Wolfbann
#2 of Matters of the Hart
Matters of the Hart
2022 by Zorha
The lonesome wolf lingering somewhere in the gloomy, snow shrouded depths of the Black Forest howled again. Inside a decrepit cottage, an old woman and her adoptive granddaughter looked up from a sordid little yarn as its forlorn night call came down through the chimney.
"Gram." The Backfisch shifted about in her wobbly oak chair. "If the merchant felt so alone ... why did he eat the musician?"
The nearby hearth fire reflected off eyeshine; her deep crystal blue eyes seemed oddly sympathetic to the Austrian's plight. The old woman's cracked lips pursed. The naive hart obviously missed the meaning of her first tale.
"Because dear Child ... sometimes there are flames in our hearts."
Her somber brown eyes crept to the scorched remains of an original Ratio Studiorum sitting stoically up on the mantle. She thought back through the long years to those painful memories, her ominous words laced with pious poison.
"And those flames, if left unchecked, can consume everything ..."
** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ **
Chapter II
Wolfbann
Ellwangen, Germany
March 21st, 1611
Barbara Rufin knelt before her heathen altar, then scowled at the waxing gibbous rising in the east before her. A low moan of cruel wind slipped through the barren walds around her. The past few winters had been especially harsh, and a thin layer of ice still clung stubbornly to the buds on the warped beech trees around her. A massive bonfire roared nearby. Its flames reached for the bleak twilight descending around her, threatening to scorch the sullen heavens above.
As Above, So Below.
Barbara drew the freshly skinned pelt of a hart around her naked flesh. It's blood coated her dry and deeply wrinkled skin. Her gnarled fingers reached for some dried Wolfsbane root before crumbling it into the caldron on the stone altar before her. The tiny fire under it rippled, melting the base of deer fat, juniper berries, and a hint of Nightshade. A vengeful smile formed on her cracked lips, which slowly spat out a bann to the very flesh and blood who had betrayed her.
[Recommended Music - The Witches Curse - The Unspoken Tales - Peter Grundy]
Once satisfied the dark deed was sealed, she turned to a different, more personal matter. She picked up a wooden cup with eldritch runes crudely carved into its sides and added just a bit of willow bark to the viscous crimson filling it. The old woman stirred it with a small piece of fir branch before holding it aloft to the replenishing energies of the Equinox moon.
*Barbara chanted low, invoking an ancient mountain and river Goddess. Few remembered her name anymore thanks to the Romans. But Barbara's ancestors whispered the Goddess' true name to her from beyond the veil. And those that called upon the Forest Queen's renewing gifts were required to hunt her Lord's harts. *
She closed her amber eyes before bringing the cup to her lips and drinking unabashed the blood of the Waldgrave's harts. It tasted of iron and bitter sacrifice. Her eyelids fluttered ever so slightly. A slight exhale of relief escaped her softening, now supple lips. The few gray hairs in her long flowing hair turned back to raven black. The aged creases in her face faded. Her once sagging bosom firmed.
Her vitality rewound like a profane music box.
She opened her eyes, the fire in them crisp and renewed. Barbara stood confidently in the harsh glow of the bonfire; her bones sore no longer. The witch didn't know how long it would take for the Waldgrave and her familiar to come, but the chilling wind whispered: Soon. She spent the next few hours portioning her brew in glass vials, quartering the rest of the sacrificial deer, and keeping the bonfire's ravenous appetite fed.
The impenetrable darkness around her creaked. Its nocturne denizens rustled about in eerie, unsettling fits. Most would have been worried. But Barbara was also a child of the night, and the Lord of the Forest would be here soon. The howl finally came during the witching hour. Barbara smiled at the now familiar feminine inflection that no one but her could easily discern.
A short time later Barbara heard the telltale clop clop clop approach from the west along a hard packed dirt path. She turned to watch the shadowy outlines of a horse, its rider, and a black wolf appear on the edges of the bonfire's flickering light. The huntsman in black steadied his nightmare steed, which snorted menacingly. A sudden gust of creepy wind rippled his dark cloak.
Barbara unclasped the simple leather ties to her deer skins, and they fell around her feet, exposing her unashamed nakedness to their company. The huntsman spoke something to the wolf at his heel before turning his horse and galloping away. The wolf looked once at him, then bounded towards her. Barbara knelt and opened her arms to embrace the black wolf, which nearly knocked the naked woman over in her excitement.
Delighted, sticky licks peeled the dried, flaking blood from Barbara's nubile face.
