Whisperwood

*

Dedicated to all the seekers looking for escape.

May you always find it, and may it always

be more than you’d ever hoped for.

*

There was a devil there the day I died. He looked like a respectable man wearing his Sunday best and his hand weighed the world on the back of my neck when he pushed my head underwater.

There was something else there too. A tall figure of shadow and horns that only appeared when I was near enough to dead as to make no difference.

The shadow devil got in the way of the human devil’s plans, saved what was left of my life.

Now they’d both gone back to the hell they came from, and I was left with only questions. What deal had I unknowingly made? How much greater would the price be? Why me?

Whatever the answers, they would have to work very hard if they ever wanted to find me. That much, I’d make sure of.

Part One

Welcome to the Woods

Chapter One

Tracks on the Borderlands

The strangest thing about the stuffed bear skin was that it wasn’t even the largest one I’d ever seen. Granted, this one was posed mid-menacing roar, balanced atop a pockmarked border stone engraved with the local dialect equivalent of ‘Don’t ye come in here, or else.’ Whoever set it up had taken some creative liberties too; red ribbons trailed from its hollow eyes and pin-sharp claws, suggesting the bear had, perhaps, seen too much inside the pine forest that surrounded it.

And you’re sure this is where you wanna go?

In the excitement of finding a free cart ride into the village that nobody went to, I’d forgotten to get the elderly merchant’s name, and was too embarrassed to ask now.

Sure as a bear at the fishmonger’s.

He harrumphed, flogged the horses back into a trot, and adjusted his pipe from the left side of his mouth to the right. What would you possibly want with the arse-end of the arse-end of anywhere civilized?

I couldn’t well tell him the truth, no matter how many times he asked or how easy I felt in his presence. What people really wanted were stories loosely based on the truth, but closer to their experience than to the teller’s, and he’d definitely never experienced anything like mine. I couldn’t tell him the man I’d once foolishly trusted tried to drown me, and I wanted to get as far away from anyone who’d ever said his name as one could without falling off the face of the earth.

Although that one-way trip had crossed my mind too.

Instead, I told him the other half of the truth. I’m looking for folk tales. Mysteries, unexplained things.

Why’d you want a thing like that?

How much closer could I skirt by the real story without bumping into that wasp’s nest?

A little while ago, when I almost drowned – and never you mind by which hands and why, – I saw something otherworldly. I’ve been looking for answers ever since. Looking for proof that there’s anything more to this world than the eye can see.

My story suggested friendly water spirits more than it did the visions of horror that traveled with me everywhere I went, but why burden him with something like that?

He grumbled low in his throat and nodded. The gray hairs at the back of his head swayed like birches. That there is. That there is for sure. You be careful, you’re likely to get what you asked for o’er here.

Everyone said that about their favorite out-of-reach places. Everyone thought there was something out of the ordinary just a step beyond their usual world. It almost never amounted to anything, and I knew firsthand how easily rumors spread. Still, Whisperwood was barely spoken of in more than three hushed words by inn firesides where stern matrons shushed people away from too much telling. Whisperwood allowed nobody but this merchant in or out. Whisperwood devoured stray nomads whole. It held such promise.

You think there’s something to the rumors? Something in the woods here?

He nodded again, slow enough to make it look like he was swaying with the cart. Would you help me with the market?

His abrupt change of topic took me off guard, and by reflex I replied, Of course! in my sweetest voice before I could catch myself. I squeezed my eyes shut and took a deep breath, shaking my head at my own foolish willingness to please anyone who so much as glanced at me kindly. Damn, that’ll be a delay.

If you help me with the market, I might be like to tell you a tale or two. There’s no time now, we’re nearly there.

We neared a stream beyond which the ground gently rose and left its marshy airs behind. Our horses shook their manes about and made concerned noises, but they felt the crack of the whip and carried on. Halfway across the bridge, where the water was loudest, and the wood had a hollow, rotten sound to it, they tried to stop again. Again, they were thwarted.

What a promising sign. What did they know? What did they suspect? Could horses even be superstitious? Was that why horseshoes were lucky?

The woods gave up no answers yet.

The merchant’s voice sounded like crackling autumn leaves among the silent trees. We’re here now.

He pulled to a stop in a pine clearing a little way outside of town, clearly as far as he was allowed to go. There were hitching hoops and troughs for the horses, benches and tables for the merchant, and a few scattered children dancing in a wide circle around an old water-filled pot, chanting and tossing coals into it at seemingly meaningful intervals. Their hands were black with soot, and as we creaked to a halt, one line stood out: The old crone from the branches sings: Come here and sit awhile with me.

