Post by Admin on Nov 21, 2020 22:34:38 GMT
Family Matters
by: E. Lee BallIntroduction
World War II tore some families apart. And in some cases, brought them back together!
Setting
Marble City, Md : Saturday, March 30, 1940
News On The March--
“March 21th. An invasion appears imminent as Hitler's all-female squad of women warriors test the Norwegian defenses. The Valkyries, as der Fuhrer named these highly effective soldiers, look to have powers and abilities that could give our own Major Power a run for his money. Their code-names are as colorful as their costumes.
“Here, we have the young woman called Nixe. She appears to be drawing the dew from the leaves of the surrounding trees and directing it in a powerful rush towards the Norwegian troops. Next is the woman-warrior, Berchta. With a few simple gestures, she shapes the snow and ice into monstrous creatures and commands them to attack the defenders. I bet the kiddies would enjoy having her around in peacetime.
“That flash that appears to be blinding the camera belongs to WeisseFrau. Her main objective seems to be to hover over the battlefield and target her enemies with beams of excruciatingly bright light. Look out! The woman Hitler named Waldgeist has emerged from the forest and the trees themselves bend down and entangle the Norwegians in their branches.
“The cameraman scans the battlefield searching for the leader of the Valkyries, Baroness Dämonenherz—Baroness Demon Heart. Some say she is nosferatu, while others swear she is a succubus. Regardless of her mysterious origins, when she appears on the battlefield things go from bad to worse for the defenders.”
Baroness Dämonenherz does appear on the movie screen an instant before the camera falls to the ground and goes black. The audience in the theater draws in most of the room's oxygen in a collective gasp. Even I can't resist the reflex to do so. While my fellow patrons do so out of shock and fear, my reaction is because of recognition.
The beautiful young Fraulein clothed in wisps of green, brown, and golden gossamer surrounded by a slight breeze filled with dancing oak leaves is burned into my mind. Despite the years that have passed, I know that face. It reminds me so much of Momma's there can be not even the shadow of a doubt; the woman-warrior called Waldgeist is none other than my dear Gerta. Memories flood over me.
If you lived there—in Deutschland—you couldn't ignore the fact that the storm was coming. The anger, the attitude, the violent rhetoric, all spurred on by a failed artist. Anger because our beloved Germany paid for the folly of a lost war. The attitude that the Fatherland was singled out and humiliated over all the other Central Powers. The violent rhetoric stirring people to rise up in the fanatical belief that they lived in a glorious third Reich destined to rule the world.
Momma died while Poppa was fighting in the trenches in France. My baby sister, Gerta, and I were taken in by Momma's sister until Poppa returned home. The war had taken its toll on him and he was little more than a geist. He was a shell of his former self—physically, mentally, emotionally—so I, alone, returned home with him. I took care of him as best as I could. Gerta continued to live with our aunt.
His days were horrible and his nights…well, his nights were nightmare, for both of us. Most days he wouldn't speak, except to occasionally look at the wardrobe and call for Momma to come out. Every so often, he would call out to Ernst (that is my name, but I believe it also belonged to one of his fellow soldiers.) At first, I would answer him, but he ignored my response. He would look past me and say, “My son is Ernst, as well.” He would then proceed to converse with his friend until he began to scream. Poppa would then begin a frenzied description of the mortar explosion that injured him and killed his friend.
After the first few months, his outbursts were becoming my nightmares. This went on for almost three years—until Poppa went to be with Momma.
I tried to find my aunt and uncle, but they had moved. If they informed Poppa, he was never lucid enough to tell me. I haven't seen my sister since.
That is, until now.
When Hitler began his ascent to power, many of us saw what was coming. I tried again and again to find Gerta, but it was no use. Finally, I had to make a choice. It was either stay in Germany to continue searching and risk being forced into the army to fight in a heinous war, or flee the country. I had already had my fill of one war and wanted no part of another one.
When I left in late July of 1934, I was 25 years-old and my dear Gerta would have been 19. That would make her 25 now. My mind cannot fathom what could have driven her to throw her lot in with Hitler.
When the movie begins, it doesn't take long for the audience to forget Norway and laugh at the antics of the East Side Kids. I had been looking forward to their latest motion picture, Flying Wild, but after what I have just seen on the MarbleTown News, I can think of nothing but Norway. I excuse myself as I slip past the couple sitting between me and the aisle and leave the theater.
