Storyteller

R5 Greta: The Fire and the Dark, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Greta woke around midnight.  The fire had burned down and Hans was not there.  At first, she thought he must have stepped off to relieve himself.  She put two good sized logs on the fire and stirred the ashes to life.  Those logs ought to see them through the night.  She did not like the forest at night.  It got too dark, with the moon and stars hidden by the branches.

“Hans?” Greta called after a while.  Hans did not return, and she started to get worried. “Hans?”  She called again a little louder.  At last she got up and walked all around the camp, peered into the gloom as far as she could and looked for any sign of her brother.  “Hans?”  She called. “Hans!”  She began to call in earnest, but still no one answered and she began to be afraid.  What if he wandered off and got lost in the dark?  What if he tripped in the dark and hurt or cut himself, and became unconscious? “Hans!  Hans!”  She called loudly when she decided she needed some distance from the fire to give her night vision a chance to search nearby.  She walked into the trees until she got beyond the sound of the stream, but she felt as long as she could still see the distant firelight, she would be all right.  “Hans! Answer me.  You are worrying me.  Hans!”  She called and looked and started in a wide semi-circle around the camp.  “Hans!  You’re not funny.  Answer me. Hans!”  Only the spark and crackle of the fire responded, and the sound of the cascading water when she got near enough again.  “Hans!  Hans!” She really yelled, now, and begged to hear him in return.

All at once, the fire went out.  The light simply vanished, and the sound of the waterfall vanished as well, as if someone turned off the faucet.  She felt something behind her and she spun around several times screaming, “Hans!  Hans!” Until her direction became utterly confused.  She stopped calling for a minute.  She stilled her heart and breathing.  She listened to the dark.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled.  Greta cringed.  If Hans was in trouble, he needed her.  But if she headed toward the wolf and Hans was not there, would she simply be walking herself into those jaws?  She waited, and another wolf responded to the first, only this one sounded out behind her. Now she felt completely confused. “Hans!”  She screamed as loud as she could.

She started to walk in the direction where she thought the camp might be and hoped by some stroke of divine providence, she might stumble upon it, or at least come across the stream.  It did not take long, though, before she realized that was not going to happen. She screamed, “Hans!”  And now she added tears to the mix, and they were bitter tears, for Hans and for herself.  “Hans!”

She tried to seek help through time, but time seemed as silent as the forest in the night. The message that came through was there was nothing anyone could do for her that she could not do for herself. That felt like a lie, she told herself, as she continued to cry out and weep until her throat hurt and her voice became hoarse.

“What can I do?” Greta wondered, and she felt herself corrected.  The question became, “What will you do?”  She didn’t know.  Any one of the gods in time, Nameless, Salacia or Danna she imagined, could snap their fingers and Hans could appear, safe and sound beside her.  But that would not happen.  “What will you do?”  She didn’t know what to do.

She continued to weep and cry out until her voice became no more than a whisper.  It felt like forever, but it did not take long after that when she stubbed her toe on a rock, tripped over a root, and fell face down in the dirt at the foot of a very large and very old oak tree.  She just stayed there and cried until she could not cry any longer.  Then she scooted up and put her back to the tree and whispered because it was all the voice she had left.

 

“Old tree,” she said.  “How I wish it was like the old days before the gods and greater spirits went over to the other side.  If only you were here now to come out of your shell, to walk and talk with me.  I would know, then, that everything would be all right. I remember the great dance of the trees in the days of Heracles.  We danced for a day and a night until all of the dead land in that place came alive again and covered with green.  I remember what comfort you once gave me in my hour of need, touching my tongue with your life-giving sap, salving my wounds, covering me to hide me in your protective bark.  How dear you were and how deeply I came to adore you.  I remember I stayed with you all the rest of those days.  I remember the door you made for my Nameless self, when he was, when I was young and uncertain.  You let my little ones go and warn the gods of the rebellion of the Titans in the east.  Old Oak, how good and kind and gentle you always were.  It is no wonder you were loved by both Zeus and Odin.  And even with the mistletoe you sometimes carry, how my children, my Danna’s children, honored you above all.

Greta’s eyes closed.  “I suppose they are my little ones now.”  She thought, but she did not think of home.  She felt too exhausted.  Then, for a brief moment before sleep, or just after in a dream, she thought she saw the shimmer of a kindly old face in the tree, and the branches circling gently around her in a most loving and protective way.  She knew the wolf would not get at her on that night, and she slept.

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MONDAY

R5 Greta: Greta’s brother is lost and Greta hardly knows where to turn.  She knows the terrors of the woods, or at least the stories.  Now, everywhere she turns, she finds herself pulled deeper into those terrors… Happy Reading

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R5 Greta: The Fire and the Dark, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Greta turned last of all to face Hans.  “You broke your word,” she said, through clenched teeth.

“I couldn’t help it.”  Hans let out his well-rehearsed protest.  “It was the smell of those sweets.  It was overpowering.  I was enchanted before I tasted the first one.  I couldn’t help it.”

“Stop it Hans,” Greta said.  “Hansel.” She rubbed it in.  “You had your mind made up before we ever got to the cabin. You lied to me and broke your word. How can I trust you?”

“Really.” Hans still defended himself.  “I saw the smoke and I knew that was where I had to be.  I couldn’t help it.”

Greta nearly let out all her anger, fear, and upset in that one moment, but that would not have been fair.  She heard some truth in what Hans said, so she sniffed and held it all back.  “You could have resisted,” she said, in a hard, small voice, which suggested much more behind her words.  Hans did not argue.  He simply looked at the ground and got quiet.  “This is a dangerous place,” Greta went on.  “You must do what I tell you or you will get us both killed.”

“I promise,” Hans said, much too loudly and much too quickly.  Greta stared at him, and he saw the anger and disappointment in her eyes. He lowered his voice and spoke more carefully.  “I’m sorry. I really do promise this time.”

Greta said no more about it, and they started down the east side of the hill and back into the heart of the forest.

The forest changed on the east side to more fir and pine, characteristic of the land around Ravenshold.  More underbrush grew beneath the trees, particularly thorns, briars and nettles that caught the clothing unless they were careful.  Hans caught his backpack twice, once rather badly, which put a tear in the blanket.  Greta put a small hole in her dress, but it hardly looked noticeable.

About half way down the hill, they came across a stream.  At first, they thought it would ease their descent, but the spring water proved too cold for their sandaled feet.  What is more, the rocks in that stream were all green and moss covered, making them very slippery and unsafe.  They followed the stream as well as they could, Greta grateful for the fresh water.  Toward the bottom of the hill, the stream cascaded off a twenty-foot outcropping in a little waterfall before it made a dramatic turn toward the river.  It took some going out of their way to find a place where they could climb down safely.

When they returned to the bottom of the waterfall, Greta found that the rock curved inward at a nice angle to make a natural shelter.  She checked the sun as well as she could and decided this would be as good a place as any to stop for the day.  Hans looked tired, and honestly, so was she.  While Hans went in search of firewood, Greta did her best to gather kindling and get things ready.  She dug down to the dirt and just started to set stones around it in a circle when Hans came back with his eyes big and his behavior strange.

“What is it?” Greta asked.  “A bear?”

“No, something spooky,” Hans insisted.  “There are sounds and lights and noises behind me, but when I turn around it is still behind me, like breathing on my neck and about to grab me from behind.  I kept turning, but it stayed always behind me.”

“Well,” Greta said, still struggling with her hurt and disappointment with Hans.  “There’s nothing there now.”  All the same, Hans craned his neck as far back as he could, he did a little dance like someone covered in cobwebs, and then he breathed.

“Start the fire,” Greta said and tossed him the tinder box.  “I’ll get the wood.”  And she smirked a little, though she did not mean to.

“It’s not funny,” Hans reacted.  “I’m not kidding.  There’s something out there.”  Greta just turned and went thinking two things at once; that in this place she ought to take Hans more seriously, yet after the morning performance, how could she believe him?

Just inside the tree line, some twenty paces out, she found a recently fallen tree.  The tree looked dead and dry, but not there long enough to be filled with worms, maggots, and dry rot.  She started to gather up the branches when she felt it. It felt like fingers or a hairy legged spider crawling up her back.  She spun around and put her back to the tree.

