Baba Lenka Page 8

It was as if the sun had been eclipsed.

  “You should not have had children, Mutter.”

  “And you will see there is no choice in the matter of children. You will see.”

  “I do not believe this. I tell demons what to do, I tell them to come to me and do my bidding, and then I banish them back to their place in hell. You will see. You will see on this one, Mutter.”

  “This is about far more than demons. Who do you think is their master?”

  Tears pricked the back of her eyes as the horrible task loomed ahead. Thoughts of Oskar with his lithe, tanned and muscular body flitted across her mind…an image of him wading out of the lake, shaking diamond droplets of water from sleek black hair, long lashes sparkling, deep brown eyes bright with desire… So many nights spent fitful and sleepless, dreaming of their limbs entwined beneath a canopy of shimmering leaves…

  “Well, I will not go. I will not. It is too far—”

  “Pack your things. We will leave tomorrow.”

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  Lenka shoved back her chair. Eyes ablaze, she leaned over the table and snarled at the woman before her, the woman whose every word she had obeyed until now. “I will not go to Romania. Ever. I’m staying here.”

  And then she was running from the house towards the lake exactly as planned. Her boots pounded through the misty woodland as she tore along the path. They could not make her go; the thought was unbearable – to be without him now! He filled her mind, her heart, every waking moment. The journey to Romania would take days if not weeks – it would be winter before she returned. This was terrible, the worst thing that had ever happened. None of what her mother had said was true, it just couldn’t be.

  She and Oskar were destined to be together – the whole thing had been like magic from the very first moment. Out looking for herbs that day, she’d been caught by surprise at the sight of him, and she’d dipped behind a tree to watch. After a while, with the dying light of the afternoon behind her, she plucked up courage to peer around the trunk. Which was when he glanced up. Her hair was like fire, he said later, as if she’d been set alight, the cool regard of her slanted eyes and sculpted cheekbones startlingly glacial by comparison.

  “What are you doing?” she’d asked, emerging from her hiding place.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  She indicated the carving he’d just dropped on the floor.

  He was flushing to the roots of his hair. “Oh, this! It is just, erm, a thing…I was making…”

  “I have not seen you before, not in school.”

  “I d-d-don’t go to the village school – I was s-s-sent to one in Haidmühle. My parents are German. They don’t like the school here; my father says it is full of pagans and Czechs.”

  “Oh!” She sashayed towards him, aware of his slackened jaw and nervous stutter. “Well, my father is German, too.”

  “What is your name?”

  Up close, she gazed directly into his eyes. “Lenka.”

  “Your hair, it…it…it’s enchanting. Like a witch’s hair.”

  She laughed. “You swim, of course?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “Then I will come back later.”

  It had been the best three weeks of her life. Tears smarted. Why did it have to end so soon? At all? Why?

  On approaching Teufelssee, she slowed her steps. The wooden houses appeared, as always, to float on the black glass surface, the mist hovering in skeins. She calmed her breathing, letting the warmth of the earth pulse into the soles of her feet. Coppery leaves gleamed as the sun burned through the haze and brushed the day with hues of gold, the gentle lap of the water rippling in the reeds.

  She narrowed her eyes. Please be here…please be here, Oskar…

  If he was not here today, they might never meet again. She was as sure of this as anything, yet there was no basis or reason: if she was forced to go away, would he not wait for her return? What if she was unable to get home again?

  Oh please, Oskar.

  She scanned the expanse of water. A small fishing boat bobbed at the far end…

  And then he appeared from the mist, wading out of the water with a wooden dinghy in tow. Raising a hand in greeting, he swiftly moored the vessel, hurrying to get to her, his white shirt open to the waist. She found she could not look away from the sight of his smooth stomach and the single line of hair travelling down from the navel. Her legs trembled slightly, and all other senses faded away. She would have him. He would marry her, they would be betrothed, and then her mother would have no power. Damn her mother and damn her grandmother and damn them all! She would have him. Rushing towards him, her dress dragged in the lake, and tears streamed down her face.

