“The teeter of good versus evil, forgiveness versus vengeance, and faith versus self-reliance push Meginhardt and Lexxie towards a harrowing climax that had me frantically flipping pages to see how it all ended.”
Here Lyeth
Answers are buried beneath a grave marker. Only it happens to be her own.
Something was missing. It was easy for Lexxie to bury that niggling sense, she had all the love and protection a young woman needed. But when the man she thought to be her father spilled a fever-pitched confession—that she’d been taken from her real family as an infant—her content and isolated life ended.
Angry and heartbroken, she left the people she loved on a mere hint—her true father lived in Vereiteln Dorf, two villages over. Once there, she’s drawn to an unconsecrated graveyard. Since answers don’t come easy from the locals, she’s forced to make many assumptions and patch puzzling pieces together. But the more she does, the more her presence in this superstitious village becomes a threat. The perils of a noose amid a 1688 witch hunt lay heavy on her shoulders.
Years earlier, in the same village, young Meginhardt succumbs to a vicious attack. Ethereal beings take him on a time-traveling journey to resolve the lad’s deeply rooted struggles.
When Meginhardt learns that some woman named Lexxie is the chosen one to carry forward his father’s line of descendants, fits of jealousy ensue—a dream shattered. It should have been him. He becomes frantic to ensure the demise of this undeserving woman. In apparitional form he delivers her a message, face to face.
Her future lyeth in his words.
Order your copy today for an extraordinary, heartwarming read that is sure to unearth you.
CHAPTER ONE
A Supernatural Death
In the Germanic village of Vereiteln, 1670
Wrath hovered as if alive by its own accord. Meginhardt best protect himself good. “Whatcha wait’n fer, Pa?”
Stilling his breath was the easy part. He came by it naturally, helped when his wits took to running. Plus, wise he was, he’d use both elbows to cover his brow, oversized just like Pa’s and such an easy target, like shoot’n a weasel stuck in a trap. Never was he as ready as this. Muscles tensed with obedience, crouched in position, prepared for the wallop.
Distracting this time was the gnaw in his belly, a peculiar sense. An utter dread begged a rousing. Be it the faraway black in Pa’s eyes? Nay, that was of no rarity. It be the iron skillet Pa gripped with both fists. Not any skillet, this one, full of schmaltz straight from the hearth. Mutton chops stuck to the bottom, hissing a dire warning.
Aye, never should’a poxed ya. Pa had this thing about curses. He believed them, obsessed even, like they were gospel. This night, something stirred his ire. Anger shook the man’s body, a will to strike like never before.
Meginhardt ground his teeth against the words he’d already released—“The devil’s gonna come knock’n on yer stoop.” He couldn’t take them back. Now, he had to face whatever came next.
The oil lamp flickered and went out, plunging their small farmstead into darkness. He was used to the dingy gray, but then strange balls of light appeared, floating around the room like glowing dust motes. That gnaw in his belly told him something big was about to happen.
Cry me a mercy, what’s goin’ on?
He jerked his arm to dodge a splatter of hot fat but didn’t dare to look. More sizzling drops were likely to follow. He snuck a fist wipe across his nose and scratched an eyelid, then stayed. Nothing.
A smell hit him, like charred meat, harsh and foul. He checked his arms. All clear. Had to be Pa.
Moments like this were rare. A pause in the middle of correction? Unheard of. Meginhardt scrambled to his feet. Pa was frozen, not a single muscle moving. Even the fat slithering down the man’s arm like a snake now seemed to hang in midair. Perfect chance to escape. A good slapping of searing iron like that would do some serious ruin, especially across the noggin, far more than he’d endured before. He barreled for the door, intending to make a run through the turnip rows, then disappear into the wall of cornstalks. A full night of hiding, staying out of sight, always worked to calm the devil in Pa.
But as he reached the threshold, something pulled at him, something unnatural.
Pa still hadn’t moved. Standing there like a statue, locked in a moment of time.
“Pa? Why aren’t ya moving? Ya teaching me someth’n again?” He held tight to the doorframe, eyeing the skillet, still a threat, as curiosity and stubborn loyalty took control.
Silence. Nothing.
Was this some kind of clay-brained trick?
Meginhardt crept closer, shivering at the twisted expression, a terrifying grimace. Jaw dropped like it was unhinged, possessed even.
Maybe talking to him would snap him out of this. “Ya would’ve done me in if ya’d gone through with it, Pa.”
No response.
Meginhardt reached out. His finger tapped Pa’s tongue. It barely moved, like a hinge left unused for years. “Ah, c’mon. Pa, stop it. Ya got me. You always said I was good fer nothin’, so me putt’n a curse on the blood in yer veins shouldn’t matter any.”
Still nothing.
Meginhardt gave himself a two-fisted poke in the chest. “Go ahead, Pa. Call me pigeon-liver like ya always do.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and braced for the hit. But nothing came.
Doggonit.
He’d almost forgotten the strange lights. They were everywhere now, swirling faster and faster, pulling everything into their trail—the wood table, the hearth, their straw mats. Even the doorframe. He grabbed onto the only thing not moving—Pa’s stiffened arm. The second he did, Pa let out a bone-chilling howl. The silence shattered. The skillet swung down like a guillotine, and there was a sickening crack.
The room stopped spinning. The lights faded. The space sank back to dingy gray. Meginhardt felt nothing. Just a cold, horrifying realization of what had happened. No going back now.
Pa’s arm fell like an ax when I grabbed it. Was that my doing? Had he been responsible for engaging that lever?
A body lay crumpled on the floor. Grease slicked its face, and blood seeped through matted hair.
Meginhardt bent for a closer look. He didn’t recognize himself at first. How could he? He had only seen his image once, and that was a year ago.
His dead mother’s room had a reflection glass, along with her other stuff kept locked away. But once, when Pa went to town, Meginhardt snuck in and saw himself.
So, was this mess of flesh and bones him? Had to be. That was his flannel shirt. No one else was here.
He squatted, bouncing on one knee, leaning on the other. The whites of his eyes were dull, and the stench under those flopped arms was unbearable. He leapt back, avoiding the sight of a massive purple welt forming across his face. Disgusting.
And Pa was still there, rigid in his after-strike pose.
“Yup, that’s me all right. Pa, ya gone and done it.” Meginhardt’s mouth curled into a strange smile. An unfamiliar confidence bolstered him. Pa’s rage no longer filled the space. Time had frozen when the skillet struck, allowing Meginhardt to separate from his body, numbing all the pain. And then time froze again.
