

  “Okay. I was taking food to Tante Lotte. I promised her I would bring it this morning. She’s waiting for me.”

  “What? Where is she? How long has this been going on?” She tried to remember if anyone had reported other disappearance of food recently, but none came to mind. She did, however, remember hearing about blankets and miscellaneous supplies disappearing from around the village.

  “I found her yesterday on accident. She’s staying in a tiny . . . uh, a little cave that she calls a grotto. It’s cool. Looks like somebody scooped it out of the ground like someone scoops ice cream.”

  Sofie sighed. “Where is it? Take me there.”

  He looked up into her eyes. “Can I take the bag of food to her? She looked really hungry.”

  “Not right now. We’ll leave the food here. I want to talk to her, first. And you’re in trouble. You know better than to sneak around like that.”

  “Sorry.”

  Sofie turned over in her bed. Knowing that interaction was one of the last times she saw her son made her want to cry. Was he upset with her? Was she a horrible mother? And here she was expecting another baby.

  She tossed again, and now pictured Max slinging his sledge hammer as he tried to break loose some of the rock near the building site, sweat dripping down his face. He worked harder than any man she’d ever known. What was going through his mind right now? Was he frantic to find Tobias? Was he happy that his daughter and ex-wife were in this time period? Was he in danger? Her brain would not stop.

  A wave of nausea hit her and she jumped up, carefully made her way outside, and took in several gulps of cool night air. As the nausea began to subside, she noticed the night air was taking on a chill, and she wrapped the blanket she’d carried outside around her body.

  A rustling sound that seemed to be coming from the bushes across the street caught her attention. Sofie stared, trying to figure out what it was, but she couldn’t see well enough. She took a few steps forward, then paused to listen. Yes, definitely movement there. What was it? After a few breathless moments, a ragged-looking dog with something between its teeth emerged and scampered down the street, and then darted between two houses. Right in front of one of those houses, about three houses away from where she stood, a man was standing in the middle of the road, wearing a big hat and long cloak. Where had he come from and what was he doing outside this late?

  The man glanced around, then started walking toward her. Was this the murderer? Was he lurking around the town’s streets and hunting for his next victim?

  Part of her wanted to stay outside and find out who the man was, but fear instinct and an obligation to protect her unborn baby from any potential danger took over. She turned around and rushed into the house.

  Helmut was standing in the front room, moonlight from the window highlighting his face. “What were you doing outside?”

  After she filled him in on what had happened, he went outside to check, but by then the man was gone.

  “Maybe the dog was his and he was looking for it,” Helmut said, shrugging, but all the same looking worried for her.

  “Then why didn’t he follow the dog? Why did he just stand there? And when he did start walking, why was he was coming toward me?”

  “Perhaps he thought you needed help. You must have seemed like a strange apparition, all wrapped up in that blanket.”

  Sofie bit her lower lip and felt her face grow warm. “Sorry, I didn’t think of that. You’re probably right.”

  “It’s also possible he recognized that you were outside my house and, well, knowing that Johan was murdered, he might have been concerned.”

  “That too makes sense. I guess we should forget about it, right?”

  He nodded, then said, “I will lock the door, if it would make you feel better.”

  “It would. Thank you.”

  As she again tried to get to sleep, visions of the man in the street accosted her. Perhaps Helmut was right, he might have just been a concerned neighbor, but if true, why didn’t he say something, wave to her or come over and knock on the door to see if everyone was okay? You’re being silly. It was just a neighbor. Then another thought tumbled in: What if it was Vikktor? Maybe he was skulking around town, lying low, doing his ‘business’, a shadow in the dark of night. Might he have recognized her? She pulled her blanket up to her neck. Well, that didn’t make sense either. If he recognized her, wouldn’t he have taken off in the opposite direction? All the same, the thought made her involuntarily squeeze her eyes closed, as if to drive the thought away. How could he or anyone else know who she was from that far away? She certainly hadn’t been able to see the man’s face. But she had seen his posture and his tall hat and cloak. Something seemed oddly familiar about him.

