Rites of Spring

29 Walpurgis Night 1986

I’m sure you’ve heard about the other girls who died in the forest. Isabelle who drowned in the moat, and Eleonor who fell off her horse and broke her neck.

Soon it will be Elita’s turn.

Beautiful women dead that by my side. Once lay.

Isn’t that lovely?

There’s something appealing about dying when you’re at your most beautiful, don’t you think?

The young man loved to ride. Loved the feeling of controlling something so big and strong, yet as sensitive as a horse. He himself was short and had been born with a cleft palate, which still gave him problems with his speech. He had to make an effort to master certain letters, just as he had to make an effort to control his involuntary twitching. But on horseback none of that could be seen. Up here he raced along. Agile, complete.

He loved to ride, and he loved the land: the meadows, the pastures, the forest, the marsh. It all belonged to him, as far as the eye could see. Or it would belong to him. Soon.

His father was getting old now. He was a hard man, a man who never talked about his love for the land, but about crops, yield and tenancies. Practical matters. Things that could be counted and measured.

His father feared no one, apart from God. The only time his expression softened somewhat was when they prayed together in the chapel. Prayed for the young man’s mother. For her immortal soul. Asked God to forgive her weakness.

Sometimes the young man could feel his father’s eyes on him. Studying him closely, as if he were searching for something in his face or movements. A feature, a gesture of some kind. But every time his father seemed disappointed.

Over the years the young man had realised why. It was because he was his mother’s son. Because he was different.

Elita was waiting by the Gallows Oak, just as she’d promised. He galloped up to her, made the muscular stallion stop right by her feet, thanks to a combination of perfectly executed movements with the reins and his legs. Elita’s expression didn’t change. She was just as good a rider as he was – maybe even better, which was one of the reasons why he loved her.

As always he was struck by how lovely she was – the coal-black hair, those eyes, the olive skin.

‘I’ve got something for you.’

She held out an envelope. He took it, felt the square card inside.

‘Are you ready for tonight?’

He nodded. Nelson did a little pirouette, his hooves digging into the soft ground. He was a thoroughbred, the most difficult horse to ride, but also the most beautiful, the fastest, the strongest.

‘What’s that?’

The young man pointed with his crop to the paint tin by the oak tree. As usual he kept his sentences short so that his speech impediment would be less noticeable.

‘A little offering.’

She smiled in a way that irritated him. He’d opened up to her, confided his deepest secrets to her, and yet she insisted on teasing him.

‘To whom?’ His voice sounded more brusque than he’d intended. Nelson snorted. Performed another little pirouette.

Elita’s smile broadened. She pointed up at the nodular growths on the tree trunk that resembled a face.

‘To him. The Green Man.’

She tipped her head back and laughed. Her teeth were so white, so perfect. Like his mother’s pearl necklace.

For a brief moment the young man wished he could own her. Lock her up in a box, as his father had done with the necklace. Preserve the memory of her, equally untainted and precious.

‘Are you worried?’

The young man shook his head, but as usual she saw straight through him. She grabbed the reins, stroked Nelson’s forehead, which instantly calmed the stallion. Then she looked up at him with those eyes that reminded him so much of his mother’s.

‘Don’t worry, Hubert,’ she said softly. ‘Everything will be fine.’