The witch felt over the thick warm fur of her familiar. It almost looked glossy in the flickering light of the nearby bonfire. Her hands caressed every nook of the lupine form. In her eyes it was sublime; perfection, incarnate. The wolf used her large mass to push Barbara gently down on the pile of deer skins.
The witch winced lightly as the wolf planted one of her huge paws on Barbara's left shoulder, pinning her in place. Their dangerous claws left small bleeding gashes in the taught flesh there. That devilish tongue lapped gently at the witchness neckline, cleaning off the delirious taste of slaughter. Barbara's sultry breath misted at her quivering lips and billowed up into the night.
"Meine kleinen, scharfen Krallen ..." Barbara moaned out, squirming under her lover's slobbery ministrations. The wolf paused, and she stopped to look deep into Barbara's quivering amber eyes.
Who are you calling ... little?
The unspoken thoughts slipped into Barbara's mind as she took in the subtle perk of ears, the way the wolf's black muzzle lips set firm against her rebuking flash of fangs. Once she got her message across, the wolf dipped her muzzle back down, her tongue slathering itself over Barbara's gore laced breasts. The rough tongue sent shivers racing through Barbara's needy flesh each time the thick muscle slid over the bud of a perked nipple. It sent lightning into the very center of her being. Her shaking arousal grew, her cleft slick now with need.
The musky scent of Barbara's heat was not unknown to the wolf.
She backed away before planting her square nose into that quivering mound and sniffing. Barbara's trembling fingers reached out, grasping those thick lupine ears and holding on for life as the wolf lapped at her wet sex. Her eyelids sealed. The witch bucked, squealed as waves of pleasure rippled inside her, each lick an ever larger wave crashing on the shores of her building climax.
Barbara cried out, amber eyes shooting open as her orgasm echoed out into the dark world around them. The cries of ravens joined hers as they took off, startled from their nests. Sensing the woman under her skilled lupine tongue growing slack, the wolf moved forward and nuzzled her tenderly. Barbara fought to catch her breath, cupping the wolf's large head so their foreheads touched for a few moments.
With one hunger sated, the wolf turned to the quartered deer to quelch the other. It tore into the still bloody venison with its fangs, gulping chunks whole. Barbara wrapped the deer skins around her, staving off the deep chill despite the dying bonfire nearby. She laid on her side, recovering from their intense lovemaking, and quietly admiring the simple, primal ways of her familiar.
A part of her wished that she could shed her imperfect form and join the wolf and her master, forever.
When the wolf had gorged itself, she wobbled over to Barbara's side and popped down into the soft earth next to her. The enamored witch wrapped her arm around her lover's shaggy side, pulling her closer. Their companionship was the only thing that brought fire to her cold dead heart now. Barbara's eyelids grew heavy, and she fought to keep herself awake.
Why did you call for me?
"During the next Full Moon, I bid you to slaughter some of the town's flock, held in the North penn."
And what of their shepherd?
"He won't be feeling well that night." Barbara mused ominously, on the cusp of a dark dream. "And will leave the pen unattended."
It will be done ...
April 10th, 1611
*Barbara limped forward, dragging the heavy iron chains binding her wrists and ankles across the oak floorboards of what used to be a church study. Stacks of books overflowed the small tables by the walls, more than the three shelves could accommodate. Where once a simple writing desk sat, a darkly polished confession pulpit now ominously stood. The sun coming through the stained glass windows created a rainbow mosaic in the dust her uneven gait kicked up. *
[Recommended Music - The Witch Trials - The Unspoken Tales - Peter Grundy]
A Jesuit brother pushed her down upon a rickety stool. He clamped her chains down to two small iron loops sunk into the sturdy hardwood floor. Barbara didn't look up when the local Jesuit priest walked into the room, his thick leather boots making portentous clomps as he made his slow and deliberate way to the pulpit.
His dark cassock was simple; austere even with the mozzetta. He dropped a thick leather bound Ratio Studiorum on the pulpit. It's thud almost sounded like a gavel, pronouncing judgment. The priest frowned when he looked at the younger woman sitting before him. The creases in his face deepened as he thought about what to say.
"State your name, for the record." He pulled out some pieces of parchment and dipped a freshly sharpened quill into an inkwell. His brusk voice was deep and steady. His hand placed the point of the quill on the paper and waited.