“Who is out there?”  she asked in a loud whisper.  “I don’t appreciate the spooky stuff.  I have already been upset once today, now please don’t make me angry.”  This, whatever it might be, was going to get the full force of her vented anger if it didn’t cut it out.

She turned to pick up her wood and felt the creepies on her leg.  “That’s it!”  She screamed, and Greta no longer stood there.  Amphitrite, Salacia to the Latins, queen of the sea stood there instead and she felt everything Greta felt.  She had pushed her way to the front because she knew how to vent better than most. She floated up about six feet. Her anger became hurricane in proportion, and she blew for a good five minutes.  More trees got killed by lightening or blown down by the wind in those minutes than had been damaged in the last hundred years.  Several miles away, the little Sylvan river boiled over its’ banks and became a temporary swamp, flooding everything for miles. Even the cascading stream became a torrential waterfall, which swept away Greta’s pile of sticks and frightened Hans half to death.  And it rained so hard at that time, Hans had to duck under the rock outcropping just to breathe.

Then, as always happens with a storm at sea, after that time, Salacia felt warm and tranquil. Hans got forgiven.  She even let up a small prayer for the hag because she knew the hag had once been human.  She brushed the clouds away, left only enough in the western sky to catch the sun’s red, crimson and purple.

Salacia called to the wood, and it dutifully split itself and followed her back to camp.  It piled itself neatly, and a few pieces set themselves in the center of Greta’s fire ring, now perfectly encircled with stones. They came immediately to life, not damp at all, and the flame burned brightly as Salacia floated back to the ground with a sigh.  “I don’t think we will be bothered again,” she said, and went back to her own time, while Greta came back into her place, feeling all of the tranquility that Salacia had felt.

Greta sat down by the fire without a word.

Hans closed his mouth and spoke for her.  “You were absolutely beautiful,” he said.

“I know,” Greta answered softly.  “Inhumanly so.  But weren’t you scared?”

“I’ll say,” Hans nodded.  “I think I wet myself.”

Greta thought for a minute and nodded.  “I was scared, too,” she said.  And it felt true.  She scared herself.  Such power she never imagined!

“Who was that?” Hans asked, handing his sister a tear of bread.

“Salacia.” Greta said.  “The Roman goddess.”  Greta chewed on her meal and went immediately after to lie down.  She pulled up the blanket and then raised a corner and looked at her brother.  It could still get cold at night.  “Well?” she asked.

“Is it safe?” He returned her question.

“For you, yes,” Greta said.  She was not sure about herself.  Authority be hanged.  Greta never imagined, and still could hardly imagine that much power in one person. It felt limitless.  Nameless always dampened and disguised his true nature, and Danna did the same.  She had not realized.  It was true; there was almost nothing a god could not do.  She could have flattened the entire forest with a mere thought. It staggered and frightened Greta to think of it, but at the same time, it brought some understanding.  She felt sorry for the ancient gods.  That felt like more responsibility than anyone should have to bear.

R5 Greta: The Fire and the Dark, part 1 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

“All right,” Aruna said, as Hans yawned.  “Now you must be very tired.  It is late and time for growing children to be in bed.  We can sort everything out in the morning.

Greta felt agreeable, but she had one last thought.  Perhaps it was Aruna’s age that brought it to mind.  “Mother Hulda,” she said.

“Oh?”  Aruna raised her eyebrows and eyed Greta suspiciously.  “Do you know the good Mother?  She visits for tea quite regularly.”

“I know her a little,” Greta hedged her thoughts, though she was not sure why.  “Has she been by recently?”  Greta asked.

“Why, just two or three days ago she was here and we had a grand time,” Aruna said.

That lie helped bring Greta back to reality enough to know she needed help.  “Agreed.”  She heard the word clearly in her head, and then Greta vanished from that time and place and Danna, the mother of all the Celtic gods, sat in her place, and left up a perfect glamour of Greta so the hag, Aruna, would be no wiser.  Danna saw the hovel for exactly what it was, and in fact had to lower herself a bit to see where their beds were supposed to be. They were in the oven, of course.

“Hans.” Danna, looked and sounded exactly like Greta and stopped her brother from going straight to bed.  “Girls first,” she said aloud and made sure he had to obey.  She walked to the oven and started to climb in but quickly climbed right out again.  “The fire went out,” she said.  “It’s too cold in there.  I can’t sleep.”

“What?” Aruna looked dumbfounded and she had to see for herself.  Danna grabbed Han’s hand and suddenly he saw what she saw.  As the hag poked her head into the fire box, Danna traded places in time with Bodanagus of the Nervii.  He came dressed in the armor of the Nameless One, the armor which had once been his, and he did not pause before he spoke.

“Push,” he told Hans, and though Hans came up with his hands ready to push, essentially Bodanagus, in a moment of near Herculean strength, bent down beneath the hag’s butt and flipped the old woman into the oven.  He slammed the door.

“Why did we just push Grandma into the oven?” Hans asked, still very confused.

“Not grandma,” Bodanagus explained.  “A hag, a grendal.  Such creatures have many names.  Something pounded on the iron door of the oven, and it came with enough force to make dents in the door.  Bodanagus picked up a log and opened the firebox.  As he did, a hand sprang out of the box and tried to grab him.  Wyrd flew out of its’ sheath in a flash and Bodanagus cut the hand off, cleanly.  Even severed from the body, it still clutched at them.  Bodanagus used the tip of the sword to fling the hand back into the fire while Hans quickly opened and closed the fire door.  The creature shortly stopped pounding and began to scream. That was his cue.

Bodanagus grabbed the bucket of water from which the hag had drawn their tea.  It still sat mostly full.  He knew this had to be quick.  He got Hans to open the oven door as he threw the water in.  Then they closed the door again, though they almost did not get it closed in time.  The scream of the hag became an unearthly sound.  Bodanagus did his best to cover Han’s ears, but the screaming went on for a while.  Hans buried his face in the armor.  He recognized the armor and the sword, even if he did not exactly recognize Bodanagus. When it was over, Bodanagus trade places again with Danna.  She had the power to remove the spell from Hans completely.  She also removed the standing glamour from the place, which otherwise might have continued for decades.

“Wow,” Hans said. The real hovel had no roof.  Only two walls stood, and the oven, of course, with its high chimney.  The field of grain no longer grew there.  In fact, they hardly saw a meadow.  Only the encroaching forest grew.  The food also had all gone, except for Hans who proceeded to vomit out whatever he ate. Danna made double sure that the beast died, and then threw some magic into the air, not unlike fairy dust, and traded places with Greta so the magic could fall on her.  Thus, she set herself completely free of the same enchantment, and then Greta vomited a little, but not nearly like Hans.

Greta checked the sky.  It proved shortly after noon.  They had to move on.  She had forgotten about the wolf and wished the hag had not brought it up.  Greta collected their things, which still sat on the forest floor where they left them.  She looked again.  Perhaps it turned one o’clock.  She had to get Hans moving, even if it would be slow going as long as he felt sick. It became slow after that as well while they climbed the hill that Hans had seen from the treetop.  And all that while they moved in relative silence. Hans did not feel much like talking, and Greta felt angry enough to scream, and for several reasons.

She could not even speak to Hans.  If he wasn’t so sick, she could have killed him.  Just as well he did not feel like speaking.

At the same time, the question of Hans haunted her.  What good was having a god on your side if he wouldn’t do anything for you? The magic of the hag proved stronger than anything she had ever encountered, but she had the distinct feeling that if she had not caught the perfect grandmother in a lie, which in effect blunted the spell, all those other lifetimes she lived would have let her be lunch.  Even then, she did not feel sure anyone would have helped her if she did not ask.  What good was having a god on her side?

That was not the only thing that haunted her.  At times during their climb, her fears almost overwhelmed her anger.  Storytelling was one thing the Woman of the Ways did for the people.  She knew most of the stories of the haunted forest, only now they took on a reality she never expected, and some of the stories were very frightening, indeed.

In the end, she settled on being upset.  The churning in her stomach did not help.

