by Tracy Falbe
She looked back at his face as if she could not believe that he had beguiled her at all, and then Altea saw it! Gretchen’s strong nose and high brow. Old age and wrinkles had not obscured Gretchen’s features entirely, and Altea recognized the kinship in Thal.
“What did you say your name was?” Altea said.
“Thal Lesky,” he said.
She stared at him, trying to convince herself that he did not look like Gretchen.
“The woman who lived here was my mother,” Thal said. Looking over the ruins, he whispered, “I remember the place well now.”
Altea shook her head. Thal was her age. “You’re too young. You can’t be her son,” she said.
Her statement confused him. He touched his cheek as if to confirm that his skin was young and smooth.
“She was an old woman. The oldest woman I knew,” Altea said.
He looked around as if the truth were closing in on him, and Altea began to wonder if he was stricken with delusions. Gretchen had never mentioned having children, but Altea had never asked her either.
“I have to go,” she announced and started walking away again.
The man shook off his confusion and followed. “Please wait. How did you know Gretchen? What were you doing here?”
She walked faster.
“What happened to her?!” Thal demanded.
Again Altea pitied his agony. If he was some long lost son of Gretchen’s and just returned to Prague, then he would be baffled and alarmed.
She turned around. He stopped a few paces away. His terrible anticipation for her answer pained her.
“I’m so sorry. She has died,” Altea made herself say. Her generic words entirely avoided the true horror of her demise.
His hat slid from his hand. Fury and grief rippled across his face, transforming it with savage intensity. Altea’s instincts quaked with warning. The immensity of his emotions bulged against the cage of his self control. She wanted to run away, but to leave after giving him such awful news was intolerably rude.
Blinking his eyes and looking away, Thal said, “She died of old age?”
Obviously he wished for her fate to be so normal, and Altea wanted to lie to him, but her hesitation made him suspicious. Slowly his eyes turned on her with the promise that he always knew truth from falsehood.
“I’m so sorry,” Altea whispered.
“Tell me what happened,” he said.
She struggled to find the words. Her wit that was normally so quick-footed was stuck in mud.
“Where is she buried?” Thal pressed.
“She’s not,” Altea confessed.
“Everyone is buried,” he argued.
“Not witches! Her ashes were dumped in the river,” Altea moaned.
“She did not die in this place,” Thal said and pointed back at the burned out cottage.
Altea realized that he thought she meant that Gretchen had died in the house fire. “A witch. Everyone said she was a witch. The Court condemned her and she was killed in the square,” Altea said quietly.
She watched the man go cold, frozen by the ugly monstrous truth.
“Who did that to her?” he asked with enormous seriousness simmering with brutal intent.
Altea’s mouth fell open. How could anyone do what had been done to Gretchen? That was the great question. It had been boring through Altea’s guts since the execution. She knew who had done it but would she ever understand how?
“Who did it?” Thal hissed.
Altea whirled away from him and ran. She ran faster than she had ever run before. The little dog yipped at her heels but then relented and fell behind. She sped down the hill and rounded the bend. The city’s towers and chimneys and walls filled her view and welcomed back its daughter that had dared to tread beyond the walls.
Chapter 19. Voice to His Grief
Pistol ran back to Thal and whined.
“We’ll track her soon,” he whispered.
Woodenly he retrieved his hat from the dirt. He brushed it off and put it back on. As the brim shaded his eyes tears fell. He looked back at the cottage where he had last seen his mother. After arriving in Prague yesterday, he had remembered the place. The desolate ruin had punished him for taking so long to get here. Perhaps he could have saved her.
He had spent the morning following a cold trail that bore her scent. After losing it quite a distance from the city he had come back to start over when he heard the young woman in the house.
My mother was burned at the stake.
He shuddered. Captain Jan had threatened him with the cleansing fire. Thal hated himself for not protecting her, but he had been a wolf in the forest. He had chosen the forest and left the world of men behind. Left his mother behind. The poignant memory of their parting came back to him. Her smile had been sad. A little snip of hair to remember him by had been all she asked.
But this world had come back for him. Had his mother summoned him? Who else could have had the power except for she who had born him?
He collapsed to his knees and clutched his head. His mother was dead! Burned alive in front of a crowd. She did not deserve that. Those who had done it would pay. This certainty hardened inside his heart like hot bronze cooling inside a mold. That was why he was here. She had called him back from the forest for this terrible purpose. But why had she not used her power to defend herself? Perhaps she could not. Thal could not recall seeing her ever hurt anything. She had always made him slaughter the rabbits and chickens.
He rocked from side to side groaning with grief. His longing to see his mother would never be fulfilled. He could not even visit her grave. Any answers she might have been able to give him were out of reach just like her ashes in the river. Not even bones could he find. Nothing.
Too long he had been gone. The years had slipped away in the timeless forest. Thal looked up at the closest tree. It was a marvelous oak with spreading branches and a shapely crown. He had last looked upon that tree when it was little better than a sapling. He had gripped its slender trunk and spun around it at play. Now it was fat with the growth of many rings. He had been gone for decades. That was why the young woman had said he was too young to be Gretchen’s son. And Gretchen had apparently lived a long time. Had she been happy all those years alone? He hoped so. Obviously some people had cared for her. That young woman crying in the garden was proof of that.
