Fatal Lies

78

The forest was virtually impenetrable; however, the woodman was able to find his way by following a series of marks he had made on the tree trunks with his knife: gouges, gashes, and occasionally a rough cross. His furs were heavy with rain, and the sack he was carrying had become burdensome.

No one ever passed this way. Even the local people kept a safe distance. It wasn't only that the little forest was remote and inhospitable. There were stories: of wild animals, of murderous Gypsies-and of children who had entered and never come out again.

It was true that Gypsies were unaccountably fond of parking their brightly painted caravans close by. Moreover, they traveled immense distances to get there-from Russia, Galicia, and the Carpathians. They rarely stayed for more than a day.

Once, the woodman had overheard some men in the Aufkirchen inn gossiping about the forest. Someone had said that the king of the Ruthenian Gypsies had buried a hoard of stolen treasure in the middle of it. A young man who was staying at the inn had insisted that they should saddle up their horses at once. They should ride out to this forest, equipped with lamps and shovels, and they might return the very same night, fabulously rich. But the older men laughed uneasily. It was only a legend-and they plied the young man with so much drink that he fell off his stool and had to be carried to his room.

The woodman emerged in a small clearing. In the center was an ancient stone well and a tumbledown shack. Thick smoke was coming from the chimney, and the air was filled with an acrid odor. He lumbered over to the entrance and knocked gently.

“Come in.” The voice was old and cracked.

The woodman pulled the door open and went inside.

In the center of the room was an open fire over which a black cauldron was suspended. Only a few tongues of flame danced around the steaming logs, but they supplied enough light to reveal the squalid surroundings: a dirty pallet bed, bottles, a shelf of earthenware pots, and several cages on the floor. The cages were occupied, and green eyes flashed behind the chicken wire.

Next to the cauldron an old woman sat on a low bench. She had a schoolmaster's black cloak wrapped around her shoulders, and she wore a necklace made from the bones of animals. Her hair was long and gray, and when she smiled, her lips receded to reveal a row of blackened teeth. The upper central incisors were missing.

“Is it him?” she croaked.

The woodman nodded and dropped the jute sack next to the cauldron. Zhenechka got up and hobbled over. Reaching into a worn leather pouch, she produced a silver coin, which she pressed into the woodman's hand.

“Good,” she said. “Very good.”

She was delighted with the woodman's find-and could put it to many irregular uses.