There was only one thing in the woods that killed and left clothing behind: the witch’s evil creatures, the wargs.
Heike wiped her mouth and searched the trees nearby. The stillness of the forest betrayed no stalkers, but her mother had not raised a fool. So when Heike turned back for Greymist Fair, she ran.
Two
The houses and cottages of Greymist Fair clustered in a shallow valley, stitched together by cobblestone streets and warm lamps on crooked posts. Firelight spilled from dusty windows. Wildflowers grew in planters outside doors, lovingly tended and allowed to twirl and twist up along the faces of the cottages.
Heike sprinted up the west road, past the sign welcoming travelers to Greymist Fair, past the first homes. Behind one, a large, happy cow chewed cud. Atop the next perched a row of blackbirds that watched Heike pass with disgruntled croaks. She entered the town proper, flying past Ada Bosch and the seven children she led, hand in hand; past Gottfried, carrying his polished hunting rifle and followed by his loping Great Dane, The Duke; then into the village square, where Heike’s friend, Wenzel, stood sweeping the stone steps of the inn and singing songs they’d learned together as children, when things were simpler and Wenzel was known by a different name.
When he saw her go by, he yelled, “Heike? Heike!”
She continued past the great stone well that stood in the center of Greymist Fair and out to the opposite side of the village, where the cottages dotted the northern hills. The home of Ulrich the carpenter was largest, and the farthest north, up against a small swath of cleared forest. Ulrich himself stood outside at the top of his hill, splitting logs. A burly man with dark skin, a thick beard, and a healthy respect for the forest, Ulrich was one of the few people in Greymist Fair who ventured into the woods. He lowered his axe when he saw her climbing toward him.
“It’s Tomas!” she gasped as soon as she knew he’d hear. Her hair hung in sweaty tangles around her face, and the ribbon had nearly slipped off the end of her braid. “Tomas is... on the west road... he’s...” She put her hands on her knees as her torso cramped. The image of the blood floated before her. She was used to seeing blood and smelling rotten meat, but not from a human. She couldn’t stop herself from vomiting straight onto the scuffed toes of Ulrich’s boots. Ulrich dropped his axe and put a large, warm hand on her shoulder.
“Henrike. Speak slower. What happened to Tomas?”
She told him what she’d found. As soon as she’d finished, he was off, dropping his axe and rushing behind his cottage. Heike slumped next to his pile of wood. Numbness filled her from her hips to her feet. She pulled the ribbon from her hair withcold fingers and combed through her braid. Ulrich came back moments later on his horse, with his wood cart hitched behind, and started down the hill and into the village.
From where she sat, Heike could now see people emerging into the streets, talking, pointing the way she’d gone and up toward Ulrich’s. Ulrich disappeared between the buildings. A moment later he reappeared as a dark speck on the west road before he disappeared again between the trees, followed by several other men.
“Heike!”
Wenzel’s long legs brought him swiftly up the hillside. His brown skin had turned wan with worry, his dark eyebrows pushed together over his warm brown eyes.
“Don’t come too near,” Heike called. “I might vomit on you as well.”
“What happened? Ulrich said something about a murder when he passed by, told me to call Doctor Death.” Wenzel took in her sweaty face, her muddy boots, her tousled hair. “On second thought, let’s get to the inn, and then you can tell me.”
“I don’t know if I can walk,” she said.
Wenzel turned, kneeled, and motioned to his back. “Hop on.”
They had done this when they were younger, but as children it had been Heike carrying the smaller Wenzel on herback. Taking his shoulders, she pulled herself up. She relaxed to the bounce of his stride and his arms holding her legs. Her berry basket jolted against his stomach. Johanna and Dagny, the baker wives, gave them strange looks as they passed, first at Heike’s bunched-up skirts and then at Heike herself. The apothecary startled and dropped his armful of herbs when he saw them.
Heike hid her face in Wenzel’s shoulder. She hadn’t expected anything less. Her mother had gone so often into the forest to appease the witch, the villagers had kept their distance from her. Heike had never gone into the woods and had never seen the witch, but her mother’s reputation had passed right down to her, just like her clothes, her profession, and the color of her eyes. To the villagers, the witch was a servant of death, and anyone who associated with her was just as bad.
They reached the front steps of the inn. Heike said, “Put me down.”
Wenzel shouldered his way through the front door. “Not yet.”
“I can walk.”
“I know you can.”
Without any travelers, the inn sat empty and unused, Wenzel its only occupant. A draft cut through the darkenedgreat room. Wenzel carried Heike past the log desk, past the staircase that led to the second floor, past the empty chairs and tables. Papers full of scrawled handwriting were scattered across one table, Wenzel’s jotted notes of stories he’d collected over the years. He set her down in an armchair by the hearth, and she dropped her berry basket. In a minute Wenzel had a small fire crackling at her feet. He hurried off again, behind the staircase to the kitchen, and returned a moment later with a mug of warm milk. Several times Heike began to tell him to sit still, but the words never escaped her. She was not prepared to deny Wenzel his nurturing tendencies.
“Don’t call Doctor Death,” she said. “I’ll be fine soon.”
Wenzel shook his head and pulled up a second armchair. “Now, what happened?”
She explained as she sipped, considerably calmer. As Wenzel listened, his face turned greener and greener, and he covered his mouth with his hand. Heike kept the details to a minimum, but Wenzel had always been squeamish at the mention of violence.
The more Heike talked, the less real the scene on the road felt. She must have looked at the boots only for a second or two, long enough to confirm they belonged to Tomas. The memory felt like a berry dying on the vine; even now its innards wererotting away, leaving only a husk. It felt like someone else’s memory from another time.
“But... Tomas.” Wenzel sat back. “The wargs. It had to be.”
“But on the road? The road is supposed to be safe.”
