AUTHOR’S NOTE: I don’t own the characters (Miramax does) or the fairy tales referenced in this story. I’m not making one single penny off this story. (pauses) I wouldn’t mind borrowing the boys for awhile though…

1) This is rated TEEN for a reason. There are some very adult themes and situations and angst in here and some violence. It deals with rather dark issues relating to familial rifts and deaths of family members (if you saw the movie, you know to what I’m referring). Can’t handle, please don’t read. 2) Although there are religious references in the story, nothing is based on any real people or cults. They were completely fabricated for plot purposes and if you see similarities to any real people or cults, you are squinting way too hard, if you know what I mean. Do not try anything you see in this story, boys and girls, because it’s all made up stuff. So, if anyone flames for reasons of dark themes or religious references, I’m going to ignore it because I’ve given fair warning. 3) The opinions expressed by characters do not reflect the opinion of this writer. See Chapter One for the rest of the notes.

5

Only a matter of weeks had passed since Will had last departed the seaside village of Catriona after Mother’s burial, and he’d been sure at the time that he would never set foot in the town again. Never say never… He’d left angry---as he often did---the line between grief and anger blurred so it became impossible to distinguish one from the other.

With each passing day he’d spent in the village, in her house, Will had grown more doubtful that Jacob had received word of her passing or, if he had, that he’d retreated into his own fantasy world the way he had when Sister and Father had died instead of facing the situation. Will had seen no reason to delay the funeral to wait to see if Jacob’s flights of fancy landed him home to deal with the real world. Will buried their Mother, appointed a trustworthy banker to deal with her scant financial affairs, collected her few belongings, and rode away without knowing if Jacob had ever shown his face or not.

If Jacob had left Hollenstadt two weeks ago to return to Catriona, he would know by now that their Mother had passed. Will had buried her in a small cemetery not far from her home. Since the house was in all likelihood sold by now, the cemetery was the logical place to search for Jacob if he was still in the coastal town. Will rode to the cemetery straightaway. He pointedly avoided gazing at the headstones; the sight of them overlapped with images of the stone monoliths he’d seen in his nightmare.

Will supposed his mind was playing tricks on him due to exhaustion, for he’d been riding three days without stopping (and this in addition to the previous long ride he’d made to get to Hollenstadt). His eyelids—his entire body—were heavy with the need for sleep, but Will forced himself to stay awake. The horse knew the path and mercifully picked its way to the cemetery and past rows of grave markers without much guidance from its weary rider.

There were few people to be found in or around the place that morning. It was a rainy, dreary day, which would discourage visitors. None of them even faintly resembled Jacob. Would I know Jacob if I saw him? The sudden doubt alarmed Will, but he dismissed it at once. Yes, it was sadly true that he hadn’t seen his brother in years. Yes, Jacob had cut off his hair, grown a beard, gained a pair of glasses, perhaps gotten an inch or two taller. But, Will would know his brother if—when—he found him. He would. Will held fast to the picture of Jacob as he’d been in that nightmare, the picture Sister had shown him of Jacob as his brother might look now.

It was soon apparent, as Will closed on the carved angel that marked their Mother’s resting place, that none of the people wandering the cemetery was Jacob. It was dispiriting, but Will wouldn’t abandon hope yet. Just because he wasn’t at the grave now didn’t mean Jacob had left the village yet. Will would take the back road into the village, just perchance he’d come across his brother along that route.

First, of course, Will would have to stop at the sculpted angel to pay his respects to their Mother. He slid from his horse, grunting at the exertion of this simple movement as his weary body repaid him for the abuse of the near-constant riding he’d done the past two weeks. Winter flowers were blooming not far away, and Will stopped to gather a few to place on Mother’s headstone.

He found the headstone already adorned with flowers. Someone had cleared away the long-since wilted flowers from her funeral. Red winter begonias replaced them. Red winter begonias were their Mother’s favorite---as only her sons knew---she’d placed them on Sister’s grave long, long ago. From the degree of wilt, they’d been left on the grave only a few days ago.

