The Hanged Man: Part 8: Lithia
Post #82: In which that which was lost is found again ...
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RADULF
By midday an uneasy crowd had gathered around the cart. There was low-voiced muttering and hushed talk. The crowd wasn’t hostile — yet. Radulf thought it would take little to push suspicion and fear into hysteria.
He’d tried to dissuade Dar from talk of murder, but Dar remained stubbornly determined. He seemed bent on infecting the town with his own sullen anger. Dar was absolutely certain Juliana was buried in the bog. In his view, the villagers were self-righteous fools, and he longed to puncture their rigid complacency.
Privately, Radulf was also certain the woman Juliana lay in the mud under the reeds. However, he would have preferred to confirm her presence and approach the already uneasy villagers more reasonably.
Dar lounged against the cart with his arms crossed, managing to convey contempt and anger without moving a muscle, his expression perfectly blank. Radulf, with some exasperation, realized it was up to him. He wanted the villagers to follow them back to Juliana’s grave, but he didn’t want to find himself in the center of a witch hunt. He and Dar were strangers. How could they know of the grave — unless they were involved?
“What kind of devil’s work is this?” called a man from the crowd, as though hearing his thoughts.
Radulf groaned inwardly. He swung himself up into the cart seat so everyone could see him.
“This place has seen some trouble lately,” he began conversationally, deliberately keeping his voice low so they had to strain — and be quiet — to hear him. “We’re sorry for it. You good people appear to carry a heavy burden of grief.”
“We’re forsaken,” said a young woman. She stood next to a pale young man with a strained face in the front of the crowd.
“I’m sorry,” said Radulf. “How did this happen?”
“We don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I think maybe it was my fault…”
“No, Liza,” said an older woman behind her. “You’re a good girl. It’s nothing to do with you.”
“Then who?” called out a voice.
“It wasn’t just Liza and Brian,” called out another. “There was no shroud for Millie, remember. What harm could she do, bedridden and soft in the head?”
Radulf saw tears on Liza’s cheeks. “Brian and I were married three weeks ago,” she told him. “There were no linen sheets given for the wedding bed. For months, every newlywed couple received a set of linen sheets, but we didn’t. Then Millie died, and there was no shroud.”
“And before that every passing soul received a linen shroud?” guessed Radulf.
Liza ducked her head. “Until Millie. And every new mother and babe, too, were provided everything needful for birth and newborn. When it began, we felt special, singled out…”
“We were chosen by God,” started someone in the back.
“Oh, stop that,” said an exasperated old man. “What nonsense! For a time, someone gave gifts. Gave, mind you,” he glared up at Radulf. “Not sold. Gave. Some person, not God! Don’t know why they started. Don’t know why they’ve stopped. What I want to know is who is this missing woman? And why do you speak of murder?”
“A woman does appear to be missing,” said Radulf carefully. “She lived in the woods near the river. We may have found her grave. We thought we should come tell you about it.”
“So you should,” said the old man, “that’s right and proper. If there’s a murderer about, I want to know. But we know one another here. Nobody missing. Still, I’ll come and help you investigate.”
“Could the missing woman have anything to do with the linen, do you think?” Liza asked Brian.
He looked tenderly into her worried face. “I don’t know, my dear.” He looked up at Radulf. “We’ll come and see, too,” he said to Radulf.
“Don’t go,” called out someone. “How do we know they’re not the murderers?”
“A poor kind of murderer, who’d tell the story to a whole village!” said the old man testily. “Don’t be a fool!”
A loud slam made Radulf jump. Gideon snorted and tossed his head and the crowd flinched. Dar had swept a counter clean with a motion of his arm, kicked out the prop and flung it up.
They wound slowly along the track through the trees. Dar and Radulf sat silently side by side, Dar keeping Gideon to a slow pace. Behind them, in groups of twos and threes, came some of the crowd from the market square, among them Liza and Brian and the old man, who limped along with a cane.
HEKS
Heks surveyed the house and garden from the tree’s hard embrace.
She wasn’t the same woman who’d watched the sun move across the ground ten days before.
Baba Yaga had swallowed her. She knew now the act of murder, deliberate and sensual, had summoned the Baba, both summoned and begged for…something. Some kind of action. Some kind of understanding. Some kind of opening. By the time she realized the opening was the black iron mouth of Baba Yaga’s cauldron, greasy lipped and infinitely capacious, she was halfway through and no way back.
Baba Yaga had disassembled her with tusk and claw. Nothing escaped the old crone’s steely eye or flaying tongue. She turned Heks inside out like a dirty sock and shook her, and then together they hacked apart the man whose name had been Joe, disjointing and butchering Heks’ life with tools and teeth. She’d eaten the flesh of her powerlessness, sucked poison out of bones. She’d danced in bare feet on blood-soaked scorched earth with Baba Yaga, brandishing one of Joe’s gnawed bones at the moon.
