21

Threads

For a long time neither of them moved, as if expecting to hear a voice at the window at any time. When they were finally convinced they could hear nothing, they began to breathe again.

“Sit down,” Agnes said, guiding Peter to the small bunk where she had been sleeping. They sat on the edge of the bed, neither willing to voice their fears.

Peter cursed himself for being so naïve. He could have brought his axe with him. He had tried to believe Tomas, that this was all village superstition, but deep down he had known something evil was afoot.

“Have you been all right here?”

“Yes,” said Agnes simply. “But I’m worried about Mother. I’ve been thinking about her. And about Father.”

“Your mother’s fine,” Peter said quickly. “I saw her yesterday. I spoke to the widow Caterina next door. She was very reassuring.”

It was all lies, but Agnes didn’t need more to worry about, and as far as he knew, her mother was all right.

“But what have you been doing? It’s been a week!” he said.

“Spinning,” Agnes said. She laughed. “If you could see the floor of this place. There’s enough wool to dry up the river in here. They said I might as well make myself useful. And I started after a couple of days. I was too angry at first. But then I began to get bored and I was grateful for something to do. I must have spun a mile of it by now!”

“And someone brings you food every day?”

“Yes, one of the Elders, I think, but the person doesn’t speak. I just hear the basket being left on the windowsill. It’s such a small window. I can only see a few branches and a little bit of sky. But at night, I can see the stars in the heavens….” She sighed.

“I’m going to find out what’s going on, Agnes. Trust me. I’ve got an idea.”

“But what about…him? If he comes again. He said he would.”

“That’s my idea. We’ll find out what’s happening. How much wool have you spun? Really?”

 

Agnes and Peter waited. Peter had explained to Agnes what he wanted her to do. She wasn’t happy, though eventually she had agreed. They waited, and though Peter had often longed to be alone with Agnes, now that it was happening he didn’t know what to say or do. Surely there were a thousand things he wanted to ask her? Surely she wanted to talk and talk to him, to hold him and maybe kiss him? But somehow they sat next to each other as mute as stone. Peter wondered if it was because they were both scared out of their wits, but he began to suspect there was another reason. A reason that shocked him at first, but once he had picked it up and looked at it and turned it over in his mind, a reason that he calmly accepted as something approaching the truth.

The truth. That maybe he didn’t love her.

 

For much of the time they sat in silence on the bed, in reach of each other, but miles apart. After a while Peter found his mind playing tricks on him. He saw tiny pinpricks of light but decided it was his imagination. Nevertheless he felt he could have been anywhere; his enforced blindness seemed to remove the walls from the hut, and even the presence of the forest itself receded until he felt utterly alone.

Hours passed, and Peter was just about to ask Agnes if she had any food, when he heard a noise outside. It was clear from the way Agnes shifted next to him that she had heard it too.

Silence for a moment, then: “Agnes? Agnes? Are you there, pretty one?”

Peter’s heart pounded. He reached across and nudged Agnes, wordlessly urging her to answer.

“Yes,” called Agnes up to the window. “Yes, I’m here.”

Her voice was frail and nervous, and Peter thought it was too obvious, but whoever was outside didn’t seem to have noticed.

“Let me in, pretty Agnes!” came the voice.

“Who is it?” Agnes replied.

“It’s me,” the voice said. “Peter.”

Agnes sat dumbly next to Peter, the sheer terror of the moment paralyzing her, but Peter nudged her again, willing her to go over to the window. He strained to see in the blackness, all his senses going wild but telling him nothing.

Still she refused to move. He pushed her to her feet, shoving the end of the spun wool into her fingers as she went. He squeezed her hand.

“I can’t let you in, Peter. You know that.”

“Let me in, pretty one. I’m so cold!”

“I can’t let you in.”

“I’m so cold. Feel my hand. Open the shutter and feel my hand.”

There was silence, and Peter could imagine Agnes rooted to the spot from terror. In his mind he tried to force her to move, to stick to his plan.

“Open the shutter, Agnes, pretty one. You felt my hand last night.”

After a long, long pause, Peter heard Agnes move up to the window and unbolt the shutter.

“Here,” she said bravely.

“See how cold I am?” said the voice. Peter marveled at it. It didn’t sound like him, but it was so quiet that he couldn’t have said that it wasn’t his own voice either.

“Touch me,” said the voice. “Let me in.”

“I won’t let you in, Peter.”

“Then kiss me.”

There was another terrible pause, as Agnes steeled herself, trying to be calm enough to go through with what she and Peter had agreed.

“Very well,” she said finally, in a tiny voice. “I will kiss you. Wait a moment.”

Agnes moved and found the small stool she sat on to work. She pulled it to the window.

Peter waited in an agony of fear, paralyzed by inaction. All he could do was pray to the Forest to protect her, if that was who he should be praying to.

He heard Agnes climb onto the stool. Then she leant through the window. He heard the faint noise of the thread starting to slip out from the huge winding of wool on the floor, and silently he prayed that his idea would work.

There was a moment of total silence, and Peter tried not to think of what was happening. He couldn’t hear the kiss.

Then Agnes shrieked.

“You’re so cold!”

“Come here!” said the voice, suddenly loud, angry and vicious. “Let me in, pretty bitch!”

There was the sound of a struggle and thuds fell against the wall outside. Agnes screamed and fell back into the hut. Peter now dared to stand and pull the shutter back into place.

“I’ll be back,” said the voice, shrieking in rage. “I’ll be back tomorrow night!”

Silence.