Jacob had been there! Will was certain of it.

*

Invigorated by this glimmer of hope, Will hastened into Catriona, despite having no idea where to search next. He hadn’t intentionally guided the horse towards their Mother’s former home, but Will soon found himself riding along the familiar streets that led to her cottage. When their former home came into view, Will could see lantern light in the windows and a wisp of smoke from its chimney mingling with the gray clouds above.

The first time he’d left his Mother’s home, Will hadn’t departed on good terms. Will hadn’t wanted to face Mother. It was getting hard to face her with the signs of age and illness beginning to show, despite her efforts to disguise them. Will would never admit to himself or anyone else that fear of watching her slowly die had been part of what prompted him to decide to go, but he had a feeling Mother had seen his fear in his eyes.

Mother would have pressed him to accept what little money she had when he left or she would have begged tearfully for him to stay until he relented. So, he’d stole away under cover of the night, leaving only a note promising to send word when he settled. At the time, Will hadn’t given any thought to where he would go, only that he had to go. He’d spend years after that night concocting reasons---justifications---for creeping away in the pre-dawn hours like a thief in flight. The reason, besides sparing himself an emotional scene from their Mother, in the forefront of his mind that day was simple:

Will was tired.

Tired of poverty, for one thing. Venturing forth to seek his fortune was a reasonable thing for a man almost eighteen to do. No justification was required. His childhood had been one of abject impoverishment and surviving hand to mouth. Most of the burden of helping Mother pay their debts had fallen on Will’s shoulders, as the older son. He’d taken what odd jobs he could find to do so. Jacob did what he could, but still being a boy---and an eccentric one at that---limited him to helping by selling what vegetables they could grow in their garden and begging chores from the soft-hearted shopkeepers.

There was no fortune to be made in odd jobs, Will had long-since decided. Frau Grendle had told him otherwise---promising that hard work, discipline, dedication, study, and time would reward him some day and he might even have a little shop of his own. The flaw in her plan was that not one aspect of it, most particularly the ‘hard work’, appealed in the slightest to Will. He’d find his fortune sooner, not later, and the less effort involved, the better.

Inventions had seemed the shortest route to solvency. Will lacked the zeal for labor, but he was a gifted inventor (in his opinion, at least. Not knowing any other inventors, he had no basis for comparison) and convinced himself that he could sell his creations for a quick profit in one of Germany’s larger cities. While it was true that his absence would put some strain on his Mother for a short while, soon enough he’d have more than ample money to send home. In the meanwhile, let Jacob shoulder some more of the burden that had been Will’s for years. Jacob was a teenager now. It was time he pried his nose from his books and journal and his head from the clouds and learned something of the real world.

All of these were perfectly valid reasons for going as far as Will had been concerned.

There was, however, one more thing Will had tired of: He was weary of the weight of responsibility for Jacob. Some days, the mere sight of that well-worn journal his brother loved and the knowledge of what was inside the book---the hokum and rubbish---was enough to elicit a rage from Will. He had no interest in protecting his younger brother from his own follies any more. If prattling about blasphemous matters (in church of all places!) earned Jacob a switch across the rear, maybe he’d learn to hold his tongue. If chatting with invisible, imaginary folks got him a blackened eye or a broken nose from other children, why should Will bloody himself by getting in the middle of the matter? Yes, time at real work and more responsibility for Jacob seemed perfectly fair.

Will hadn’t come back until he’d heard of their Mother’s death.

The sight of warm light and smoke from their former home was both comforting and eerie in its familiarity. Will felt for an instant as if he were a boy again, riding to the house, where a fire would be blazing in the hearth to warm the cottage and their Mother would be cooking supper or mending their clothes. He half-expected to see Jacob on his favorite perch—atop the stone wall that lined the road---with his book in his hands.