But why had this community turned on her so drastically? She had always been called witch, but not everyone had reviled her. Some people had valued her. And now that Thal was home he remembered better his juvenile years spent with her in Prague. His earlier years when they had been with his father remained a foggy mess, but the gentle kindness of his mother came back to him with clarity. She had raised him to be thoughtful and generous. She had always insisted that he not fight with the other boys, even when they attacked him. Flexing his hands, he understood now that it was because he was stronger than them. He could have hurt them or worse.
He was going to hurt people now. It would not be the flaring violence of self defense as it had been with the bandits. Nor would it be the hunt for food that was normal and right. He would descend into that predatory state special to mankind and do the dark work of revenge. His heart settled upon his duty with an unquestioning lack of debate.
Thal stood up. He trembled from the strain of his grief that was still far from expressed. He returned to the cold trail that led down the back side of the hill away from the city. He examined the traces of scent left by those who had pursued his mother. The evidence of the chase was almost gone, washed away by rain and time, but he still gathered a few scents that he could hope to recognize again.
Then Thal circled back to the ruined cottage. It was time to track the young woman. There had been enough of a relationship between the women for the young one to come back here and weep for the executed witch. He suspected that she knew who had committed the atrocity against Gretchen.
Thal stooped over her clear footprints in the ashes at the thr
eshold. The odor of burned wood was strong but her recent feminine presence was vivid against his senses. Her scent soothed him as he memorized it. The floral aroma of her budding womanhood blurred his grief and made him think about his masculine desires to an extent that no other woman had heretofore inspired.
Dreamily he recalled her pretty face. He had seen a thick golden braid hanging beneath her head wrap when she had run away. He imagined that hair freed from its plait, like on the High Priestess card Emerald had shown him.
Sighing, he traced her footprint and admired how she had comported herself. He had frightened her yet she had controlled her fear. Caught unaware and physically vulnerable as she was, she had still hoped to get away…and she had. Perhaps her brave façade was a sign that she possessed a strength of character that could match his own.
Sadly he ran a hand up the remnant of the door frame as he stood straight. For the first time he regretted choosing the forest. He should have stayed here and taken care of his mother.
Adrift among his terrible emotions, he headed down the narrow lane. He strode with deadly purpose but inside he was staggering under a grievous burden.
Pistol tracked the young woman eagerly. Thal did not even need to do anything. When they reached the busier streets closer to the city wall Pistol slowed down and had to sort out the many overlapping tracks and dung smeared by moving wheels. Thal stared straight ahead. The other people on the streets were mere ghosts in his perception.
Pistol led him through the New Tower gate. In his overwhelmed state, Thal did not notice the gate guards eyeballing him as he entered. His strong physique and weapons marked him as a mercenary or worse, but he was not strange enough to stop. Men of various harsh occupations were not so rare a sight on the streets of Prague.
The trail left by the young woman veered onto a narrow side street instead of following the main avenue into a square. Thal paused and looked toward the open square. A great hall with a pointy tower overlooked the space filled with people and carts and stalls. His spirit quaked. Was this where Gretchen had been executed? Thal tossed his rampaging feelings into a pit that they could not jump out of. He was not ready to confront the place where his mother had met her agonizing end.
He followed his waiting dog. They passed fine residences. The houses were clean. Flowers grew from pots alongside the doorways and fancy wrought iron rails led up to paneled wood doors, many painted brightly. Children dashed back and forth rolling hoops or simply chasing each other. One little girl ran across Thal’s path and stopped. Their eyes met and she gaped at him as if she had blundered across a satyr in a meadow. He was too ravaged inside to muster a friendly smile for her, but her bright innocent eyes reminded him that not all that was human was bad. He stepped around her and went on his way.
He continued to follow his dog. Pistol went to two young boys sitting on a doorstep. Sun was beaming down on them, and they were sorting a collection of pebbles.
Slowly Thal walked up to them. He ran a hand along the rail and then put his fingers to his nose. This was the place. The little boys stared at him.
“Do you know my Papa?” the boy asked.
“Maybe. Who is he?” Thal said.
“He’s the Magistrate,” the boy said proudly.
“Is he?” Thal murmured. He looked up at every window across the front of the house. None of the curtains fluttered, but she was in there. Pistol bounded up the steps between the boys and scratched on the door.
“Hey!” the youngest boy shouted.
The door opened and a woman with a frilly apron stepped out. “Who are you?” she demanded of Thal. Intrepid suspicion sparked in her eyes. She beckoned the boys to her sides.
“I seem to have the wrong house. Forgive the disturbance,” he said and called Pistol down the steps. He was too upset to think of a way to lure the young woman and speak with her. Now that he knew where she lived, he could monitor the area and encounter her again.
Thal plodded away. He headed toward the Kamenny Most. His grief needed some time to settle. He needed solitude. The indifferent souls filling the streets pressed painfully against his spirit. The normalcy of their daily routine contrasted too sharply with his internal devastation.
