My sister held my fate right under my nose in the shape of two matchsticks.

“There’s twelve nights in total, Grete. We can alternate,” I replied, leaning closer to the fire in the hearth, warming my hands.

“But we have to pick someone to go first,” she explained. “Isn’t that right, Ohm?” Our old Ohm sat humming softly in the corner, making willow baskets Grete and I would be taking to the market come spring.

“I’m the oldest, so I’ll go first,” I said and stood, adjusting the juniper and mugwort in the smoke holder on the mantle. “Like I do every year.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something in the window. I spun around, examining the glass and relaxed when I saw a willow branch brushing against it.

“And have the Wild Hunt get a hold of you? Absolutely not. We’ll pull matches fair and square,” Grete insisted.

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. But don’t cry for me, when Frau Perchta comes and gets me for my laziness.”

“You spun way more yarn than I did this year, Alrun. Frau Perchta will reward you, if anything.”

She shot me a gap toothed smile. I didn’t return it. In the twelve nights between the winter solstice and the new year one could never be too sure. Especially not on this night, the longest and darkest of them all.

I pulled a match and Grete opened her palm, revealing that she had the longer one. I tossed mine into the fire, the flames turning it to ash before I reached for the pot suspended over the hearth. Like Perchta asked of us, I fixed the witch a bowl of gruel made of milk and old bread, praying the absence of cinnamon wouldn’t seal our fate. Perchta preferred spiced offerings, but with not only the winter winds, but war raging outside, we were lucky if we made it to the new year alive. I put a wooden spoon inside, careful to place it facing up so Frau Perchta and the dead she was roaming the streets with could eat without unleashing her wrath onto our household.

Grete clung to my side when I opened the door, icy winds tugging at my hair. I gently pushed my sister back inside.

“Close the door and do not open it again until I come back, no matter what you hear. Do you understand?”

Grete’s skinny body shivered and I took that as a yes.

The way to the gate was only a few steps, but each was filled with darkness that could not be trusted. Grete did as she was told and I pulled my scarf tighter around my shoulders. The wind blew around the corners of the buildings, biting into my skin and rustling the tree branches above. Carefully, not to slip on the snow covered pathway, I set one foot in front of the other until I reached the gate. I placed the wooden bowl into the snow, a tight circle of water melting around it. I checked the spoon one last time then headed back to the house.

A rustle in the bushes made me stand ramrod straight. The wind picked up and my heart hammered in my chest, my gaze frantically flicking from side to side, looking for any dead souls that were coming to snatch me from right outside my old Ohm’s house. My feet crunched over the snow faster and faster, until a pair of hands grabbed me and brought me to a halt. Something cold and smooth pressed against my throat.

“Not a word,” a man’s voice grazed the shell of my ear. My throat bobbed and the blade nipped my skin.

“Who is this?” I whispered.

“I said not a word.” His voice was thick with an accent I couldn’t quite place and he pushed something hard into my spine. “Now move. Toward the house.”

I stumbled forward. When we reached the door I heard Grete on the inside.

“Alrun, is that you?”

“Answer her,” the man growled into my ear and shoved whatever it was harder against my back. I pressed my eyes shut and took a shaky breath.

“Grete, do not open the door,” I called out.

The man flipped me around, pressing the barrel of a musket into my belly. A waft of warm air hit my back and Grete shrieked. I mentally cursed her for opening the door, but the man had already pushed me over the threshold. Grete stumbled out of the way and scrambled for the ladle from the pot in the fire, bracing it like a weapon.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the man said.

The Ohm’s head shot up, disoriented and the intruder kicked the door shut behind us, his boots heavy on the wooden floor.

“Sit down,” he ordered, his head jerking to where the Ohm was, the musket still aimed at my abdomen.

He slipped the knife into his bandolier. I paled. He was a soldier. His grey uniform coat could belong to any army, but no matter what side he belonged to: they were all dangerous, every single one of them. They had brought death and destruction over the land for as long as I could remember with no end in sight.

The Ohm’s head tilted toward the general direction of the door. “Are you a Frenchman?”

“Shut it, old man.” The soldier took a step forward and pointed the musket at him. The Ohm didn’t flinch.

“So, you are,” the Ohm’s voice cut through the fear.

“I said, shut it,” the soldier thundered and cocked his gun. I swallowed and eyed the knife in his bandolier.

“Comment tu t’appelles?” the Ohm asked, undeterred.

“Ohm, stop it,” I hissed and stepped closer to the soldier.

“Jean-Baptiste,” he replied, his voice softer now.

“Well, Jean-Baptiste, you’re lucky to have found a Protestant house. We may not share the same faith, but at least you’re on the right side.”