My intention is to go home to my apartment, but when I look at Poppa's pocket watch, I realize it is just past 6 PM. I have been wandering Marble City—apparently aimlessly—for over 4 hours. I don't remember the path I took, but I find myself standing outside the Augur Travel Agency. Of course, they are closed, but, I realize that somewhere along the way from the theater to here, I had made a decision. I was returning to Germany to find my Gerta.
Dublin, Ireland : Friday, April 5, 1940 (pre-dawn)
Thanks to the kindhearted travel agent who thought it noble of me wanting to rescue my newly-located sister from the clutches of Nazis, I now walk the streets of Dublin. My accent has garnered a bit of attention in the three days since I arrived, not all of it good. Fortunately—or unfortunately—the attention works to my advantage.
Rather than speak of my intent to rescue my sister, I let the German sympathizers believe I am returning to the Fatherland with information pertinent to an attack on American soil. Blind fools. They are so eager to contribute to the Nazis war effort, they offer to arrange transportation to German occupied Norway.
I mention seeing The Valkyries in a newsreel and inquire if their location is known. One of the young men, barely out of his teens, tells me they have been causing a din in southern Norway as well as northern Denmark.
“The tale is that they are in western Sweden, but the Swedes are doing nae about them as long as they cause nae trouble on Swedish soil,” the young man tells me.
I say no more about them, not wanting to arouse suspicions about my true purpose being here.
North Sea, Off The Coast Of Norway : Saturday, April 6, 1940
The sea gods must be angry. They are determined to fill this Irish fishing boat with as much salt water as possible. I just wish I knew whose side they were choosing in the coming war. Are they trying to prevent the fishermen from aiding Hitler, or, like them, have they thrown their lot in with the Nazis; am I the one who is the target of their wrath? I intend no antagonism toward them, but I will swim to Norway if that is what it comes to.
The captain motions for me. “We dare nae go further. Despite our intentions and sympathies, your fellow countrymen would send us to the bottom of the sea since we don't fly a German flag.”
It appears the gods are taking me up on my threat to swim. I am about to ask the man why he brought me this far knowing he could go no farther, when another fisherman appears with a rubber raft.
“Continue due east,” he tells me, pointing out across the waves. “We are a rough three kilometers from the Norwegian shore near Arendal. You must hurry, though. It would nae be good for you to be caught in the water come morning.”
I nod and thank the men for their assistance, then we toss the raft overboard. I climb down a rope and lower myself into the raft. I look up to wave, but the fishermen are already in the process of turning the boat back to Ireland.
It takes close to thirty minutes for me to make the journey to shore. Had the weather been better I am certain I could have done it in a third of the time. I drag the raft behind an outcropping of rocks, then change into some dry clothes. Staying out of sight, I make my way down the coast a kilometer or so before heading inland.
The morning is cold and gray as I arrive in Arendal. I expected the fishing boats to be out by now, but the port city seems to be waiting for something. Given the reason I am here, it doesn't take long to realize what the people are waiting for. They are expecting an attack.
I locate a small restaurant and enter, hoping for a cup of coffee and some information. Eyes filled with suspicion follow me as I sit down at a small table. A portly gentleman in an apron approaches.
“Hva kan jeg skaffe deg?”
By the tone of his voice, and the fact he shows no sign of making me leave, I guess he is asking me what I would like. “Coffee,” I reply.
“Kaffe?”
I nod.
He walks to the kitchen, then returns carrying a steaming cup. When he sets it down, I smile. “Thank you.”
“English?” he asks, his accent as thick as his mustache.
“America,” I tell him. It seems enough of an explanation to put him and the nearby patrons at ease.
“But not originally.”
I shake my head and smile a second. “No, not originally.”
“Many in America not originally from there.”
I get the impression he is trying to find out why I am here. Something tells me I can trust him, but I have reservations about speaking in front of the other patrons. Full disclosure could be beneficial regardless. I decide to proceed with caution.
“Some of us return with little choice,” I say, lowering my voice a bit. “I am searching for my sister.”
The man holds up his finger then walks to the door and looks out. He passes my table and enters the kitchen, returning seconds later with the coffee pot. After refreshing everyone's cup, he sits down across from me and pours himself a cup.