From the hilltop, Greta could see well enough to get her bearings.  Ahead of them, smaller hills pushed into the gray, eastern horizon. To the south, the hills softened more, though it still looked like forest for as far as she could see.  She knew the road lay way beyond her sight. West, behind her, she saw more trees. They had moved far enough into the woods by then so she could see nothing of Boarshag.  All she could see was trees and more trees.  Even the ruins where the hag lived blended into the forest and vanished from sight.  She supposed if she really tried, she could have found the now smokeless chimney sticking up from between the trees, but she chose not to try and turned to look north. She felt fairly certain she could make out the Sylvan River.  It appeared to be running due west.  Somewhere much further east it had to turn in a great arc to end up twenty miles north of Ravenshold, but for the time being, she knew that as long as they kept the river to their left hand they would do well.

R5 Greta: Into the Woods, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Hans stopped eating long enough to smile.  He had a red berry ring around his mouth which made him look like a toddler. Greta got so mad at him, she felt like wringing his neck, but she also managed a smile for the old woman.

“My name is Aruna,” the woman said, hesitantly.

“I’m Greta,” she said.  “And my pig’s name is Hansel.”  She turned to her brother.  “Stop, Hans. For Heimdahl’s sake, stop eating the poor woman’s food.”

“It’s quite all right,” Aruna said.  “The old ones won’t be coming today, alas.  All my baking was for nothing, unless you enjoy it.  I would much rather it be eaten than thrown out.”

“The old ones?” Greta asked.

“Yes, Gretal, child.  But come now, eat what you like.  I am especially proud of my tarts.  Come, come.”

Tarts were her favorite.  Greta had not noticed any until the woman mentioned them.  She picked one up, carefully.  It reeked of magic.  “Thank you,” Greta said.  “Tell me about the old ones.”  She pretended to eat and the pretense appeared good enough for the moment.

“The old ones. Now, that is a long story.”  Aruna smiled a toothy smile.  “Come, let us go inside and I will make some tea and tell you all about it.”

“How did you come to live alone in the forest like this?” Greta asked, stalling their progress.

“Now, that is another long story,” Aruna said.  “It would be much better told inside where the sun is not so bright and hot. I have worked hard this morning and I would love to rest my weary feet.”

“Yes, work,” Greta said, not giving up.  “How did you manage a field of ripe grain this early in the spring?”

Aruna handed her a sweet pie and indicated that she should help herself.  “A gift of the gods for this poor, old woman,” she said. “No matter how much I cut in a day, by the next morning the field is full and ripe again.”

Greta happened to know the ancient gods were no longer available to make such gifts, and they had not been around for nearly a hundred and fifty years.  “Which god should be so generous, if I may ask?” Greta tried to sound pleasant and conversational.  Aruna frowned.

“Abraxas,” she said, drawing the “s” out in a true serpent-like manner.  He was not one of the northern gods, nor any of the gods that Greta knew, and yet the name sounded vaguely familiar.  Had she come across the name in the writings in Mother Hulda’s barn?  While she puzzled, she took a bite of the sweet pie without thinking.

“Good,” Aruna said.  “Now poor Hansel is getting very thirsty.  Isn’t that so?”

“Yeah I am.” Hans spoke with his mouth full.

“Come in. It is still early spring and gets dark early.”  Aruna said, and Greta almost believed her.  “You don’t want to get caught out doors at night with the wolf prowling about.”

“Dear, no,” Greta said and put down her pie.  Aruna struck a chord there that Greta could not deny.

The minute Greta stepped inside, she knew what was wrong but she did not seem to have enough power to do anything about it.  In her mind’s eye, she saw a dirt floored hovel with stones and stumps for furniture, and no great artifacts of any kind apart from the tremendous oven; but then she saw a quaint, wood-floored home with a nice table and chairs, flowers in a vase, a neatly made bed in the corner, a fireplace in place of the firebox, and above it, where the oven had been, two small beds in a little loft, just right for her and Hansel.

“Old ones?” Greta thought if she talked it might help break the spell, but that became a mistake.

“Quite right,” Aruna said.  Her voice sounded so kind and enchanting, it drew them in more deeply.  “A little conversation helps grow the appetite.” She began to reach into all sorts of cupboards, cabinets and pantries and she pulled out roasts that were steaming hot, fresh baked bread, still warm, every kind of cheese Greta could imagine, greens and fresh fruit that paid no attention to the season, and of course, every kind of sweet that might appear on anyone’s menu.  “My,” she said.  “We have quite an appetite for children.”  But Greta felt the woman referred to their imagination, not their eating habits.  She suspected that she saw one thing, Hans saw something else, and only the woman saw what was real.

“Old ones,” Greta said.  She hung on to that thought, and she would not give it up, even when Aruna looked at her crossly.  Aruna smiled again and poured Greta some tea in a porcelain cup, though for a moment it looked like dirty water in a chipped crockery bowl.

“Drink up dear Gretal child,” she said.  “You will like this tea.  It is a special blend from my own garden.”  That did not inspire Greta to drink.  Greta still resisted, and Aruna knew it.  Greta looked up with some insistence in her eyes.

“All right, dearie,” Aruna said, and she started to talk to take Greta’s mind off fighting the spell.  “The old ones were the first people in the land.  They lived here long before the yellow hairs came.”  Greta understood there were people in the area going back to the stone age, but there were certainly people around before her own Dacians. In truth, her people took the land themselves barely two hundred years before Trajan brought up his army.  Maybe three hundred years, but it remained recent history, just a blink in time.  She believed, though, that the earlier inhabitants had long since been driven away or assimilated with her own people.  She could not imagine a whole enclave of them living apart for so many years.

Aruna stroked Greta’s long, light blond hair.  She would have stroked Greta’s cheek if Greta had not pulled back, sharply.  Aruna let her hand drop and went back to speaking. “They live in the forest, dear,” she said, as if reading Greta’s mind.  She wove a twisted tale.  “I am a widow of the rebellion.  I married on the very day hostilities broke out.  My dearest love was killed before we could even share our wedding bed.  I wanted to die, too, but I did not have the courage to take my own life.  Instead, I ran into the forest in such tears and grief I thought the agony would never go away.  But here, I thought, in this haunted land, some demon or beast would kill me quickly and my misery would be at an end.

“In this place, my great god Abraxas found me.  He began to heal me in ways I never imagined.  And then he brought the old ones to find me, and they fed me, but kept a close watch on me to be sure I came to no harm.  I prayed to Abraxas every day.  He is the great god who shines light in the darkness and shows the darkness hidden in the light, and I grew stronger every day, until at last, I could go about without fear.  I could not go home, because everyone I knew had died.  And yet, I did not belong in this place, either.  The old ones left me here, half-way between their world and the outside world, and I have lived here to this day.”

Greta sipped her tea and thought what a sad and tragic story.  Hans shed a few tears.  This poor old grandmother had lived such a hard life, it would only be right and fair to show her some kindness.

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MONDAY

Don’t miss R5 Greta, the Fire and the Dark.  It may be time for the oven.

Happy Reading, while you can…

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R5 Greta: Into the Woods, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Greta stopped their progress around ten.  She needed to rest, eat, and try to get oriented.  “How come we’re not following the Sylvan River?” Hans asked.  “Everyone says, if anyone was foolish enough to go into the forest, that is the way they should go.  They say since the river enters the woods in the North and exits near Boarshag, that is as near as you are going to get to a road through the demon woods.”

“Think Hans,” Greta said.  “We are trying to get to Ravenshold in three days in order to arrive ahead of Darius, or at least to arrive about the same time.  Now, where does the river enter the woods?”

“East?” Hans shrugged, and Greta realized since he had never seen a map he had no real clue.

“It comes out of the northern hills and enters the forest twenty miles north of Ravenshold,” she said.  “Besides, we have no idea how many twists and turns the river might take within the woods. It bogs down in many places or it might run through a gorge that is impossible to climb and impossible to cross. Instead of a short cut, the river might take longer.  We don’t know.”

“Twenty miles?” Hans sought confirmation

“Yes.” Greta nodded.  “And no easy road to Ravenshold once we get out of the woods.”

Hans whistled.

“No, the only way to get there, and quickly, is to cut straight east through the trees.”

“I understand,” Hans agreed.

“Good,” Greta said.  “So, climb this tree.  Not too high, now.  A broken leg or even a sprained ankle would be the worst possible thing for us.  Just get high enough to check the sun’s position. If the sun is still in your eyes, your face will be looking east.  That is the way we want to go.

“Right.” Hans set down his bread and scooted up the tree like a monkey.  Despite her cries to be careful, he climbed right to the top and acted like a bit of a showoff, besides.

