Untethering Dark

Chapter Three

A strong anise-scented fog blanketed Astrid’s home, as her oven had been working overtime since the wee hours of the morning. Batches of Springerle took up every flat surface—her kitchen counters, the mantel, even the back of her couch—left out to dry and set, a tablecloth or dish towel draped over each cluster.

After napping most of yesterday, Astrid craved the busyness of a baking day. Idle hands, idle mind, a recipe for disaster. She grappled with pesky feelings enough lately to last her until next year.

As she set aside the latest baked batch to cool, she glanced out the window and saw Johanna trudging toward her cottage. Hiking poles in each hand, the older forest ranger had an olive skin tone made ruddy from exertion and the cold.

Joy jolted through Astrid as she hurried to close the oven door and shuck her oven mitts. Johanna wasn’t supposed to be working today, was she?

Astrid glanced at the monthly calendar nailed to the wall by the front door. Johanna had given it to her this time last year, bought from the Visitor Center’s gift shop.

The square for today said:

- Bake Springerle, attempt #3

-Chop firewood

-Leave an offering for Altes Geweih

But no park ranger visits. Johanna usually let her know when she’d be swinging by. It was a good thing Astrid was on her best behavior today.

Maybe Johanna was picking up someone else’s shift? That happened sometimes around Yuletide.

The plump, sturdy woman was a local, born and raised in Baden-Gottsdorf, and Astrid had known her since she was a child. They weren’t classmates—there was a twenty-year age gap—but Mutter Perchta introduced them, and Johanna had looked out for her ever since. First as an ally of the forest, then as a friend.

Johanna had an extensive university education in forestry. That, and twenty-five years of environmental activism experience including pushing for der Schwarzwald to be declared a national park, short-listed her to her current position in the fledgling park service.

For generations her family served as the unofficial stewards of der Schwarzwald. They knew all its secrets—monstrous and otherwise. It was Johanna who posted all the park service signs about leaving before dark.

In her relatively short, human lifespan, Johanna had become as much a fixture of the forest as the nonhuman things that lived amongst the trees. Devotion and dedication were in her blood.

Opening her door, Astrid waved the woman inside.

“Guten Morgen.” Johanna’s greeting lacked its usual cheery, chipper energy. Maybe she wouldn’t be on her best behavior today. Though Johanna smiled as she stomped the snow off her boots, her shoulders sagged and there was a weariness in her eyes, so dark a brown they were almost black. Either she already knew about the fresh crop of eaten hikers, or someone was causing her grief, and Astrid would be adding retribution to her to-do list.

“Smells good in here.” The forest ranger had to duck upon entering to avoid smacking her forehead against the doorframe. While Astrid was tall in her own right, the top of her head only came up to Johanna’s shoulder. A downright jolly giant of a person, at least when her job wasn’t overtaxing her. “Ah, I forgot how lovely and bright it gets in here this time of year.”

Sunlight streaked through the windows, more so in wintertime than any other season. Golden beams illuminated dust motes, wood-hewn countertops covered in Springerle, and the drying herbs that hung from the rafters. Though the days were shorter, the forest had dropped all its leaves, leaving ample gaps in the canopy for light.

“Enjoy it while it lasts. Winter comes and goes in the blink of an eye.” Gesturing to the dining table, Astrid told Johanna to make herself comfortable before going into the kitchen to ready a hot pot of Ostfriesentee, a strong black tea blend of Assam, Ceylon, and Darjeeling, and a plate of cooled cookies. She would have her over for tea every day if the park ranger’s schedule allowed. Life on the mountain could get a little too quiet sometimes.

Johanna shucked off her boots, leaving them on the doormat, before padding over to a chair in thick woolen socks—ones with chubby teddy bear faces Astrid knitted four years ago. Johanna brought calendars, and Astrid made socks.

Get a gift, give a gift. It was only polite.

Shrugging off her backpack, Johanna took up residence in her usual chair at the table.

“How are you?” Astrid asked, arranging the tea service on a silver tray, followed by sugar cubes and cream. “Hikers giving you any trouble?”

