“And so, the Erlking picked up the child by his filthy nightgown and deposited him into one of the large sacks on the side of his horse. And off he went, racing back to Gravenstone Castle, where Perchta waited to greet him.
“He presented the child to his love, and her joy made the sun itself burn brighter. Months went by, and Perchta doted on that child as only a queen can. She took him on tours of the dead swamps that lie deep in the woods. She bathed him in sulfur springs and dressed him in the skins of the finest beasts she had ever hunted—the fur of a rasselbock and the feathers of a stoppelhahn. She rocked him in the branches of willow trees and sang lullabies to lull him to sleep. He was even gifted his own hellhound to ride, so that he might join his huntress mother on her monthly outings. She was content, then, for some years.
“However, as time passed, the Erlking began to notice a new melancholy overtaking his love. One night he asked her what was the matter, and with a sorrowful cry, Perchta gestured at her baby boy—who was no longer a baby, but had become a wiry, strong-willed child—and said, ‘I have never wanted anything more than to have a babe of my own. But alas—this creature before me is no baby. He is a child now, and soon he will be a man. I no longer want him.’?”
Nickel gasped, horrified to think that a mother, apparently so devoted, could say such a thing. He was a sensitive boy, and perhaps Serilda had not yet told him enough of the old tales, which so often began with parents or stepparents finding themselves utterly disenchanted with their offspring.
“And so, the Erlking lured the boy back out into the forest, telling him that they were going to practice his archery and bring home a game bird for a feast. But when they were deep enough in the woods, the Erlking took his long hunting blade from his belt, crept up behind the boy …”
The children sank away from her, aghast. Gerdrut buried her face in Hans’s arm.
“… and slit his throat, leaving him in a cold creek to die.”
Serilda waited a moment for their shock and disgust to ease before she continued. “Then the Erlking went off in search of new prey. Not wild beasts this time, but another human child to give to his love. And the Erlking has been taking lost little children back to his castle ever since.”
Chapter 3
Serilda was half icicle by the time she spotted the cabin’s light across the field, illuminating the snow in a halo of gold. The night was well-lit by the full moon, and she could clearly make out her small house, the gristmill behind it, the waterwheel on the edge of the Sorge River. She could smell the wood smoke, and this gave her a new spark of energy as she cut across the field.
Safety.
Warmth.
Home.
She yanked open the front door and stumbled inside with a dramatic sigh of relief. She fell back against the wood frame and began tearing off her soaked boots and stockings. She tossed them halfway across the room, where they landed with wet plops beside the hearth.
“I … am so … c-cold.”
Her father jumped up from his seat beside the fireplace, where he’d been darning a pair of socks. “Where have you been? The sun set more than an hour ago!”
“S-sorry, Papa,” she stammered, hanging her cloak on a peg by the door and peeling off her scarf to join it.
“And where are your mittens? Don’t tell me you lost them again.”
“Not lost,” she breathed, pulling the second chair closer to the fire. She crossed one foot over her knee and began working some feeling back into her toes. “I stayed late with the children, and didn’t want them going home in the dark alone, so I walked with each of them. And the twins live way over on the other side of the river, so I had to go all the way back, and then—oh, it does feel good to be home.”
Her father frowned. He was not an old man, but anxious wrinkles had become permanent fixtures on his face long ago. Maybe it was due to raising a child on his own, or fending off gossip from the rest of the town, or maybe he’d always been the sort to worry, whether it was warranted or not. When she was little, she’d made a game of telling him stories about the dangerous mischief she’d gotten herself into and delighted in his utter horror, before laughing and telling him she had made it all up.
Now she could see how that maybe wasn’t the kindest way to treat the person she loved most in this world.
“And the mittens?” he asked.
“Traded them for some magic dandelion seeds,” she said.
He glared at her.
She smiled sheepishly. “I gave them to Gerdrut. Water, please? I’m so thirsty.”
He shook his head, grumbling to himself as he stepped over to the pail in the corner where they gathered snow to be melted nightly by the hearth. Taking a ladle from above the fireplace, he scooped out some water and held it out to her. It was still cold, and tasted of winter going down her throat.
Her father returned to the fire and stirred the hanging pot. “I hate for you to be out all alone, on a full moon at that. Things happen, you know. Children go missing.”
She couldn’t help smiling at this. Her story today had been inspired by years and years of her father’s doom-filled warnings.
“I’m not a child anymore.”
“It isn’t just children. Full-grown men have been found the next day, dazed and muttering about goblins and nixes. Don’t be thinking it isn’t dangerous on nights like this. Thought I raised you with more sense.”
Serilda beamed at him, because they both knew that the way he’d raised her was on a steady stream of warnings and superstitions that had done more to ignite her imagination than they had to inspire the sense of self-preservation he’d been striving for.
“I’m fine, Papa. Not kidnapped, not ferried away by some ghoul. After all, who would want me, really?”
He fixed her with an irritated look. “Any ghoul would be blasted lucky to have you.”
Reaching over, Serilda pressed her frigid-cold fingers against his cheeks. He flinched, but didn’t pull away, allowing her to tilt his head down so she could press a kiss against his brow.
“If any come looking,” she said, releasing him, “I’ll tell them you said that.”
“It is not a joking matter, Serilda. Next time you think you’ll be late on a full moon, best you take the horse.”
She refrained from pointing out that Zelig, their old horse who was more vintage decor now than useful farm stud, had no chance whatsoever of outrunning the wild hunt.
Instead, she said, “Gladly, Papa, if it will ease your heart. Now, let’s eat. It smells scrumptious.”
He pulled two wooden bowls down from a shelf. “Wise girl. Best to be asleep well before the witching hour.”
The witching hour had come and the hunt surged across the countryside …