  Sleep eluded Sofie for almost an hour, random snippets invading her thoughts, until a fog gradually shuttled her to rest.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MAX WATCHED KARL and Konrad ride away, feeling left out and wondering what he was supposed to do now. There were only the two riding horses. Karl could have used a horse from his wagon, but would have had to borrow a saddle from Raimund. Witnessing the argument that had occurred, that option was definitely not on the table. It was only logical, he told himself, that they’d left him behind because someone had to stay, and both of the other men, unlike Max, spoke fluent German, a necessary skill when it came to recruiting searchers. But standing in the road, Max was feeling a bit useless right now. Better practice my German and become proficient real soon.

  He knew he shouldn’t try to speak to Raimund. What could he do if Raimund went berserk? The guy was much bigger than Max. Max shook his head, turned and, against his better judgment, went in search of Raimund, for lack of anything else to do.

  A pervading smell of hay mixed with horse droppings, as Max entered the barn, brought forth an unpleasant memory of being in a stable—the heated argument with his son, the long walk afterwards, and the clunk on his head—giving him an overwhelming desire to turn and walk away, but he forced himself to ignore the feeling.

  The interior of the building, Max observed, was typical of the period: heavy timber throughout, vertical studs filled with wattle and daub panels, tie-beams, and a massive curving timber, known as a cruck, arching from the wall footing to the outer side of the arcade post to brace the structure.

  Farm tools—some he recognized and some he didn’t—hung in an orderly fashion from nails or hooks along the walls, away from stalls and pens. Wooden crates, barrels, and bales of hay were stacked in various neat nooks and corners. A couple saddles were draped over railings, and buckets sat atop a couple hay stacks.

  Hearing various whinnies, grunts, and mooing, Max walked around to check out the stalls and pens. Five dairy cows, six adult pigs with about a dozen piglets, eight goats, at least a dozen sheep—he couldn’t count them all because they kept moving and hiding—and eight horses filled the stalls. Max almost stepped on one of the chickens that apparently had free range. He turned and walked back toward the entrance. Next to the doors, on another wall, were several hoes, pitchforks, a spade, and an ax.

  Another memory in another stable, threatened his footing, making him stumble and grab hold of a post for stability. He winced and closed his eyes for a moment to clear his head.

  He closed his eyes, and the memory flooded his mind. Heavy breathing and footsteps—at least two pairs—and horse hooves had plodded across the floor. Max had held his breath. He and Ryan were inside one of the unused stalls, next to their horses, for the moment out of sight of whomever had entered. On the other side, if he remembered right, was nothing but a few crates and bales of hay. Unless they got up and looked around the corner, they couldn’t see the barn door from their location.

  Max struggled to remember the layout of the building. He remembered a couple items hanging from nails on the outside of the stall walls. Standing up, he reached out and searched for some defense in case he needed something. His left hand touched steel, but as he tried to grasp
for it, someone grabbed his hand. The man standing there spat out a slew of German words, none of which sounded particularly friendly.

  Max had tried to remember some of the German words Sofie and Birgitta had taught him. He said, “Wir wollen nichts tun. Wir wollen Freunde sein.”

  “Nein. Nicht Freunde. Betreten verboten!”

  Max tried to jerk free, but the man tightened his grip and another man was suddenly inside the stall and pulling Max out. The next thing Max knew, he heard a loud thud and a groan, and the man dropped to the floor. Turning, Max saw Ryan standing close, wielding a wooden pail.

  The man rolled over, his hands rubbing his sore head. He said something, and then the other man was running at him, carrying something long and metal. Max’s first thought was ‘sword’, but it wasn’t shiny. When two prongs stabbed him in the abdomen, he remembered the hayfork he’d seen last night near the entrance when they’d first entered the barn. The man pulled it back out and turned and aimed it at Ryan.

  Max lunged at the man and knocked him down. When Max looked up, the first man, whom Ryan had hit, was struggling to get up. Max yelled to Ryan, “Run! Get our horses and ride as fast as you can.”