A dark part of him awakened—a desire for revenge. He’d always dreamed of going head-to-head with Pa one day. Was this his chance?
“Guess’n ya can’t get me no more, Wit–ford Di–me–trees.”
But Witford Dimietris, locked in some kind of supernatural stillness, said nothing. His left hand gripped his right wrist, his fingers, one with the skillet. Eyes glassed like a demonized wolf, his mouth stretched open in a silent scream.
Meginhardt dared another look into the gaping mouth. A sickening stench of onion and fermented cider put a quick end to curiosity. At last, Pa’s evil tongue-lashings had been silenced, and those steel eyes could rage against him no more.
“And that’s just fine.” Meginhardt jabbed Pa’s stone-cold chest. “’Cause from here on, things are gonna be different.”
Meginhardt might be dead, but he was free. In the end, Pa hadn’t won. Meginhardt had.
CHAPTER TWO
A Peculiar Intrusion
In Vereiteln Dorf
As Meginhardt reveled in the newfound freedom, a flat and uninvited voice pierced his high spirits. “Different, you say. Indeed.”
When had someone sidled into the room?
“Go your ways, or I’ll whack ya too.” He spun to confront the intruder. He puffed out his chest to appear tougher than he felt. After what happened, he shall be the scoundrel now and none shall doubt it. A louse was better than a nobody. Anyone sneaking onto their farm had to know they’d be taking a risk. They had it coming.
Cry me a mercy.
What beheld his gaze?
A massive, feathered creature loomed over him. A reptilian sort with sharp curved talons. An eagle’s body, mostly. Arms of a man underneath folded wings. Despite an efficient flesh-tearing beak, oddly enough, a lazy expression in the eagle’s eye erased any need for worry. The other eye shut tight.
Nevertheless, Meginhardt tensed. “Well, I be a calf lolly, what are ya?”
“Doesn’t matter.” A human voice came from the creature’s short, thick neck. “I’m here to pick you up. Let’s go. We’re running late.”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere. Truly, nay with the likes of you.” Nerves shaken to the marrow, he stepped back and clutched his father’s statue for balance, or truthfully, more so for comfort. Mustering up another dose of courage, he puffed his chest out again. “I jus’ got my life where I want it. Go yer way, whatever ye be. Git.”“You just got your life where you want it,” the eagle man mocked. “Really. Do tell.”
Meginhardt ducked his head to avoid eye contact. He’d endured a life of abuse and emotional torture. Now, a miracle arrived. Magic. A super sublime something. He was free.
Still, the burden of Pa’s rejection and his mother’s tragic death while giving birth, his birth, ever present and unwavering. His worth was always measured by how much he could please Pa, a price demanding of his soul. Who wouldn’t blame Pa for blaming him for her death? If it weren’t for Meginhardt, their lives could have been good.
More alienated than ever, he scuffed his boot on a crooked plank. No one could lift his guilt. No one could be more unworthy than he.
He wrapped his arms around the statue of his father and squeezed tight. But frozen in stone with that familiar glare, Witford Dimietris offered nothing in return. Just as cold and immovable as always.
“I must remain.”
With a natural, indifferent attitude, the eagle man claimed he was a courier with one job, to pick up Meginhardt and take him home. “Come on, dude. You loved him and”—the creature opened its arms in a gesture of empathy—“it was real. But time to go.” His feathers ruffled as he stretched, looking majestic until a talon snagged a warped plank and he stumbled.
Meginhardt clung tighter to his father. “He’s stiff. Tot, ain’t he? It’s my doing. I offed ’im good.”
“Nah, you didn’t.” The eagle man adjusted his step to regain composure. “He’s not dead.” He leaned down and glowered at Meginhardt with his one good eye. “Besides, he slayed you. Get it?”
He had to let go of his father to cross his arms. “Pa ain’t done no such thing.” He pumped his arms wide open, inviting the creature to see for himself. “I ain’t dead.”
A choppy, uneven burst of laughter jolted the eagle man’s belly like a bout of hiccups. “Sure about that?”
A talon hooked into the mound of flesh and bones heaped at Meginhardt’s feet. He poked his beak around the body.
Did he have to do that? Meginhardt scratched an eyebrow. “I get it. I’m dead.”
Strangely, the sight of his own body left him nonplussed. Still, the bird’s intrusive pecking had to stop.
“Aye, got it. Halt, I’m dead.”
“Check.”
“And yer saying he ain’t?” Meginhardt poked at Pa.
“Check.”
“And yer here ’cause yer wanna take me somewhere.”
“Check again, mate.”
“Well, like I said b’fore, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He raised his chin. He had a life to live, and this gift, peculiar as it was, meant a new life. But first, he had to get rid of this irksome bird. Just because he’d hitched his loyalty wagon to his father, didn’t mean he’d be a pushover for anyone else. He tried to pry the skillet from Pa’s grip, but it wouldn’t budge, locked in place like mortar.
What else could he use? Ah, the ax, leaning against the hearth. He scooped it up and swung around to face the bird.
“Dude, you planning to use that?” Not a feather ruffled. “Come now, Meginhardt.”
Meginhardt gulped at the sinking sensation, a wave of inadequacy. He couldn’t even scare a bird with an ax. He needed to be more like Pa.
He took slow, deep breaths. No need to suppress anymore. Inviting years of pent-up rage to erupt, he cast a warning. “I’ll do it!” He raised the ax. “Go on, git!”
The eagle man shrugged its feathered shoulders. “As you wish. I’m out of here.” With a powerful beat of his wings, he shot through the roof like a phantom.
Meginhardt lowered the ax, his whole body sagging. What a day of utter madness!
He faced his father. “Now what, Pa?”
CHAPTER THREE
The World Turns
In Vereiteln Dorf
Meginhardt crumpled, tumbling backward, landing hard on his tailbone, the ax firm in a two-fisted grip. The dead body beside him—his corpse—needed protecting. No cunning bird was going to come anywhere near it again. Gotta git past me first.
His world hadn’t changed much, still just he and Pa. Though reconsidering what to do now, Pa being a statue and all, needed some thinking.
“Hold fast. Best to keep ’em both safe.” That was his duty to Pa.