Giddy with the anticipation of what they could tell me, when the merchant’s pointed cough reminded me of my promise, I nearly leaped off the cart.

Can I help you unpack? I stood on the back of his cart, hanging from a shelf full of rattly boxes with a smile as broad as the day was long, trying to look like I’d meant to offer all along.

There’s an idea. Careful now, if you break anything, you have to pay for it.

I glanced at the heavy cast-iron and copper cookware tied to various bits of the cart. A bison trampling across them wasn’t likely to break anything.

Spry as a cat, he hopped off the driver’s seat and offered me a hand down. What’s your name, then, phantom hunter?

I’m Anna. You?

He mumbled, Enache, over his shoulder, barely pausing from unpacking parcels and displaying his wares on the wooden tables and benches quickly and efficiently.

Beautifully decorated combs and brushes went at the back, out of the reach of thieves, their plain wood versions forming the frontline. Closest to him, he saved intriguing knickknacks, which, by that logic, must have been of the highest value in that curious marketplace: bags of salt, chunks of old silver, bundles of herbs, and vials of liquids I could scarcely identify.

As I got to untying little leather straps, I kept a longing gaze on the bunch of children at play. There was so much to be learned from childhood games – in one town I’d wandered through, the song that they used to determine who would go first in a game of catch was secretly instructions on how to avoid a vicious, infectious illness.

Catching wind of my overly interested looks, one of them signaled to the others, and before I could blink twice, they’d scattered among the trees and toward town.

Are they scared of us? Is that why they’re running back to town?

Enache’s eyebrows met neatly in the middle of his forehead, making a deep, dark groove that seemed cut with a straight razor. Dove, we’re the least scary thing for miles. Get on with it, the ladies will be here soon.

He might as well have said the end of the world would be there soon, for all the gravity in his voice.

I set to work. When all the packages were unpacked and all the wares sorted, we were both surprised at how quickly it had gone. He took off his shawl and spread it out under the nearest walnut tree, handing me half of his lunch packet in the process. A good thick slice of sour bread and a rasher of bacon set my stomach rumbling.

It’s only fair. You did ease the burden, both on the journey and the unpacking.

I sat by his side, content as a cat to have a little respite, while the townsfolk arrived. Wielding his bread like a wand, he pointed to the slow stream of bundle-carrying women emerging from the lively town.

That’s Miss Crosman. I hear she runs the common house, the mail, and acts as moral police. Terrible combination. It’s a good thing they don’t get visitors, or she’d put the fear of God in them. Stay on her good side if you’re stayin’ at all.

Why do they have no visitors?

He smiled, flashing a golden tooth. Because nobody comes here.

I chortled crumbs all over his blanket, and he smiled too. We sat in silence waiting for the womenfolk to make their slow and sinuous way down to the trading post, and every now and then he’d point one out and tell me what little he knew about her. A pair of sisters, a freckled red-haired orphan, a very pregnant smith’s wife. It was only a beginning in getting to know my – hopefully – future neighbors, but it was better than nothing. While they were still out of earshot, he seemed to make up his mind about something and turned to me again.

Look, I’m not one to mind other people’s business. But have you ever considered you might just get what you came for here? Are you ready to call yourself a fool?

I try to make a daily habit of it. Calling oneself a fool keeps the spirit humble. Do you really believe there’s danger here?

With an exaggerated shrug, he nodded toward the first of the women to reach our clearing. I don’t know. They seem fine.

Stern, unsmiling, silent figures approached us. There was no cheerful market chatter, no gossip and elbow nudging. They sniffed at the air like wild creatures, too unfamiliar with strangers to accept them but not knowledgeable enough to stay away. Every single one of them paused at the very edge of the clearing, looked around it, then moved inside, as though the safe passage of the woman before her was no guarantee of anything. One by one they stopped in the center, pulled on the collar of their respective dresses, and made as if to spit in their bosoms in what I imagined was a gesture of good luck.

Yeah. Entirely fine.

That fearful nature should have been mine too, perhaps, after what I’d suffered in my own end-of-the-road village. I had no explanation why it wasn’t, and why I still hopelessly and helplessly trusted everyone even as I had trusted Alec. On the other hand, their open and consistent use of ritual was fascinating. Back where I was born, even just singing too loud or knowing the Latin name of a plant while simultaneously being a woman put us at risk of a noose, and here they were, practicing their folk magic. I didn’t know whether to be envious, or terrified of whatever dangers they faced that taught them counterreactions.