Oblivious to the sights around him, he crossed the bridge. The serenity of the flowing water gave him no comfort. Without ceremony these waters had carried away the dusty remains of Gretchen.
Upon reaching the Little Quarter on the other side of the Vltava, he headed toward the home of Lady Carmelita. Her home was quite new, built only ten years ago by her late husband. Ornately carved stone blocks framed the windows and doors. A balcony spread across the whole front of the house, and the red tiled roof reached up to a small tower. A graceful archway formed the front porch and framed the gorgeous front doors that were carved with scenes from Greek mythology.
Thal did not go to the front doors. There was no reason to spoil the cheerful household with his dark mood. On his way around back he passed two men with a cart and a shovel cleaning up horse apples on the gravel drive. At the farthest flung servants’ entry he slipped into the wing where he and his friends had been given rooms.
The musicians were not there, which suited Thal. He sat on the edge of his narrow bed and did nothing. Pistol nudged his fingers but he lacked the spirit to even pat the dog’s head.
In a near stupor he sat there slumped for most of the afternoon. Memories of his mother gushed through his head. They had gotten along well. Only one bad fight had marred their relationship. He had been about fifteen or sixteen and asked his mother when his father was going to come live with them. She had said that he would never come to Prague. Thal had then stated that he would go to his father because he wanted to see him. His mother had become very angry and begged him not to go.
Thal rubbed his temple, straining to remember where his father had lived. Why could he not remember? Why had his mother not wanted him to go to his father? They had been happy together once, as a family should be.
He shook his head. Memories from his distant youth did not matter so much today. He knew his purpose now. In her final moments his mother had called him back from his wolf life. Thal felt this truth in his bones, and he would perform in accordance with her final wishes. Perhaps her magic had not given her the power to defend herself, but the magic that worked in him had no restrictions. He possessed all the strength and resolute ferocity of the predator.
Slowly he drew out his pistol and then his sword. Next he took off his cloak and shirt and spread his fur across his lap. For a long time he petted the glistening fur. Its thick softness against his sensitive fingertips connected him with his deepest nature.
Eventually, he flipped the fur over and silently read the blood-lettered words. Tonight the moon would be full and he would call upon that sacred energy that oversaw all the ages of the Earth. In his beast state he would give voice to his grief.
******
Brother Vito sent everyone to a prayer vigil at the main chapel, except for Rainer. The twilight was late in coming due to the fair season, and he watched the daylight fade with dread.
Rainer was shakily putting down another mug of beer. Vito did not agree with the drinking but he allowed it because he pitied the strain that Rainer endured.
“It is time,” Vito announced. He stood over Rainer and put a hand on his shoulder. The man’s chest heaved as he took a deep breath.
“I don’t want to be locked away,” Rainer whimpered.
“You know you must,” Vito said.
Rainer stood up from the table in Vito’s chamber where his master had given him the privilege of a few drinks. He swayed a little.
“Take me out of the city,” he begged.
“There’s no time for that,” Vito said, and clanging bells across the city enforced his statement. “I will be on the other side of the door and we will pray together. Maybe this time it won’t happen.”
Doubt clouded Rainer’s face. Already his skin was crawling. Soon it would stretch and sh
ift and erupt with fur.
With Vito’s continued urging Rainer headed toward the cellar stairs. The steps descended into pitiless darkness. Vito extended his lantern, highlighting cobwebs hanging from the ceiling.
“Hurry,” he hissed.
Trusting in his master, Rainer went down. When they reached the heavy door that opened to a windowless storage area, Rainer stopped again.
“Give me the lantern,” Rainer whispered.
“You could burn yourself,” Vito said.
He gave Rainer another moment, knowing the man would comply. Rainer slipped out of his clothing but kept his beads. Murmuring prayers he walked through the door and Vito barred it behind him.
“It’s dark,” Rainer cried.
“Pray with me,” Vito insisted.
He kneeled by the door and led Rainer in prayer.
Above Prague birds flew to their roosts. The last sunlight kissed the clouds goodnight. The moon brightened the horizon. Its splendor greeted the night like a dear friend, brightening the open places and restricting true dark to the shadows.
Vito raised his voice and called upon his God to save Rainer from his affliction. Rainer begged for salvation and blathered promises to defend Christianity. His fervor touched even Vito’s clockwork heart. Such faith was a miracle almost in itself.
When Rainer fell silent, Vito kept up his prayers until the groaning began. Then he knew there was no point in soothing the emerging beast. It wanted liberty and the satisfaction of the hunt. No talk of God would be heeded when the Devil worked the puppet strings.
Rainer’s groans turned to wails and then painful screams. Then there was a brief silence that was soon obliterated by savage snarling. A body thudded against the door and claws scraped urgently. The beast circled the cell, clawing and banging and digging at all sides. Then it returned to the door and pounded on it. The door shook against its heavy bar. Vito watched the trembling door with wide eyes while dust was shaken down from the ceiling. The werewolf’s roaring and snarling increased desperately. The assault on the door strengthened.