“Why do you seek your sister here?” His voice is equally low.
I take sip of my coffee—it is good—and think of how I want to word my next sentence. I lean toward the table's center. “She has fallen in with a very bad crowd.”
A furrow appears in the man's brow. “How do you know this?”
“I saw her on the newsreel.”
In less time than it took to tell him, he realizes the true meaning behind my words. His eyes grow wide and I notice the other patrons start to rise.
“I swear to you my only reason in being here is to convince her to put this madness behind her and return to America with me. I haven't seen her since we were children, but she looks just like Mama.”
The man motions for the others to sit back down. Thankfully, they do, but only after moving to tables nearer to ours.
“Which one is she?” he asks.
“Waldgeist,” I say. “She is the one called Waldgeist.”
“The Forest Spirit,” the man says. “She is dangerous. How do you know she will listen to you?”
I bow my head. I had considered that scenario, briefly, but never really gave the thought much credence. Hearing it put to me now, however; I have to consider that possibility. “I don't,” I confess. “I can only hope.”
One of the other men speaks up. “She is make of magic.”
His English is very broken, but I understand what he is trying to say. I look at the owner.
“It is a rumor,” he tells me. “It is said that one of Hitler's men located a stone that had fallen from the realm of the gods. When combined with unholy science, power was drawn from the stone and imbued your sister and the other women with the powers of the gods. Free your sister from this kind of influence will not be easy.”
“I have to try,” is all I can say.
“Your chance comes,” another patron says. “Look,” he says, pointing toward the window.
We all turn towards the restaurant's front window. Chairs are overturned as we leap to our feet. The glass is rapidly frosting over before our eyes.
“Berchta,” I say as I lead the rush to the door.
The door handle is freezing and I jerk my hand back. The owner pulls me aside, then uses his foot to kick the door open. I start out into the bitter cold, but he pulls me back inside.
“I have to go,” I tell him. “This might be my only chance to talk to my sister.”
“The others wouldn't let you near her,” he tells me. “And, besides, she probably wouldn't recognize you anyway.”
I feel myself sinking to the floor. Why hadn't I thought of that? Sure, she would recognize me since I recognized her, wouldn't she?
“So close,” I mutter.
The owner lifts me up with the help of the man who noticed the frost. “We need to get you out of here. If you are trapped in here now, you will never find out if she knows you.”
The man who helped me back to my feet leads me into the kitchen. “I am Gudleif,” he says. “I might be able to help you.”
I look at Gudleif and realize he is older than I first thought. “Why would you help me?”
“I believe the rumors,” he tells me. “I also believe not everyone Hitler recruited did so willingly. Your sister is beautiful and agreeing to participate might have been preferable to the alternative. I hope this is so.”
He leads me out the back. It is cold, but not as unbearable as it would have been going out the front way. “Where are we going?”
Gudleif points to the mountains. “We are going to find the grim.”
“The grim?”
“He is part of the old world.” The man pulls me along. “His magic my help you regain your sister.”
Living in Marble City has softened me for the cold of the mountains is caressing my bones. Ever question concerning our location is met with the response, “We are close.”
Gudleif, who appears to be unaffected by the frigid air, holds up his hand as he stops. “Listen,” he says, putting a finger to his lips to keep me silent.
I hold my breath. “A waterfall?”
“It is,” my guide says. “If we are fortune's chosen this day, it is where we shall find the grim.”
My suspicions are that Gudleif only mentions fortune for my sake. He led me here with purpose in his steps.
It is a long couple of minutes before we reach the waterfall. He, undoubtedly, could have made it quicker if he were alone. Snow-covered stones keep me a bit more cautious. I have no desire to break a leg this close to my goal.
The waterfall is no more than twenty meters high and half that wide, but there us something captivating about its beauty. Whether it is the vibrant colors of the bow created by the spray, or the almost-musical sound of the water falling over the rocks, I am unsure. All I know is I stand amazed.
Gudleif glances at me and allows himself a smile. Being here, in this beautiful place, he seems younger somehow. Kneeling down, he wipes the snow from a small flat stone, whistles a tune no human throat should be able to produce, and skips the stone across the water.
