“Why, Gerdrut! What an astute metaphor,” said Serilda, impressed that Gerdrut had thought of such a comparison, but that was one thing she loved about children. They were always surprising her.
“And you’re right, Gerdy,” said Hans. “Serilda’s stories take our dull existence and transform it into something special. It’s like … like spinning straw into gold.”
“Oh, now you’re just smearing honey on my mouth,” Serilda scoffed, even as she cast her eyes toward the sky, quickly darkening overhead. “Would that I could spin straw into gold. It’d be far more useful than this … spinning nothing but silly stories. Rotting your minds, as Madam Sauer would say.”
“Curse Madam Sauer!” said Fricz. His brother shot him a warning look for the harsh language.
“Fricz, mind your tongue,” said Serilda, feeling like a little chastisement was warranted, even if she appreciated his coming to her defense.
“I mean it. There’s no harm in a few stories. She’s just jealous, ’cause the only stories she can tell us are about old dead kings and their grubby descendants. She wouldn’t know a good tale if it rose up and bit her.”
The children laughed, until the branch that Anna was hanging from gave a sudden crack and she fell into a heap in the snow.
Serilda gasped and rushed toward her. “Anna!”
“Still alive!” said Anna. It was her favorite phrase, and one she had cause to use frequently. Untangling herself from the branch, she sat up and beamed at them all. “Good thing Solvilde put all this snow here to break my fall.” With a giggle, she gave her head a shake, sending a tiny flurry of snowflakes cascading onto her shoulders. When she was done, she blinked up at Serilda. “So. You are going to finish the story, aren’t you?”
Serilda tried to frown disapprovingly, but she knew she wasn’t doing a very good job at being the mature adult among them. “You’re relentless. And, I must admit, quite persuasive.” She heaved a drawn-out sigh. “Fine. Fine! A quick story, because the hunt will be riding tonight and we all should be getting home. Come here.”
She forged a path through the snow to a small copse of trees, where there was a bed of dry pine needles and the drooping branches offered some protection from the chill. The children eagerly gathered around her, claiming spots amid the roots, shoulder to shoulder for what warmth they could share.
“Tell us more about the god of lies!” said Gerdrut, sliding beside Hans in case she got scared.
Serilda shook her head. “I have another story I want to tell you now. The sort of story that belongs under a full moon.” She gestured toward the horizon, where the new-risen moon was stained the color of summer straw. “This is a different story about the wild hunt, which only rides beneath a full moon, storming over the landscape with their night horses and hellhounds. Today, the hunt has but one leader at their helm—the wicked Erlking. But hundreds of years ago, the hunt was led not by the Erlking, but by his paramour, Perchta, the great huntress.”
She was met with eager curiosity, the children leaning closer with bright eyes and growing smiles. Despite the cold, Serilda flushed with her own excitement. There was a shiver of anticipation, for even she rarely knew what twists and turns her stories would take before the words slipped from her tongue. Half the time, she was as surprised by the revelations as her listeners. It was part of what drew her to storytelling—not knowing the end, not knowing what would happen next. She was on the adventure every bit as much as the children were.
“The two were wildly in love,” she continued. “Their passion could bring lightning crashing down from the heavens. When the Erlking looked at his fierce mistress, his black heart was so moved that storms would surge over the oceans and earthquakes would tremble the mountaintops.”
The children made faces. They tended to bemoan any mention of romance—even shy Nickel and dreamy Gerdrut, who Serilda suspected secretly enjoyed it.
“But there was one problem with their love. Perchta desperately yearned for a child. But the dark ones have more death than life in their blood, and thus cannot bring children into the world. Therefore, such a wish was impossible … or so Perchta thought.” Her eyes glinted as the story began to unfold in front of her.
“Still, it tore at the Erlking’s rotten heart to see his love pining away, year after year, for a child to call her own. How she wept, her tears becoming torrents of rain that soaked the fields. How she moaned, her cries rolling like thunder over the hills. Unable to stand seeing her thus, the Erlking traveled to the end of the world to plead to Eostrig, the god of fertility, begging them to place a child into Perchta’s womb. But Eostrig, who watches over all new life, could tell that Perchta was made of more cruelty than motherly affection and they dared not subject a child to such a parent. No amount of pleading from the Erlking could sway them.
“And so the Erlking made his way back through the wilderness, loathe to think how this news would disappoint his love. But—as he was riding through the Aschen Wood …” Serilda paused, meeting each of the children’s gazes in turn, for these words had sent a new energy thrilling through them. The Aschen Wood was the setting of so many stories, not just her own. It was the source of more folktales, more night terrors, more superstitions than she could count, especially here in M?rchenfeld. The Aschen Wood lay just to the north of their small town, a short ride through the fields, and its haunting presence was felt by all the villagers from the time they were toddling babes, raised on warnings of all the creatures that lived in that forest, from those who were silly and mischievous, to others foul and cruel.
The name cast a new spell over the children. No longer was Serilda’s story of Perchta and her Erlking a distant tale. Now it was at their very doorstep.
“As he traveled through the Aschen Wood, the Erlking heard a most unpleasant sound. Sniffling. Sobbing. Wet, blubbery, disgusting noises most often associated with wet, blubbery, disgusting?…?children. He saw the mongrel then, a pathetic little thing, barely big enough to walk about on its pudgy legs. It was a human baby boy, covered head to foot in scratches and mud, wailing for his mother. Which was when the Erlking had a most devious idea.”
She smiled, and the children smiled back, for they, too, could see where the story was headed.
Or so they thought.