A child’s face did appear, peering at Will over the top of that wall as he rode past. Whether it was a boy or girl Will couldn’t guess with the small face half-hidden behind the wall. The child’s eyes, so large and luminous that they were almost like orbs of glass than of flesh and blood, tracked his movements as Will’s horse cantered by. There was something odd about the child’s hair, but Will couldn’t put his finger on what it was and had the good grace not to stare. He spied a second child, not much more than a blob beneath a heavy cloak, played in front of the cottage. At Will’s approach, the youth fled for the sanctuary of a nearby alley.

The banker had been prompt about finding someone to purchase the home. Jacob would have stopped by the cottage to ask after their Mother. Will knew this because he would have done the same thing. Perhaps whoever lived in the house now would have word of where Jacob had gone off to. Will wondered how Jacob had reacted when he’d found out their home was gone now. The minister was right, I should have sent word to Jacob myself. How had Jacob reacted to coming home to find their Mother passed away and their home sold, on Will’s orders? Will had disposed of the home without consulting his brother, believing at the time that it was the only course of action, but now he wondered what how he’d explain his actions to Jacob. His brother would have words for him about the matter, Will was certain.

Will imagined the dialogue: “Well, hello Jake, sorry I haven’t written in years. Sorry I didn’t tell you about our Mother myself, I was afraid if I asked you to the funeral you might actually show up. Will winced to himself---that had been a brutally honest admission, even just admitting it to himself. Had the potential for embarrassment at his eccentric brother’s presence really kept Will from sending word about Mother? That conversation would be hard enough without the questions Will was saving to ask: “I only happened by the house because our dead Sister told me in a dream that you were planning to use a mystical blade from a vanquished heathen cult to sacrifice yourself. You wouldn’t be planning to sacrifice yourself would you? I thought not. My mistake.” Yes, and perhaps when the next wagon came to try to haul his brother away, they’d save a seat for me…on a brighter note, it would please Jacob no end that I’ve finally lost my wits as well…

The cottage hadn’t changed since Will had left it weeks ago. The new owner hadn’t so much as plucked the withered summer blossoms from the yard or moved the basket of kindling outside the doorway. Will almost expected their Mother, alerted by the sound of hooves, to open the door and call Will and Jacob to supper…

Maybe it was that moment of reverie, maybe it was the lack of sleep finally taking its toll on his mental faculties and making him hallucinate, but when the door opened following Will’s first knock, he was sure that he was greeted by a marionette the size of a small child. Its massive glass eyes stared into his own eyes, and a grotesquely painted smile leered at him. Of the puppeteer who was manipulating the thing, there was no sign at all.

Whether it owed to imagination or sleep deprivation, the end result was the same: Being face to face with the large puppet taxed Will’s weary body and spirit to its breaking point. Will suddenly found the floor of the cottage rushing up to meet him…

*

“Mr. Will, sir?”

The voice was summoning Will, against his wishes, from the peace of the blackness that had engulfed him. Without opening his eyes, he knew he was lying down on a soft bed---a soft bed someplace warm. Opening his eyes, inevitably, would mean abandoning his comfortable position, and Will loathed doing so. It seemed a very long time since he’d been warm or had a soft place to sleep. If only that voice would leave him alone.

Strange scents filled his nose. Languishing there, flat on his back, Will’s mind tried to identify the smells. The scents formed an overpowering, but not unpleasant, earthy aroma. Wood was the predominant odor. Sawdust tickled his nose, nearly drawing a sneeze out of him. He smelled dried flowers and spices as well; their fragrances mingled in the air oddly like perfume. Beneath all this, there was the smell of food---Will didn’t know what it was, but it smelled wonderful. He breathed in that aroma and his stomach rumbled in response.

“Mr. Will? Welcome back, sir.”

Damn the luck, whoever was insisting on disturbing his rest knew he was awake. He had no recollection of where he was, no idea who was speaking, and he didn’t care. Will kept his eyes closed, hoping whoever it was would take the hint and go away.

“Should I say, welcome home, sir?” the pesky voice asked.

Welcome home?