For a moment, all is still save for the sound of the waterfall. I start to ask what we are waiting for when the gentle music of a violin drifts out of the spray. A foam-crowned head breaks the surface followed by a man of near-physical perfection wearing nothing more than a breech-clout. Water rolls in rivulets from his long brown hair, across his shoulders, and down his back. Eyes the color of sea foam look first at me and then at Gudleif.
“You come with trouble in tow, Brother,” the grim tells my companion.
My own eyes go back and forth between the two men. The resemblance is uncanny to the point I would swear they were twins.
“War comes,” Gudleif says.
“War always comes,” the grim replies, “yet, my falls and my music remain.”
“Only because none of our kind have openly dabbled in the affairs of men for a few centuries,” Gudleif says.
“And now one has?” the grim asks.
“Worse. One of his kind (Gudleif nods in my direction) has combined the mystical and foul science to create those like us.”
The grim looks at me. His eyes narrow, but anger burns within them. “If his kind has done this, why have you brought him to me?”
I take a step back.
Gudleif steps between us. “He has come to undo what has been done.”
“I only came here to find my sister,” I protest.
“That is why you are still alive,” the grim tells me. His demeanor changes. “Your motives are pure. Your love for your sister brought you here and your heart seeks peace, not war. What do you require of me, Brother?” the grim asks.
Gudleif sits down upon a large rock, ignoring the snow that covers it. “It is believed that his sister and the other women were ensorcelled before they were transformed; we need something to break the enchantment.”
The grim begins to nod, a look of recognition and remembrance appearing on his face. “I shall return in a moment.” He disappears beneath the water.
I look at Gudleif. “He calls you “Brother?”
Gudleif shrugs. “Half-brothers, at best,” he says. “My father was human, his was not. Our mother was of the sylvan race, a nyker—a water elf. He took after both of his parents while I only took after my father. The only thing I got from my mother was a somewhat extended lifespan. When I was in my teens, Father passed and I found myself drawn here…to my brother. Despite our differences, and the fact we shared only one parent, we formed a bond that has survived for over a century and a half.”
The grim (I hate referring to him as such, yet neither he nor Gudleif have offered a true name) emerges from the water and stretches forth his hand. A golden flute rests lightly in his open palm; it catches what little sunlight there is and pulls it through the clouds, demanding the attention. “Take it,” he tells me.
I look at Gudleif and he nods.
“But, I have no musical talent,” I inform the brothers. “I couldn't play this if my life depended on it.”
“It will,” the grim replies. “Fortunately, I am going to impart to you the knowledge you will need to survive your quest.”
I wrap my hand around the flute and, quicker than I can blink, the grim grabs my arm. Panic causes me to attempt to jerk free, but as quick as he grabbed me, I feel an immediate calm and I relax in his grip.
“Breathe deep,” the grim instructs me. “This won't be pleasant, and for that I apologize, but it is necessary.”
I take a deep breath, but before I can let it out a cacophony of sound floods my mind…my senses. No, not just sound. My head is filled with musical notes. G clef, F clef, neutral clef, octave clef, double whole notes, octuple whole notes, half notes, beamed notes, dotted notes, ghost notes, flats, sharps, and others that I can't even put names to, all filling my head, my body, my being. I want to say I scream, but that isn't quite accurate. What bursts forth from my lips is a symphony, a concert, an aria. I hear the music of the world and, raising the flute to my lips, I play along.
It would be so easy to get lost in the music, but something pulls me back. A song. Momma's song. I hear it now as plain as I did when I was a child. It reminds me why I am here. I think of Gerta and lower the flute.
The brothers look at me. “I'm sorry,” the grim begins to apologize.
I raise my hand to stop him. “I am…alright.”
“You have fared better than most,” the grim says. “The majority of those whom I have assisted suffered severe headaches for days afterward. Your cause is truly just and you are an exceptional person.”
Gudleif moves near and touches my shoulder. “You will need to find a focus to keep you from being consumed by the music. I believe saving your sister should be sufficient.”
“I don't know how I can ever repay your kindness.”
“Free her,” Gudleif tells me as he shakes my hand.
“Do all you can to thwart the intentions of the mad man behind this war,” the grim adds.
“I will,” I promise them. “You shall have your flute back as soon as I am finished.”
The grim smiles. “The flute is yours. Use it with wisdom.”
“Thank you.” The moment I express my gratitude, my fingers begin to twitch and a tune fills my mind.