*Barbara's amber eyes looked up, but she kept her head down. The way her raven black hair fell across her partly swollen face her bangs hid a black eye. She stared back, but said nothing. The priest and school teacher said nothing in return. Instead he laid the quill down and ran his hand along the bumpy spine of the book, letting the awkward pause linger for a long, uncomfortable moment. *
"I have a daughter." He stated, with only the barest hints of affection in his voice. "She is seven." When Barbara gave a questioning look, he continued. "Her favorite subjects are the stars, and why the constellations are named so."
Barbara continued her unbreakable silence, not sure what the priest was going with this story.
"She wants to go to the Accademia dei Lincei. They have instruments there of tubes and glass that can peer into the mysteries of the heavens far closer than anything the Greeks have used before." The old man with more salt than pepper in his hair closed his dark brown eyes. In his mind, he imagined his daughter all grown up. He opened them suddenly, his look turning hard and somehow even colder. "She will never see Heaven if she is seduced by Hell."
His icy stare somehow betrayed the fire raging in his heart.
"I will find any witch in this town that threatens that future. Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam."
Father Warner shuffled some of his notes around, triple checking their accuracy. He looked again at the woman sitting before him in judgment.
"We have several herdsmen, including your very own son, who will give testimony that your name is, indeed, Barbara Rufin."
Barbara's eyes narrowed at the mention of her son. On reflection, she should have had her wolf rip out his throat instead of simply adding something extra to his dinner last Full Moon.
"However, according to our records, Barbara Rufin would be 70 years old now ..."
She closed her eyes. She knew where this was going. What this Man of God was going to say. And any justification she could use would simply be the rope they would use to hang her, word by word.
"Your husband, before he died thirty years ago, thought you a witch, and mentioned that on numerous occasions, did he not?"
Barbara's amber eyes shot open again, burning with fury. The only reason he forced her hand in marriage was because she had an uncanny gift that kept his precious sheep safe. Her grandmother, and her grandmother before that, were said to hold a certain sway over wolves. The superstitious villagers called such wild and destitute men and women lurking in the ancient walds of Germany Wolfssegners.
Barbara hated that man for forcing her into what was by all means domestic slavery, and that was before the martital beatings and forced consummation. She instead turned to the only man that would treat her as more or less an equal.
The Lord of the Forest. The Huntsman in Black. The Alleged Devil himself.
Unlike these Catholic bastards, the Devil asked first, and only took her when she was willing. And through his dark gifts, she was able to liberate herself from her husband, but not before bearing him an heir. A son that cursed his mother for leaving them. And when the expanding Grindelwald-Fieschergletscher glacier brought a little more ice to them, and his father's flock dwindled, the young shepard was the first to blame his bitch of a mother for the unholy change in weather. And when the plague arrived, the entire town began to agree, it was her.
No, there was nothing she could say that would change this man's mind. She simply glared at Father Warner, hoping one day to see him in Hell. When she still did not respond Father Warner simply nodded to his Brother in the order standing next to her. He pulled out some contraption of iron and placed her thumbs in it.
"Time brings us many interesting innovations." Despite the personal interest in the matter, Father Warner's facade never thawed. "The Telescope brings us closer to the Heavens."
*The Jesuit Brother turned the screw squeezing the two bars together. On the third turn the studs on the underside of the top bar split through both of Barbara's thumb nails and drove savagely right into their sensitive nail beds. Even the shepherds on the outskirts of town could hear her prolonged shrieks of agony. *
*"The Pilniewinks meanwhile, will bring us closer to the Truth ..." *
May 16th, 1611
*Barbara dangled from the stake by a chain, her bare feet barely touching the squat stool under them. Her swollen toes were a grotesque shade of red and pus, the nails having been ripped out from them. With every difficult breath, air whistled through the broken cartilage of her nose. The compression around her neck made her woozy, but she doubted that she would be lucky enough to strangle before the jeering crowd's thirst for retribution was slaked. Their torches flickered in the fanatical night, barely illuminating the outskirts of their rustic village. *
[Recommended Music - The Ashes Will Be Woken - The Unspoken Tales - Peter Grundy]
*Father Warner just stood there, glaring at her with his seven year old daughter just off to his side. As Barbara dangled precariously, half unconscious, she absently wondered what type of father should bring his daughter to the front row of an execution. Surely the Greatest of God's most merciful. Barbara's bloodshot eyes scanned the crowd. She was not surprised to find her oaf of a cruel son standing in the back row, enticing the zealots around them to burn her. *
Once their righteous fires had been sufficiently stoked, Father Warner used his free hand to settle them, the other clutching the Ratio Studiorum firmly to his mozzetta. The agitated crowd fell silent; the only sound heard was the tiny roars of their torches lapping at the darkness.