  For once the boy did what Max told him. Max followed Ryan and their horses through the barn, half running, half stumbling because of his wounds, which he was covering with his hands. Warm blood oozed over his fingers, coating them like a glove. His head was woozy and he thought he might pass out or die from blood loss, which he saw was significant when he glanced over his shoulder once—puddles dotted the ground behind him, leaving a trail that would make him easy to track—but he kept moving.

  He vaguely heard the German men talking behind him, but his head was fuzzy and he knew he probably wouldn’t have understood them even if they’d been speaking English.

  Max shuddered, pulling himself back from the terrible memory. Surveying the rest of the building, still a bit shaky, he finally spied Raimund, holding a rusted pitchfork and jabbing at bales of hay with it. Max sat on a bale of hay off to the side, watching Raimund work. Max thought the sons and hired hands must all be working the fields. Max didn’t know what they would be doing at this time of year.

  He studied the man, wondering why he was so angry, but knowing Raimund’s mother and daughter, he figured maybe it was a family trait. Birgitta had been strange and a loose cannon, hadn’t she? She had wanted to kill Ryan, because she thought he was evil for seducing her granddaughter. And, well, the granddaughter was definitely not all there.

  During Raimund’s rant, his face had turned bright red and Max had thought the guy was going to have a heart attack or stroke, if not attack Karl. What was Max supposed to do if Raimund went crazy and started swinging his ax? Did anybody think of that?

  Max wasn’t sure if Raimund had seen him or not. He wasn’t going to draw attention to himself, either way.

  Raimund set down the pitchfork and picked up a bale of hale with his bare hands and tossed it across the barn floor. Then another, and another. Max twisted his mouth as he watched. Maybe I should move to a different spot, he thought, as Raimund continued tossing the hay and got closer to where he was sitting.

  Max stood up and took a few steps to the right, edging toward the barn door.

  Raimund glared at him, his face again turning red, and then picked up the pitchfork again and held it straight out—toward Max.

  Okay, time to leave the barn. Walking backwards so he could keep an eye on the crazy man, Max slinked out the barn door, then turned around and looked for a shady spot to sit and wait.

  Man, he didn’t like sitting around while everybody else was busy. He’d rather help out, or better yet, get started on the search for Tobias. Since neither was really an option at the moment, he walked toward the side of the house, where a large tree in the middle of a grassy area looked inviting.

  He sat down and rested his elbows on his knees, staring out at the fields where men were working. From here they looked like dots.

  After several minutes, he closed his eyes and drifted in and out of sleep. Sometime later, a sound coming from the house caught his attention and made his eyes pop open. What the hell was that?

  It sounded like someone was calling for help. Was Felda in trouble? Had Raimund taken his anger inside? Then someone screamed.

  Max jumped to his feet and ran into the house.

  INGRID AND JOHANNA talked for what must have been a couple hours until the girl was invited by her second-cousins to go to market with them. Ingrid decided Johanna was an altogether lovely charming girl, full of spirit and well mannered. When Johanna left, Ingrid went into the kitchen to see if Werner’s wife, Gretchen, needed any help. The food she was preparing smelled scrumptious, making Ingrid’s stomach growl. She could get used to eating like this. The woman might not be a gourmet cook, but everything she’d served so far was hardy and darned tasty, certainly a far cry better than the measly berries and roots she’d been eating when she was living in the grotto. Ingrid knew she shouldn’t expect it to continue. Her welcome in their house wouldn’t last forever. They already had a large family and didn’t need or want her. Ja, once Sofie, Ryan, and Helmut and his family returned to their homes, she would be sent packing. She doubted Helmut would welcome her into his home, either. He’d been friendly enough to her in front of other people, but when she’d tried to talk to him alone, he’d made excuses to leave. It hadn’t gone unnoticed that he didn’t want her tagging along on the search for Vikktor, either. Nein, Helmut had grown up and wasn’t the sullen teen she remembered, but he was quiet, moody, and had his own demons. She’d seen that in his eyes as he’d paced the floors.