  “Lenka?”

  Without words or hesitation, she grabbed his hand, and together they hurried into the forest, heading for their special place that could not be seen by prying eyes and, on reaching it, fell immediately to the ground. Gone all shy, tender kisses and soft banter, now their lips banged urgently against each other’s, and fingers beyond caressing ripped at clothes. He pulled her hair back with one hand, forcing her neck to arch forwards, biting and moaning, his breath fast and low. There was nothing but his mouth on hers, his hands on the flesh beneath her dress, his touch where she had never even touched herself. She held his hips and pulled him inside her, deeper and deeper. She needed more and more and more, and even when he climaxed, he did not stop. She dug her nails into his back as he loved her until they both cried out, and the tears came in torrents.

  “You are the one, my bride. Mine forever,” he whispered.

  “Always.”

  But even as the word tumbled from her lips, she knew it to be a false hope. She would never be his wife. They would not live in bliss on this lake, with children that would be wild and free and beautiful and loved. It would not be like that for them. She rolled onto her side so he could hold her. Perhaps the poignancy of this, the cruelty after such euphoria, made the last few hours of lovemaking all the more painfully exquisite. Hot tears rolled into her hair.

  He kissed them away. “You are my bride, you know that. There is only you.”

  Yet the sadness ached inside at what was not to be. It did not matter what he asked; she saw that now. Her path would be the dark, crooked one her mother had described, and this sweet joy could never be hers. He would have that with some other. She sobbed into her sleeve as he kissed her neck and stroked the curve of her waist. How could she tell him? There were no words. Why could her mother not carry this burden for a few decades as her grandmother had done? At least let her have some life before it was over, before the torment came?

  After a while her tears dried, and she rolled over and let him cradle her in the crook of his arm, both of them drifting into sleep until the light dimmed and the first of the owls hooted. She looked up at the treetops spiking into the sky. How long had they lain here with the sweat cooling on their skin? Hours probably…hours and hours…

  A sharp gust of wind rustled through the trees, and goose bumps shivered across her back. At the gilded edge of the forest, the sun was sinking rapidly, and leaves spiralled in crepuscular swirls. Something had changed! She sat up, unaccountably alarmed. It was coming on the wind…and far sooner than expected, too. In fact, it was nearly here. A snapshot vision flashed into her mind…of hooves pounding turf, horses galloping along the plains, swaying wagons along wooded paths, rocking caravans…

  They, the horses and caravan of wagons, were travelling in this direction on the easterly wind, and the feeling of impending doom was overwhelming, sickly and claustrophobic. A sense of panic and chaos gripped her.

  Oskar was lying flat on his back. She bent to kiss each fringe of sooty lashes, then his gently smiling lips. “I love you,” she said.

  Taking hold of her hands, he kissed each in turn. “Don’t worry, we will meet again.”

  She did not question his words, instinctively accepting instead that this moment in her life would never b
e repeated. In order not to spoil it by asking what he meant, she nodded.

  “Yes, yes, we will.”

  His eyes were closing again. “When it is time, we will meet again.”

  She thought she would die of a broken spirit, a devastated heart, of the pain. What was he saying? What did he know? Was he leaving? Wasn’t it she who was leaving?

  “I don’t understand,” she said.

  He reached up to stroke her hair. “You are leaving; that is what you came to tell me.”

  “But I will come back. I promise.”

  They lay side by side again, chilly now as a breeze began to whip up but still holding hands and not wanting to let go. Evening was closing in rapidly, and the breeze picked up, bringing with it a veil of rain from across the lake. Static crackled in the air, and blue flashes lit up the mountains. She snuggled into his side, trying to push away the feeling of foreboding – it was just a storm coming – and closed her eyes.

  It had been for just one second…one moment was all…but when she woke, it was to splashes of rain on her face. Startled, she leapt to her feet. The rain was coming down hard, dripping from the canopy, and Oskar had gone. Had he just upped and left her here, in the dark and the cold with a storm coming? There were wolves in this forest!