The grim begins to sink beneath the waterfall's foam. “Play what you hear. Play the songs of nature.”
I look at Gudleif.
“Go,” he says. “I think I am going to remain here for a while longer.”
Raising the flute to my lips, I let my fingers fall where they will and begin to play. My spirit lightens, as does my body, and I feel myself begin to rise. I know at once what I am playing; it is the song of the birds.
How can I describe the sensation of unaided flight? It is like trying to describe a passion-filled love or an all-consuming rage. It is a euphoric emotion unto itself. Beyond the sense of freedom itself, beyond being above the world and its problems, there is something exhilarating about the wind's biting caress.
With the flute tucked securely in my belt—something instinctual told me I would remain aloft by the magic of the song without playing until I was ready to land—I cannot resist the temptation to experiment with this incredible ability. By holding my arms out from my body, I discover I can do barrel rolls like a flying aces of the Great War. Pulling them close to my body allows me to gain incredible speed. I stretch my arms out in front of me and find that holding my hands flat and moving them up and down, or twisting them sideways, acts as a rudder, allowing me to turn and maneuver. I dive, bank, hover, and roll; everything I have see an aircraft do, I try.
The thrill and uncertainty of flying gives way to confidence and I begin my flight back to Arendal. Without the terrain to hamper me, I arrive in a fraction of the time. Despite wanting to fly forever, my first thought is to return to the little restaurant and see if everyone is alright.
Along with many of the other buildings, the front of the restaurant is covered with ice. I end the song and land at the rear of the building. There is frost on the back door, but nowhere near as bad as it is out front.
I push the door open. “Hello?” I call out. Hearing nothing, I continue through the kitchen. A thin layer of ice spiderwebs beneath my weight. I repeat my hello as I push open the door into the dining room.
Deserted.
For that I am grateful; the temperature must be near zero degrees in here. I notice the ice cracked in places other than where I stepped. They lead to a thick door. Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around the handle and pull the door open. It is a freezer. The owner and three others are huddled inside. It takes them a moment to acknowledge my presence.
“You have returned?” the owner asks in disbelief. “We thought you were lost.”
“I was, in a way,” I say. “After seeing what war did to Papa, I fled my homeland rather than fight to keep it out of the hands of a madman. Whether I free my Gerta or not, I will not be returning to America.”
“I am happy to hear that,” the owner says.
A tune pops into my head. As I pull the flute from my belt, their faces filled with confusion. My fingers dance across the holes and a song of spring fills the room. The temperature begins to rise, warming the men gradually.
The men's confusion changes to amazement. I end the music when the ice on the floor becomes water.
“How…?” the owner starts to ask.
“This was given to me by a…” I hesitate a moment, “…a friend. He made me promise to oppose Hitler to the best of my ability.”
The other men shake my hand and hug my neck in gratitude for helping them. I can see the apprehension in their eyes, however, as they talk about going home. I hope they have homes to go to home to.
After they leave, the owner shakes my hand. “I don't believe we have been properly introduced. I am Oddvar.”
“Ernst,” I reply. “I am pleased you are well.”
“Thank you for that,” he says. “When I realized the temperature was dropping, I gathered everyone who hadn't left already into the freezer. The temperature in there is constant and, even though it is cold, it would be warmer than out here.”
Walking over to the sink, he grabs a mop and begins to clean up the wet floor. As he works, he questions me more about the flute.
“When I hold it, I hear music in my head. My fingers seem to know what to do, and when I play, things happen,” I explain.
Oddvar pauses and wrings his mop out in the bucket. When he is satisfied, he puts the head on the floor and leans on the handle. “If you intend to carry on the fight against Hitler with your magic flute, perhaps you should consider donning a disguise. If not, you will never rest. His thugs will hunt you relentlessly.”
I hadn't thought about my safety. Perhaps if I had, I wouldn't have made this journey. “What would you suggest I do?”
Oddvar closes his eyes and knits his brow. His eyes pop open and a grin stretches his lips. “A cloak,” he says. “I have a gray hooded cloak; it should provide sufficient shadow for your face.”
I smile. “I can fashion myself a mask, as well. Perhaps I should consider an alias.”
“An alias?”
“In America, there is a man with abilities beyond those of the rest of us,” I say. “He calls himself 'Major Power' so no one knows his true identity.”
Oddvar nods. “What shall you call yourself?”