Enache took his place behind the main table and spackled a large smile across his face. A well-rehearsed mask, it fit him like a second skin. I rubbed the chill out of my hands and shook the knots between my shoulders loose. There was work to be done, and I promised I’d do it.

It took me just about as long as I expected to get my first disapproving scowl, and in a way that felt comforting and familiar. At least I knew where I stood. It came from Miss Crosman herself, the other women waiting deferentially for her to examine the crockery first.

Hmph.

Miss Crosman obviously expected me to introduce myself. She stood before me, looking down her nose at a spoon, stealing glances at my muddy apron. I desperately wanted to smile but forced myself not to, so my face took revenge by doing a funny little half twitch instead.

Mmph-hmpf!

I could resist no longer. Cough drop?

I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from creasing that time, and beside me, a silver mustache twitched violently.

Well. Master Byrne, I hope this isn’t going to be a regular occurrence?

I wasn’t even sure who she was talking to until Enache responded. The lady helping me? No, certainly not.

Miss Crosman seemed pleased, but I already knew very well where the sly merchant was going, and my lips tensed to prevent the laughter.

Good. I’m glad to hear it.

She’ll be staying with you.

There must have been a bitter chill in the air or something. A lot of things froze all at once and didn’t thaw again for a good few seconds: Miss Crosman, the other women, the leaves, the sun, the hairs on the back of my neck. Some of the women spat in their bosoms again, and that time I recognized the gesture for what it clearly was: a way to ward off evil.

I am not amused. She looked ready to vomit.

Even the merchant seemed taken aback. Ask her yourself.

I busied myself untying and tying my apron string for no reason whatsoever. Suddenly, it didn’t seem funny anymore.

She looked at me like one does at dirt on one’s shoe. The little strings that wrapped around her hat and head dug deeply into the sides of her jaw, and for a moment I wondered if she was even breathing at all or just propelled herself forward using pure scorn.

Fine. If she’s done with life, it’s no business of mine.

She moved on to the combs as if I had less importance or presence upon her day than they did, and I wondered whether she had meant that threat, or only intended to frighten me away from their private little community.

Swallowing my nerves, I looked to Enache for comfort, but found only a calculating gaze. I drew close enough to whisper to him without being heard by any of the women now milling about the tables as though released from a spell.

I’m going to sit right here and do a good job. And later, you’re going to pay me in answers. I wasn’t as confident as I sounded, but hoped he wouldn’t notice.

He didn’t make any sign that he agreed or disagreed, but didn’t send me away either, so I got to work. For the first time in a long time, a current of chilly fear blew past the ankles of my previously sunny excitement.

Chapter Two

A Shadow Darkly

The light was fading, but not in any hurry. We’d finished the day’s work and all the customers were gone, some more satisfied than others. A lithe woman with a slight harelip got quite upset that Enache hadn’t brought her any lye powder for her face. Her name was Ancuţa, and she threatened to return next month with a pitchfork. I liked her.

Sweat clung in a layer between my body and my shift. Orange clay powder rose easily with every footstep, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it under my dress and in my drawers. We put away some leftover merchandise and a lot of trade goods from the town, and Enache seemed pleased.

They had brought him beautifully painted wooden toys, intricately woven baskets, and incredibly detailed lace. There were jars of ale and barm, hardy tooled leather pouches, and hundreds of curious trinkets I’d never seen before. Every item he traded for was obviously of great value, and he looked every bit like the cat that got the cream, so I took advantage of that moment to press him for more answers about the unusual town.

Look, missy. I won’t lie to you. This place unsettles me. But have I ever seen or heard anything that proves anything? No. It could all very well be a case of the heebie-jeebies, combined with too many cousins marrying cousins. Actually, for sure, that last part is true.

Then tell me the stories, at least.

I don’t know much. Strangers go in and never come out, people supposedly vanish in the woods. They say you either leave by sundown or not at all. The merchants that came before me never went farther than this post, and they never stayed overnight, and so I don’t, either. Townsfolk never leave. Some folks say they’re a cult. Children go missing, most of the animals are dead. In a place like this, that’s often just called winter.

But you think there’s some truth to it.