“Hey!”  He shouted down.  “It’s like a whole other world up here.”

“Oh, be careful,” she shouted up.

“Hey!  I see an open space, like a meadow.  We can get our direction from there.”

“Is it east?” Greta asked.

“Mostly,” he said, but she could tell he did not think about direction.  “I see a hill in the distance.  We are going to have to do some climbing, and, Hey!  I see smoke.”

“Fire?” That thought frightened Greta, terribly. Hans came down.

“No, like a house,” Hans said as he dropped the last few feet and Greta gasped lest he twist his ankle or something.  “Like chimney smoke and right beside it, it looked like a field of grain, ripe and ready to harvest.”

That did not sound right.  The winter harvest came long ago.  Any field should be turned and only the green shoots of spring should be sticking up.  “A house in the forest?”  The whole idea sounded unlikely.

“Come on, I’ll show you.”  Hans got ready to go.

“Here.”  She tossed him the last of the bread he had been gnawing, and he started right out, like he knew exactly where to go.  Greta felt obliged to follow him, though she did not like the idea at all.

In a short way, they came to the meadow and Greta confirmed they were headed in the right direction.  “Come on.” Hans urged her toward the house, or at least the chimney smoke, but Greta decided to dig in her heels.  She would not move until they made an agreement.

“It is on the way so we go by,” she said.  “But we don’t go in unless I say so.  And if there are people there, keep hidden and say nothing unless I say it is all right.”

“Come on,” Hans said.

“Agree,” Greta insisted.  “Or I will go way around it.”  She felt tempted to avoid the house, regardless.

“Okay, I agree,” Hans said.  “Now will you come on.  Maybe we can get lunch.”

“Grr.” Greta let out a little of her frustration, but followed, thinking that Hans was much too trusting a soul.

When they got to the edge of the clearing, Greta pulled Hans down behind a bush while she examined the house.  The poor house had only one room, she judged, with a small front deck, not unlike Mother Hulda’s front porch.  The chimney, by contrast, shot way up beyond the roof, high as the trees, and it bellowed black smoke as if the homeowner burned only moss and fir.  No wonder the smoke could be seen for miles, Greta pictured a moth being drawn to the flame.

Hans started to get up, but Greta pulled him back down and quieted him.

“But don’t you smell it?” Hans whispered.

“Yes,” Greta said, but presently, her eyes were fastened on the field of grain.  It looked ripe for harvest as Hans had reported, but that felt severely wrong.  Hans took advantage of her inattention.  He sprang up and ran for the house.  He picked up a honey cake cooling on the porch railing and popped it into his mouth.

“Hans!” Greta whispered as loud as she dared. She did not want to arouse anyone who might be inside.  The aroma of all the baked goods—berry pies, cakes, pastries and sweets—all cooling on the front porch smelled overwhelming, but it also smelled of enchantment. Greta had decided this was not the place to stop, but Hans merely smiled at her.  The stinker was not about to return from the porch, and he had no intention of keeping his promise.  He stuck his finger in a pie and licked it clean with great delight.  Greta would have to fetch him.

She got up slowly and looked both ways to be sure the coast was clear before she walked sternly toward Hans.  She had every intention of grabbing him by the ear and dragging him back to the woods should that prove necessary.  Unfortunately, at that very moment, an elderly woman stepped around the corner of the house and spied them both.  The woman’s eyes got big for a second in a very strange sort of way, but then she put her hand to her chest and spoke.

“Oh, my children. You startled me so.”

R5 Greta: Into the Woods, part 1 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Greta got up before the sun, dressed as quietly as she could and put on her red cloak for the journey.  The days were getting warm, but the evenings and early mornings could still be chilly. She already had her new basket filled with enough food to sustain her for three days.  It felt minimal, but it would suffice.  She also had a flask of water.  She imagined she might find water along the way.  When she felt ready, she crawled out of the window to avoid the guards her father had posted by the front door.

Greta walked across country fields until she met the east road, far out of sight of her house. The grass made squishy sounds beneath her feet.  The road proved full of mud puddles.  The trees dripped and glistened in the first light.  It had rained well after midnight.  By the time she turned off to walk to Mother Hulda’s, where the road turned the other way, the sun broke out over the eastern hills.

Greta stopped in Mother Hulda’s barn long enough to nibble on a piece of bread.  She wanted to be sure she was not being followed. As she ate, her mind wandered to the task ahead.  She began to think of the haunted woods and the many stories that told about people who wandered in and were never heard from again.  She looked at the little Sylvan River in the distance.  It came out of the woods, narrow and clean water, and flowed to join the Tibiscus River north of Boarshag.  They said the Sylvan bogged down in the forest and formed into great swamps, home for all the unspeakable things.  She considered the god Sylvanus and the haunting power of the trees.  She remembered the Roman Century from the days of the last rebellion, said to be wandering still, looking for a way out.  She thought of the stories about demons and strange creatures, and suddenly she had to go before she lost her nerve.  She was not as immune to the children’s stories as she had supposed, and she decided Festuscato and Gerraint were fools to want a haunted forest of their own.The first thing Greta noticed was the forest floor seemed much dryer than the fields.  The twigs and leaves crunched beneath her feet and the sound echoed among the trees.  The forest also seemed much quieter than the meadows.  Greta got startled by the sound of a bird that broke out in morning song.  She got spooked by the rustle of leaves nearby and almost ran.  She decided to investigate under the false assumption that it could not be anything evil in the morning light.  She thought that proving to herself that it was nothing would help.  She paused when she saw the leaves move.  She held her breath.  The leaves appeared to be moving but nothing moved them and she felt no breeze.  A squirrel head popped up from beneath the leaf bed.  Greta breathed, and laughed, nervously.  It did not surprise her that the stories of ghosts and demon spirits were rampant among the people.

Greta moved on. Again, she heard the rustle of leaves and twigs behind her, but this time she ignored it.  Even after she had put some distance between herself and the squirrel, she still thought nothing of it.  It is just mice or birds, she told herself, or perhaps a deer with a spring born faun.  Yet she found herself listening more closely, because it did sound a bit like the regular stomping of feet.  She stopped to be sure.  The sound stopped.  She started, and the sound started again.  She decided this time she did not want to look, so she ran, and the sound ran after her.

Greta began to weave in and out of the trees, hoping her pursuer would lose sight of her long enough for her to duck behind some cover.  She found a boulder and hit the dirt.  Only the sound of her hard breathing could not be stopped.

“Greta.” She heard her name.  “Greta.”  Hans! She got up and looked to be sure. He stood ten paces away.  Greta smiled and walked up to him.  He smiled sheepishly in return.  She yelled and hit him several times, waking whatever might still be asleep in the forest.

“You creep! How dare you follow me like that and scare me half to death.”  Like a good brother, he took his pounding gracefully.

“I didn’t think you would let me come,” he said.  “I heard what you told Papa about going through the forest and I thought you might need my help.”  He pointed to his makeshift backpack.  “Look. I have a blanket and food, and I brought the knife that Darius gave me.”

“But it is dangerous here.  Nobody goes into the forest for good reason.  It is dangerous,” Greta insisted.

“Greta.” Hans lowered his voice to a whisper. “If it gets that bad, won’t the Nameless help us out?”

“I doubt it,” Greta said at full volume.  “He says what they all say.  This is my life, my turn.  I have to live or die on my own and no one can interfere with that.”

“But I thought.” Hans paused to think.  “Uh!”  He wanted to protest, but Greta started to walk and he had to follow.  Finally, Hans framed his thought.  “What good is it having a god on your side if he won’t do anything to help you?”

“He is not a genie in a bottle granting wishes,” she responded, and since Hans had no idea what a genie was, he just fell silent.

The forest turned out to not be as flat and even as Greta supposed.  They went down into gullies, climbed ridges, clambered over and around boulders, skirted briar patches and avoided the marshy, fern strewn places altogether.  With all that, it did not take long before Greta became convinced that she had lost the proper direction.  Normal direction was an easy matter since the sun rose in the east and set in the west. But among the trees, she could not really see the sun or tell which way it headed much after nine o’clock.  Now she understood the stories of people lost and wandering forever, searching for a way out.