It was a transformation beyond guilt, beyond shame, beyond tears. Those were too weak and too easy and Baba Yaga scorned them.
The woman in the tree had picked tough tissue from between her teeth, scrubbed blood from beneath her nails, cleansed her hair of greasy death, eaten and belched and eaten again. The taste of her old life lingered in her mouth and nose. She had yet to realize all the nuances of its flavor.
Now, in the tree, she remembered the last time she’d seen her son Bruno. He’d come home late one day in a state of excitement she’d never seen in him before, vibrating and tense with glittering eyes. He’d cornered her in the kitchen, but his fists had been dispassionate, mechanical, like a man buttoning his shirt. He didn’t see her. She was nothing to him.
She’d stayed still and silent where she fell while he bumped and thumped in the hut, jumbling things together into a rough bundle. Then he’d left, without a word or look.
That was a long time ago, before. Before the axe, the slow-moving sunlight, the black cauldron and Baba Yaga’s iron-rasp voice, “Oh yes, my lady, you’ll eat! This meal has long been preparing and you’ll rend and hack, tear and grind! You’ll lick and suck and chew and swallow! And then you’ll fart and belch and your tongue will lie still under the greasy taste of what you cooked. There’ll be no burning and burying, not any more. You’ll see! You’ll taste! You’ll dance in blood! You won’t look away. You’ll do this — or you’ll die. This time you’ll choose, my little Heksie! Choose to live or die, one or the other, but no more in between!”
She’d chosen. She’d eaten, and danced and surrendered.
When it was over, Baba Yaga pointed wordlessly to a faint trail leading out of the clearing where kiln and grader stood. Heks stepped onto the path and melted into the trees. Her senses felt tingling and sensitive, as though scoured the way she’d scoured the black cauldron clean for the Baba. She’d bathed and washed her scanty hair, plaiting it into a thin braid. Her rags were clean. She was well fed. The last of her bruises had faded to yellow and green. She was alive.
The path looked like an animal trail, but every instinct she had told her Bruno’s body had made it. Bruno’s thick arm had brushed these twigs. Bruno’s careless feet had disrupted moss and crushed plants. Bruno’s hand had pushed branches out of the way. When the path stopped, she put her hands on the tree at the end and thought, Bruno was here. This tree knows Bruno. Climbing with hands and feet, she reached the branch on which he’d sat, bone of her bone, flesh of her flesh.
And so Heks was watching when they came.
A wooden cart rolled out of the forest, gaily painted with the words “Come and be welcome. Go and be free. Harm shall not enter.” A broad-backed horse pulled the cart and two men sat on the seat. Both were dark haired and lean, though one head was liberally flecked with grey. Behind the cart walked a dozen people in groups of twos and threes. Heks recognized some of the faces from the village. An old man called Gabriel stumped along with a cane, bright-eyed and scowling. A young pair, Brian and Liza, walked hand in hand. There were no children. Most of the faces looked apprehensive.
The cart drove into the yard and stopped. Heks had an excellent view. The driver jumped down and began to unhitch the horse. The man with the grey hair met the others coming into the clearing, holding out his hand to each as though introducing himself. The villagers walked slowly around the place, examining a chicken house, a garden and what looked to Heks like a small orchard. One of the men threw a stone into the well, listening intently. Heks saw for herself the place had been well taken care of. She couldn’t see the front door from her perch, but no one went in or out of the back door.
The cart driver busied himself with the horse, speaking to no one. After brushing down the animal, he let him wander and graze as he would. Then he came back and opened up the cart, organizing and straightening from the day’s business. The other man, the one with streaks of grey hair, moved easily among the villagers, talking, listening, smiling. Heks couldn’t see everything from where she hid, but she liked his air of calm courtesy and confidence. Gradually the villagers grouped themselves near the cart and the two men. They seemed to be waiting for the strangers to speak.
“Never knew this was here,” said Gabriel loudly. “What d’ya say her name is, the woman who lives here?”
Unexpectedly, the cart driver spoke up. “Her name was Juliana.”
Something about the way he delivered this simple statement made Heks glad she wasn’t standing in front of him.
“Never heard of her.” Gabriel turned in a slow circle. “Nice place, though. She’s alone out here?”
“She’s an outsider,” said a middle-aged woman with a pronounced chin and a wen on her right cheek. Heks knew her. She was called Maggie, and was a backbone of the church. “No mystery about it. She’s one of those who doesn’t come to church. We don’t want her kind in town. There are others like her living in the forest. She’s probably gone off for the day.”
“There are four dead chickens in the coop,” said a young man.
“Did anyone know this Juliana?” demanded Gabriel.
Everyone shook their head.