“There is no right side,” Jean-Baptiste said. “They have taken everything from us. And what they haven’t taken, the plague will.”

“The right side is the one that lets me and my girls live.” The Ohm leaned on his cane and got up. “You don’t strike me as the killing innocents type.”

Jean-Baptiste slowly lowered his musket, eyes fixed on the Ohm. “You’re blind.”

The Ohm stared off into the distance. “You said it: they have taken everything from us. And what they haven’t taken, we will protect with what’s left of us.”

I lunged forward and slipped the knife out of the bandolier, pressing the tip into the side of the soldier’s neck.

“You let us live, we let you live,” I whispered. “Kill us and whoever is on the hunt for you is going to find you.”

Jean-Baptiste choked out a dry laugh. “You’re as good as dead.”

“As are you. You’re a deserter, aren’t you?” I hissed. “Why else would you be lurking in the dark without your company? No satchel no less.”

“I see two girls and a blind old man. I don’t think you have anything to bargain with,” Jean-Baptiste said.

“Leave then. Or kill us. And whoever is on the hunt for you is going to find you. We’re your protection and you’re ours.”

Grete softly shook her head. “Alrun, no.”

I pressed the tip of the knife into his skin, drawing blood, like he had from mine before. An eye for an eye. “You will sit in that corner and we will sit in the other. You will not interfere, you will not try anything and when it comes to it, you will help me protect my sister and the Ohm against the Wild Hunt. In exchange we let you stay here until it is safe for you to go outside.”

Jean-Baptiste nodded, the fear of god, no matter if Catholic or Protestant in his eyes. I loosened the knife and stuck it in my waistbelt. I pulled out a chair and placed it so the Ohm could sit by the fire again, warming his old bones. Jean-Baptiste leaned his musket against the wall close to him and took off his grey army coat, revealing the blue sash and white shirt of the French crown. Grete sat with the Ohm and shot me an angry look.

“You’ll get us all killed, Alrun.”

“You can go and check Perchta’s offering outside tomorrow morning and see if that’s true,” I retorted and squatted by the fire myself. “One of us has to keep us all alive.”

“The war will kill you before any witch and a turned over spoon will,” the soldier's voice came from the corner. My heart sank when I realised how long he had been watching us. He took a step toward the fire as well and I held up a hand.

“That’s far enough.”

“Let him warm himself,” the Ohm said. “Come closer son, I know what it’s like.” He pointed to his eyes. “Gunpowder. I was the only one in the infantry that lived that day.”

The Ohm’s fingers dusted over the little table by his chair and Jean-Baptiste handed him a bunch of willow branches before I could protest. The Ohm took up the work again, nimble fingers weaving skillfully. Grete fetched some of the wool she had spun throughout the year and started knitting. I got up and tended to the smoke holder again. I couldn’t risk any evil spirits getting into the house. Not while the Wild Hunt led by Perchta was roaming through the streets outside. I only stopped adding juniper when I heard Grete cough.

“You know, I could whittle you some useful things in exchange for letting me stay, but I would need my knife for that,” Jean-Baptiste said.

“Forget it,” I spat. “Do you think we’re stupid?”

The old Ohm reached for my belt and I yelped, but he had already handed the knife back to the soldier.

“Show some hospitality, Alrun. The man was fighting alongside people like us.”

“He was also fighting against people like us,” I murmured and peered out the window, the willow trees still brushing against the glass, the darkness outside still eternal. In the back, I could see the gate. French companies or the Wild Hunt, whichever was coming to get us, it would have to pass through there.

“What are you so scared of?” Jean-Baptiste murmured, cutting wooden ribbons with his knife.

“The Wild Hunt,” Grete explained and gently brushed a strand of white hair out of the Ohm’s face. I shivered. I had heard of people who had been spending the twelve nights with Perchta right in their midst. She had snuck in disguised as an old woman, a family member. You could never be too careful at night. The witch was known to shift shapes looking for prey.

“What are they hunting?”

“People,” Grete replied. “Perchta is their leader. She’s guiding the dead through the streets during the twelve nights.”

“Is that why you put the offering outside?” he asked. Grete nodded.

“We don’t believe in that where I come from,” he said.

“What do you believe in then?” Grete asked, starting another row of yarn.

“I believe in death on the battlefield. Companions, weapons. Things you can touch. I have more in common with the soldiers in front of me than with any prince playing chess against the Habsburgs anywhere.”

I looked at him. His face was weathered by war, but he couldn’t have been any older than me. I wondered how much death he had seen and how much he was yet to see in his lifetime.

“If your Wild Hunt is made up of dead people, there must be a whole army of souls out there with the way this war has been going for the past twenty years.”