As easy as the music comes to me, a name appears in my head. “How does The Grim Piper sound?” I ask.
“Interesting,” the man replies. He leans the mop against the counter. “Wait here. I shall return in a moment.”
He leaves before I can ask why. Since he has been a help, I grab the mop and continue to clean up the floor. True to his word, he returns in a matter of minutes. He hands me a bundle of heavy cloth.
I lay the bundle on the counter and unfold it. Oddvar has brought me a gray, full-length cloak with a deep hood. Wrapped in the cloak I find what appears to be an old apron. Holding it up, I look at the man.
He reaches for it. “My late wife's,” he says as pulls a pair of scissors from his trouser pocket. “I am sure she would rather this be used for something worthwhile than left to dry-rot in a drawer. In a matter of moments, he finishes cutting and hands a piece of the apron back to me. I can't help but smile; Oddvar has fashioned a mask from the material.
I tie the mask around my face; it covers everything from my nose up, including my hair. Only my eyes are visible. Fastening the cloak around my neck, I pull the hood up over my head. “How do I look?” I ask.
“Ridiculous,” Oddvar says, grinning. “It should, however, keep your true identity hidden and that is what matters.”
I smile. “Now, I just need to find the Valkyries.”
“They are rumored to be across the sea in Sweden, somewhere south of Strömstad,” he tells me.
“Then, that is where I must go.”
Oddvar embraces me. “Good luck, my friend. May you rescue your sister and may your efforts shorten the war considerably.”
He returns to his mopping as I leave. Outside, I pull the flute from my belt and begin playing the song of the birds again. Despite what lies ahead, I can't help but smile as I receive the gift of flight once again.
It is near dusk when I land near Strömstad. I remove the flute and begin to play another tune. Quickly and quietly I am off running toward town, the song of the wolves encouraging my stamina.
The town is livelier than it should be due, in part, to the presence of the Nazis. Before entering, I pause behind an outbuilding and remove the cloak and mask; I'm not ready to draw attention to myself just yet. I would prefer to find out where my sister and the other Valkyries are before making my presence known.
I wander through the town trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. There are more Germans than I expected, but tunes are already forming in my mind to handle them. Passing by a tavern, raucous singing drifts through the walls like a phantom. I push open the door and step inside.
Several patrons glance my way—all wearing German uniforms—so I greet them in our native language. It is enough to turn them back to their own business which consists of drinking beer and singing. I look around, hoping for a glimpse of Gerta, then push my way to the bar. At the center of the singing is the most wickedly attractive woman I have ever seen. For a moment, I forget my mission.
The newsreels did nothing to reveal how much more beautiful the Baroness was in the flesh. Her entire appearance screams “seduction,” from the ebony curls that surround her near-perfect face to her masterfully-shaped figure. Slightly curved horns of deep crimson peek through her hair and black, feathery wings, like those of a raven, protrude from her back. Although it is unseen—obstructed from view by the table—I know a long, serpentine tail extends from the base of her spine (it was visible in the newsreels). As I pause to stare, her eyes meet mine and I can feel her will trying to overcome my own. My hand drifts toward the flute and when contact is made, I find the strength to look away.
Someone at the table makes a crude comment, drawing her attention from me for the moment, so I make my way back to the door. I feel her searching for me and know I am seen just as the door begins to close behind me. There is barely time to duck around the corner and into the shadows between the buildings before I hear the door open. A voice seems to whisper in both my ear and my mind.
“I will find you.”
Now, more than ever, I feel the urgency to find Gerta. I just don't know how. An idea pushes through the uneasiness of the mind. I move quietly and try to put as many buildings between myself and the tavern. All the while, my fingers are dancing across the flute seeking their proper place before I begin to play.
If my dear sister truly is connected to nature…I begin playing the call of the wild. Like the piper of Hameln, if she is drawn by the music, I try to lead her away from town. I pray this works.
Standing in the center of the road, I wait to see if the music had the desired effect. I don't have to wait long.
“Where is that music coming from?” asks a female voice.
“From up ahead,” a second voice replies. “I think.”
Neither voice sounds familiar, not that I would recognize my sister's voice after so many years. I continue playing.
“Nixe. Waldgeist. Berchta. What are you doing out here? Where are you going?” another voice asks.