One by one, spheres of light returned and created a dizzying atmosphere. This time, the circuit of whirling lights widened, disrupting everything.
Pa’s rifle toppled by the doorframe. The table settings for the evening meal slid and crashed to the floor. The sideboard with his mother’s dishes, the ones they never used, quivered as if to shatter. Even the smoky flame from the hearth trailed in sync with the lights until everything was a blur.
Angry blue streaks of wind roiled all in their rampage.
Meginhardt clutched Pa’s legs for stability amid the chaos. The world blurred. Solid browns, iron, and copper dissolved into dots of nothingness. Meginhardt held on, unable to escape the madness.
His abandoned corpse disintegrated into nothing. Gone.
Sweat dripped from his trembling hands, challenging his grip. “Ya ain’t goin’ nowhere, Pa. I got ya.”
The planked floor split open. His body jerked, at first his legs kicked like a mule at the clap of thunder, then the pair simply hung, suspended in midair.
Whew, Pa hadn’t slipped away.
As quickly as the nightmare came, the dread of it calmed. He breathed easier, their bodies cradled in warmth. A storm of colors erupted. Hues he never imagined swirled.
“Pa, look!” A strange thrill shivered through him as his father became weightless and easy to ferry inside this spectral way.
A new ground butted up to Meginhardt’s footing. He spread his feet wide in the freedom of the space. A moist surface waved up and down, he and Pa with it, rolling toward a shore that materialized out of nothingness. A sweet-smelling pasture of grasses covered the waves, invigorating him and making him heady.
He glanced at Pa’s face—no expression, unmoved by it all.
Meginhardt sunk into an unexpected comfort, and his toes wiggled in their cry for him to remove his boots and socks to feel the inviting earth. Where were they? The farmhouse was gone, replaced by a wide-open field of countless textures and tones, varying shades of greens, and pleasing unfamiliar scents. Better than fresh hay.
He swerved with the comforting ebbs and flows, the corners of his mouth turning up. Till he caught a glance at his father, still angry. Didn’t appear this mysterious other place was about to change him.
Meginhardt turned to the direction from where they came.
Cry me a mercy. “You seeing that, Pa?”
A landscape of rolling swells dovetailed toward them. One after the other, right out of blackness, up and over a cliff.
“Pa, we’re here. The end of the world.” He engaged his shoulders with pride. He was smart enough to know the earth was flat. Plain logic it was, had to end somewhere. His father had at least taught him that much.
“Megs, over here.” Cheery, the voice rang out from behind. His internal warning system set off an alarm.
Nay, anyone chipper as that kin be trusted. Another wise tip he’d learned from Pa.
The voice came from a different direction. Beyond it, a towering wall stretched far and wide. A single guarded gate at its center demarked some destination point. Could he sneak in like he once did to his mother’s room? In the courtyard between him and this gate, people rushed about. But where and why? No one was pulling a cart or hoisting a sack of goods. And the way they approached each other? All so hail-fellow-like.
He twisted to check on his father. “Hang on, Pa. Somethin’s not right about this place.” But then he lost his balance. Thankfully, all that squatting, digging, pulling, and pushing work he did on the farm served him well. He managed his way upright, heaved Pa around—when had he become weighty again?—then set his gaze straight into the eager eyes of a half-pint woman, all smiles.
“Well.” She planted her hands on her hips. “It’s about time you showed up.”
“Ya think I know you.” Meginhardt tightened his hip muscles, readying to block her from Pa. Not good how her gaze lingered on him. What was she all in a huff about? Perhaps she didn’t like the clots of grease on Pa’s arm. More likely, she found the wide-open jaw silently screaming volumes disturbing.
Too bad for her.
Once she shifted her gaze from Pa, the woman stirred a smile. It spread so wide it plumped her cheeks underneath her eyes, like the chipmunk who lived underneath Pa’s chicken coop.
“You’ve arrived.”
Did she expect Meginhardt to know what that meant?
The ground shifted beneath him, and the powerful force swayed him forward by a giant leap. This rolling landscape would take some getting used to. Preoccupied again with catching his balance and keeping Pa from crashing, he shifted his footing to avoid further tipping.
The woman, however, remained steady and unfazed, clutching a bundle of parchment under her arm. Her head cocked to one side, and her ridiculous grin still claimed its place.
“You didn’t need to bring him,” she whispered with a head nod, her low voice seemingly an attempt to influence with some kind of secret, personal wisdom. Nevertheless, her blue eyes dazzled.
Was she trying to get into his head?
With muscles tight, a deep knee bend, and a strong hold around Pa’s waist, Meginhardt achieved a backward jump, increasing his distance from this woman to show his loyalty. He would not fall into her trap. There would be no relationship. No sense raising hopes he belonged anywhere but underneath Pa’s controlling vises, even if one of them or both—given the uncertainty of the current situation—were dead.
“You did not kill your father if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Never said I did.” He would prove her wrong regardless of what she might say. Besides, it was all a mistake. He hadn’t wanted his father to die.
The energetic woman respected the distance between them, for now. “You feel responsible.”
“Nay, ma’am. Ya got it wrong. Sees, he struck me. I’m the dead one.” He jabbed a finger into his chest. Dah, Pa always said women were dumb.
Stroking her neck, she released a chuckle. “That so?”
Meginhardt turned his head one way, then the other. This was a trick of some sort. Nay, I won’t be made a narr.
The situation was awkward enough—he was never much in a woman’s presence before, not alone anyway. He fixed a gaze at Pa’s vicious expression, anything to get his attention away from that nosy female. But then tears started to fall, a stream of them. Cry me a mercy, now they come. Dern, grow up.
Heat rose into his cheeks. He sputtered incoherently.
As if sensing his vulnerability provided an open invitation, she stepped closer. “You’re free and very much alive, Megs. Come.” She extended her hand. “And let him go. Not finished is he.”
Megs? Nay anyone called him that, except the neighbor boy a few times. His only friend, if you could call him that. Their talk was rare and brief, mostly just nods when they sighted each other working in their fields. Sometimes his friend left notches in the fence by one of his frequent hiding spots. It seemed his way to acknowledge Meginhardt existed.
“I cursed Pa.” Dern. He hadn’t meant to release that.
The woman’s lips remained tight. Like she was expecting more.
“Ma’am, I may be dumb’n all about the world and all this stuff.” He freed one hand from Pa to wave to their surroundings. “But I know I don’t deserve all what he did.”