Some, but who knows how much? There are a hundred different tales of what’s out there. The Devil, a witch, a giant man-eating elk, the ghosts of dead children. It’s also possible that all of those are nothing more than rumors.

I knew firsthand how unfounded rumors began from fear and shadows and phenomena people couldn’t quite explain. I’d dedicated my time to studying nature, and people, and medicine, so I could help dispel those shadows – and folklore when all else failed, to better understand them. There was almost never anything to fear aside from people themselves. And yet, a chill went down my spine. I stood in silence for a moment, watching him fiddle with the bridle on one of his horses, fumbling about to tighten it with great haste.

Is that why you’re in such a hurry to leave?

He caught himself and reddened a little. If you’re told that a particular patch of forest may or may not have ornery black bears, and you have no business going into that forest, wouldn’t you make every effort to never find out the truth?

I like the truth.

He harrumphed and perched on his little driving seat, the sky turning pink behind him. With one hand, he reached into a coin purse tied to his belt, counted off without looking, and pulled out some coppers for me; more than I would have guessed.

For a day’s work.

A bit much for a day’s work, Enache.

My day’s work in a town that only sees one merchant a month is worth quite a bit more than standard. Besides, you look like you urgently need a meal and a good night of sleep.

I chose to ignore that jab. Thank you.

He squeezed my hand and set off with some haste, his final warning to me tossed over one shoulder. If you change your mind, you can still get out before the sun is down!

Shadows gathered at the edges of the horizon and clung under tall pines. They chased his cart as he sped off, but I knew he’d feel better and slow down as soon as he was over the bridge again. Shame I was left with only the shadows for company.

The coppers clinked nicely when they joined the few others I had in their secret pocket in my satchel. I kept a silver coin in my boot, one in my apron, one in my corset. Grandmother taught me to do it for good luck. I figured out when I grew up that the good luck was not losing all your money in one go when you got robbed.

The other coins I had were gold, and those weighed heavy on my conscience. They didn’t truly belong to me; I only stole them before running away that spring as a sort of safety net against the world. I hadn’t touched them, hadn’t even counted them, didn’t want to look at them. I wanted nothing to do with them, or the man they truly belonged to, but I couldn’t just leave them at the side of the road. Could I?

By the time I stood in the town square, the sun was already halfway below the earth. Crimson water stared up at me from inside a neat stone fountain, and I reached into my pocket for a copper. It somersaulted and joined others on the bottom with a splash as I made my usual wishes – safety and answers, in that order – and I felt eyes watching me watch it. Would the townsfolk like that I paid a little tribute, or judge me for mimicking their customs? Only time would tell.

Across the dusty road sat a massive slab of building with a large wooden door set in a dark gray granite wall. The colors of the woven tapestry above the lintel were faded, but patterns still clearly evoked their meaning: a blue owl with starry yellow eyes perched over a bed, a spoon and fork on either side of a wooden platter, parchment and quill, a set of scales. The doorjamb was completely covered in symmetrical angular carvings that made up intricate patterns, and dried herbs hung above it. I smelled basil and other earthy things I couldn’t identify.

It was certainly the reasonable first stop for any weary traveler.

And it would certainly be the guesthouse run by my dear acquaintance, Miss Crosman, but I was far too tired to bear the thought of her. What I needed was a place to spend the night that was out of the way, maybe even a little distance into the woods. Then, in the morning, I could figure out where to go.

Down the main road, houses huddled in comfortable intimacy. There were so many more rows of them than I’d have guessed, and many narrow side streets branching off them. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that this little town in fact held four hundred families or more. In the gathering gloom, oil lamps flickered to life and the smell of food wafted out of the houses. Suppertime.

A soft scraping to my left drew my attention, but there was nothing there.

I stepped a little more quietly, just in case, and slowed my breathing. It looked like Whisperwood had all of the markings of a bustling community, dark stores and workshops lining the main street that stretched between the town square and a mill in the distance. The streets were empty, but I could hear healthy, happy noises from inside houses. Laughter and cutlery and crackling fires reassured me that this was, in fact, a living, breathing town. Only the curious bundles of herbs and carved doll-like trinkets hung with red-and-white string from the jambs suggested stranger dealings.

That noise again. I froze for a moment and held my breath. Still nothing there. It had sounded like big footsteps crunching pebbles underfoot. There couldn’t have been anything. The road was only a few steps wide, I would have seen—

A crunch again. Something behind me. I didn’t break into a run. I didn’t want to make that much noise, nor turn my back to whatever it was. I faced the area where the sound came from and crabbed my way sideways back toward the guesthouse. Quietly, gently, my heart racing a thousand beats per minute.