Waldgeist? That is what they called Gerta in the newsreel. My heart skips a beat. My beloved sister is near. I start to call her name when another voice—a harsher voice—speaks.
“What are you doing, my Valkyries?” Baroness Dämonenherz demands. “You know the penalty for disobedience.”
“But, Baroness,” the first voice says. “It is like we were drawn here.”
“We heard…music.”
Surely, they hear the drumming of my heart. Despite the years that have passed since Momma's death, the sound of that new voice is so similar to her's it can only belong to my dear Gerta. My will is nearly not strong enough to keep me quiet. Only the words of the baroness hold my tongue.
“Music?” she asks. “So, you came out here to dance in the moonlight to the music of phantoms? What of you, WeisseFrau? Did you hear this geist music as well?”
The woman responds softly. “It was very soft to me,” she admits. “I thought it was coming from a neighboring house. I felt no compulsion to discover its origin.”
“The music,” it is my sister's voice again. “It was like something calling to us from nature itself.”
No one says anything, yet, again, I hear Baroness Dämonenherz whisper in my mind. “It is you. Somehow, you are doing this. I shall find you.”
It is only a matter of time before her taunt becomes truth.
A song fills my mind, but not an abstract collection of notes like the others. It is one I recognize as a piece by Strauss. I begin playing “Unter Donner Und Blitz” and focus only on the baroness.
“Listen,” one of the Valkyries says. “I hear more music.”
“I hear it as well,” the baroness replies. If her intention was to speak further, her words do not come.
A clap of thunder peals overhead and a bolt of lightning strikes the earth at her feet. All five women are thrown to the ground.
I let the song die as I rush to my sister's side, hoping she is uninjured. A new arrangement of abstract notes forms in my head. I begin to play a song of freedom.
They are already stirring when I reach them. Only Baroness Dämonenherz appears unaffected by the tune. For the briefest of moments, Gerta looks at me. In her eyes I see a glimpse of recognition. Before either of us can speak, however, the baroness strikes.
The force of her blow sends me flying several feet; I hit the ground and feel a rib crack against a large stone. The pain is excruciating, but to lay here is to accept death at her hands. I just found my sister; I refuse to die.
“You,” the succubus snarls. “You are the one from the tavern.”
I can feel her unholiness as she approaches. My stomach churns, but I scramble to my feet. She doesn't seem to realize the music continues to play.
“Perhaps your death will bring silence.”
Or, maybe she does.
“Gerta,” I call as I try to back away from my would-be murderer.
“Who are you?” the baroness demands.
“I…I am the Grim Piper.” I find strength in my proclamation. “I am here to free these women from your control and put an end to your destruction.”
I have never heard such a bone-chilling laugh in my entire life. Nothing this side of Hell could sound as evil. I truly believe the baroness is a succubus Hitler has summoned from the Abyss.
“The only ending here will be your life,” she says and lunges at me.
I try to dodge, but the broken rib hampers my movement. She is on me before I can react, her weight driving me back to the ground. I try to rise and shake her off, but something encircles my throat and keeps me from freeing myself; it is her tail.
The baroness grabs my mask and her nails dig into my cheek as she rips it off. I fight the urge to scream.
“Who are you?” she snarls. Bending close enough so I feel her hot breath on my face, she stares at me. My stomach sinks when she begins to grin. “You are related to Waldgeist. I see the resemblance—siblings, I believe. Perhaps I shall release her mind…just long enough for her to watch me rip your heart out. Tell me, brother of Gerta, what is your name?”
“Ernst?”
The voice that answers is not mine. Thorn-covered vines burst forth from the earth and entangle Dämonenherz's tail. She screams and loosens her grip on my throat.
“Ernst,” Gerta says with more certainty. “Get away from my brother!” she shouts. More thorns burst from the ground, this time encircling her arms, pulling her from me.
Two pairs of hands grab my arms. I look up to see Nixe and Berchta dragging me from Baroness Dämonenherz's grasp.
“Are you alright?” Nixe asks me.
“I will be,” I reply.
Gerta hurries to my side as I stand. “Ernst? Is it really you?”
I nod and pull her to me. “I was afraid you wouldn't recognize me.”
My sister smiles. “You remind me of Uncle Adalgar…and of Father.”
WeisseFrau hits the four of us with a blinding ray of light. “I knew you weren't loyal to the Fuhrer!” she screams.