  Confused, she ran to the shore and, on reaching the water’s edge, was about to call out when she changed her mind. Perhaps this was his way of making it easier to part?

  You are leaving; that is what you came to tell me…

  Turning away, she nodded to herself. Yes, that would be it. He had left while she slept in order to avoid more upset for them both. Somehow he knew she was leaving, had guessed, no doubt, by her urgency and desire. He was thinking of her… Besides, night had fallen, and it looked as though the storm would be a wild one. Wind whistled off the mountains, and rain was sheeting across the fields. It was time to go home.

  That night, the storm raged, slamming the shutters, banging doors, rattling windows and dislodging roof tiles. Branches snapped off trees and sailed past the window. Dozens of apples thundered to the ground. And still the wind screamed around the eaves. It shrieked down the chimney and blew ash across the floors. At times the very fabric of the house shuddered.

  Lenka lay wide awake on her bed. These were the winds of change, weren’t they? No ordinary storm, this signalled Baba Olga and her demons were on their way. There was no rational thought to this, only a deep knowing. And every time she closed her eyes, the images appeared, so much clearer now as if the veil was lifting. Closer, then? Yes, much closer. A line of carts and wagons had hunkered in a ring, so near that the smell of the campfire and steaming bone broth filled the air. Tarpaulin billowed in the high winds, pegged down at the corners. And a swarthy-skinned old woman with her hair bound in a scarf wiped beads of sweat from the one facing death. Waxy candlelight flickered as she worked, her forearms marked with snaking veins, hands calloused and worn.

  Outside the wolves were howling and a lantern bobbed in the yard. Her father’s voice was lost somewhere between the noise of the storm and her own reverie, shouting that animals had broken loose.

  A fresh wave of grief rolled over her. This was the end. Would she ever see Oskar again? Why was there such a conviction it was all over?

  There is no Oskar.

  The voice was barely a whisper, but it came as clearly as if the speaker stood directly beside her.

  Had she drifted to sleep?

  There is no Oskar.

  Now Lenka’s eyes were wide, and her heart lurched. She clutched the sheets. The voice was stronger and more forceful.

  “No!” she said aloud. She had felt him, had known him, had seen, heard, touched, loved… Had something happened to him, then? Was that it? No Oskar! Had he left her sleeping and then drowned in the lake? Was the voice telling her he had died? She had predicted this, had known…

  Throwing back the sheets, she rushed to the window. The vortex of the storm had hit Wolfsheule head-on. Her father was stumbling around the yard with a lantern, the dogs running around barking. She pulled on boots and threw on an overcoat on the pretext of going out to help recover the horses, silently acknowledging the truth of the whispers. She should listen to the inner voice – it was always, always right. Oh God, it was unthinkable. Had he foreseen his own death, too? Is that why he’d said they would meet again? In the afterlife?

  With her head down against the prevailing wind, baulking at the force of it, she hurried outside, calling for the horses before running across the fields and shooting straight down the forest path to Teufelssee. Desperation spurred her on as she tripped over tree roots in the dark and rain lashed her face. Once at the shore, she held her hands up in a shield against the onslaught of rain. A lamp was on in one of the hut windows.

  “Hey!” she shouted, no longer caring if his family knew she had been seeing their son. “Hey! I am looking for Oskar. I am worried about Oskar! Did he come home?”

  The huts out on the water were cracking under the strain of the storm, the lake’s level rising alarmingly. A man appeared on the decking, throwing belongings into a boat, scrambling his things together. An almighty bang showed he had made the right decision. With minutes to spare, one of the main beams had broken away, cutting his house in two.

  Lenka waded into the water to waist height.

  “Get back, you’ll be swept away!” he shouted.

  She grabbed the rope to help him. “Where is Oskar? I am afraid he became lost in the storm.”

  He shook his head, hauling the boat through mud. “No Oskar.”