 

 

 

R5 Greta: Desperation, part 3 of 3

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Hans understood well enough despite the trouble Mishka had translating to Dacian for Hans and Greek for the physician.  Some of it just came out in Russian, but it hardly mattered.  Hans went back to work and Mishka picked up her bag and felt pleased to see the physician did not bolt.  Instead, he looked over her shoulder as she first laid a boiled cloth on the table, and then laid out her instruments.

“More light,” she called out, and Hans went to the window.  “No.  Candles.” The smoke would be bad, but who knew what might be blowing in the air.  The conditions of Mama’s kitchen were not exactly sterile.

Mishka laid out the scalpel, tweezers, clamps and all in order.  These were made by her little ones in ancient days.  From the same crowd that made Thor’s Hammer, she used Greta’s phrase.  The medicine always arrived fresh, but just to be sure she checked the green dot on the bottom of the vial of penicillin.

“Remarkable craftsmanship.”  The Roman spoke over her shoulder.  Mishka quickly pulled out two masks, one for herself and one for the Roman and his beard. She had to make him wear it.  Once washed and gloved, she turned them to the patient.

Flaminius became fascinated the instant she cut into the wound.  After that, his attention never wavered.  He dutifully made sponges out of the boiled cloth and they dug and sponged, clamped, looked, and dug a little deeper.  At one point, Papa moaned and tried to turn over. Mishka had to call Hans to hold him down.  They were nearly at the bone.

“You know,” Mishka spoke, though in what language, she could not be sure.  “It is always a risk to history to intervene like this. This whole surgery is something out of time, almost as bad as the guns.  But history says there should be peace between Dacia and Rome, and Greta’s Papa is too important a chess piece to lose at this stage.  Eh, Hans?”

Hans looked up and nodded, but said nothing.  Mishka went on.  “As for Marcus.”  She clicked her tongue.  “I suppose I shall have to keep him alive somehow, too, if he is ever to be emperor.  At least he has no Rasputin dog chasing his heels, eh, Hans?”

Hans did not look that time.  They came to the bone.  “And here it is.”  Mishka said, cleanly extracting the sliver of the sword with her tweezers.  After that, came the long, slow process of sewing him up. She had self-dissolving thread, thank goodness.

When they were nearly done sewing, Mishka sent Hans to put the kettle on the fire.  “A special cure?”  Flaminius asked.

“No,” Mishka answered.  “In want of vodka and a good cigar. I will settle for some tea.”

“I must say, what I have just witnessed is the most remarkable bit of medical work I have ever seen.  The only thing I don’t understand is why I have to wear this uncomfortable mask.”

Mishka reached for her penicillin and hypodermic as she answered.  “Because I do not want anything in the leg except leg.  No breath, spit, hair, and certainly no eggs you had for breakfast or greasy ribs from last night’s supper, both of which are still hiding around your chin.”

“Oh, I see,” Flaminius said, and she could tell he was learning.  She hoped he was not learning too much.

Mishka tapped the vial of penicillin and looked concerned.  These people had no experience with antibiotics.  She wanted enough to shock the healing process, but too much might be a disaster.  “We do live by faith,” she reminded herself, and prepared the needle for the injection. At that moment, Papa’s hand flew up and caught her arm.

“Where’s my Greta?” he demanded.  Mishka turned away, and then vanished from that time and place.  Greta came home to find a hypodermic in one hand, and her other hand caught in her father’s crushing grasp.

“I’m right here, Papa,” she said and turned to face him.  She saw him relax a little, but she called Hans over to get between them. Then she had to inject the needle herself, and Papa felt it.  Fortunately, it was over quickly and the hypodermic vanished as the bag and instruments had already vanished with the good Doctor.  “Everything is done.  You are going to be all right.”  And she motioned the physician to hold Papa up so he could take his pain medication. Then she applied the antiseptic salve and bandaged him tight, including the splint which would keep his leg immobile. She knew he would not keep the splint on for long, but she felt every hour would be a plus.  Last of all, Greta hugged him and cried a little.  He patted her back, but got groggy as the pain medicine had its’ effect.  Then, as Papa fell back to sleep, she called the physician and Hans to her side.

“Flaminius Vinas,” she said.  “Not a word about Doctor Mishka to anyone.  Not now, not ever.  Hans is the only other person who knows and that is how it must remain.”  She shot Hans a sharp look, but somehow, she knew she could trust him.  Flaminius might be another matter, but he put her mind at ease.

“Never fear,” he said.  “Hippocrates taught us all about confidentiality.”

Greta relaxed. “And by the way, she says I will have to have that cup of tea with you, if you wish.”

The physician laughed.  He looked genuinely pleased to have been part of it all, and especially pleased at being able to scratch his beard once again.  Greta opened the window and extinguished all the candles while she sent Hans to fetch Mama.  Then, when all three were present and paying attention, Greta explained the need for clean bandages and the splint to keep the leg straight until the bone could properly heal.  She had to finish fixing her makeshift penicillin compound herself.  It would not be very strong and might upset his stomach, but it should suffice.  He had to drink a measured dose every morning for the next ten days.  They must not skip a day, and he must finish it all—all ten doses.  Mama alone would forget one morning.  Hans could hardly be counted on, but the physician, she felt, would keep the faith and she decided this Flaminius might not be such a bad fellow after all, Roman though he was.

Greta slept that night with her eyes and ears open.  She got up twice to give Papa his pain medication.  The physician knew a very similar formula and promised to use it sparingly lest he become addicted to the medicine.  She got up a third time to help Flaminius change Papa’s bandages. The stitching had been excellent, but the antiseptic dried and made the bandages crusty.  Originally, Greta had thought to leave at first light, but in the morning, she felt much too tired to contemplate such a journey.  Besides, it started pouring rain.

Afternoon came before she had a chance to speak with Papa, alone.  She concluded that the only right thing to do was tell him her intentions.  That way, if she did not survive, they would have some idea of what happened to her.

“Papa,” she said. “I know all about the weapons of Trajan, the guns.”

“What?” Papa looked hard at her, but quickly softened.  “I must always remember, though my little girl, you are indeed the Woman of the Ways. You did for me and my leg what a whole host of Roman physicians with all their superior knowledge were powerless to do.” Greta turned a little red since that was not strictly true.  “Lord Marcus says they will be a great help to us in defending our land and homes, if only we can get them out of the hands of the rebels.”

“No, Papa,” Greta said.  “Marcus only wants his Romans equipped with those weapons.”

“And us,” Papa insisted.  “When we guard our border, we also guard Rome’s border.  They will include us.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” Greta said.  “No one should have those weapons.”

“And why not?” Papa asked with serious doubts as to her sanity on the matter.

“Because they are stolen from the future.  Because they don’t belong here.  Because the gods want them rounded up and destroyed.”  The gods seemed the best way she could explain it, and that caused her Papa to pause.

“Are you sure about this?”  Greta nodded without hesitation.  Papa leaned back and sighed.  “You know,” he said.  “I have only heard of these weapons, but what I have heard, I can hardly believe.”

“I must go,” Greta said, broaching the real subject.

“Why you?” he asked.

“It’s my job,” she answered, and Papa knew that well enough not to argue the point.

“Anyway, it’s too late,” he said, sure that he had her.  “The soldiers are too far ahead of you.  You might as well wait until Marcus brings them back and do what you must do, here.”  Papa relaxed. He thought that ended the discussion.

“I must cross the forest to Ravenshold,” Greta said, quietly.

“What?” Papa exploded.  “Never.  You must not even think of that.  You cannot go.  I forbid it.” Greta heard the fear in his voice as well as his concern for her.

“Three days journey at most and I can be in Ravenshold two days ahead of Marcus,” she said.

“Absolutely not. Do you hear me?  I forbid you to go.”

“Papa,” she said. “I am only telling you in case I don’t survive, so you will know what happened to me.”  But Papa already stopped listening.

“I’ll hear no more of this foolish talk.”  Papa folded his arms and closed his eyes.  Greta gave him a kiss and stepped outside to stand in the rain.

************************

MONDAY

R5 Greta: Into the Woods… Greta begins to understand what being the Kairos is all about, even as things get strange.  Until Monday, Happy Reading.

*

R5 Greta: Desperation, part 2 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

The physician who came with Papa showed contempt from the beginning, but his contempt got abated a little as Greta pointed out his work and named everything he did in both Latin and Greek.  In truth, she spent all that while examining the wound.