Will opened his eyes as soon as the implications of those words penetrated the murkiness of sleep that clouded his mind. He was rewarded by nearly having the life frightened out of him: He was lying beneath a heap of blankets, on bedding packed with straw, in a room lit by a fire in a hearth and some few lanterns. In the flickering firelight, Will saw that dozens of tiny arms and legs and headless torsos and clumps of hair had been hung on the walls and packed shelves. He almost screamed before he discerned that these were not human limbs, but wooden carvings meant for puppets, and the bundles of hair were horses’ hair. He stifled the scream, but the flickering firelight still made the scenery somewhat ghastly…

Will knew this room. He recognized the walls, the shelves, the hearth---this was his home, his Mother’s home. Sitting up on the bedding, he took a good look around. Yes, it was his Mother’s cottage, no question. He was lying on the bed in the larger of the cottage’s two rooms. However, Will didn’t know the dark-haired, dark-eyed, heavy-set woman who sat at the wooden table on the other side of the room. She looked to be in her forties, only a little younger than his Mother. She was whittling something resembling a tiny hand out of a piece of wood.

She was also staring at him. “I’m Serya. Good to meet you, finally. Mr. Jacob said you might happen by Catriona. Wasn’t expecting you so soon, though.”

His memory slowly returned: He recalled the ride from the mountain town, stopping at the cemetery and finding out that Jacob had been there, and coming back to this house…seeing a bizarre puppet like the marionettes hanging on the walls, and then nothing. He’d had the misguided impression that a puppet—without benefit of strings---had somehow walked over and answered the door, but that must have been fatigue playing tricks on his mind. He must have seen the marionette hanging there, but missed the strings in the dim lighting of the cottage. That explained it. “How long was I asleep?”

“You slept from one afternoon clean through to the next,” Serya informed him.

A whole day lost. Wait, did she say----? “Jacob? You’ve seen him?” Will asked. He started to push back the covers, but froze when it occurred to him that he wasn’t sure if he was dressed or not beneath those blankets. A quick check told him that he was still wearing his long underwear and his white shirt, but his coat and pants were missing. Will spied them draped over a chair beside the bedding.

Serya grinned a bit at the young man’s discomfiture. “No need to be embarrassed around me, son,” she promised. She might not mind, but all the same, Will wrapped up in one of the blankets before standing up. “And, yes, I’ve seen Mr. Jacob. Not five days ago.”

Five days. Damn it—I was right, I could have intercepted Jacob if I hadn’t taken that side trip to the mountains, Will cursed.

Serya pointed with her whittling knife in the general direction of the chair where she’d placed Will’s clothes. “Mr. Jacob left you that package. Don’t worry, I wouldn’t open it…it’s not my concern.”

“A package? I don’t understand--” Why would Jacob have left a package for Will here? How did Jacob even know Will was coming? Will found the object, wrapped in cloth, hidden beneath his coat. Will unwrapped it carefully. Its shape and weight was strangely similar to---

---Jacob’s book.

Will couldn’t help but gape. It was Jacob’s book! At some point, a cord made of odd fibers joined by an odd wooden charm of some sort had been wrapped around the journal to hold it shut, but it was his brother’s book without question. Jacob, who never let anyone lay a finger on his book without drawing their blood first, had left this for Will? Something about the gesture was humbling…and frightening. If Will ever needed proof that Jacob meant not to return from his fool’s errand, here it was. His brother wouldn’t turn loose of this book except to bequeath it. Instinctively, Will began to untie the bindings around the journal.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you!” Serya stopped her whittling to give that stern warning. Her face was as serious as her tone. “You’re his brother. You know what Mr. Jacob collects in that book of his. There’s magic in that book. Magic attracts magic—and not always the good sort. I made that cord and talisman for him. As long as it’s holding the book shut, it’ll keep the dark magic away. Gave your brother one just like it---he’s going to need it where he’s going. The waters around here are haunted, you know.”

No wonder Jacob found his way to this woman’s company. His brother had a knack for attracting the village lunatics wherever he went. Will was heartily sick of superstition and ghost stories. “The whole world has gone mad,” he mumbled.