Another. Closer this time. I thought I saw the little pebbles shift a few steps back, near a wall. I couldn’t help but wonder if it knew I was aware of it, whatever it was.

I sped up, gathered my skirt in one hand, turned a little more. The guesthouse wasn’t far now, but there was a large patch of darkness between me and that massive wooden door. There were no lit windows there.

My body fought me every step of the way, begging to break into a run I refused to concede. I needed to be quiet enough to hear it. No way I’d let it get—

Closer.

I ran. My head turned almost involuntarily to check behind me, and I had a glimpse of a shadow I couldn’t begin to describe. It was larger than I, and there were definitely eyes. It reached for me. It might have had horns.

A few more steps landed me on the guesthouse threshold, but the next crunch was so close behind me I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t my own.

My hand reached out long before it made sense to do so. I dropped my skirt and almost tripped, but there was hard breathing behind me and no time. The door handle was cold, but the breath on the hairs on the back of my neck was colder and filled with malice. The door wouldn’t open, and I wanted to cry. It scraped across the floor as I threw my whole weight on it, probably shouting. Whining, for sure. It was dark inside, but I didn’t care.

Something grabbed at the back of my dress, picked at my apron strings. Something else grabbed at the front of my shoulders. I was pulled inside, and someone pushed the door shut behind me. I leaned back against it with my whole body, trembling, hoping it would be enough.

A light flickered on nearby.

A young girl with wispy charcoal hair stood before me holding a lit oil lamp. She seemed so frail, and her face was fraught with worry. I didn’t know what to say to her. I wanted to comfort her somehow.

I think we’re safe now. My voice was a ragged whisper.

She looked at me, mouth open, her trembling hand giving the lamplight a dizzying, nauseating effect. She tried to spit in her collar, but missed, and hastily wiped her hand on her maid’s apron.

From the top of the stairs came a loud, angry slam followed by great resounding footsteps.

What devilry is this, Greta? Miss Crosman glared down at the both of us.

A pertinent question. What had it been? And, more importantly, had I brought it there?

I don’t know, maestress. The young woman was wailing at our door. I let her in. She seems upset.

The ursine woman stomped down the stairs, gathering her shawl about her. She grabbed the lamp and held it steady in front of my face.

It’s you. Trouble. Well, that doesn’t surprise me in the least. What do you want?

There was something outside.

She hushed me.

The young maid pulled the door open a finger’s width and peered outside. The herbs are still there, spitblood.

Miss Crosman pointed a fat finger at my face. It was a wolf. Spitblood you escaped.

A wolf? I didn’t believe it for a second, but didn’t dare argue. It wasn’t like I had any alternative explanation I’d have cared to share.

If not a wolf, then your imagination. Be quiet. They exchanged a wary glance. She chewed on her plump bottom lip and considered me for a second. Well, what’ll it be? In, or out?

I didn’t think I’d ever in my life wanted to sleep in the woods any less than I did that night. Miss Crosman, I believe I would like to rent a bed now, please.

Her clever black eyes shone in the steady light. I see. Well then, my dear. I hope you won’t mind a few easy rules.

I’m not a foe to rules.

No visitors, no pets. For as long as you’re boarding in my care, you’re bound to help and obey me. You’ll sign a contract to that effect.

A contract?

Nothing out of the ordinary, never you mind. Finally, this: you don’t talk about anything you don’t understand. Not under my roof. Are we clear?

Behind her, the young maid’s head bobbed up and down with greater energy than I thought her capable of.

I couldn’t say that I understood much of anything in that place, so I nodded along. That won’t leave me with much to say.

Good. Come along, then.

I followed her into her office.

Chapter Three

Grayday

The last of the stars twinkled out into a cold gray morning. I slept like the dead, in my clothes, over the blankets, and woke up in the same position I’d collapsed in. After months of traveling, exhaustion and I were steadfast lovers. An odd dream nagged at the edge of my memory, dark and otherworldly like a raven pecking to be let in through the window, but it never came any nearer than that.

Probably a nightmare. Another familiar companion.

The little corner room had two windows. There was an empty chest at the foot of the bed, one rickety chair, and a sooty oil lamp on the desk. That was it. Not even curtains. I