“Yet you hold on to him.”
“It ain’t his fault. Ma died when she done give birth to me. So mind yer own.”
The woman took in a deep breath. It appeared to keep her calm. “It happens more than you know.”
She was getting too personal. He twitched, ready to jump farther away. But Pa was too weighty, and the exhaustion of this day was becoming more and more burdensome. Surely, this woman could see he didn’t welcome her empathetic stare, so why’d she think he’d accept the hand she extended yet again?
“I’m Aivy. And your pa is not ready. You know that, Megs. You must let him go.”
Meginhardt produced his best bully stance.
Aivy relented her smile in exchange for a chin tuck. “We’ve been trying to wake him for some time now, my friend.”
Friend? “I am Meginhardt Dimietris, and I do not know you. And Pa ain’t sleeping.” He bristled at Aivy’s response, a miss-know-it-all simper followed by a shoulder-dropping sigh. Had the whole poxing business gotten him into this notlage?
She stepped closer to ride the same wave as he. Still, they weren’t in touching range. She squeezed her smooth and perfectly thin sheets of parchment like a flat wooden doll packed tight to her chest. “So then, just where will future descendants come from?”
He shrugged. He’d never thought of anything like that—or anything about Pa’s future. “Like I should know.” He didn’t care. Nothing hid his involuntary gulp. Offspring? That was why she wanted him to let Pa go?
“Hmm.” She tapped her foot. Those eyebrows arched high again. “Will you come with me?”
Something Pa promised came to mind. “Two more years, Pa said he’d get me a wife for my birthday.” My own kin would get to run the farm.
Aivy sucked in her lips and held her breath as if to assist her to say what needed to be said. “And what then?”
“I’d get my own boy.” Dah. What was with her questions and unsaid accusations? He twisted the toe of his boot and forced a hole the size of his foot into the soft ground. “Pa loved me just fine.”
“Meginhardt, the man who begat you chose to avoid love.”
“Ya don’t think I don’t know that?” He coiled his fingers into his palms, his face flushing hot. His heel tapped the ground where the hole had perplexingly repaired itself.
“Come.” This time, the word came as a distinct order, and her fingertips paused mere inches from his elbow.
Nay, wretched woman! Whoever this Aivy was, she knew things. But did she know about the jeering, the clobbering, the hankering Pa had for the drink, the way he could charm a rat? Meginhardt’s gut twisted almost confirming that, in some unexplainable way, this pint-sized woman knew everything.
He sought his father’s stony face for some kind of permission. Pa always said, “Never let a woman push ya ’round. And never, ever trust ’em.”
If only the day could start over and things to be different. Meginhardt liked the idea of one day having a boy, making Pa proud.
“No sense asking him.” She kneeled to fluff the fresh grass emerging from the depression where his foot had been. Her fingers stroked as if the blades were an injured rabbit’s furry coat. “Besides, he’s going. Without you.”
His eyes narrowed. Where was she thinking to send him?
“Back home?”
“To earth, of course. Your farmhouse.”
He almost pivoted at the urge to run. But with no field of grain corn to hide in, he wouldn’t get far, not carrying Pa anyway. “Nay.” He squared himself up, ready to accept the consequence. Whatever it might be.
“There’s no need to prove yourself.” She gave him her back and headed toward that gate.
She must be hiding something behind that wall. Well, his rigid body was festering for a row anyway. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you.”
“Heard you the first time.” She kept walking away.
“Send me back with him.”
That stopped her. She turned her head. After a pause, the rest of her body faced him square-on.
She squeezed her lips till they had to hurt. “But why?”
CHAPTER FOUR
A Dubious Life
In the Germanic village of Avondale, 1688
“You stole me?”
Lexxie grinned at her bedridden father in return to his scherz, ranting on about her being taken as an infant. Rubbish. “Fever. ’Tis a sign of the supernatural. You know that, don’t ya?”
She pressed her hands to the sides of his neck. No swelling. “And I suppose ye be a shifter now. You gonna tell me that too? Honestly, Harmon, I declare, Grossmutter’s hemlock brew drowns ye senses.” She waved a cooling cloth in front of him. “Do you know who I am?”
Any other time, he’d have jumped in with a one-up return to her wit, her father equally as clever and desirous of elevations to their mundane conversing as she was. Instead, he caught four of her fingers, enough to clasp her hand, but not her full attention. “Meine tochter, hören mich. I must transfer this knowledge. Quick. Now, before she returns.”
She frowned at his gripping and scooted away. “Vater, shush. Come now. Get some sleep.”
“I shan’t leave this earth without you knowing your rightful lineage.”
Of all the…! She gave him a stern look. “You are not to pass. You’ve only an ague. And a mild one at that.” She wrung the cooling cloth. “And ye a baby.”
Harmon Huber had a boyish way about him, so much so, most times she called him by his given name rather than vater for father.
“Lexxie, ’twas that mutton stew we had last night.” He grabbed the cool cloth from her hand and plopped it on his face to hide a deep sigh at the nearing sound of a scrubber shaft jingling inside his mother’s wash bucket. By its vigorous swinging, she was about to stomp into the room. He tilted his head as if wondering how much she overheard.
“Aye, she’s here.” Lexxie sang a teasing threat. “I’m gonna ask her myself.”
Grossmutter entered in time to defend her cooking. “It be those eternally grazing sheep of yours. Yer lett’n them pasture in that field of weeds. The King in Heaven only knows what goes squeez’n through their intestines. And now—yers.”
Lexxie’s giggle burst free with its usual sunny energy. Then she squared her shoulders. “Well, my intestines are clean as a whistle.”
“That’s ’cause sparrows eat more than you.” The cloth had already warmed. Repositioning it didn’t help. Harmon wasn’t about to apologize to his mother for joking about her cooking, was he?
“Yer probably right, Mutter. That mutton sheep must’a got into something. So, I reckon I could die right here in front of ya both.”
Lexxie shared a grin with her grandmother.
He continued. “Right here on this bench. How is it you two are gonna move me? Get along?”
They formed a family, tight with trust and respect, their homestead a contented one. Humor and jest kept them smiling and eased the rougher patches in life. Lexxie had never known her mother or her grandfather. The latter, Harmon’s father, had been killed in a farming accident and the former giving birth to her. The two tragedies had been difficult, both occurring in a single year, and as Harmon had explained, were the reason they moved to Avondale to start anew. Since then, they’d forged a fresh path, the only path of life she’d ever been on.