“What’s that?” Serya asked.

Will faced her, speaking up this time. “Magic? It’s a book. I don’t believe in magic.”

Serya didn’t care what the young man believed. “Magic doesn’t need your belief to be real. You’d do well to remember that, Wilhelm Grimm!” She took a breath, bringing her temper into check. “Forgive me, sir, I didn’t mean to be curt.”

All the same, Will decided to leave the journal alone for the time being. He told himself that his choice was only to prevent another outburst from the excitable woman, not because he believed a word of what she was saying. “Did you say you know where Jacob’s going?” he asked her.

“No,” Serya shook her head. “I said I know he went by water. I said bad things happen on those waters. But, Mr. Jacob’s just like you---superstition and ghost stories don’t cow him. That’s how I come to know him. He used to follow my family and our friends all over the countryside---for an entire autumn, in fact---listening to the elders tell their stories, learning about our talismans…he must have ten generations of our stories in his book. Best that they stay in that book, too. ‘Course, he’s not afraid of old ghosts and legends because he likes superstition and ghost stories, not because he doesn’t believe in them.” The last few words were meant as a rebuke aimed at Will.

Will chuckled at that. “You are very observant.”

Serya offered a wide smile in answer, but still seemed troubled. “He went on his way. No warning I had made a difference. No use trying to talk sense into that boy.”

Will cringed. “You don’t have to tell me. I know.”

“So, I did what I could giving Mr. Jacob that charm for protection.” Serya resumed her whittling, as if venting anxiety through the motions of her knife against the wood. She bit her lip just a little. “The spirits have that boy’s ear. It’s all the living can do to get a word in.”

Will hadn’t thought about it that way, but there was undeniable truth to those words. “As I said, you’re very observant.” He fumbled to dress, while keeping hidden beneath the blanket. If Jacob had gone by water---across the ‘great sea’, naturally---he would need to go by boat. Will would ask around the docks to find out on which boat Jacob had booked passage.

At least, that was Will’s intention. The simple act of getting the rest of his clothes on was proving more daunting than he’d expected. He’d been trying to move too quickly, and a sudden wave of dizziness almost toppled him. Serya dropped her whittling and dashed across the room to catch hold of Will’s arm before he could fall. She guided him over to the table and pushed him down on the bench seat.

“There now, I know you’re anxious to be off, but you’d best let me feed you first, Mr. Will. You won’t get very far otherwise,” Serya said kindly. She fetched a bowl from a shelf and moved to spoon whatever was cooking over the stove into the bowl.

“I…thank you…but I’m afraid I couldn’t repay your hospitality,” Will tried to decline. He was going to have to sell his horse just to buy passage on a boat to pursue his wayward sibling as it was.

Serya looked at him like he’d grown two heads. “No payment, sir. You’ll have a roof and meals as long as you’re in the village, just as we agreed.” She set the bowl and a spoon in front of him.

Her tone implied that he should know about this ‘agreement’, but Will was at a loss. “‘We agreed’?”

“You don’t know?” Serya cocked her head a bit, as if trying to see if he was teasing her or not. “Mr. Graeber, the banker, was about to sell your Mother’s house, but Mr. Jacob told him you’d both changed your mind about it. Mr. Jacob decided to let me stay here as caretaker just as long as I kept a bed and a meal for either of you should the need arise. Lucky for me, too. I was about to be turned out onto the street when I ran into Mr. Jacob.”

Still rescuing the damsels. Apparently, the living do get Jacob’s ear now and then. That also answered the question of how Jacob had reacted to finding out the cottage was to be sold, Will mused. Will knew now that he would definitely be on the receiving end of one of his brother’s snits for giving the instructions---provided he ever tracked the fool down.

Serya sat back down and resumed her whittling while Will ate. She was whittling a wooden puppet’s hand all right. He avoided glancing at it, concentrating on his food instead. The carving---like the various appendages Serya had carved that adorned the room---was so real it was almost disturbing.