“That’s why it’s so dangerous.” I leaned against the wall, eyes still fixed on the closed gate.

“Alrun, get away from the window. You’ll catch your death in the draft,” the Ohm scolded and I stepped away. I sighed and closed my eyes, praying the juniper would keep us safe. When I opened them again, my gaze fell on the basket next to the fireplace and I cursed.

“We have to get more firewood, if we want to make it through the night,” I said, rubbing my forehead.

“You went out before to make the offering, I’ll go this time,” Grete said, already placing her needles down.

“You’re not going anywhere.” I pulled my scarf closer around my shoulders again, but Grete’s hands stopped me. She held up three matchsticks in her fist.

“We’ll draw. It’s only fair.”

“You know the Ohm can’t go outside,” I said but Grete shook her head.

“The third one, it’s for him.” She pointed at Jean-Baptiste.

In the night best known for divination of the entire year, fate was curled up in Grete’s fists for all of us once more. I drew a match, the fire crackling lower in the background as if to announce that it was running out of fuel. Jean-Baptiste drew one, too and it was shorter than mine. Grete opened her fist and revealed the longest match yet again. Jean-Baptiste nodded and I watched him as he prayed the rosary by the fire.

“I thought you didn’t believe in the Wild Hunt,” I scoffed.

“I don’t,” he retorted and finished praying, then slipped on his grey coat, pulling it tight around his waist. “But you do.”

Grete rushed to his side, explaining to him that she would close the door as soon as he was out. He nodded, grabbed the basket and stepped outside, the wind clawing at his clothes. As promised, Grete pushed the door shut behind him, a small smile forming on her face. Something cold crept up my spine at the sight and I caught myself worrying for the soldier that had infiltrated our home.

I rushed to the window to check on him. The dark made it hard to see anything and the grey coat didn’t help but he was slowly making his way out to the shed where we stored the firewood. My eyes fell on the gate. It was hanging open, the wood banging low against the palisades.

“Grete, get away from the door,” I yelled and scurried over to her. The Ohm came to stand beside me, leaning on his cane, but I pushed him back deeper into the house as well. There was yelling outside.

“Déserteur,” somebody said and I knew exactly what that meant. For Jean-Baptiste. I put a hand on the door handle, but Grete stopped me.

“Do not open the door no matter what you hear, until I come back,” she repeated my words back to me.

“Grete, they’ll kill him,” I whispered. “Step aside.”

“Yes, they will. But they will kill them, too.” I narrowed my eyes on her. She didn’t look like my little sister anymore. She still had the same face, but there was something off about it. I pushed her body, scrawny from too many starving winters in wartime, to the side and ripped the door open. Harsh winds carried me out the door and scorched the exposed skin on my face.

The willow basket we used for firewood lay dead in the snow. I lifted my gaze and saw Jean-Baptiste. Three soldiers grabbed at his arms and held him in place, another one had a musket aimed at him. They repeated that word again, that French word I knew and I saw the same blue sash around their waists that Jean-Baptiste wore.

Jean-Baptiste’s fearful eyes met mine. I realised only too late that he was looking past me, into the house. Grete pushed past me, the wind becoming more vicious gripping at her hair. She looked wild and unruly. I called out her name but the wind carried it away. Her little feet left imprints in the snow and she let out a blood curdling scream that cut through the night like a scythe. Through the open gate, I saw dozens, no hundreds of figures approaching. My eyes watered, but I couldn’t move.

The Wild Hunt.

The dead that Perchta had collected throughout the year. How many of them were soldiers that had died on the battlefield? My tears dropped to the ground as frozen crystals. I reached for my sister, but she kept screaming and ran towards the dead. I rushed after her, but a cane hit the back of my legs and none other than the frail Ohm pulled me back into the house, locking the door from the inside.

“No,” I yelled, tears running over my face. “Grete. She’s out there.”

The Ohm’s arms closed around my waist and he pressed me into his gaunt body. “She’s lost, Alrun. Perchta took her.”

“Jean-Baptiste,” I sobbed but the Ohm did not need to answer. I heard the horrifying screams from outside. The men did not stand a chance.

♢

The next morning, I went out to look for Grete, stepping over the bodies of Jean-Baptiste and the four French soldiers. A sheen of frost glinted on their features, making them look like death had covered them in precious jewels in the weak sunlight. But my sister was nowhere to be found. When I reached the gate, I saw the offering bowl for Perchta still sitting on the stone. The milky gruel was gone and the spoon was frozen in place, the back of it facing me: our household would suffer immense grief, come the new year.  The first Rauhnacht was best for divination, after all.

♢

April 21, 2026