by S. A. Swann
His father had already begun at the rear of the farm, working back and forth behind their horse, guiding the wooden plow, churning up the soft black earth. Up here, by the road, the earth was paler, the sign of too much clay. It always seemed to Uldolf that this sad patch of ground experienced different seasons than the rest of the farm—as if on this small acre, winter lasted longer, and days were shorter.
It certainly had the most problems.
On the second frost-free morning, one of the massive oak trees that bordered their land had toppled over. There was no storm to account for it, and it wasn't apparent what had happened until Uldolf and his father had walked out to look at the damage.
One of the small creeks around their farm had been fat with snowmelt and had been washing into some animal's winter burrow under the tree's roots, undermining the land between the tree and the wall bordering their field. It had probably been going on all winter, accelerating now with the combination of snowmelt off of the high ground and the softening earth.
The tree had crashed through its lesser brethren, knocking them aside, covering the cleared area between the field's wall and the woods with the splintered remnants of four or five fallen companions. Only the oak itself reached past the wall, its crown reaching ten paces into the field beyond. The wall underneath had been broken apart, its large stones scattered beneath a trunk that, on the ground, was better than waist high on him.
Naked branches clawed the sky two and three times Uldolf s height. Massive limbs, as thick as his waist, stabbed into the ground.
Even if they hadn't lost the oxen this winter, it was still more than any team of animals would be able to clear. And since his father had to begin planting—with some urgency now that there was an additional mouth to feed—it fell to Uldolf to chop the tree into manageable pieces.
This was his second day at it, and it was still hard for him to tell if he had made any progress. He had to scramble into the branches with his axe hanging off a leather strap around his chest, chopping the branches free while precariously holding onto the main trunk with his thighs. By midmorning, his legs ached as if he'd been riding at a gallop, and his arm felt like lead.
He watched his latest small victory, an upward reaching limb the thickness of his thigh, crack under its own weight and slowly topple to the ground beneath him. He set down his axe and wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the palm of his hand, the only part of his arm not coated with wood chips. As he blinked his eyes clear, he saw the knight.
Because he was up in the tree, he could see the knight and his company approaching while they were still several minutes' walk down the road. Over his armor, the knight's plain white surcoat glared in the sunlight, the black cross upon it stark and unmistakable. He rode in the lead, followed by a half dozen other men, all on horseback.
It was not a common sight. The road here was not a major route. It didn't lead to any other towns or villages. It was just a rutted dirt track that led from Johannisburg to a number of more far-flung farms, then returned to Johannisburg. A good day's leisurely ride would return you to where you started.
These men were riding from the short route to Johannisburg, and they rode slowly, and all eyed the woods, as if looking for something.
Uldolf lowered his arm when he realized what they might be searching for. His father's words echoed in his ears.
If someone was going to just abandon a woman to die there, in the shadow of Johannisburg Keep, who is the most likely culprit?
Uldolf untangled himself from the branches of the fallen oak and slid to the ground. He had the unfortunate sensation of great urgency combined with the panicked realization that he didn't know what to do. Their stranger was in bed, recovering from the fever brought on by her wounds. There was no way to move her or any place to hide her. And, if he ran there, he would only draw attention to the cottage and his own unease.
He didn't have much time to consider what to do, because the knight had already come within sight of the farm. His party came up even with the wall, and for a moment Uldolf had a brief hope that they might just keep going.
Then the knight raised his arm as he brought his mount to a stop, and yelled, “Hold!”
Uldolf turned and saw his father stop tilling and look around.
Someone said, “A word, my son?”
Uldolf turned around to face the knight, who was leaning down in his saddle to talk to Uldolf. “Who works this land?”
“Gedim, sir.” Uldolf pointed across the field. “My father,” he added. He made sure his head was lowered, both to show proper respect, as well as to hide his unease.
“Fair land, here,” the knight said. “You are freemen? Christian?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has your farm been troubled lately, lad?”
“Troubled?”
“By strange beasts? Men or animals killed or injured?”
Uldolf furrowed his brow. “No, nothing like that. We lost some animals during winter.”
“I am sorry for your losses.” The knight waved one of the other men forward to hold his bridle as he dismounted. Uldolf heard the man address the knight in German, but all he understood was the knight's name, Gregor.
Once on the ground, Gregor turned to face Uldolf. “I also need to ask you, have you seen any strangers in the past week, possibly injured?”
Uldolf s stomach burned and his heart raced, because he felt certain that any lie would be visible on his face. Instead he asked, “Who are you looking for? What do they look like?”
“Then you have seen someone?”
“Only travelers down this road.” Uldolf hoped that the flush on his face and the catch in his breath sounded more like exertion than falsehood.
If the knight suspected him, he hid it. “A woman, about your age, with red hair and green eyes, wounded in the head and in the shoulder. She is a witch and a murderess.”
“I see,” Uldolf said.
