The Vanishing of Katharina Linden

hounds were loosed, and with a cacophony of howls and the strident note of a hunting horn the hunt sallied forth. The Lady, her heart overflowing with the bitterest pain, cried out after him, ‘I wish you may hunt forever!’

“The day passed, evening came, and at last night fell, and there was neither sight nor sound of the young man, nor of his great stallion and his pack of savage hunting dogs. A week passed, then a month, and at last a year had turned around, and still the young man did not come back.

“When the old mother died, the castle fell into ruins, and in the course of time it became as it is now, a heap of moss-covered stones, overgrown with weeds, with trees thrusting up through its former courts and halls. But the huntsman’s soul knew no rest; it was condemned to roam forevermore in the woods and chases where it rode to hounds in life.”

Herr Schiller leaned a little closer. “They say that he still rides out of the old castle on moonlit nights. Poor tattered soul, not knowing or remembering why he is there or what he seeks, restlessly roaming the forests- forever-”

“He’s still there?” interrupted Stefan. “Has anyone seen him?”

“In some of those lonely houses at the edge of the forest, people have lain in bed at night shivering, listening to the sound of hoofbeats and the howling of dogs as the hunt passes by,” said Herr Schiller. “But none would dare go out to meet him.”

“They didn’t look?” interrupted Stefan. He shook his head. “Angsthasen. I would’ve looked.”

I could see what he was thinking, and what my mother would have to say about it: No, you may not sit up until midnight on the Quecken hill; what are you thinking of, when we still don’t know what happened to poor Katharina Linden? And you’d be fit for nothing in the morning…

With a sigh I picked up my cup and took a sip of cold coffee. The spectral huntsman was cursed to roam the woods for all eternity; it seemed I was cursed to be haunted by StinkStefan for at least as long. And much though I enjoyed Herr Schiller’s storytelling, it did not seem as though we were getting any closer to the truth about Katharina’s disappearance.

I looked at Stefan and Herr Schiller, who were deep in a discussion about the likely route the eternal huntsman would have taken, Stefan drawing it out on the coffee table with his finger. They seemed to have temporarily forgotten me, which only added to the sum of my woes. Summer seemed a long, long time away.

Chapter Fifteen

Of course, it was Stefan who broached the idea of going up to the Quecken hill at night; knowing my mother’s probable response, I would as soon have thought of asking to ride the train into Koln to go nightclubbing.

I thought it might be possible to visit the castle ruins in the daytime; we might even tell my mother it was for a school project. But Stefan was adamant that there would be no point in going up there if we couldn’t go at night.

“You know,” he said suddenly, “we should go up there on Walpurgis eve.”

“Stefan…” I began reluctantly; the entire concept was so unrealistic as to be not worth considering. But he was already caught up on a wave of his own enthusiasm.

“No, really. We must.” His eyes were shining; a lock of his dirty blond hair fell over his face and he brushed it back impatiently. “It’s the witches’ night, right? If there’s anything to see, it has to happen then.”

This made sense to me, but still did not get over the fact that it would take some genuine magic to get me out of the house and up the Quecken hill at night.

“My mother is never going to let me go up there after dark,” I pointed out.

“Can’t you make up some excuse?”

“Like what?” I could not think of any possible circumstances under which it would be allowed.

“We’ll-we’ll say we’re going to put up a Maibaum.”

“A Maibaum?” I had to admit this was a stroke of genius.

A Maibaum-or May tree-was a tree, usually a young silver birch, chopped off at the base, the branches decorated with long streamers of colored crepe paper. Every village in the Eifel had one on May Day, but it was also a tradition that young men would put a Maibaum up outside the house of their girlfriend on the night before May Day, so that she would see it when she got up in the morning. This meant that the last night of April had to be the only night of the year when half the youth of the town could be creeping about in the small hours with legitimate cause. All the same…

“Who would we be putting a Maibaum up for?” I asked. “And, anyway, girls don’t usually put them up at all.”

“Easy,” said Stefan, who was obviously developing the plan at breakneck pace. “We’ll say we’re helping my cousin Boris.”

“Hmmm.” I still had my doubts.

Boris was a hulking monster of an eighteen-year-old, with long hair that looked as though it had been styled with motor oil, and mean little eyes so deep-set that they seemed to be peering at you through slits in a helmet. As far as I knew he had no girlfriend and, even if he had, he did not give the impression that he would be the sort who offers flowers and opens doors and puts up May trees. Certainly, I couldn’t imagine him asking two ten-year-olds to accompany him on a romantic mission of that kind. Still, in the absence of any more inspired idea, I agreed to suggest the plan to my mother.

“Schon,” said Stefan airily, as though it were already fixed. He got to his feet. “Come on, let’s go and ask her now.”

“Absolutely not,” said my mother, predictably. Both Stefan and I stood before her in the kitchen, like two kindergarten kids getting a ticking-off from the teacher. My mother had been in the process of frying some meat for a casserole, and the neglected pan sizzled alarmingly behind her as she faced us.

“But, Frau Kolvenbach,” said Stefan in the polite voice he used with such good effect upon susceptible adults, “we’d be going with my cousin Boris.”

His efforts were wasted, however; my mother was flint-hearted. “I don’t care, Stefan. Pia isn’t going out God- knows-where after dark.”

“Boris is-” began Stefan, but my mother cut him off.

“Boris is going to have to put up his May tree by himself,” she retorted. She eyed Stefan skeptically. “Is Boris that tall boy from the Hauptschule, the one with the long hair and the biker jacket?”

“Yes, but-” began Stefan again, but in vain.

“Then he looks quite big and hefty enough to carry his own Maibaum,” said my mother with finality. I opened my mouth to say something, but she raised her hand warningly. “No, Pia. The answer is no. Now, I don’t want to discuss it anymore,” she added, turning back to the stove. She prodded the meat with a frying fork, shaking her head. “I’m surprised your mother is letting you go out after dark, even with your cousin, Stefan.”

“Um,” said Stefan noncommittally. He looked at me; it was time to make our escape.

Up in my room, we regarded each other gloomily.

“I told you,” I snapped.

He shrugged. “It was worth trying.” For a while we just pondered.

“What now?” I said in the end, in a somewhat listless voice.

Stefan looked up. “I’m going on my own, of course.”

“Really?”

“Well, your mother’s never going to change her mind, is she? I can tell you all about it afterward,” said Stefan. And I had to make do with that.

As it happened, the last day of April 1999 was a Friday, which lent an advantage to Stefan’s plan; should his mother choose that day to shift a little within the haze of smoke and alcohol in which she was always enveloped,