Because of that traumatic year, she’d given up on learning much about her past. Pestering with questions—especially asking what her mother was like as she so often had—earned no answers. The big nothing unsettled her heart as much as her mind. Was there a secret? Something they weren’t telling her? A part of her pined for something, she never knew what. Or for whom. But this business—her father telling her he stole her when she was a wee babe—preposterous! Just, fever brain.
Lexxie seized the corn broom and began her daily sweep of the room, spreading her caring aura about. After all, a radiation of positivity could always lift a mood. A peripheral view caught her father straining his abs to suck in a deep breath. “Harmon.”
He welcomed her extended arm to lift his upper body and shift his legs till his feet met the floor. Apparently, still lightheaded, he rested his head in his hands, though a grin spread at the sound of her exhale.
“See, Grossmutter, our brawny boy here is all dandy again.” Lexxie leaned on her broom, casting a smile his way. “So, all that talk ye littered me with ’bout being stolen as a baby? Fever talk, Harmon. I swear.”
As though a bitter wind charged, the air chilled.
The incriminating accusation hung dead center in the room without so much as a peg.
Grossmutter’s gaze focused on his full cheeks. “Unsinn.” The growl came from the back of her throat.
That beard of his couldn’t hide the way his jaw tightened. His movements were drawn-out, but he stood for the first time since last evening’s supper, an unmistakable abnormality for this fit and dedicated farmer. Evidence of his ill-being lingered in his narrowed bloodshot eyes. He wobbled, uttered something incoherent, then stumbled out the front door of their simple log homestead.
The broom slipped from Lexxie’s grip. As to why her words had been so deeply disturbing a cause for concern.
“Grossmutter?”
A purple vein in her grandmother’s neck bulged. And those sparky glints in her bottle-green eyes had hardened into shiny black coals.
What the dickens? Lexxie touched her grandmother’s arm. “You okay?”
Grossmutter jerked her arm free with an uncharacteristic snap. “He’s fine.”
“I mean you.” Lexxie shook a finger at her grandmother.
Harmon was ill. That described his weirdness, but Grossmutter’s jarring response?
“He went too far. Too far with his silly jesting. I’ll speak to him. You stay here.” When Grossmutter spoke stern commands, Lexxie obeyed. So would Harmon. Typically, anyway.
Now, he headed for the cornfield.
Pushing out the wood shutters, Lexxie poked her head out the opening to study the two people she loved and depended upon, the only two people she ever really knew. Grossmutter might be over fifty years of age, but that lady sure could move fast when she wanted to. Good thing too. She’d never have caught up to him had he entered that field of corn, his terrain of refuge. As of late, the nights had been cool, the days long and hot, making for an extra tall crop this season. Their words outside of earshot, their arms lashed about as if they were spears of accusations.
Was there a truth to be pushed and pulled about?
The late afternoon’s excitement made for an uncomfortable and silent evening. No dinner, Grossmutter’s discordant rocking in her sling chair commanded the mood. Neither Lexxie nor Harmon dared as much as stoke the embers. Grossmutter’s anger kept them ablaze.
“Good night wishes,” she chirped, hoping to break the silence, perhaps one of them might say something.
Historically, it was a first. A night without end-of-day prayers for peace and protection, without sleep-well blessings, and without Harmon’s silly reminder—“keep yer horses tucked in good and safe. Otherwise, ye might suffer from nightmares.” Lexxie would roll her eyes, and he’d laugh his way to his bed, skating the wood planks with thick stocking feet.
Of course, he was recovering from a fever, but still, a first.
As blackness laid its cover across their sleeping loft, Lexxie lay contemplating which of the two vivid dreams would consume the night. The one of horror—when a cavalry pounded alongside a ravine, their hooves making the dust fly as they raced on a wild and fierce mission to capture her. The front man, faceless, waving an ax about, chopping at airstreams, and a haunting voice begging her to komm. Or the one of royalty—when a carriage made of gold and crystals pulled by eight majestic white-winged horses bolted through a dark sky with a winsome coachman leading the way, flying to her aid with the same urgent cry of komm.
Both dreams stirring, each vying for her most deep and inner thoughts. Rare it be to go a month without at least one vivid as she slumbered. Was it time to examine their meaning? Could there be somebody out there searching for her? Calling her whilst she slept? Might what Harmon said not have been in jest?
Nay. Surely, there were no basis for such.
Finding comfort on her side, she fingered along a crevice between two stacked logs. Imagine, though, if she were a princess of some foreign place.
CHAPTER FIVE
A Lance of Betrayal
In the village of Avondale
Silence changed everything. Lexxie wiggled in place, even her own quietness disturbing.
Since Harmon’s feverish utterance, all contentment disappeared. To where did it go? The corners of their one-room homestead reeked of betrayal. Days stunk of awkwardness. Uneasy footwork to avoid each other, and only mere squats of obligatory talk. Arms crossed tight against her chest, she rubbed her slumping shoulders while leaning into mournful watch by the open shutters. Another sunrise and there went Harmon, escaping into the cornstalks. In less than a week, they’d gained a fullness that swallowed him whole. How convenient.
She pushed away from the rough-hewn frame, leaving the shutters wide. “Good day Vater,” she sneered. Three long days with no answers. It had to be true.
She was nothing but a scandal.
“Come, child,” Grossmutter snapped. “This flax needs another round of hackling.” Her grandmother could do wonders with the resultant fine fibers for spinning. The process called for concentration and patience, but today, that would be an excuse to avoid chatting.
“Naturally.” Lexxie ankled to Grossmutter’s utility table on the front porch, aching already over the full day of bending and pulling in store. And thus, it passed in more agonizing silence.
Appearing hungry and haggard, Harmon sauntered back from the fields after she and her grandmother finished the evening meal, Grossmutter pretended it was always this way, that the three of them never shared time together. “Chores come first, Lexxie,” she reasoned.
The tension only grew. Harmon wanted something off his chest, and Grossmutter wanted whatever that was kept buried.
“Genug!” Belly full of distemper, Lexxie kicked away her chair and relished the clatter scraping across the floor. “One of ya better bring the truth to light.”
Grossmutter hardly moved, just stared ahead. If her lips spread any tighter, they’d surely snap.