“There’s been reports of poachers up north going after wolves. Some they kill, others they sell to fur farms.” Johanna shook her head, worry and disgust twisting her features. “Not many wolves live permanently down here, but there are some. And others do migrate through. It’s possible the poachers will drop this way.”

Bred and raised for slaughter, discarded like garbage once the fur had been harvested. Such evil, and for what? Fashion? Certainly not survival. With modern conveniences, and the availability of wool, the humans of this region hadn’t needed wolf fur to stay warm for a long time.

“Think it likely?” Astrid paused, clenching the silver tray’s edges. Her skin was like cracked ice, gray veins threading beneath snow-white flesh.

“I’d like to think not, but you know me.”

Imagine the worst scenario possible, and you can’t be taken off guard. It was one of Johanna’s guiding mantras. “I appreciate the warning.”

“That’s not the only reason why I swung by. It’s been a couple weeks since we’ve last chatted.”

And since then, at least five backpackers had been eaten.

“Not much new going on around here besides knitting and baking Springerle. How about you? Besides poacher reports, of course.”

Fingers threaded together on top her belly, Johanna sat back and groaned. “I caught a trio off-trail carving their names into a tree earlier this morning. Not all that far from here actually. Wrote a citation and chased them off. But the way they were laughing and carrying on—they’ll be back. Not the rule-respecting type.”

And they both knew how that ended.

Chomp. Chomp.

The day hikers were... mostly fine . Tolerable. Better if they stuck to their trails like they were supposed to, rather than tromping on the undergrowth, disturbing the forest fauna, all to take a selfie. Or to deface trees. Or to squat in the dirt and not pack out.

Such blatant disrespect.

Astrid huffed, anger rising.

How would these feckless oafs feel if she trespassed on their land, knifed their trees, took pictures in their homes, and shat in their yards?

They’d yell and scream and chase her off.

Day in and day out, it was like this. Different crowds but the same offenses over and over. She didn’t blame Altes Geweih in the slightest for eating them. A creature that old would have zero patience. And really, treating the forest with respect and leaving its inhabitants alone wasn’t too much to ask.

“I know.” Johanna shook her head. “It’s infuriating. Don’t be mean to trees.”

Astrid set the tray on the table, and plopped a sugar cube into each cup, keeping the extent of her displeasure to herself. The ranger already knew that the humans’ grievances were many; they would be much worse without her conservation work.

As much as Astrid liked to complain about humans, their treatment of der Schwarzwald had greatly improved ever since a dedicated, environmentally conscious group of them declared the forest a national park in 2014. Johanna wasn’t the only human who cared. Others fought to rein in the timber industry and counteract the brutal devastation acid rain had wrought. The trees, the soil, the rivers, and lakes—all felt its effects. Damages not even Mutter Perchta’s healing magic could fix.

It was before Astrid’s time, but Johanna explained to her once that almost half of the trees in der Schwarzwald bore signs of damage by 1984 and showed her grainy photos of their blackened, skeletal trunks. Until the humans had stepped up, and spoken out, the forest was dying, and on a rapid path toward destruction.

If it weren’t for Johanna’s and her family’s fight for change, Perchta might’ve hexed and murdered every single human who tried stepping inside the forest.

At the end of the day, carved trees weren’t great. But instead of griping, Astrid said, “Could’ve been worse.”

“True. And no new missing persons reports this morning, so that’s good news.”

About that...

She gave Johanna an apologetic look, hating to be the bearer of bad news. “I heard other rule breakers getting their comeuppance last night.”

Sighing, Johanna whisked the knitted cap off her head. Strands of dark brown hair streaked with gray stood on end, made unruly by static, and she grumbled as she doffed her gloves to try patting the runaway hairs back in place. “Idioten. I wish they’d just listen. Or read a sign! These tourists going off and getting themselves killed is completely avoidable.”

Taking a seat herself, Astrid replied, “At least Altes Geweih leaves no trace.”

No body parts. No bloodstains. Nothing.

“It’s less for you to stress over,” she continued. She poured piping hot tea into both their cups, followed by a splash of cream, forming a Wulkje. It was an Ostfriesland tea ritual she adopted in her youthful years of travel.