Papa stayed respectfully quiet and only said “Ouch,” in the appropriate places. Meanwhile, Hans came in with arms full of moldy bread, and Vanesca returned at about the same time with the water. Greta set them immediately to preparing the penicillin which would be taken orally, though they hardly knew what they were doing, or why.

Papa’s leg had not yet become infected, but it seemed rapidly headed in that direction. She examined Papa’s hands.  When the assassin struck, he missed the target, struck only Papa’s leg; but the sword went to the bone and even cut a hairline fracture.  As Papa cried out, he grabbed the sword and held on to the blade so the assassin could not draw it out and strike a second blow.  Papa demonstrated and explained.  “Then Marcus tackled the man and had him tortured.  That was how we found out about Kunther’s rebellion,” he said, and Greta knew that was also how they found out about the guns.

Papa’s hands did not look to be cut too badly.  They were already healing.  But not every soldier was scrupulous about keeping his weapon clean.  Some blades even developed a keen edge of rust. Soldiers routinely died, not from the wound, but from the infection that developed.  Greta well understood why the Roman physicians recommended removal of the leg.  His chances for survival were not good if he lost the limb, but if his leg turned green, his chances became zero.

Greta finally stood up.  Everyone waited.  “You missed a sliver,” she told the physician.  “Did the sword break?”

“No.” Darius spoke up.  “But it had notches in several places, like a sword that had been in hard battle.  I suppose a piece may have broken off against the bone, isn’t that possible, physician?”

“I suppose it is possible.”  The physician admitted.  “But we can do nothing about that now, certainly not with the wound already closing. The leg is ready to green, and there is nothing we can do about that either, except remove the leg and burn it off and hope for the best.”

“No,” Greta insisted.  “We get out the sliver and then treat the leg against infection.”  She sounded so sure.  “Papa.  You will have to follow my directions for the next twenty-one days.  If you do, you will get well.”  She sounded very stern and he raised his eyebrows.

“I mean it.” Greta spoke with everything she had. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mother.” Papa nodded.

“Good,” Greta said.  “Physician and Hans stay.  Everyone else out.”  Vanesca and Darius looked up.  “Sorry,” Greta said.  “This is necessary and important.”

They agreed, and as they left, Greta made her Papa drink the sleeping potion.  Then she got a bowl of fresh water and got the physician to start cleaning the wound while she stepped outside.  Marcus paced there, with about twenty men waiting as well as they could.  Gaius mounted and Darius followed.

“You brought up the entire cavalry troop?” Greta asked.

Darius and Gaius looked at each other.  Romans did not easily share such information, but Marcus did not hesitate.  “Three hundred,” he said.  “And about an equal number of auxiliaries and of your own people.”

“Vanesca!”  Greta shouted before Vanesca got out of earshot. “Go fetch Yanda’s father and tell him I need him here, on horseback, and dressed for war, immediately.”

Vanesca waved.

“Immediately!” Greta repeated herself to be sure.

“The whole legion is following?” she asked Marcus.

“Pretty much,” he admitted.  “The legion in Apulum is spread all over the countryside, but VII Claudia is mostly intact and coming up from Vimiacium on the Danube.”

“Take Yanda’s father with you,” she said.  “His name is Hersecles.  He is too old for much of a fight, but he has the respect of all who know him, and that is a lot of people.  What is more, his whole heart is for peace with Rome and against rebellion.  He can replace Eldegard if Eldegard should prove false.  I am not saying he will turn false, mind you.”  Marcus nodded, and Greta felt terrible suggesting it because Eldegard was Drakka’s father.  “I know Papa picked him,” she went on.  “But he was on the fence.  Part of the reason for Papa’s pick was to bring him over to the side of peace.”  She had nothing more to say, and after that, they waited, and waited until Marcus could barely contain his impatience.

“If I had a copper for every time I had to wait,” Gaius quipped.  “Do you know how rich I would be?”  Marcus nodded, but it did not help.

They waited, and the Roman physician came out to report.  “The wound is clean, your father is asleep, and the boy is bored.”  He related things in his own order of importance.

“Fine,” Greta said, a bit sharply.  She felt uncomfortable, not because of the wait, but because Darius kept staring at her. Finally, she could stand it no longer. “What?”  She shot the word at him, and it distracted Marcus for the moment.

“Nothing.” Darius sat upright.  “Did I say something?”  He asked Gaius, not expecting an answer.

“Damn it!” Greta felt unhappy with herself. She wanted to hate herself, but she had to say it.  “Damn it!” She repeated.  “Just don’t get yourself killed, all right?  It wouldn’t be much of a wedding without you. Okay?  I said it.”  Greta felt herself flush red from anger and several other conflicting emotions.

“Bravo!” Marcus shouted.  Then Hersecles chose that moment to show up so she did not get a response from Darius, if he had one.

Greta made the introductions and gave Hersecles her instructions before they raced off to catch the troop which was already well ahead of them.

“He doesn’t look like much of a warrior,” the physician noted.

“Better than I thought,” Greta responded, and she brought the physician back inside the house.

Hans sat by the bed watching Papa snore, but the minute they came in he asked the question which had been pressing on his mind.  “Will my Nameless be able to help?”  To his disappointment, Greta shook her head, and then explained.

“This is not a spiritual matter.  It is strictly a matter of flesh and blood.”  Greta saw that the wound looked tolerably clean so she said, “Thank you” to the physician.

“But can you do this alone?” Hans pressed.

“No,” she admitted.  “But Doctor Mishka can.  She is a trained battlefield surgeon and she operated on far worse after Tannenberg, and even here in Dacia, though they did not call it Dacia in 1915.”

“Who is Mishka?” Hans asked, responding on the one thought he grasped from all that she said. Greta could see the same question forming in the physician’s mind.

“Take my hands,” Greta said.  “It is sort of a tradition.”  And she grasped Han’s hand and held the physician’s hand firmly.  She closed her eyes and reached out, not with her mind or heart, but with her spirit, and not in space, but sliced through time, even to the twentieth century.  All at once, Greta no longer stood there.  The Doctor stood in her place and felt much too snug in Greta’s dress.  The Roman nearly ran, but Mishka put her arm out and Hans restrained him.

“My surgical garb.”  Mishka called, and like the armor, it replaced Greta’s dress.  “Better,” Mishka took a deep breath.  “My black bag.”  She called again and the bag appeared in her hand, and she felt ready.

“Doctor Nadia Illiana Kolchenkov.”  Mishka introduced herself to the Roman and shook his bewildered hand.  “Colonel, late of the Army of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.”  That was 1945, not 1915.  This seemed an older Mishka than Greta had envisioned.

“Flaminius Vinas,” the Roman said, meekly.

“Pleased to meet you,” she said.  “Now you must assist.”  She winked at Hans who smiled broadly.  In this one he could see at least a little of his sister.  He could never pinpoint a particular feature.  Even the hair and eye colors were different.  But his sister was in there all the same.  “We make a fine troika,” Mishka said.  “But my brother must finish his potion as instructed, yes?”

R5 Greta: Desperation, part 1 of 3

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Greta breathed. She was all bluff and bravado, without substance in any perceived threat.  She let the armor and weapons return from wherever they came and stood once again in her plain dress and red cloak.  She turned to the astounded elders.

“There will be no rebellion,” she said flatly.  “Go home and make peace.”  Greta had to sit in the chair recently vacated by Lady Brunhild.  She felt afraid to get her cooties, but she had to sit down.  The elders filed out, slowly, acknowledging her as “Little Mother,” and “Mother Greta.” Yanda’s father paused to kiss her cheek. He thought perhaps he might provide everything asked for Yanda’s wedding after all.  Greta smiled.  She knew he was one who would have voted for peace no matter how persuasive the witch might have been.  When they were gone, Greta saw the Priest still there on his knees.

“Vasen?” Greta called him by name.

“Great Mother,” he called her.

Greta shook her head and stood to help him to his feet.  “Don’t make more out of what just happened than what you saw.”

“Nothing fake about that,” he insisted.

“No, not fake. But more show than substance.” She took his arm as the raven chose that moment to change perches, flying from one beam to another.  “Timing is everything,” she told him without further explanation.

“But I am so ashamed,” he suddenly confessed.  “I have spent years serving Lady Brunhild out of fear instead of my duty to serve the gods of heaven.”