Maggie sniffed. “No family, no community. Lawless. I’m not surprised she fell in with bad companions — if it’s not all fantasy in the first place.”
“There’s a loom in the house,” said Brian.
“If she did the weaving and gave the linen,” put in Liza, “then she has a community. Our community hasn’t accepted her, but she accepts us.”
“Nonsense,” said the woman with the wen. “Blasphemy! This nobody has nothing to do with God’s gifts to us. We’re good folk in our village, better than most. We pleased God and so He rewarded us.”
“Her name,” said the cart driver between his teeth, “was Juliana.”
“Horse apples!” said Gabriel to Maggie. He thumped his cane on the ground. “Our church isn’t special and neither are the asses in the pews!”
The cart driver grinned.
“I tell you,” continued Gabriel, glaring fiercely, “an ordinary person gave that linen and if it was this Juliana then she’s more special than either you or I, Maggie McWhortle, because she gave and received nothing in return — not even the dignity of her own name.” He directed his glare at Radulf. “I want to know what happened here. Show me the grave!”
Heks, listening from her perch, decided it was time to show herself. She longed to puncture Maggie’s self-righteousness, for one thing. For another, she had a bad feeling about the missing woman, a woman whose face she thought she knew, though she’d never known the name Juliana. Thirdly, she was devoured with curiosity. What was this about linen? And a grave?
She climbed down from her perch in the tree, making no effort to hide her presence. The group, on the point of following Radulf towards the river, paused and stared.
Heks approached them warily. She spoke to the man with the grey flecks in his hair, having decided he was the most neutral, as well as the kindest.
“My name is Heks. I live in the forest.” She glanced briefly at Maggie. “I don’t like church.” She turned away from Maggie’s umbrage, feeling amused, and saw an answering quirk in the grey-haired man’s lips. His eyes were deep set and she couldn’t quite see their color.
He answered her with the same courtesy he’d shown everyone. “I’m Radulf. This is Dar,” he extended a hand to the cart driver, who nodded at her, looking interested.
“I think…I think I might know who the murderer is. If there is a murderer. But what is this about linen and weaving?”
Liza and Brian told her.
Heks’s feeling of unease increased as she heard the story. Before she could decide if she should tell them about Bruno, Gabriel interrupted.
“Here’s another woman who lives hereabouts and I don’t remember her face or her name. Give an account of yourself, woman! How long have you lived here?”
“Twenty years,” said Heks.
“Twenty years!” gasped Liza. “But who are you? Do you live alone in these woods, too?”
“I’m the charcoal burner’s wife,” said Heks steadily. The group exchanged a silent flurry of looks. They all knew the charcoal burner.
“That’s right!” exclaimed Gabriel. “I knew he had a wife, and a child, too, a son. Bruno’s his name!”
“The charcoal burner is dead,” said Heks.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Liza, wide eyed.
She was a kind-hearted girl, Heks realized. She wondered what they would say if they knew she was still picking the charcoal burner out from between her teeth.
“Thank you,” she said to Liza with dignity.
“But you still have your son,” Liza continued eagerly.
Heks looked from one face to another. Gabriel listened intently, head slightly cocked. Maggie had subsided into resentful silence, her face flushed. Radulf had the alert, attentive air of a good watchdog. Brian and Liza stood close together, her shoulder nestled under his arm.
A melody wound through the air, threading in and out of the small crowd. The wild sound made Heks’ belly clench. It rose and mingled with the heavy summer tree canopy overhead. It was invitation and challenge. It beckoned to Heks, speaking of passion and sensation. Heks wanted to follow it. It hinted at a kind of life she’d never had.
The notes trickled away, leaving the group of people softened and wondering. Dar took the bone flute from his lips.
Heks took a steadying breath. “The charcoal burner beat me and the child. I’m glad he’s dead. He was a brute. He taught Bruno to be a brute, too. I’ve no friends. I live alone in the forest because I don’t wish to go to church and such are not welcome in town.” She looked Maggie in the eye. “I was trained as a midwife and a healer. If I’d been given a chance, I might have saved your daughter’s life.”
Maggie paled. “My daughter,” she said. “My daughter.”
Heks looked at Liza. “I don’t have my son. I only had him in babyhood. He was his father’s creature after that. A few weeks ago, he left. He didn’t say where he went or why and he didn’t say when he’d be back. Then my husband — died. Today I followed a path my son made through the woods. It ended right there,” she turned and pointed, “at the base of that tree. There’s a good perch in it — see there? You can see a stretch of river, the well, the garden, the back of the house and part of the yard. I was there when you came.”
Radulf put a hand out and gripped the edge of the wagon, a look of mingled recognition and anguish on his face.
“Show me,” he said tightly, and came to her side. She led them back to the tree, pointed out the faint forest trails spreading out from the trunk, the scuffed bark and the perch. Radulf studied everything carefully.