"Barbara Rufin. You have confessed to this Sacred Order of laying with the Devil and his Beasts, performing evocations and Wolfbanns that lead to the deaths of a quarter of our flocks, and being maleficent to your own Blood. This Tribunal has found you guilty of Witchcraft in the eyes of GOD. Your sentence is DEATH by burning at the stake."
The mob roared with fervent delight at the proclamation. Father Warner used his free arm to hold his daughter close.
"May GOD have mercy on your eternal soul."
Barbara gave a weak scowl, the taut chain around her throat making it hard to spit out one final curse.
"Beware the wolf at your family door ..." She spat, a gob of dark blood landing at their feet.
*Father Warner nodded to the executioners, who put their torches to the faggots at her feet. The bundles of sticks caught, the slight breeze whipping the flames into a frenzy. One of the executioners was supposed to pull the chain attached to the stool, affording the accused the relative painless death of hanging, but decided at that moment to be derelict in his official duty. *
The flames licked at her already tormented feet. Puss began to bubble, the red infected skin turned black, peeling away. Fat boiled and dribbled out of the exposed cracks. The stench of charred, gangrenous flesh was nauseating. The witch wailed, thrashed ineffectually against the chains binding her. Her tormented screams carried far into the deep woods and into perked wolven ears.
Barbara's simple tunic caught fire, the flames lapping at the rest of her body. She tried pulling her legs up to strangle herself, but the cooked muscles, in all their blistering agony, were useless now. The feminine fat of her body was a candle; her once beautiful raven black hair, the wick. The last thing Barbara saw alive was the familiar shadow of her lover bounding from out of the edge of the dark forest to avenge her.
The dark furred beast charged through the crowd and leapt into the back of Father Warner. The impact sent him and his book flying into the bonfire. His cassock went up in flames immediately from the intense heat. His screams were shrill and gut wrenching as the fire within him consumed everything he once held dear.
Barbara's wolf snarled at the mob, and with the courage of God backing them, they scattered with terrified screams. Alone, Barbara's son readied his shepherd staff, but not before the fangs of the black wolf found his throat. With foamy blood now running down her muzzle, the wolf turned to the Priest's daughter. Their collision had knocked her to the fire's edge, just enough for the flames to scar one side of her once pristine face. Her blistered hands now held the smoldering ruins of the Ratio Studiorum.
Some of the villagers started to return, emboldened by the pitchforks and scythes they now armed themselves with. The wolf's bright yellow eyes narrowed at the Priests' daughter. Her low growl was a promise to finish what tonight had started, before bounding away back to the tenebrous depths of the Queen's Black Forest ...
** ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ **
The old woman only came out of the reverie when she realized how frigid the cottage had grown. She put aside her knitting and stiffly got out of the rocking chair to throw some more firewood in the hearth. The grandmother drew her thick shawl closer to her thin, withered frame before blowing into her clasped hands to warm them.
Her adopted granddaughter however, seemed content with combing the black hair of a Bisque doll, and didn't seem at all fazed by the brutal winter cold.
"I think that is enough stories for tonight." The old woman eased herself back into her rickety rocking chair with much effort. "I think it's best now if you get ready for bed ..."
*The young girl put the porcelain doll on a small table next to her chair, before combing out her own hair. The ivory comb found so many snarls and tangles the Backfisch's lips almost turned into a snarl themselves. *
"But Gram, I'm not tired!" She pouted at the idea. "Besides ... none of the tales you've told have a happy ending ... the wolves are always left with no one .."
As if called by name the wolf wandering somewhere outside howled again. This time however, the howl seemed to come straight through the frosted thin glass of their grimy windows instead of down the chimney. The grandmother looked about nervously before grabbing the red cap next to her. She adjusted her thick glasses before returning to her knitting as a manner of habit, anxiously ignoring the unseen wolf stalking just outside her ramshackle walls.
"Oh sweet Child ... who planted such nonsense in your head?" She shook her head vehemently. Still, the old hart stammered, somehow thrown from ease. "The Devil's Hounds ... would rather eat your heart than take it ..."
The young girl's lips curled, her eye teeth pressing deep into her flushed lips. It was a cruel, knowing smile. Her thin fingers gingerly touched the heart shaped silver locket dangling between her shallow cleavage.
"Oh no Gram ... for one time ... a she wolf was brave enough to take a cowardly knight's heart ...
~ To Be Continued ~