Harmon stood centered by the doorframe. Blinking, a habitual tic when he fussed over a problem. Though his head faced Grossmutter, he refused to lift his face to Lexxie’s. He’d been avoiding her gaze these days. Her cry for attention didn’t change that.
Anxiety, the sick-knot-in-your-stomach kind, danced on a tense nerve. If neither were going to talk, she would. “Just what in the blazes does ‘stolen as an infant’ mean?”
Grossmutter sliced a hand through the air. “I forbid any further such discussions. My son’s a blasted fool who’s gone too far with his jesting.”
Harmon winced, his jaw grinding so hard the clatter of his teeth hammered the room. It appeared her scolding burned him inside. But what was going on in his head?
Usually, Lexxie knew, but now? Not so much. Please let it not be guilt. That would mean he did something terribly wrong, and she’d have to blame him. Maybe even hate him.
He shuffled a turn and, with an odd hesitance, strode back into the drizzly dark of the night. His head hung as though a burden to his neck.
That was it? Nothing, no answers. The humid air inside the homestead clogged Lexxie’s lungs, each breath bringing a horrid helplessness.
Grossmutter carried on, her head in another world until she, too, slipped out the door and into the dark air. A hopeful sign to end this conflict.
Lexxie edged open a shutter already closed for the evening, but only the shadowy crop line and the stump fence bordering their field emerged from the shadows. Low mumbling came from their sheep shed. She wrung her hands. Perhaps they’d agree. Wasn’t it about time she knew?
But when the pair returned, Grossmutter bellied an order, “Child, the hour is past, get your rest.”
Harmon nodded, adding, “Go on then.”
Gawping, Lexxie blinked. Was she to blame for all this dispiritedness?
Each in their own straw pallet for the night, she lay awake. She prayed for a night dream to take her away—the horrible man with the ax or the well-attired man with the gold carriage—and best hurry it up. I don’t care which one, komm. I shall go with you!
The next sunrise, the air was different, lighter. Grossmutter’s silence proved to have ceased. She went on and on, insisting Lexxie’s house skills needed perfection. Going forth, she would be in charge of all the cooking, all the cleaning, all the gardening, and even take it upon herself to master the spinning wheel. “It’s time you grew some roots in this town.”
Baffled, Lexxie rubbed her eyes. Did all that mumbling outside in the dark of night come to this solution? The reference to roots grated.
“I’ll be minding my job now,” the woman announced with a sense of distance.
Lexxie’s lips curled up. Best she make fun with a mock rather than accept the betrayal knocking at her heart. “And what, Grossmutter, might that be?”
“Well, you’ll be needing swaddling and slips and caps, of course.”
Lexxie coughed a hearty chuckle. Aye, the suggestion gave her soul a much-needed lift. “Now, who’s the narr, Grossmutter?”
But her grandmother stood firm without so much a lift to her brows. Lexxie’s shoulders dropped. Grossmutter was serious, wasn’t she? This was her plan to shake their little household back into a happy normal existence. Truly?
“We’re good people,” Grossmutter muttered.
“Aye.” Lexxie nodded. What was she suggesting? And what plot was she concocting? Chores, babies, good people? Lexxie’s eyebrows rose as high as they could go, challenging a feature in Grossmutter’s face to move. Any feature.
“You’ll be seventeen soon. It’s time for suitors.” Grossmutter’s physical stance remained frozen. “We must prove you’re a worthy catch.”
Prove I’m a worthy catch? “Suitors? What?” Lexxie pivoted, arms waving over her head. So much for the fresh start this morning.
She rarely went beyond the church property at the edge of town. All their trading came about by the usual peddlers, weathered and ancient as the hills. They had what they needed to eat thanks to the animal feed Harmon sold and traded, the sheep they raised, and the garden Grossmutter tended. The same garden Lexxie would start tending single-handedly, as it appeared.
So, she knew no one, particularly any boy. Except for the back of that redheaded one she lauded Sunday mornings at church. She knew nothing about him beyond the color of the silky dyed-blue ties he used to pull and secure his thick wavy hair away from his face, the leftover strands tucked over his ears. And how he rolled his shoulders before sinking into the pew with sighs before his father elbowed him back upright. But his Sunday blouse was crisp, and he most likely bathed on Saturday nights. He’d be a fine suitor. If she wanted one, that is. Was Grossmutter pushing her out? Wanting her married off? ’Twas that what’s going on?
The door opened wide, and a breeze circulated throughout the room, cleansing the tension of this farcical notion. The coolness revived her flushed face. Aye, perhaps Harmon could explain.
He seemed about ready to speak. But then he closed his open mouth.
Nay, nay, say something! What second thoughts had he?
He lowered his arms and set aside the long-toothed earth chisel he carried, only to grab it back and return to his outdoor refuge.
Some normality returned later that evening. Odd chitchat about nothing but a shared evening meal at last. Things were improving, but still, so very off.
After a welcomed sleep-in the next day, a Sunday, Lexxie readied for church. She wire-brushed and polished her boots the night before, washed and folded silk stockings from the previous Sunday, and hung her remaining attire, ready and waiting. Now, she donned her high-necked smock, a simple affair with no lace, no gold trim, and no lavish embroidery.
She blew out the last bits of air in her lungs for sheer relief when Harmon approached, holding out his elbow for her. Was his arm his way of ending the burdensome conflict inside their dwelling? Were things to go back to normal? Her heart skipped, though her stomach tightened. Should she not remain stubborn, angry for answers? Should she be pleased to take his arm or defiant to reject it?
Her innate desire for peace won. She grabbed his elbow, then stepped aside, and pulled Grossmutter in to flank her other side, all while biting her bottom lip.
“Wait, child. I’ve something for you.” Her grandmother yanked away but returned, caressing a package wrapped in silk with tucked-in corners, pristine and perfect.
“Commemoration isn’t for months, Grossmutter.” Lexxie leaned in for an explanation. Why would a parcel, a gift, come her way before the anniversary of her birth? But it was in her hands now, and her grandmother’s eyes were warm and teary. Perhaps this offering was her apology for the harsh atmosphere as of late.
She fidgeted with the parcel and untucked the folds, her breath arresting upon its contents. “Oh, Grossmutter, such a beautiful shawl.” Her heart managed to drain a tear gland before it sank.
