Wolves Among Us(61)

“I have taught this?”

“You have taught nothing in its place. That’s what will kill us.”

“What can I do now?”

His cell went white with light, a crack of thunder chasing it. Stefan jumped, his heart pinching in fear. Lightning killed shepherds and servants, anyone who worked lonely days in the orchards and fields. Stefan always told children not to fear it, feeling stupid even as he said it. Lightning was God’s creation, but so was hell, so what comfort was that? Impotent words, always. The lightning showed him his cell, his squalor.

“You have made your choice.” The voice came from inside his mind. “Well done.”

Stefan clapped his hands over his ears, and lightning lit his cell, thunder making the walls shake. He gritted his teeth and pulled his hands down, forcing them to his side.

“Father,” a woman’s voice moaned close by.

“Who called me?” He could not tell if the voice was weak, or he could not hear it well.

“I am here.”

A hand reached through the dirty straw on the cell floor at his feet. Lightning lit his cell, and he saw the woman struggle to rise. She was nothing but grime, her hair hanging in thick cords, looking like wax candles hung upside down to dry in the merchant square. Her face, stained with dirt, with stray pieces of straw clinging to it, had channels down her cheeks where tears had flowed. Dried blood crusted around her ears.

“How long have you been in this cell with me?”

“You were asleep last night when I was brought in.”

“Have mercy,” Stefan gasped. The words loosened his legs, and he went to her, helping her sit up. She flopped over, and he leaned her body into his, lowering himself to sit behind her, pulling her against him. “Do I know you?”

“I sold you hops,” she whispered.

“Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Elizabeth, did Bastion hurt you? Did he put you in here?”

“No.”

She was sixteen, a lovely girl who worked for a farmer’s wife. She had no parents to provide for her, but she had done well for herself, finding a childless couple who needed the help and a young companion.

“Who put you in here, child?”

“He said you knew everything, that you would say this was my fault, that he was bewitched and could not be blamed.”

“Bjorn did this to you?”

He tried to turn her around.

“No. No. I do not want you to look on me.”

The jail door swung open, and he heard happy whistling.

“Excellent beer, Father. I will be enjoying some more tonight.”

Stefan helped Elizabeth sit up against the wall.

“Did you bring any back?” he called out to the jailer.

“Not a drop.”

“There are women in great need here. Bring them some of my beer, I beg you.”

The jailer’s face appeared in the small square window in the door.

“You know the law.”

“Yes, but it’s my beer. Surely I can offer it to these women.”

“If they want something to eat or drink, their families must provide it. I’m not your errand boy, and I don’t break the law.”

“But there is a girl in this very cell who needs a drink, and one more in the next.”

The jailer peered around Stefan.

“She doesn’t need a drink now.”

Stefan turned and saw Elizabeth face-first in the straw, her body slumped over, her arms behind her. She was unconscious. Stefan lifted his eyes to the wooden crossbeams of the ceiling as if to pray here in his squalor.

Outside, wind shook the building, and the night began to build in violence.





Chapter Twenty-two


Bjorn led Mia through the streets to the jail, through steam rising from the ground. The storm had passed by in the night here, too, punishing the town. Green buds littered the streets, torn from trees before they had the chance to bloom. She did not look up at the wounded, bare trees, or to the side to see what faces were in the windows, watching. She had never entered his jail before. She had always stayed clear from it, from Bjorn’s work, wanting to be home with Alma, not wanting to know who was imprisoned or for what crimes.

She watched Bjorn’s boots, still thick with mud and forest leaves. Bjorn had carried Alma for the last mile; it had driven his boots deeper into the sludge. He would be so angry. He hated muddy boots. Mia wondered what to do.

The door opened, and she felt the screech of its twisting hinges in her belly, the heavy wood swinging at her as if to strike her dead for her shame. He pulled on the rope, and she marched forward, struck by the smells inside. She could smell beer on the guard, standing close to Bjorn as he passed by, and she could also smell the salted metal of blood and urine. The jail was nothing more than a long, dirty hallway with horrid, dark cells on each side. Mia avoided looking through the square opening cut into each wood door, afraid to see what or who cried out from the darkness.

“I didn’t know.…” Mia said. She had thought Bjorn’s work, the work of justice, was a good and orderly affair.

Bjorn grunted. “You didn’t want to know. Did you?” He untied her hands and put his hand on her back.

Mia started to close her eyes before being pushed into the dark hole before her. Then a new fear struck her. “Your mother! Who is caring for her?” Mia asked.