“Now, we need to look in your house and the barn there. Just to see if she's hiding anywhere.”
Uldolf looked at the knight and the still-mounted soldiers, and realized that there was absolutely nothing he could do at this point.
“Yes, sir,” he told the knight, in as even a tone as he could manage. “Of course.”
Uldolf walked along one side of the wall while the knight followed on the other. He saw his father walking across the field toward them, but he wasn't going to reach them before they got to the cottage, and he must have had Uldolf s realization that if he ran, he would draw undue attention to the situation.
We should have come up with some common story. Something in case people asked questions. The girl isn't going to be in bed forever. People are going to see her...
They reached the gate and Uldolf opened it. The knight, Gregor, stepped through while the others rode up and stopped on the road next to the gate.
Uldolf s mind raced with a hundred scenarios, none of which had a remote shred of plausibility.
Uldolf had the knight halfway to the door of the cottage, and his father was just reaching the wall that bordered the front field and the area around the cottage, when Uldolf s mother burst through the front door, hair tied severely up behind her head, her expression pure venom.
“What is the meaning of this?”
“My lady, we are looking—” the knight began.
She didn't let him finish. She stormed up to Uldolf and poked him in the chest with her finger. “I've told you that your sister needs rest. Hilde is very sick, and we can't have you bringing—”
“Pardon me,” the knight said.
She turned on the man with a glare that Uldolf thought would make anyone wither. Gregor took a step back, but apparently knights of the Teutonic Order were trained to withstand a mother's wrath. It spoke well for the Order's discipline, since Uldolf would himself prefer to face all the knight's company in combat before he'd willingly face Burthe's anger.
“We are looking for a fugitive, a murderess.”
Burthe folded her arms and tried to stare the man down. It didn't work.
“My lady,” the knight said, “this woman is evil, a threat to your family and your immortal soul.”
Uldolf s mother sighed and stepped aside.
“Thank you,” the knight said, walking to the door of the cottage.
“But don't you dare wake Hilde.” When she turned after him, Uldolf saw the back of her head, where her hair was braided and wrapped in a tight bun. Only there was something oddly ragged about it now.
“I only need to look inside.”
“Quietly,” Burthe insisted.
Uldolf swallowed. His heart raced as he followed Gregor and Burthe into the cottage. He had no idea how his mother could have hidden their guest.
He stepped inside, and saw that she hadn't.
Hilde wasn't asleep. She was up and wiping a cloth across the face of their unconscious guest. She turned as the knight entered and said, “Shh.”
A damp towel covered their guest's brow, completely obscuring the bandages on her head. Uldolf didn't understand how, at first, but the hair curling from under the towel was blond, not red.
Then he realized that the hair was exactly the same shade as his mother's.
Gregor turned to Burthe after looking around the cottage's single large room and said quietly, “Thank you. I will say prayers for your daughter's recovery.”
Chapter 10
“What do we do with her?” Gedim asked.
The knight and his men were long gone, and Burthe was using a tin mirror and a knife to even out the violence she had done to her hair. A third of her long blond tresses were now in a pile by the head of Uldolf s bed.
Gedim admired her quick thinking, and appreciated her distrust of the Germans, but couldn't help but wonder if concealing their guest was the best decision.
That guest was awake right now, and Hilde was doing her best to spoon the last of the stew into the girl's mouth.
That was the other thing. They were running out of food.
“What do you mean, do with her?” Uldolf responded.
“Did you see how many men they had looking for her? They're not going to just go away. And the extra mouth to feed, especially with her appetite…”
“Husband,” Burthe said sharply, “you are not suggesting we put out an injured guest?”
Gedim looked at the wounded girl and Hilde. The two of them had made the feeding a game. Hilde would hover the spoon near the girl's mouth, and the girl would appear to ignore it for several moments, and then she would try to snap up the spoon before Hilde jerked it away. He would have scolded Hilde for the food that was splattering on the covers, but it had been too long a winter without seeing his daughter smile.
“No, I am concerned about when she heals.” He turned to Burthe. “She will heal?”
“The wounds, yes.” She put down the mirror and the knife and looked over at the girl and Hilde. There was an odd expression on her face.
“What is it?” Uldolf asked her.
“It's just... I've never seen anyone heal so well before.”
“Well, that's good.” Uldolf paused. “Isn't it?”
“She's a strange girl,” Burthe responded.
“When do you think she'll be well enough to move?” Gedim asked.
“The fever's broken. She could be moved now, but—”
“Please,” Hilde interrupted, “can't Lilly stay?”
“Lilly?” Gedim and Uldolf said simultaneously.
“Hilde named our guest,” Burthe said.
Hilde looked up at Burthe. “She told me her name.”
Uldolf looked across at him and Gedim shrugged. He had a very imaginative daughter. Gedim asked her, “And when did Lilly tell you her name?”