“This means something to you, sir?” Liza asked shyly.
“Yes. But before I say more, I think we should check for a grave.”
A few minutes later they stood on the edge of the bog, taking in the silvery reed bed and Dar’s and Radulf’s muddy footprints. They’d found a pitchfork, a shovel and gardening tools in the shed. Dar passed them out and several people slogged onto the muddy ground. They began to dig.
Maggie, driven by curiosity, stood ankle deep in the marsh, watching the digging. Liza and Heks stayed back with the others. Heks found herself in a group of somewhat shame-faced village women and the conversation quickly turned to childbearing and herbals.
When the body had been found, the group gathered on the riverbank in the sun, rinsing muddy clothes and feet. Radulf sat cross-legged in the grass and told them about Coventina’s shrine and what he’d found there.
Gabriel sucked thoughtfully at his teeth when Radulf had fallen silent. “So,” he said, “Juliana comes here and catches Bruno’s eye. He pursues her but she’s not interested — or perhaps she is interested and they had a fight or some such.”
“If she’s interested, why is the man perched in a tree spying on her?” demanded Maggie.
“Good point,” conceded the old man.
“Humph!” said Maggie.
He continued. “She’s not interested, then. Meanwhile, we in the village begin to receive sheets and nappies and shrouds.” He grinned, enjoying the march of words in his mouth. “Sheets and nappies and shrouds. Bruno’s got an obsession. He watches and waits and kills Juliana. He buries her and thinks she’ll never be found because no one will know she’s gone in the first place. We stop getting linen doodads. Then Bruno leaves and for some reason winds up near the shrine of Coven-what’s-er’name.”
“Coventina,” put in Radulf.
“Coventina,” Gabriel repeated. “Since it’s worked before for him, he climbs a tree and watches the path. This Jenny comes along and he goes after her. She struggles and makes noise and this other fella— “
“Artyom,” supplied Radulf.
“Artyom is nearby and comes to the rescue. In the struggle, all three are killed, but you’re not sure who killed whom.”
“That’s right,” said Radulf. “Are we sure about who killed Juliana?” He looked around at the villagers.
“I’m sure,” said Heks. They all looked at her. “Bruno killed Juliana and likely killed your Jenny, too.” She looked into Radulf’s face. “These deaths are partly my responsibility.”
Liza made a sound of protest.
Heks looked at her. “I chose to stay in a bad life with a bad man. I didn’t protect my son. Worst of all, I didn’t protect myself. I had nowhere to go and no one who cared. I gave up.”
“This is wrong!” Liza spun on her heel and thrust her face into Maggie’s. “This is our fault, too! Why should people who don’t follow our rules be outcast? This might not have happened if Heks and Bruno had friends and somewhere to be safe. Heks is a midwife! We need her and she needs us. I’m ashamed of our church, Maggie, if this is what it requires of us. Maybe I’ll stop going. Then will you cast me out?”
Maggie took a step back from this verbal torrent, looking uncertain. “It’s nothing to do with us— “she began.
“It’s everything to do with us,” roared Gabriel.
“Four lives are lost,” said Dar in a voice of cold iron. The others fell silent. “No amount of shame or blame will bring them back. The question is what will you do now? What will you do to give these deaths meaning?
“These forest people must be brought into the fold!” said Gabriel.
“They won’t all want to be,” said Heks.
“Do you want to be?” he shot back, glaring at her.
She was taken aback. “I’m not sure,” she said at last.
“Ungrateful!” muttered Maggie under her breath.
Heks looked at her. “You don’t think I’m good enough for you,” she said levelly. “Why am I not free to decide you’re not good enough for me?”
Gabriel cackled with laughter. Dar cocked an eyebrow at Radulf, who smothered a smile.
Heks turned from Maggie’s red face to Dar. “You ask what we’ll do now to give meaning to these deaths. I can only try to live a different way. It’s not much but it’s what I can do.”
Dar gave her a nod, and she thought she saw resignation in his face.
Radulf turned to Maggie. “Will you see that Juliana is decently buried?” Radulf asked. He gestured around the homestead. “I think you can see how she loved beauty and order. It grieves me to think of her lying in a shallow, muddy grave.” He dipped his head. “I know it’s a big thing to ask, as I recently had the same sad task, but perhaps you could find some others to help…?”
“I…of course,” she replied. “We’ll be glad to take care of that.” She looked defiantly around at the others.
“A headstone, of course,” suggested Radulf.
“Of course,” she repeated. “And I’ll dig a clump of her own flowers and plant them on the grave!”
“Thank you,” said Radulf, and gave her a smile. “I knew I could count on you.” He looked around at the group. “What about this place? Could someone come and use it? It’s a shame to let it fall down and go wild. There’s the loom, too.”
By the end of the day a plan was in place and the villagers began to make their way back to town.