Free Forest of Whispers by Jennifer Murgia Page A

what they say. Her face changes through a multitude of expressions over the course of seconds, and I suspect there is something she is keeping to herself. I want to know what the Man stone means. I stare at it and cannot help thinking of the man at the hedge today—of Laurentz. A warm blush creeps beneath my cheeks, and I let my hair fall over my face to cover it, hoping she doesn’t notice.
    “You must watch your heart, Rune. Guard it closely,” she warns, and I smile to myself that my dear Matilde has not lost her touch. “Decisions you make with your heart have the power to destroy not only you, but others as well.”
    I listen to her sigh. It is impossible to tell if she is tired or if the stone reveals something that is troubling. She picks up the smooth pebble that represents Disordered Thoughts, rolls it between her fingers, and then sets it down. It’s a while before she speaks again, long enough that I pour water from the basin into the heavy kettle and set it over the flame. After I’ve busied myself long enough to not cause trouble, Matilde’s voice breaks the silence.
    “You must be wary of lies, Rune, lies strong enough to cause death. You will be the spark that sets these falsehoods ablaze.” She gives me a knowing look, and in it, I know she is referring to the element of Fire. I notice how she grips the table until her knuckles turn white, and soon after, a strong wind blows into the room, upsetting the herbs above our heads, causing them to sway wildly until dried bits fall and float to the table. It is Rosemary that falls, nothing else, and the tiny leaves scatter between the stones, sticking to the blood that is not quite dry.
    My very being bristles.
    Rosemary is for remembrance… comes the whisper.
    Matilde turns to me, her old eyes sharp and decisive. “She is here.”
    The wind whips throughout the room. Baskets overturn, linens rumple. Even the stones slide out of order across the table with the force that barges through the open windows. I try and help Matilde reach for the stones before they fall over the edge and onto the floor, but I’m too late. The fortune is ruined.
    Matilde stops suddenly and thrusts her hand upon her heart. “There is something she doesn’t wish you to know!”
    But the wind has become a symphony of whispers, and is so loud that I cannot hear anything else she says. It fills my ears with a murmur reminiscent of my dreams. I try to listen, but it becomes too painful for me to bear. I cover my ears with my hands and sit on the floor, waiting for it to stop, only there seems no end to it.
    I reach for Matilde’s hand, and for one glimmer of a second we are face to face, and she presses her worn hands to my cheeks.
    “You are stronger than she is, and she knows it. Don’t let her know you are scared.”
    But how can I not be scared? What mother returns from the dead for her child? How can this not frighten me?
    “She wants something, Rune. Whatever she tells you, always be aware it can mean something else entirely,” says Matilde, as she covers her own ears with her hands against the noise that whirls around us.
    I lean closer to her, “What does she want?”
    Matilde shakes her head. Either she is saying she doesn’t know or she won’t tell me; I can’t be sure.
    The kettle’s lid rattles and the hook falls over against the inside of the fireplace. The cupboard from the far end of the room swings open and the door flies off, splintering as it crashes to the floor.
    Matilde’s face is a horrified mask when I peek through the laced fingers that cover my eyes. She crawls along the floor, making her way toward the few stones left on the table.
    “What are you doing?” I cry out to her, afraid she will get hurt, and I begin to crawl after her on my knees. She reaches for the tattered cloth, her gnarled fingers shaking and stretching.
    “Mutti! Leave it!”
    The little cottage begins to shake. My mother is angry.
    “I’m sorry!” I cry out to the wind.