Ostfriesentee was not stirred, that was verboten, so Johanna raised her teacup as is. “Cheers to that. Dealing with missing persons investigations are headache enough.” She sipped. “Mmm. Is this a fresh batch? It’s very good.”

“Yes, and I’ve got Hagebuttentee, too. Harvested this season. Want some to take home?”

“Please. Oh, and that reminds me.” Setting down her teacup, Johanna began rooting through her backpack, pushing aside a hydration bladder, a first aid kit, and maps. “Got you a new calendar, what with the New Year being just around the corner. Here you go.”

“Thank you.” Astrid grinned, accepting the gift. She flipped through, humming approvingly at the stunning, artful shots of der Schwarzwald taken throughout the year. As rude and pesky as humans could be, she had to admit that some had an eye for beauty and a skill for capturing it. “I love it.”

“You’re so easy to please.”

Astrid snorted.

“Minus your ‘all tourists are stupid and annoying and deserve to be eaten’ thing.”

“You know me so well.” She tapped one long, sharp fingernail against her teacup’s gilded rim. “Respect and manners go a long way here, as you know.”

“That I do.”

“How’s Suri?” Johanna’s spouse. While Astrid didn’t often have an excuse to leave the forest these days, she never turned down one of Suri’s bimonthly dinner parties. Food. Drink. Music. The games and company—all reminded her that a forested life of isolation wasn’t what she wanted ALL the time. It just felt wrong to enter the human domain without an effusive invitation or a long-standing tradition like Perchta’s yearly Yuletide visit.

That wasn’t her world. Not anymore. And not for a long time.

“They’re great! Sent their love, of course, and were wondering when you’d be visiting next.”

“Soon, soon,” Astrid promised, hiding a smile. “Just tweaking the amigurumi owl pattern I promised them. Want to get it right before coming down off the mountain.” Suri was obsessed with owls. They were also fiber artist companions, but neither had ever tried crocheting small, stuffed yarn creatures before. Clothing and blankets were the usual fare.

“Oh, good! They’ll be happy to hear it.”

They shared two more cups together, before Johanna rose from the table, stiffened joints cracking. “Welp, duty calls. I’ve got to do my rounds, then get everyone off the mountain I can before nightfall.”

As the forest ranger donned her boots and outerwear, Astrid packed pouches of loose-leaf tea for her to take home.

“Good seeing you as always.” Johanna tipped her head, hiking poles in hand. “And thank you for the tea.”

“Don’t be a stranger.”

“Never am.”

Johanna opened the front door to leave but hovered at the threshold. Something had given her pause. When she looked back, her expression was grim again. “Be careful, will you? The poachers...”

If poachers dared drop this way, they’d pay for their greed. Astrid would make sure of it.

Her knives and ax could use some sharpening though...

Should probably break out the whetstone.

“I’ll keep a lookout for them,” she promised. “And let you know if I see or hear anything.”

That wasn’t exactly a lie. She would tell Johanna if the poachers came. But the rest...well.

Altes Geweih wasn’t the only one in this forest who could make people disappear.

While her fourth attempt at Springerle set out on the table to cool, and Hasenpfeffer simmered on the stove, Astrid poured out an offering to Altes Geweih. She saved the blood from the hare used in the stew, wasting nothing.

Nightly offerings were harder to secure during the winter when the forest critters burrowed and nestled, but Astrid had years of practice, and she knew where to look. A little tracking magic helped, too.

Cradling the cup in her hands, she said over the offering:

Flesh from flesh,

Sinew from sinew,

Bone from bone,

Blood from blood.

I give another’s.

Spare me mine.

And then she thanked the hare, her voice pitched low and reverent, grateful for the sustenance and safety it provided her.

There was a time, when she was very small, that she shed tears over the blood staining her hands. But she’d soon become a hag, just like Mutter, and between her Hexe training and the drive for survival, she steeled her heart to it. Yet it never became thoughtless. Astrid hunted abundant animal populations whenever possible, the ones that could afford a cull, so as not to upset the balance of the forest.

Hexe Mutter always commented on her choice of small game. “Tochter,” she’d tut. “Tourists flock all year round like lambs to slaughter. Use them.”

A whole human every single day?

