Forest of Whispers by Jennifer Murgia Page B

“Was she pleased with her fortune?”
    I gently lay the gathered stones on top of the table. When she doesn’t answer, I open my mouth to ask again, but the look she shoots me stops my words instantly.
    “Her pain is in her heart.”
    “But you’ve always helped with—”
    She grabs my hand fiercely, stopping what I am about to say.
    “She has darker intentions than merely finding love.”
    With my free hand I lay the last stone beside the others and pretend all is normal.
    “Why were you in the village today, Rune?”
    It doesn’t surprise me that she already knows. I can never hide anything from her. I am trembling, fearing I’ll spill it all, and she will be so upset with me. It is no use to lie, either; she will surely find me out. It was bad enough I defied her and spoke back like an unruly child. It’s unacceptable that I tricked an old woman out of something she worked very hard on, something she intended to sell for money, or medicine.
    But no, I had to come along and talk her into trading it for a basket of murderous mushrooms.
    Murder , I think to myself. That’s what it has come to. That’s what I’ve done .
    I suddenly feel very ill again.
    Regardless of the wrong I’ve done today, I’ve committed a greater offense. I’m sure I’ve angered the Sacred Mother. Something Matilde has taught me never to do.
    The Sacred Mother will forgive you, child .
    I pale at the voice that whispers gently in my ear, knowing it is the very one that spoke to me in the village, at the stream. Matilde gathers the stones I’ve just collected into a heap and spreads them with her palm, completely unaware that something, someone, has touched me. Matilde, of all people, has not heard the voice, and that frightens me. From her skirt Matilde pulls a small knife. I recognize it as the one we use to cut herbs and flowers, only she brings it dangerously close to my open hand. Before I can ask, she slices a steady line across my palm. It beads at first, then wells into a river of deep red.
    “Mutti, what is this about?” I try to pull my hand to my side, wanting to cradle away the pain. She is never rough with me, and now she is squeezing my hand so tight it hurts. “Mutti, please! I’m sorry! I’ll tell you!”
    She does not free my hand, but rakes it over the stones. There is a searing heat beneath it that at first I believe is the combination of the deep gash and her grip, but I realize it’s much more than that.
    The stones are calling to me.
    “You don’t need the runes to tell you what happened today! I promise I’ll tell you.”
    My hand grabs a stone, and I drop it onto the cloth. She doesn’t bother to hide the etched symbol it holds, and I stare at the crude drawing of a triangle with a square inside and a straight line beneath it. From one of my earliest lessons, I know it is the rune that symbolizes Home.
    My hand burns to choose another, and I reluctantly reach, choosing the one that is a stick with a triangle at the base of it. It represents a Woman, only I cannot take the time to wonder if it’s symbolic of me or Matilde, as my hand is grabbed again.
    More stones follow; the more the casting continues, the more my hand burns with the urgency of what the runes have to tell. The stone of Disordered Thoughts, the stone of Protection, the stone of a Man, the stone of War. The last stone—the rune of Poison—is chosen and laid upon the table with the others in an order I cannot follow. At long last, the runes no longer call to me.
    This isn’t the same casting Matilde used on the cloaked woman earlier this morning, nor is it one she has ever used in teaching me the Old Ways. Instead, it’s intricate and confusing, and the symbols could be extremely volatile, depending on how Matilde interprets them. Right now, she is saying absolutely nothing.
    My hand is left throbbing. I can’t help staring at the etching that depicts Poison, and feel a sob form inside my chest. I am afraid to ask what this means. I