“Quite all right,” Greta said, as they reached the door.  “Soon enough, strange men will come to us clothed with real power and authority from on high, and they will tell us of the God who was raised on the third day.  Then you and I will simply fade into history, but all will be well,” she assured him. “It is how it should be.  It is how it must happen.”

He did not really understand, but he nodded all the same and took his leave.  Greta limped home thinking about the guns. Some things Lady Brunhild had said suggested that she knew where they were, and that meant Kunther knew where they were, and that would be very bad, indeed.  She imagined a shoot-out on the streets of Laredo.  This time she had the faster gun and a bit more firepower, but that did not mean there would not be a next time.

###

Despite losing the first skirmish, and her loss in battle in front of the elders, Lady Brunhild did not leave town right away.  Greta fretted about what the woman might be scheming.  In the morning, Greta made the long trip to Mother Hulda’s old house, despite the pain in her leg.  The house was utterly gone, of course, but the weatherproofed barn still stood. Nameless had seen to that.  He had sanitized the books and one-of-a-kind items, and transported them to the barn before the burning.  Greta thought she could find something to combat Brunhild more directly.  She found a lot of interesting things, and spent considerable time going over scrolls and parchments penned in Greek and Latin; but the search proved fruitless.  Without knowing what Brunhild might be planning, Greta concluded that the potions she had made earlier were about the best she could do.

Greta arrived home before dark.  She decided that someday soon she would have to pack everything and move it to safer quarters, but for the moment, Mother Hulda’s barn seemed about the safest place. She had nowhere else to keep such precious things.

Another fitful night of sleep followed, partly because her leg seriously began to throb. She could not imagine how she hurt it. She got up around midnight and stepped out into the night air, walking to where she could just make out the campfires of Lady Brunhild’s camp.  The moon had come up, but it would not be her full Artemis moon for perhaps another week. She sat to look at the stars, and rubbed her leg.

She heard the sound of someone riding hard.  A rider came up from the South, and by the sound of the horse, Greta guessed it had been a long, swift ride.  The horse jerked to a stop in Lady Brunhild’s camp.  From her vantage, Greta saw the dark silhouette of the horse against the distant campfire.  It appeared to be steaming.  She waited. Not ten minutes later she heard shouting and a great deal of commotion.  Shortly after that, she saw another rider race out of camp on a fresh horse, headed North.  Greta did not have to stay up to know that Lady Brunhild and her troop would be gone before daylight.  She had no doubt, whatever Brunhild’s designs on the river land, they had to be put on hold. Greta felt sure the troop would be racing back to Ravenshold and she wondered why.  She sighed.  She felt tired, and her leg, if not better, presently felt numb.  She knew she would hear all about it, now.  She also felt sure she would never again be left out of any meetings. She went to bed.

By the time she got up with the sun, sure enough, Lady Brunhild had long gone.  Greta let it go for the time being.  She had plenty of duties to attend, some things she had neglected over the past few days.  She kept herself busy all day, and listened, but it seemed a mystery to everyone why the lady left so suddenly.  A few confirmed that they indeed headed north, back to Ravenshold, but no one knew why.

The following morning, Greta got her answer.  This time, the sound of many horses came up from the South.  Greta waited by the front door in anticipation.  The Lords Marcus, Darius and Sergeant Gaius were the first to arrive.  They dismounted without a word of what might be following.  Darius came over and put his hands on Greta’s shoulders.  He leaned down and gave her a quick kiss like a husband might kiss a wife, and she kissed him back without thinking about it.

She kissed him back?  But it was not so bad.  His touch was not so bad either, but that was not the point.  He was not Drakka.  Darius was nice, but not what she wanted.  Greta stopped cold and looked up.  Darius stood, smiling.  Marcus grinned from ear to ear.  Greta stepped back and slapped Darius, but not too hard.  Marcus started to laugh so she stepped over and stomped on his foot. “Oaf,” she called him.  She did not care if he would be emperor one day.  She grabbed Gaius by the arm and walked him away from the laughing fools.  Gaius had been trying to get her attention.  She noticed.

“We found the guns,” Gaius whispered quickly.  “Outside Ravenshold, and Kunther has them.  Marcus wants them for Rome so he can make more.”

“Why weren’t they used in the last rebellion?”  Greta wondered out loud.

“Your high chief at the time hated them.  He said the people would rise or fall on their own strength, not magic weapons. He buried them, but Kunther has dug them up and vowed to see Rome itself engulfed in flames.”

“Not good,” Greta mumbled.  “Very not good.”

By then Mama had come out and Darius and Marcus quickly calmed down.  They had something serious to tell.  “Greta.”  Darius said, and took her again by the shoulders.  She wanted to pull away, but she did not want to.  “It’s your father.”

“What?” Mama breathed loudly.

“He’s all right, alive,” Darius said, quickly.  “Thanks to the Lord Marcus who tackled the assassin.  But his leg is badly cut.  The physicians worked on him, but they believe the leg will have to come off. Your father, however, insisted that the Woman of the Ways examine his leg before they did any cutting.”

“We carried him three days.”  Gaius said and shook his head, as if to say the leg looked hopeless.  Greta did not hesitate.  She became like a whirlwind.  She grabbed Gaius and Darius by the hands and started toward the house. Hans and Beliona came running up even as they arrived at the door.  Hans hoped to tell the news of the soldiers and looked a little disappointed to see that they already knew.  Greta paused and did not let go of her captives.

“Hans.”  Her voice commanded.  “You and your friends need to gather as much moldy bread as you can find.  Search the dumps out behind people’s houses.  The more the better.”  She said, knowing that most of it would be useless.  Hans looked curiously at Darius who nodded.  “Do it!” Greta commanded.

“Right. Come on.”  He tapped Beliona on the arm and they ran off while Greta dragged her captives into the house.

She made them move Papa’s bed to the center of the main room near the kitchen fire.  They pushed the table back against the wall and Greta started Darius tearing linen sheets into bandages.  She had Gaius break a chair into clean pieces for a splint.

“His right leg.” Greta said, suddenly.  Hers started feeling better.  Darius and Gaius looked at each other, shrugged and continued working.

Vanesca chose that moment to show up.  “Good.” Greta said, handed her the empty water jug, and practically closed the door in her face.  Greta went back to stoking the fire.  She had emptied the jug into the cauldron which would also get the bandage cloths once the water started to boil.  Then she checked the potions she had made earlier in the week, particularly the sleep potion, the antiseptic balm and the pain killer. They were still good and would be for some time.  She felt relieved and happy to have them in advance.

Marcus came in with Mama.  Mama cried, but Greta did not have time for her.  “Mama.”  She spoke rather sternly.  “Go to Hermosas’ house and talk about the wedding.  I’ll let you know when there is word.”  Greta caught her mouth and looked at Darius who looked up and smiled. Greta frowned to think she would have to get used to that smirk.  She made a face at him and turned her back on him since Marcus started speaking.

“It would be my honor to escort your mother,” he said, having assessed the situation perfectly. He really was very good with her, and since he apparently also saved Papa’s life, Greta felt obliged.

“I owe you one,” she said hastily.  And they left, but not quite soon enough.  Papa arrived in a carrier.  She heard his voice repeating, “I’m all right.  I’m all right,” but Mama would have kept him in the yard and cried over him all day if Greta had not intervened.  “Get him in here,” she shouted.  “And get her out of here.”  People jumped and Darius got stupid.  He stuck his head out over her shoulder.

“That’s my wife to be,” he said, proudly.  Greta refrained from elbowing him in the solar plexus.

R5 Greta: Betrayal, part 3 of 3

M G Kizzia Leave a comment

Jodel and Yanda talked wedding and had the first of what would one day be called counseling sessions.  Then Greta went to see Jodel’s father.  He had figured it out, as anyone with any insight at all could, and he happily accompanied Greta back to town to see Yanda’s father.  Yanda’s father, however, became a different matter.  He seemed fine with the wedding, but Greta thought his haggling about the dowry would drive her crazy.  In the end, they had to leave some things to be decided later. All seemed well, until he surprised her as she prepared to leave.

“I assume you will be at the meeting tomorrow.”

“Meeting?” Greta asked.  She knew at once, but she needed to hear it out loud.

“The elder’s meeting,” Yanda’s father said.  “Lady Brunhild says she has been sent by her son to speak for her son on important matters.”