She caught him glancing sidelong at the marionette pieces and winked, hoping to set him at ease about her strange artwork. “Don’t mind them. They’re my children.”

That was an altogether bizarre thing to say, Will thought. Weren’t those Serya’s children he’d seen playing near the cottage when he’d arrived? He supposed it would be impolite to argue with her, so he let the matter pass. After a minute, he noticed the woman was still watching him.

“May I ask, is there a reason people insist on staring at me?” he blurted out. He was getting very tired of being subjected to such scrutiny from the public at large.

Serya kept whittling. “Why did you want to sell the house, Mr. Will? I could tell from your surprise that you didn’t know about Mr. Jacob’s arrangement with me, and I could tell from his---remarks---that he didn’t know about your arrangement with the banker.”

“Because, unlike my brother, I’m not particularly fond of living with ghosts!” Will was blunt about it. It was the truth---he’d wanted to get rid of the cottage and never return because the place reminded him too much of Sister, of Mother, of Jacob, and all that had ever transpired in his turbulent childhood.

“The trouble with forgetting the bad memories is you forget the good ones with them,” Serya pointed out.

“Very astute. Thank you.”

“I wonder---” the woman began, but changed her mind.

The unvoiced question hung in the air until finally Will prompted, “Go ahead and ask.”

Serya fiddled with the puppet hand. “Your ghosts give you so much anger. Mr. Jacob’s give him so much pain…”

Pain? In Jacob? Will tried to interrupt, but Serya finished her thought.

“I know the eyes of the haunted, and you both have them. Mr. Jacob’s trying to exorcise his ghosts. I guess you’re running from yours. I wonder if it’s the same ghosts driving both of you…”

The door opened with a bang. Will jumped, thinking the wind was kicking up again to bedevil him, but it was the hooded children he’d seen playing in the field. They scampered into the cottage, leaving twin trails of mud in their wake. “Pieno! Klio! Shoes, children!” Serya snapped.

The scene was so familiar---Mother gave Jacob and Will the same admonishment on a daily basis---that Will grinned.

“Sorry, Mother,” they chorused. They obediently kicked off the shoes and left them on the stones of the hearth. One child dashed into the tiny adjoining room. The second child—it might have been a boy---charged over to Serya and jumped into her lap, his back to Will. All that was visible with the cloak the boy wore was his hair.

Was it horse hair? Will must be seeing things.

“Will you help me feed the goat, mother? I don’t want to go alone. He keeps trying to eat my leg,” the boy whined.

Serya shook her head. “I think you can manage, Pieno. We have company.”

Will knew his cue. “No, please. I really must go as around the docks, find out in which direction Jacob’s run off this time.” He retrieved his coat and Jacob’s book. “Thank you for…taking care of the house.”

“Thank Mr. Will for our home, child,” Serya told her son.

The boy hid his face against her shoulder. Will heard a muffled chirp: “Thank you, Mr. Will.”

“Pieno, get the necklace from the drawer…like the one we gave Mr. Jacob,” Serya told the boy. The child hurried to obey. “I want you to wear it around your neck, Mr. Will, if you mean to set out on those waters. They’re made unique for each family. The charm knows your bloodline and will protect it. Don’t you make that face at me, young man, and don’t you give me any argument. I insist.”

“For you, Mr. Will.” Pieno presented the cord and talisman to Will with a flourish. Will decided that, as with the beggar Lorelei, it was best to humor Serya than be subjected to a lecture. He accepted the pendant…and got his first glimpse of the child beneath the cloak…a child with skin made of wood, a head of horse’s hair, and eyes painted onto a wooden face.

That can’t be…Serya’s children…marionettes? Living, talking marionettes?

Will managed to sit on the bench before, for the second time in as many days, Will’s overtaxed nerves could stand no more shocks and darkness swallowed him into its depths again. He landed face-down on the table.

Undaunted, Pieno put his wooden fingers beneath Will’s chin, lifted the unconscious man’s head, and helpfully draped the cord and talisman around his neck.

*

Next Chapter
Previous Chapter
Home