“At night, she talks. Sometimes she sings.” Then, in a very tender gesture, Hilde took her sleeve and wiped the food off the girl's—off Lilly's—face. “I think she's lonely.”
Burthe gave Gedim a look that dared him to talk about moving their guest in front of their daughter.
***
Later on, Gedim took Burthe outside to talk in private. The sky was purple with twilight, and the air vibrated with the sounds of all the chirping insects and the birds returning to feed on them. Gedim sat on the stone wall closest to the house.
He sighed. “While I see our daughter is attached to her, our guest has become a serious problem.”
“I know.”
“The Germans will be back. Even if they aren't, someone will eventually come by and see her. Even if they don't tell the Order or their servants about her. A new member of the household? A new, young, attractive, female member of the household? The rumors will sweep every family in the area.”
Burthe ran her fingers through her newly shortened hair. “You think I haven't been dwelling on this since that man rode up the road? And I've been keeping an eye on our supplies. I don't know how we're going to eat.” Her shoulders were shaking. “But...”
“We can't abandon her.”
“No.”
They both were silent for a long time. “So, she's doing better than you expected?”
“Better than anyone has a right to expect. She had a fever, but it was shorter and shallower than anything I've seen after such a bad injury, much less two of them. There's barely any inflammation or drainage from either wound. The flesh is knitting together so well that I'll be able to take the stitches out in a couple of days. Even her hair's growing back faster than normal.”
“She has the gods' favor.”
“At the very least.”
Gedim sighed. “She certainly eats like one of the saga heroes.”
“What do we do?”
Gedim stood up and put his arm around Burthe's shoulder. “I don't know.”
***
Hilde hated it when her parents decided to talk around her, as if she was the chair or the table, as if she didn't know what was going on. She hated it worse when they did realize she was there, and decided to go talk about their adult things in private. It was so hard to listen, with all the crickets and the birds.
Hilde sat by Lilly and listened anyway. She heard a lot about how Lilly was sick, but she felt a lot better because Mama was still saying that Lilly was doing well. Hilde knew that if Mama didn't realize Hilde was listening, what she said about someone's health was much closer to the truth.
She leaned close to Lilly and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Mama says you're going to get all better. She may take the seam out of your head tomorrow.”
Hilde was happy about that. But the other things her parents said weren't as happy. They were running out of food, because Lilly ate too much. Ulfie might have to go out and find something big—and that would be very dangerous. The Germans might find Ulfie then, and take him away like they tried to take Lilly away. That frightened Hilde.
Hilde looked down at Lilly. Her pretty green eyes were half closed and looking at the ceiling, past Hilde's head. Hilde remembered how she had felt when she was sick. It was no fun, only being awake enough to know you weren't quite sleeping.
Hilde now had news, about their food, that she should tell Lilly. But that would certainly upset her, and she was sick. Hilde didn't want to make Lilly upset, or sad, or guilty. Hilde liked her.
But Hilde knew that she hated it when her parents tried to hide those things from her. Lilly was her friend, and as much as Hilde wanted to be nice to her and make sure she was happy, she decided it would be wrong to keep things from her.
Quietly, Hilde told Lilly about the things she had heard her parents say.
***
Hilde kept herself awake that night, hoping that Lilly might wake up and s talk to her again. She liked talking to Lilly, even if she never quite knew who Hilde was. Sometimes Lilly called her Rose, sometimes other names.
But as the fever got better, it had been happening less and less. Hilde didn't know if that was good or bad. Lilly still didn't speak during the day, but it seemed that she understood everyone m
ore. Tonight, Lilly didn't speak to her, though she still muttered things in her sleep. Most were too quiet to make out, but she smiled when she heard Lilly's voice change tone between Ulfie's snores.
Lilly was singing again. When she thought Hilde was Rose, she had sung it to her, and once she knew the words, Hilde had sung it with her.
Now Hilde sung the words inside her head:
Fear not the road before you,
The broken stones, the empty trees,
Mother will protect her child,
Wherever that road leads.
Fear not the bear, the troll, the wolf,
Or other evil things,
Mother will protect her child,
No matter what the darkness brings.
Fear not the cloak of slumber,
When the sky has lost its sun,
Mother will protect her child,
Should any nightmares come ...
Hilde fell asleep, her head on Uldolf s chest, and no nightmares came.
***
In the half-sleep of her fading fever, Lilly sang to herself. The words were the only comfort against the dreams. Against the things Lilly needed to be dreams.
But they weren't dreams. She had gone away so long ago because they weren't dreams. She had gone and left the cold one in her place—the one who didn't care about the pain, or the blood, or the hurt. The one who could endure all the vile things that Lilly tried not to remember.
In her head, her wounded memory sucked her down like—
—like a muffled roar as the water sucks us into a frigid embrace that turns our skin into ice—
She pleaded with the cold voice digging into her brain. She didn't need her anymore.
—we gasp and suck in a mouthful of water. Our body wants air, and we have no idea where the surface is—