Seemed an excessive waste of life, considering an offering the size of a squirrel appeased Altes Geweih just fine. And as much as Astrid grumbled about the ones who mistreated the forest, most visitors weren’t that bad. They didn’t deserve to be gobbled up just for trying to enjoy nature. That, and even creatures as oblivious as the humans would notice daily disappearances. Astrid might have magic, but the humans had numbers, and that sounded like more trouble than it was worth.

Incantation finished, she took the cup outside, placing it on the old tree stump just beyond her gate.

The sun hung low in the sky.

Stretching out a hand to arm’s length, bent at the wrist with her palm facing inward, Astrid measured the amount of remaining daylight. Four fingers between the sun and the horizon—about an hour left until sunset.

She went back inside, plucking a Springerle from the cooling rack, one with an owl imprint, and bit.

Ah...as it should be.

Right shape, right texture, right taste.

The dough from her previous batches had been too moist and sugary—the texture supposed to be biscuit-like on the outside, soft on the inside. And when she tried baking them, the cookies bubbled, and the “foot,” the undermost part of the cookie that was supposed to rise, didn’t form. The imprints—forest fauna and plant motifs pressed on the dough with carved wooden molds—were less pronounced.

Mountain altitude made getting the finicky cookie right a bit tricky.

If she had any patience, she’d store the Springerle in a tightly sealed container for a couple weeks to let the flavor fully develop. Maybe that’s what she’d do with batch number five, now that she’d worked out the kinks...

But that was a project for another day. The arches of her feet hurt, her lower back ached, and she still had chores to tend to.

Removing the hare stew from heat, Astrid dipped in a wooden spoon and sampled a bite. Brothy, meaty, and tart, with just a hint of creaminess. Her stomach growled, but supper would also have to wait.

There was more firewood to gather before the sun went down.

Dropping an armload of logs, Astrid swiped at her brow with her coat sleeve, but the beading sweat had already frozen to her skin. The day she became a winter hag, and this chore became a luxury rather than a necessity, couldn’t come soon enough. Imperviousness to the cold would free up so much time.

Voices filtered through the trees, a group of hikers nearby.

Tourists flocked to der Schwarzwald from all over the world, millions each year, and while Astrid lived away from the marked trails, deep in the forest, sometimes they strayed near her home.

Like now.

Astrid ventured into the wood surrounding her property to gather small branches and twigs for kindling.

If she happened to run into the hikers, fine, she’d warn them, and maybe show them how to leave an offering. But unless Altes Geweih accepted granola bars and trail mix, this close to sundown, the point was as good as moot.

As she bent, shaking snow free from a fallen limb, a flash of movement caught her eye, something emerging from behind a tree. Jumping back, she almost dropped the branch. It was the only weapon she had, save from maybe magically inducing a mild case of frostbite.

Night hadn’t fallen.

The monster shouldn’t be on the prowl yet.

“Didn’t mean to startle you.”

Astrid sucked in a breath, willing her hammering heart to slow down, as her brain caught up with what her eyes saw.

It was no forest beast, but a lone man.

He was shorter, just under two meters, with a small, wiry build. An average sandy-haired, blue-eyed white man with a beard.

If he was a part of the hiking group, he’d wandered off. Those other voices now drifted behind her, back the way she came. She cut out, meaning to intercept them, but they must have cut in, coming closer to her cottage.

The lone man’s gaze zeroed in on hers, narrow and squinty.

While most of the backpackers she ran into over the years wore brand-name hiker chic, this man’s outerwear was understated but no less high quality. And he wore tactical gloves. The load on his back was smaller, too, but in a way that didn’t indicate unpreparedness, but expertise. Someone who knew what the true essentials were.

Strange .

Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. His long, unblinking stare continued, even as he brought a cigarette to his lips and cupped a hand in front to light.

“It’s not safe being out here this late,” Astrid said.

He drew in deep, then slowly exhaled smoke. “You’re out here.”

Waving a hand in front of her face, coughing, she turned away. “If you want to survive the night, leave out an offering for the creature who rules this forest.”

“What kind of offering?”

Not what creature? That was always the first question, but she shrugged, already walking away. He’d find out soon enough. “Jerky, canned sardines. Whatever you have.” She’d no idea if that would even suffice—she only ever left out fresh meat—but better to try and fail than get outright eaten.