Greta turned red with anger.  Even her freckles could not hide the emotion, but she spoke in a very soft and controlled tone of voice.  “There will be no rebellion,” she said.  She knew exactly what Lady Brunhild would be promoting.

“Do you really think that is what it is?” Jodel’s father asked.

Yanda’s father spoke.  “Some say it is so we can hear Kunther’s views on the land distribution.  Some say it is so he can begin building our force to defend the border.”

Greta stood up and the men stood with her.  “At high noon?” she asked on a whim.  Nameless might not like clichés, but there was a reason such things became clichés in the first place.

“Yes,” Yanda’s father confirmed.  “I thought you knew.”

Greta’s mind had been too busy dealing with poison and the aftermath.  She should have known.  She should have surmised.  “Rebellion will simply get us slaughtered with nothing gained,” she said.

The two men looked at each other.  They were elder elders who remembered the last rebellion.  Clearly, they agreed with her.

“There will be no rebellion,” Greta said through gritted teeth.  She left, but the joy of the day had all gone.  By bedtime she felt beaten back down to reality.  Even worse, her right leg throbbed, and she could not imagine what she might have done to strain it.

She slept fitfully, woke early and tried hard to think things through.  Her leg still hurt, so she had to limp her way outside. She believed that on her own she was no match for the witch, and clearly the word “witch” described Lady Brunhild. Perhaps she gave more credit than due, but the woman seemed a first-class witch and Greta decided not to underestimate her.  Nameless would not help her.  He was not authorized, and neither, apparently, were Salacia or Danna.  She sought out the others.  Bodanagus felt distant.  Ali, the life she lived right before her own, felt unsearchable.  Even Festuscato and Gerraint with whom she began to feel very close, seemed aloof.  Only one thing came through to her with crystal clarity, and it seemed to come from the Storyteller, the Princess, Diogenes and Doctor Mishka speaking with one voice in her mind.  This was Greta’s life.  There might be times when an intervention through time became warranted, but mostly Greta had to make her own way in her own life, and, as Gerraint underlined, fight her own battles.  Too bad, because Greta felt certain that on her own, she would lose.  She asked the Most-High God in Heaven to watch over her. She couldn’t die yet.  There were still guns somewhere that she had to locate and dismantle.

Greta spent the better part of the morning stinking up the kitchen.  She made a sleep potion, a healing balm with some antiseptic qualities, a strong inhibitor which could cloud the mind for a time, a hemp based uninhibitor, which could act something like a truth serum, and some pain killer.  She had no idea what she might need, if anything.  Mama’s only comment was she now understood why Mother Hulda built her house so far away from the village.  Greta smiled, briefly, but it hardly seemed a joking matter.  The time for the meeting had arrived.

Greta had her red cloak on and pulled her hood up to hide her face and hair.  She did her best to blend in with the men, who entered the council room, and she sat in the back where she hoped she would not be noticed. Lady Brunhild had not arrived, yet. No surprise.  Greta imagined the woman planned some grand entrance after everyone else got there.

Yanda’s father came up and sat beside Greta on one side.  Jodel’s father sat on the other side.  They must have talked.  The men who visited her home the other morning sat in front of them.  It felt like an honor guard and clearly some protection to be sure she did not get hurt.  She felt grateful.

Sure enough, when the small talk had been going on for a time, Lady Brunhild, the priest, and some of the lady’s escort came in loudly, drawing everyone’s attention. The priest helped the lady into the seat that faced the collected elders.  The young men were dressed for war.  The priest immediately said an invocation to begin the meeting.  He called on Zalmoxis, the Alfader, the god Sabazios of the horse, and the goddess Bendi of the Hunt.  He praised Sylvanus, Lord of the ancient forest, and bowed to all the Lords of Olympus.  Last, he called on the Nameless One whose right hand is the fist of battle and whose left hand is the open palm of peace.  He asked for peace in the deliberations, but hinted strongly that they were going to talk about the fist of war.  Greta smiled broadly at the description of Nameless, no doubt prompted through time.  Shut-up, she told herself.  She tried to focus.

Greta stood before Lady Brunhild could speak.  “There will be no rebellion,” she said in the hush.  “Last time the Romans showed mercy.  They will not show mercy again.”

“Silence!” Lady Brunhild’s voice shot out and many of the men were startled by the rudeness of her interruption.  “Child, you have no business here.  You may speak again only when I give you permission.”

Greta sat down. She said what she needed to say so it no longer mattered that she could not speak.  It felt as if her vocal chords were frozen.  She felt a constriction around her throat that made her breathing shallow.  She felt powerless to do anything about it, but she told herself it did not matter. The meeting began.

Lady Brunhild, supposedly speaking for Kunther, was persuasive.  Greta wondered how much came in the words and how much was magic. The people in the North all of the way up to Prolissum followed the lead of Ravenshold, but in the South, people looked to Boarshag.  Ravenshold seemed too far away, on the other side of the merciless forest.  Greta knew if Lady Brunhild could turn the men of Boarshag to follow Kunther in rebellion, soon enough the whole southland would be in flames.

They neared a vote, and it began to look as if Lady Brunhild might have her way.  The vote would be close.  Greta had to do something, but she began to panic and thus far she had not done well in panic situations.  One of the elders got up and opened a window.  It brought daylight streaming into what Greta only then realized was a dank and dark world.  The evil seek the darkness believing their deeds will not be found out, she thought. The righteous rise to the light. Greta stood.

The elders made way as she walked slowly to the front.  The pain in her thigh would not let her move faster.  When she got to the front and had everyone’s attention, she did the one thing she knew she could do whether she stood out in an open field or under a witch’s spell in a stuffy room in Boarshag.  She called out for the armor of the Nameless god.  It was her armor.  It was her lifetime.  Immediately, the constriction on her voice broke as her dress and red cloak were replaced by the chain mail of Hephaestus, the black and white cape of Athena, the helmet of Amon and the boots of her little ones, the little spirits of the earth, from the same crowd that made Thor’s Hammer, she thought, and that thought made her smile.  Unfortunately, the sword Salvation, which rested on her back, would be much too heavy for her to handle.  Besides, she had no experience with such weapons.  The long knife that rested across the small of her back, however, was another matter, being thinner, not as long as a Roman short sword, but longer than most knives.  “Defender!”  She put her hand out and called to the knife and instantly, the knife jumped perfectly into her hand.  This, too, had been a gift of the gods, and compared to the ancient gods, all the magic the witch could muster became like a drop of water to the ocean.

A collective gasp came from the men, and many hastily mumbled prayers, including several to the Nameless god which made Greta smile.  It appeared very showy, to call to her long knife, but it seemed like the only way she could be sure not to accidentally cut herself, and a good show was what she was presently after.  No one needed know that inside all of that glory, there stood the same little girl of small magic who felt no match for the witch.

Lady Brunhild shrieked at the change.  She leaned away from Greta when Greta turned and pointed Defender at her face like the accusing finger of fate.  “You came South to steal the best land before anyone else had a chance.”  Greta accused the Lady.  “Go and steal it if you can but leave Boarshag alone.”  Command came from Greta’s voice.  She felt armor inspired.

“No, no.” Lady Brunhild lied, and the lie became obvious to more people than just Greta.  Despite everything, the witch drew herself up as well as she could, and just started coming back to her wits, when a raven fluttered into the room.  Not one of the two greater spirits that used to serve Odin in Aesgard, to be sure.  As far as Greta knew, they passed over to the other side with their master in the time of dissolution.  Yet it was a raven all the same, so it had to be related in a sense.  It seemed drawn to Greta’s armor where the scent of the gods still lingered.  Greta put out her left arm, thinking fast, and the bird landed heavily on her wrist shield.

“Tell the Alfadur that all is well here,” she said.  “I think I can handle one little witch and her mindless escort.”  She pushed her wrist toward the window and the raven returned to flight with a “Caw.”  Instead of flying out of the window, though, it headed for the rafters.  “Yes.”  Greta said as if speaking to the bird.  “You can stay and watch.”

That became too much for the witch.  When Greta turned again to face her and point Defender at her, she shrieked again.  When Greta commanded, “Go!”  The witch hiked up her dress and fled, her escort trailing behind.

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MONDAY

R5 Greta: Desperation.  Greta may have won the first skirmish, but the war is not over.  The witch has other tricks up her sleeve, like assassination.  Don’t miss the coming week, and…

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