It was the kind worn by a woman, not a child. Made of mohair, embroidered with mature peony blooms, all pale pink, and finished with green bobbin lace. She stroked it until Grossmutter placed it around her shoulders and then shifted it so it hung just right. Lexxie didn’t need reflection glass to see how it accentuated her shape with elegance and grace. She fingered the fine deep purple cross-stitched emblem of an H at the bottom corner. Huber. The surname they shared.
But you are not a Huber! Her soul roared, scolding herself. Wake ye. Has not the past few days torn the edges of a secret?
She let the corner slip from her hand. “Thank ye.”
This gift had nothing to do with an upcoming birthday nor either any acknowledgment that soon she would come into womanhood. This was about keeping her identity hidden. That whole time-for-marriage-and-infants thing, and now this? They wanted her to forget what Harmon said.
Too late. She knew now—she didn’t belong to them. Didn’t they realize she was ripe with wisdom to know the truth? Hadn’t they themselves taught her well?
Unable to soothe the deep hurt, she avoided confrontation by keeping three steps ahead of her so-called father and grandmother. Their usual Sunday trek involved crossing their field, following a forest trail, and descending a sloping mountain footpath.
“Slow down, child,” Harmon coaxed. “I’ve never known you to want to get to church so fast.”
How dare they pretend as such? Hurt churned to anger. A gnawing inside wasn’t about to slow. Should she carry on as if she were naught but a hollowed wooden gourd? Could she ever be whole, filled with the love only truth could provide? Nay, there would be no act of forgiving. Nay would marriage or even wee babes fill her.
I shan’t bury this deceit. Far too late for that.
Stopping on the forest trail, she faced Harmon and Grossmutter. But with a rigid posture, she continued with her steps, only backward, ensuring the chasm wouldn’t close in. ’Twas only evil in their faces of empathy.
She tore the shawl off her shoulders and pitched it with as much force as her elbow allowed. It floated mere feet away, landing in a set of prickly thorns. The toss, although unimpressive, stimulated a self-satisfying boost of confidence. She shuddered, for Grossmutter would be appalled. No need to look to see the woman’s jaw gaping, her index finger charging.
“Lexxie Huber!”
“I am not a Huber. Ye can’t purchase me!” Her heart pumped too fast. Trembling with a sort of pleasurable rage, she took flight the rest of the way, leaving the only two people she knew and loved, helpless and stunned.
’Twas their time to bear the lance of betrayal.
CHAPTER SIX
Truth, an Agent for Change
In the village of Avondale
The modest white-stucco structure with red roof tiles and a tall matching red tower came into view once she veered onto the mountainside’s well-traveled footpath. Its steeple meant something. Something special. A symbol of truth, hope, love and of Harmon’s King. Lexxie grabbed the trunk of a sycamore maple to catch her breath and restore her balance.
What had she done?
Taking one section at a time, her fingers coursed through tangles of hair and smoothed the waist-length strands against her nape, settling pieces in front of her shoulders. A few heavy breaths led to a cough, and her heart rate slowed. The valley stretched out below as though it could have been hers. Why hadn’t she immersed herself in the community’s warm charm? Rows of white dwellings also with red-tiled roofs surrounded the church in each direction. Several even planted halfway up the mountainside lodged in between groves of wild greenery. Golden rays loomed across homes full of families, and the church bells would soon beckon all.
Tears flooded Lexxie’s eyes. You were never destined to be my home.
She often wished they lived there, inside the nestling rows of townsfolk. Then she’d have made friends. Even a proper suitor.
Except for Sunday mornings, she never came to the village. Never had she been inside a shop, purchased goods from a market vendor, experienced the schoolhouse. Her eyes had only glanced down the planked walkway from the church, the heart of Avondale, while Harmon and Grossmutter held her elbows secure and coaxed her along. Arrive early to claim their regular back pew and depart early to avoid socializing.
If the priest hadn’t visited their home monthly, Lexxie’s fondness for the village might never have taken any root at all. When she was little, he’d pat her head, and as she grew, he’d wink. He’d described the shops, including the latest frequented by the most fashionable. With the little she saw and heard through stories, she imagined it well enough. As she matured, the priest’s deep bows filled her with respect. Grossmutter prepared her best meals for his monthly visit and encouraged his stories. Harmon often took him for strolls around their land for what he called their discussion time.
A good distance ahead now from her father and grandmother, Lexxie resumed a slower pace down the slope. A seed of peace sprouted in her heart to guide her steps toward the church. The bells were not ringing yet, so she trod with a head full of thoughts. How to slow the wild circles in her mind? She must have a plan, so what came next?
Grossmutter had warned Lexxie about a grouping of girls who sat together each Sunday. “Idle and frivolous, good for nothing but gossip.” Grossmutter insisted Lexxie wasn’t missing anything by not knowing them.
A sunny ray surged at the crest of a cloud. Its light smattered her face as though to awaken a revelation. They’d been hiding her, keeping her away from everyone.
So obvious. Why didn’t she—
“Lexxie,” Harmon called out, catching up.
Just ahead, the gossipy group of five girls walked arm in arm in graceful unison. Hats bopped, skirts swayed, and a breeze carried their bouts of laughter.
Maybe some good ole gossip was what she needed. Lexxie stretched her spine as though she’d just grown two inches. They weren’t girls—they were women. Just like she was. Practically, anyway. Perchance, they knew something about her. Might that be possible?
She set off toward them, heart pounding. Might they reject her? Even so, such a risk was worth taking. They’d no reason to turn her away. A quick and silent gesture of the cross for some blessing was in order.
After a head bob, she squared her shoulders and calmed herself to a pleasant ask. “Good morrow. May I sit with you ladies?”
Taking good looks at her up and down, front and back, two women loaned their elbows and grinned. Or perhaps they were smirks. Nevertheless, ever so thankful to be welcomed, she slid into their pew on the left side. Harmon and Grossmutter ambled into seats on the right wearing tight lips and imploring eyes.
Lexxie followed all cues, chin up, hands folded, head cocked occasionally, and the odd shoulder shake to straighten a posture. She’d ignore the chance their excessive smiles were forced.
Payment, however, came due after the service. Stepping back into the churchyard, the women swarmed like flies searching for a place to lay their eggs. Her shoulders drooped. Her spine shrank. Her desire to disappear ached. She clasped both hands to her neck, their touch comforting but not enough.
“Exactly which farmhouse do you live in?” The boldest released the floodgates.
“Do you sew?”
“Will you join the community gatherings?”