“Got some cold cuts,” he called, but Astrid didn’t stop, just yelled back, “Good luck!”

She needed to finish up her chores and get safely tucked away inside.

As Astrid trudged back to her cottage, the rhythmic crunching sound of her footsteps hit slightly off tempo. An extra crunch when there shouldn’t be. She slowed, then sped up her pace, breaking the pattern of her stride.

There it was again. But more pronounced this time.

It wasn’t until she returned to her backyard, and had her ax in her hands, that she spun around.

The man with the cigarette leaned against a tree just a couple meters away. He took a deep draw, fiery orange tip glowing, the cigarette now barely more than a stub. Poison greedily sucked down.

With a roll of her eyes, she turned away to her chopping block, propping up a log. “You shouldn’t be here.” Lifting the ax above her head, she swung down, cleaving the log in two with a satisfying crack. If he made one wrong move, she’d gladly direct her next strike at his head.

“Was curious is all. Didn’t think anybody lived out here.”

“Special dispensation. Lived here long before this became a national park.” She didn’t know why she bothered answering. Not like it was any of his business.

“That so.”

She glared at him over her shoulder.

“Must be lonely out here. Not a single soul for miles and miles and miles.” He took another hit, eyes gleaming something wicked and sly, as if to suggest that if she screamed, no one would hear.

That almost made her smile. Oh, he could try.

Flicking his cigarette to the ground, he exhaled another fetid cloud of smoke.

She bristled. “Pick it up.”

“Excuse me?”

She pointed to the cigarette butt with the head of her ax. “I won’t tell you again.”

“Sheesh.” He bent to pick up the offending thing, shoving it into his coat pocket. “Not much for conversation, are you?”

“Nope. So, you better run along and find your friends before they get too far.”

“Oh, they’re not my friends.” His grin was a disturbing thing. Too wide and showing too many teeth. Almost feral. “But they’re coming. Thanks for the tip. Looking forward to dinner with the devil tonight.”

Pushing off from the tree, he took one step back, then another. With a two-fingered salute, he spun around and walked off in the direction he came.

When he was gone from sight, she gathered up an armful of freshly split wood.

New voices drifted through the trees.

If she strained, she could hear them.

“Rachel, there’s a cabin over here and goats!”

Astrid cursed. Just when she’d gotten rid of the one. What was it, Annoy the Local Forest Witch Day?

A second voice replied, “Let’s get selfies with them!” It was quickly followed by a third voice. “How about a video?”

Off in the trees behind her cottage, just barely within earshot, Astrid couldn’t see her unexpected visitors. From the sound of their voices, they came in from the front, a loud, obnoxious human trio evidently ignoring all her Private Property: No Trespassing signs, while debating the finer points of social media video creation.

Some Hexen would delight in the trespass, but the Hexen who wanted humans anywhere near their homes made them of gingerbread and candy. A snare baited and set, ready to snap. Astrid’s modest little cottage was made of wood and river stone. Nothing worth this level of ogling.

“The lighting is perfect. But ugh , this pen is littered with goat shit. What if we let them out and posed with them in front of the house? It’ll look like something straight out of a storybook.”

Casting a wary eye to the horizon, and the rapidly setting sun, Astrid trudged grumpily through the snow. Time to chase off the tourists.

Even if they listened to warnings from her, they’d never get off the mountain in time, so there was no point in doing much more than shooing. If she was feeling more gracious, she could suggest that they offer whatever they could, too, on the off chance it spared them, but horrendously rude fools might as well also be soon-to-be-dead ones.

They could just go somewhere else to be eaten.

One of them cried out, fearful and disgusted. “What the fuck is this—a cup of blood? What kind of sick psycho lives here?”

Schei?e!

Panic spiking, Astrid dropped the firewood and ran. Trespassing was one thing. Bothering her goats another. But if they spoiled her offering, and messed with her wards...

She was a dead woman.

Exiting the tree line, and sprinting for the cottage, a chorus of bleating and jingling bells raised. The individual laughed, like trespassing and distressing goats weren’t incredibly crummy things to do.