  “Are you sure you do not want me to do anything, Gretchen?” she asked again. “I can cut-up vegetables or stir a pot for you.”

  “Danke, I appreciate your offer, but you are a guest. I would not hear of it. You sit and rest. We can talk while I work, if you like.”

  Ingrid plopped down on a hard pine chair and it squeaked loudly, making her face flush. She hoped Gretchen didn’t notice. If the woman did, she didn’t show it. Hard of hearing? Absorbed in her own thoughts? Or politely ignoring her guest’s faux pas? What did Gretchen know about Werner’s past? Did she know he had time traveled? Did she know about his brother, Vikktor? Had she ever met him? The conversations about Vikktor and the time travel had taken place in private. Had Werner kept her out of the room because she was in the dark about his past?

  Deciding to approach her with caution, she asked, “How long have you lived here in Riesen? Werner told me that when you and he were first married, you lived in the Scwabien Forest and he built a stone cottage for you.”

  She turned to face Ingrid and smiled. “Oh how we loved the forest. I often miss it, but I like living near our children and their families. Our two eldest children moved away after they got married and needed to find jobs. They both came to this area. It wasn’t until our three youngest did likewise that we decided it was time for us to make a change, too.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Hmm, let me see; it must have been twenty-eight or twenty-nine years ago.”

  Ingrid squirmed on the hard chair, hoping it wouldn’t squeak again, her backside feeling a bit sore. Was there more to that story? Sofie was thirty. Did they leave because she had been kidnapped?

  “Did you and Werner get this house right away when you arrived in Riesen?”

  She smiled. “Oh, ja, we did. The most amazing thing happened. Werner’s oldest and dearest friend gave it to Werner. Can you imagine? It surprised us that anyone would do something like that. All I can say is the man is one of the richest and most generous people I know. Do you know, he could have lived in it himself or sold it, but he said he’d rather it go to a deserving family who would take good care of it.”

  “Really? How did he get it?”

  “He inherited it. That’s what I heard, anyway.”

  “Who is the man? Is he still living?”

  “You know, that is the strang
e thing. I never actually met him.”

  “And you don’t know his name?”

  The front door opened and then banged closed.

  “Oma, we are back from the market. Where are you?”

  “In the kitchen,” Gretchen said, smiling at Ingrid. “Come and show me what you bought?”

  After that, the room exploded with the overflowing energy from half a dozen teenagers, all talking at once, and Gretchen became preoccupied with them, leaving Ingrid alone with the thought of Werner being given a house.

  Mein Gott! No one gives away a house to someone. Not without a damn good reason. And, if it was true, who was the mysterious friend who just happened to inherit a house and give it to Werner? And who owned it before that friend inherited it? Ingrid was terribly suspicious. Did Werner know that Vikktor and Sofie would later own the house? What was Werner hiding? That esel! He’s as bad as Vikktor, to be sure.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  TOBIAS AVERTED HIS eyes from the sudden light streaming in when someone opened the door or hatch or whatever it was. He wanted to see who was there, but was blinded and, while he tried, he could see only a shadow against the light. A second later the door slammed shut, momentarily blinding him yet again by the darkness. Did somebody come inside? Did he bring food? Please let there be food; he was starving! Oh, wait. There was light coming in through the doorway. What did that mean? Outside light? Light from a fire or lanterns? He squirmed and, leaning toward the spot where he’d seen the light, tried to see the doorway or the shadow of a person. “Is anybody there?” he asked. Should he get down from his spot and risk getting bitten or eaten by whatever was down here with him?

  Like his mother told him when he got overexcited, he took a deep breath and let it go, to calm his pounding heart, then shifted his weight as he climbed down. His first foot touched the hard floor, and in that instant something groaned. He let out an involuntary squeal and yanked his foot back up, thinking for a second that he’d stepped on an animal, but that wasn’t possible, was it? His foot had definitely touched the rock-hard surface—not a soft animal surface. Okay. Gonna try it again. He eased his foot back down. Hard surface, no groan. Then the other foot. Good. He carefully stepped toward where the light came from, now that he knew where the door had to be.