Instinctively, Berchta raises her hand creates a wall of ice between us and WeisseFrau; it also separates us from Baroness Dämonenherz. Nixe draws the moisture from the evening air and creates a small wave to push the Nazi women further away.
“We must leave this place,” Gerta says.
“Yes,” the other two agree. “We wanted nothing to do with any of this.”
As much as I would like to take them and leave, I know we would never be safe. “This must end here,” I tell them. “We have to stop those two.” Almost as though to emphasize my words, the baroness begins pounding on the wall of ice.
“Can the three of you handle WeisseFrau?” I ask.
“Yes,” Nixe replies, “although I think she is still under Dämonenherz's spell.”
I think for a moment. “Free her if you can, but you must prevent her from aiding the baroness.”
“What about you?” Gerta asks. “Are you sure you can stop the baroness?”
A song fills my mind. I smile. “I believe so.”
Nixe uses the moisture in Berchta's ice wall to form a geyser that knocks WeisseFrau from the sky. The young woman hits the ground and her former companions are there to subdue her.
Baroness Dämonenherz pushes easily through the weakened ice wall. The rage that has built up inside her mars the beauty and the allure she previous displayed. “I shall kill you all and feast on your souls.”
“I think not,” I reply, taking a step back and putting the flute to my lips. I take a deep breath, ignoring the pain in my side, and begin to play.
Initially, the succubus stands confused. “What is this?” she asks, taking an involuntary step back.
Emboldened by her reaction, I continue to play until I am certain the effect will continue on its own. The music still fills the air as I lower the flute. “It is a piece by Georg Frideric Händel entitled “Behold The Lamb Of God,” I inform her. “It is from his masterpiece, “Messiah.”
Aside from her rage, another emotion now appears on her face: fear. “End this noise, now, or I shall rend you live from limb and keep you alive while I do so.”
“You have no power here,” I tell her. “If so, you would already be—how did you put it—feasting on our souls.”
“Hexe!” a voice screams as a bolt of pure light strikes the baroness. Her hold over WeisseFrau is broken, as well. “You made me kill my family!”
“WeisseFrau, no!” It is Gerta.
Before we can react beyond words, WeisseFrau tackles the succubus and holds on for dear life. Her body begins to glow, the light growing brighter with each passing second.
“Gerta, cover us with the densest cover you can create,” I shout. “Everyone, close your eyes and do not open them until I say so.”
Conditioned to follow orders, the remaining Valkyries do as I say. We huddle together and I pull my cloak up over our heads for further protection. The light is still blinding, despite our precautions, until, suddenly, everything goes black.
“Open your eyes,” I say before I uncover our heads.
“Everything is blurry,” Berchta says.
“It will clear soon,” I promise.
Nixe begins to weep. “Oh, Claramond,” she sobs. “Why?”
I glance at Gerta.
“WeisseFrau's true name,”she tells me.
Uncovering our heads, we look to where WeisseFrau and Baroness Dämonenherz lay only moments ago. All that remains is the scorched outline of Claramond; of the baroness, there is no trace.
“Can we go home, now? Berchta asks. Her voice is weary and filled with sorrow and regret.
“Home, as you once knew it, is no more,” I tell her and the others. “It has changed, you have changed, the world has changed.”
Gerta puts her arm through mine and rests her head on my shoulder—just like she used to when we were children. “Then, what shall we do? Where can we go?”
I take a deep breath. Up until a few minutes ago, I didn't know if this moment would even come. Now that it is here, I respond from my heart.
“I will help you go anywhere you want,” I say, slowly. “As for me, I am going to remain in Europe and do everything in my power to resist the warmonger, Hitler, and his Nazi thugs. If you want, I would appreciate the help; if not, however, I understand.”
There is silence and I prepare to go on with my mission alone.
It is Gerta who breaks the silence. “I go where you go,” she tells me. “I lost you once; I will not lose you again.”
We look at Nixe and Berchta. They nod.
“We will go with you, as well,” Nixe says.
“But, don't call us Valkyries any more,” Berchta demands. “I will not answer to the name that monster gave us.”
When we become the thorn in the Nazi's side, they will call us something. If so, I believe it should be a name of our choosing. “Let them know us as what we shall be,” I say. “Let Hitler and his men know they face…”The Resistance.”