“Is there a boy you have your eye on?”
“Why do we seldom see your father in town? Do you purchase all your supplies from peddlers?”
“Who owns your land?”
“Is that older woman you normally sit with your mother?”
Would their questions ever stop?
Lexxie answered as best she could with the minimum of words, for she had nothing interesting to share about herself and no gossip about any neighbors to part with. Perhaps she could interest the women in discussing the sermon? She raised that suggestion.
And they turned away.
When all five delivered their backside view, she reached out with her arms. Come back. Arm in arm, their distance only grew, along with the hope of friendship. How much dejection could one take? Should she tuck her head and stroll over to a watching father and grandmother or tell these ladies something exciting so they’d offer up another chance?
A new life. She needed to start somewhere. She pulled a long breath deep into her abdomen and, along with it, drew in needed courage. Her secret, bubbling inside, pulsed to escape.
“Wait!”
The one in the center stopped and offered a graceful half turn of her head. The others followed like sheep.
“My pa says I was taken as an infant. Stolen from another family, and I don’t know—”
The women surrounded her, met her eyes with eager oohs and aahs.
“Nay!”
“Really?”
“How so?”
“From where did you come?”
“You weren’t birthed here?”
“You’re just finding this out now?”
“Him—is that the man over there?”
“How terrible of him!”
“Do you want him punished?”
Cheek muscles tightened as shoulder muscles relaxed. Despite the overwhelm, Lexxie grinned to fit in. She’d never before needed socializing, or so she thought. And yet, a conflicting primal fear poked around her gut. Had she shared too much too fast?
Too late now.
The lioness of the group stepped forward. Margarita, on a hunt for facts just like the animal kingdom rulers of afar in Grossmutter’s stories. If Lexxie were to be accepted into this group of gossip sisters, her courage would be challenged. Margarita’s mane, loaded with brown curls, didn’t sway like her walk did. The swishing of her hem on the ground did nothing to hide the clickety-click of her fashion boots. A good head shorter than Lexxie, she peered up with beady eyes set underneath thick dark brows, every bit intimidating, nonetheless.
Margarita extended a muscular hand. “Let’s start from the beginning, shall we?”
The other four piled in behind, all bum rolls clashing, all ears straining.
It took Lexxie a mere two sentences to tell her story but forever to calm the heaving chest that spewed it out. As more questions pounded, redness and heat climbed. She couldn’t answer any of them.
“Well, this just ain’t right,” Margarita snapped, four voices echoing in agreement. “You must at least know if your mama is alive!”
That shook Lexxie, waking her from a gossipy game gone way too far. She’d walked straight into it and now hadn’t a way out. What had she done, turning loose this dark and personal secret? And yet, she didn’t know so much about herself.
Mercy, was it possible? She’d yet to ponder the notion. But now . . . might her mother be alive?
Wafts of Margarita’s fragrance found their way to Lexxie’s stomach. An ill feeling took over. Violet perfume didn’t mix well with the manure from horses surrounding the church. Unused to such an onslaught, Lexxie pressed a hand to her temple and searched for open space, somewhere to bolt. Somewhere to stop this madness, stop the whirling in her head, if that were possible.
Mother. Did she have a mother? Alive?
First walking, then sprinting, she left the women swelling with horror, casting accusing looks Harmon and Grossmutter’s way. Lexxie ran home, halting to catch a breath numerous times, collapsing beside a few torn threads stuck in the thorns of a bush. Remnants of a fine shawl, another Huber façade! Grossmutter must have gathered it, taken it back.
At the farmhouse, Lexxie waited, each passing second stirring up a crippling anxiety. “Stop racing so, my foolish heart. I must demand answers and not accept anything but the truth.”
Harmon arrived first. His body loomed in the doorway, a dark shadow, barely moving.
“Is my mother alive?” Surely, her squared shoulders made it clear she would accept nothing but a straight yes or no.
With a resigned attitude, he blessed her with an answer. “No, liebste, your mother is not alive.”
He wouldn’t lie to her, would he? Not now. Not about her real mother. At least he didn’t say my child. She paced, circled the room twice, then slapped her hand—hard—onto the solid dining table, making a mockery of the house rule. She had helped tie the lumber with leather banding alongside him when he built it. The table was their place of peace, never to be any discontent. That felt like so long ago now, another life. Before the lies. But no, the lies had been there even then, hadn’t they?
Gritting her teeth, she released the next livid question, each word spoken slowly. “Where . . . did . . . my life start?”
He removed his hat, stroked his hair, and hung onto the back of his neck as it fell forward. He reached for her. “Meine tochter.”
“Don’t call me that.” She ground her fingernails into her palms. “I am not your daughter.”
Watching him blink was painful. He cleared his throat as if to keep his voice from cracking. Would he now reveal what he kept from her since she was an infant?
“Vereiteln Dorf. Two villages over. Eastbound.” He swallowed as though his words were choking. “Around the mountainside.”
Vereiteln Dorf? Why was it she’d never heard of the place? She cocked her head. “And my father?” The toe of her boot carried on with a tap, tap, tap, satisfying the need of a nervous twitch. “My real father. Still lives, does he? Is he there now?”
She examined his face, his jaw stern, his eyes glazed to another place and time. His chest heaved and his hands tremored. She hiked up her shoulders once more and tightened her fists, fearful the emotion was contagious. This man standing before her, this father who raised her, who with such ease made her life light with laughter and wise with stories, was coming apart.
Grossmutter arrived, hair disarrayed and face flushed. From behind, she wrapped her sweaty arms around her son, the thistle-torn shawl balled and clasped in one fist. Harmon blocked the entrance to keep her from this come-to-truth space. “Na–ay.” She employed that authoritative voice of hers. Only it cracked halfway through the single syllable. “Don’t ya believe a word, Lexxie. You belong to us. We raised you. We be your family. You have no other.”
“’Tis no life!” Harmon broke free from his mother’s clasp.
Welts rose down Lexxie’s neck and across her chest. She scratched the stress crawling on her skin. No going back now. She scolded her heart for its urge to console him, provide reassurance of her love, her dedication, her loyalty.
She fixed a shotgun gaze on this man who’d pretended to be her father. Since she’d been seven years of age, she called him Harmon. It had started as a tease, a game of pretend—she, the responsible one, and he, the playful child. Now, his name would no longer bear that loving jest.
“Truth, Harmon. I need the truth.”
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