Then the laughter turned to a sharp curse. “The fucker bit me!” There was a smack, followed by angry bleating, even more jingling, and more cursing.

Rage bubbled and brewed beneath Astrid’s skin. Frost limned her palms as she tapped into the shallow well of winter magic she could access as a witch. Frostbitten dick would be the least of what he’d suffer for raising a hand against one of her darlings.

Astrid jerked around the corner, then skidded to a halt, fluffy mitten-covered hands flying to her temples. A sharp, anguished cry burst from her lips.

Caught red-handed, three backpackers turned to look at her, mouths agape.

Did they not expect to find someone at home? There was smoke billowing from the chimney, light in the windows...

Oh, never mind that.

This...this...disaster...

Even though she cleared the stone path from gate to door of snow, they tromped all over her winter garden. The wards that hung from her fence posts—bits of twigs and bone—were torn down and crushed. They’d been spelled to keep Altes Geweih at bay, but they were powerless against human stupidity.

Fritz and Liesel were gone, the gate to their pen wide-open.

And the offering...

Dread lanced through her. The offering was spilled out onto the ground, staining the snow red.

“What have you done?” she bellowed, rage rising on fear’s heels. With night quickly approaching, there wouldn’t be enough time to prepare another one. She was as doomed as the rest of them.

Unless...

Not bothering to listen to their excuses or empty apologies, she whirled around, storming to the back, a plan forming. If they were still polluting her space when she returned...

She yanked her ax from the chopping block, anger prickling her skin.

Their flesh and blood would do. Altes Geweih wasn’t the only monster in this forest.

When she returned, ax in hand, they were on the run, already a dozen meters away, their belated self-preservation instincts finally kicking in. She spotted their brightly colored winter coats, streaks of orange, blue, and purple zipping through the trees.

Lifting the ax above her head in a two-handed grip, she took aim at the one who dumped the offering and threw.

It twirled through the air, handle over blade. Round and round and round, whistling its approach.

With a thud, it hit into the tree beside the orange-coated human, missing the lucky idiot by a thread, sending splinters flying.

Schei?e!

The tree didn’t deserve that.

Shrieking, the orange-clad human instinctively flung their arms up to cover their head, but they kept on running, hardly a break in their stride.

Astrid began to chase after them, but a terrible howl filled the air, a hunting cry that reverberated down to the bone. Fear drove its icy daggers into her spine, freezing her in place, a Winter Hag’s daughter. The irony of that wasn’t lost on her.

In all her years, she only ever heard the beast prowling at night. But he was already so close, too close, and the sun not quite set. Perhaps this was retribution for narrowly evading him the other night.

An offering was still owed. And Altes Geweih wouldn’t accept excuses.

She could run like the hikers. But even if she managed to outpace them, despite their head start, the strategy “don’t be the slowest in the herd” wouldn’t work. Altes Geweih wasn’t like a bear or a wolf or another woodland predator. Their bellies filled long before their anger was sated. Once Altes Geweih marked his prey, he did not stop hunting, not until all who offended him were devoured, bones and all. Satiable but a completionist.

Running was futile. It was better to spend her final moments with dignity, not desperation.

Grim acceptance settled over her, numbing her fear—at least, for now.

“I’ll be back, Altes Geweih,” she said, her voice steadier than it should’ve been. He had to know she wasn’t running, wasn’t hiding. She made a choice, after all, and it would not be misunderstood for cowardice. “I’ll just be a moment.” And in that time, she’d leave a message for Perchta and Johanna, so they knew why she disappeared without a word or a trace.

The air practically vibrated with his presence.

While she didn’t feel his hot breath beating down the back of her neck, she half expected to see him when she turned around. But no. There was just the snow, a trampled garden, and golden firelight lighting up the inside of her cottage.

She felt his eyes on her though, boring holes into her side. If she looked off into the trees, she was certain she would see him lurking in the rapidly waning light. Would see bloodred eyes staring back.

Keeping her own eyes trained forward, Astrid calmly retreated into her home, her chin held high.

After scribbling a farewell note, she swiped a labeled jar from her cupboard, then the plate of Springerle on the kitchen table.

Dammit if she wasn’t going to eat at least one more.