Read Online The Witch's Trinity by Erika Mailman - Free Book Online
Authors: Erika Mailman
Ads: Link
Güde to us.”
“But we know what she truly wants,” said one.
“The ice-cold prick!” said another.
I saw for the first time that behind the semicircle of women waited another group; these were men. Among them stepped a goat, the very vision of Künne’s goat, even with the tan spot on its rump. Its bell clanged eerily in the dark forest.
“But I know her to be slaughtered!” I protested, panicking again. “And did we not just eat of her?”
“You will see what we wish you to see,” said the women in unison. They all knelt and the men behind knelt as well. They spake in unison with broken tones, like a death rattle.
“Am I not in my bed dreaming?” I whispered to myself. “Are there not fleas a-biting and bringing me to wakefulness?”
My skin was numb now from the snow, and my bones beginning to ache, as if I had set them to carry far more weight than they could.
The goat muttered the chant too, his horns glinting as they moved with the motion. He walked to me and I stared at the flanks that narrowed to the knife-thin ankles and then the sharp hooves.
“We now pray,” said the women. And I saw that they arranged their hands in prayer, not with the fingertips pointing up as we do each Sabbath, but with the fingertips pointing down.
I shuffled backward in the snow, and the beast similarly stepped forward, maintaining the scant distance between us.
Was this Künne’s goat, that I had seen her milk a hundred times, her forehead nestling against its side? The goat impatiently shook itself and the bell rang out.
“I will not do this,” I said. “You may drag me from my bed and I cannot stop you. But I shall not pray to your unholy master nor chant your wicked words!”
The goat bounded off and in the midst of its leap vanished.
“Hensel could make her pray!” called one of the men. I stared into the dimness to see which man had known the name of my love.
“Douse the lamps then.”
One by one, each of the dogs was spanked on its ass, causing it to run in startlement. As they ran, the strings attached to their tails pulled the lamps over, until the flames met snow and died. We were in darkness.
And in darkness, the moans and low laughter began. Although I could see nothing, I knew there was much commotion happening. Then, in a moment’s time, I saw him there before me: the kind, rough face.
It was like the days when Jost was first born, when he would cry in the night with no candle burning, and I’d see my husband’s yawning face in the half-light left by our dying fire. He’d wake faster than me, have brought the babe to my breast before I scarce heard his weep. “Suckle your son,” Hensel would say gently, and in darkness I would do so.
It was the same now, but with no crying child. Just the kind face I could barely see.
“Güde, how you have lacked to me,” he said.
Tears trickled down my face in blessed amaze. Hensel! Back to me as handsome and strong-voiced as before I put him in the ground. I stepped closer to him and laid my head against his chest. Inside his heart was beating the same skipping rhythm that his mother had given him when she dropped a crock on his foot when he was a child. His arms crept around my waist and I burrowed into his heart’s sound, trying to suppress my own tears and the murmurs around us so that I could hear only that richness. How long had he lain in his grave with his chest pulsing?
“Your hair still smells sweet as hay,” he said. He pulled me away to stare into my eyes. I nearly swooned. It was him! It was truly no trick. Whatever bargain he had made, whatever black words he had uttered to make it, I cared not.
And as my man had always done, he hitched up my skirt.
I cried out to the wind and sagged into his hands, into his mouth. I returned his fervor and willingly spun as he turned me around. My skin began to feel like that of a woman’s again—no longer loose but taut with blood and desire, muscles underneath the skin clenching. His
“But we know what she truly wants,” said one.
“The ice-cold prick!” said another.
I saw for the first time that behind the semicircle of women waited another group; these were men. Among them stepped a goat, the very vision of Künne’s goat, even with the tan spot on its rump. Its bell clanged eerily in the dark forest.
“But I know her to be slaughtered!” I protested, panicking again. “And did we not just eat of her?”
“You will see what we wish you to see,” said the women in unison. They all knelt and the men behind knelt as well. They spake in unison with broken tones, like a death rattle.
“Am I not in my bed dreaming?” I whispered to myself. “Are there not fleas a-biting and bringing me to wakefulness?”
My skin was numb now from the snow, and my bones beginning to ache, as if I had set them to carry far more weight than they could.
The goat muttered the chant too, his horns glinting as they moved with the motion. He walked to me and I stared at the flanks that narrowed to the knife-thin ankles and then the sharp hooves.
“We now pray,” said the women. And I saw that they arranged their hands in prayer, not with the fingertips pointing up as we do each Sabbath, but with the fingertips pointing down.
I shuffled backward in the snow, and the beast similarly stepped forward, maintaining the scant distance between us.
Was this Künne’s goat, that I had seen her milk a hundred times, her forehead nestling against its side? The goat impatiently shook itself and the bell rang out.
“I will not do this,” I said. “You may drag me from my bed and I cannot stop you. But I shall not pray to your unholy master nor chant your wicked words!”
The goat bounded off and in the midst of its leap vanished.
“Hensel could make her pray!” called one of the men. I stared into the dimness to see which man had known the name of my love.
“Douse the lamps then.”
One by one, each of the dogs was spanked on its ass, causing it to run in startlement. As they ran, the strings attached to their tails pulled the lamps over, until the flames met snow and died. We were in darkness.
And in darkness, the moans and low laughter began. Although I could see nothing, I knew there was much commotion happening. Then, in a moment’s time, I saw him there before me: the kind, rough face.
It was like the days when Jost was first born, when he would cry in the night with no candle burning, and I’d see my husband’s yawning face in the half-light left by our dying fire. He’d wake faster than me, have brought the babe to my breast before I scarce heard his weep. “Suckle your son,” Hensel would say gently, and in darkness I would do so.
It was the same now, but with no crying child. Just the kind face I could barely see.
“Güde, how you have lacked to me,” he said.
Tears trickled down my face in blessed amaze. Hensel! Back to me as handsome and strong-voiced as before I put him in the ground. I stepped closer to him and laid my head against his chest. Inside his heart was beating the same skipping rhythm that his mother had given him when she dropped a crock on his foot when he was a child. His arms crept around my waist and I burrowed into his heart’s sound, trying to suppress my own tears and the murmurs around us so that I could hear only that richness. How long had he lain in his grave with his chest pulsing?
“Your hair still smells sweet as hay,” he said. He pulled me away to stare into my eyes. I nearly swooned. It was him! It was truly no trick. Whatever bargain he had made, whatever black words he had uttered to make it, I cared not.
And as my man had always done, he hitched up my skirt.
I cried out to the wind and sagged into his hands, into his mouth. I returned his fervor and willingly spun as he turned me around. My skin began to feel like that of a woman’s again—no longer loose but taut with blood and desire, muscles underneath the skin clenching. His
Similar Books