  “What do you mean, ‘no Oskar’?”

  He snatched the rope from her, shouting over the howling winds. “There is no Oskar. My son went to Haidmühle and died there of fever. He was buried at the church here just three weeks ago. Did you not know?”

  She stared at him aghast and shook her head.

  “Of course, people like you are the reason I sent him away from here.”

  Lenka stepped back. “I don’t understand.”

  He levelled with her. “Pagans,” he spat.

  “You blame us?”

  “That is why I sent him to a church school – a proper school in town, and now look what happens. I had to bury my only son on the last day of summer. I am going far from here – I will leave you to your pagan ways, your anti-church ways, to the devil you worship! At least you did not come around here and get your heathen claws into him. He died pure. At least I saved him from that.”

  Her heart banged hard against her ribs. Oskar had died three weeks ago? She flailed around in the dark, backing away, her mind reeling… This did not make sense, not in any way. So…who had she spent the last few weeks with? And who had she just made love with and…and…and…oh God…pledged allegiance to?

  You are the one, my bride. Mine forever.

  ***

  Chapter Thirteen

  Shortly before first light, an elderly man arrived at the farm gates.

  Lenka woke from a violent dream, disturbed by the sound of voices, and peeped between the gap in the curtains. Weathered and bony, the man was dressed in a black suit of knee-length trousers, waistcoat and jacket. His white shirt was collarless, and he wore long boots and a black hat, which he held on to in the gusty wind. Her father, who had been up all night rescuing animals and securing barn doors, took a note from the man’s hand, nodded curtly, and headed back inside. It was customary to invite visitors in, especially if they had travelled far, but there had been nothing more than a brief nod. And when she glanced again at the gates, the old man had vanished.

  The disturbing dream from which she’d awoken had left her troubled. In it, she and Oskar had been making love, the rhythmic motion of him inside her building and building into blinding euphoria… I love you…I love you…I love you… She was lifting her hips to pull him in deeper, wrapping her arms around his neck in total surrender…when all of a sudden, his face had shapeshifted into something hideous.

  “Lenka?”
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br />   She sat up in bed with a hand over her mouth, trying desperately to push away the graphic details as they replayed with mortifying clarity. The creature, not human, had laughed at her during the most trusting, loving moment imaginable. At the point where she had been about to climax, it nastily mocked her: ‘I love you, oh, oh, oh, I love you…’ Gleefully its mouth stretched open to reveal spiky little teeth, its skin scaly and reptilian, the eyes yellow with vertical slits for pupils – the whole a hologram of a man but ultimately reptilian and utterly without a soul.

  Badly shaken, she tried to blank out the memory. It was only a dream, brought on without doubt because of the shock of last night. She must say nothing about Oskar to anyone. He had died three weeks ago; that was the truth of it. So who, then, had she been laughing and swimming with all this time – talking to and caressing? And then yesterday afternoon…? She put her head in her hands.

  Mad people were taken and locked inside the Stonehouse in Haidmühle. The windows were narrow cracks between heavy stones, and on walking past, the sound of people screaming could be heard from within. It was said they were tied up with rope and left on cold stone floors, their filth swilled away each day like cattle’s. No, whatever was happening to her must be kept secret. All of it. Fortunately, she had never confided in her mother.

  “Lenka? You must come downstairs at once!”

  She found her mother sitting at the kitchen table. The logs in the grate had only just taken hold, and the kitchen was still cold, the morning gloomy. On the stove a pot of oats simmered, and a batch of bread sat in a bowl covered with a cloth, the smell of yeast comfortingly familiar. Clara’s face was creased in a frown, her lips thin and chapped. She pushed back her now greying hair and motioned for Lenka to sit.

  This is about Baba Olga…

  “A note about your grandmother has just arrived.” She waved a hand in the direction of Lenka’s father, who had gone back into the yard. “You and I will go to see her alone and at once. Baba Olga is close by – at the Mooswald crossroads.”