Between two rows of weathered gravestones stood Marit Nyborg.
The garden shears in her hand snapped softly as they cut through nettle stalks, morning dew beading on the blades. Her fingertips were stained green. In the woven basket at her feet lay a half bundle of freshly cut leaves, dark and glistening with dew.
The stranger knelt barefoot beside her. The cold, damp earth clung to her toes, yet she seemed not to notice. On her face lay a look caught between wonder and reverence, as if she were witness to a sacred act. She followed every movement Marit made with sharp attention, as though she could learn from it what was of value in this strange new world.
“Well, look at that,” muttered Sven, who had sat longer in the car with his aching leg than he would have liked and only now saw Marit. “The spinach witch.”
Marit turned. Her gray eyes flashed as they settled on Sven. Her gaze drifted lower and lingered on the small belly pressing against his shirt.
“A little more spinach and less of that candy you stuff into yourself wouldn’t hurt you, dear Sven.”
Katja laughed softly. Sven only twisted his mouth.
“Ah, Marit… always a fountain of inspiration.”
“Some truths taste bitter. Like nettle tea. But they work.”
A warm gust of wind rushed through the branches of a nearby elm, tugging the long scarf from Marit’s head. It slipped down, and silver-gray strands tumbled free, brushing her face. She did not push them back.
“And you’ve found a lost soul.”
“A what?” Katja raised her brows. She ignored the quiet “Amen” Sven muttered.
Katjas hands pressed to her back for support; lately her aches had been more frequent. Early June was unusually warm, but she knew how quickly the weather could change here. Between the gravestones hung the scent of damp stone and old leaves, and yet there was something more in the air: a trace, like fine salt settling invisibly on her skin.
Marit nodded toward the figure now placing dandelion leaves into the basket. “I mean her.”
Sven shifted his weight, as if he didn’t want to rely too much on his cane. Katja couldn’t tell if it was pride, stubbornness, or vanity—likely all three. She gave him a brief look; no words were needed. In that look lay affection and care, never pity.
“And who is she?” Sven asked.
“I don’t know. But she is no murderer.”
Marit stroked the stranger’s dull blond hair gently. “After many years of practice you learn to see people clearly. Yes, she is tangled in something… but murder? No.”
Katja nodded. Marit had spoken her own thoughts aloud.
Sven snorted. “Women…” His voice turned mocking. “Tangled stories, women in stinking rags, struck silent, and a naked man’s body lying not under the earth but on top of it. Huhuuu.”
He gave Katja a playful slap on the backside and brushed a kiss against her neck. “As long as you and I don’t end up with tangled stories tonight,” he whispered, before adding louder, “See if you can get anywhere… with her.” His cane pointed at the stranger. “I’ll head to headquarters and the forensics in Greifswald. Let’s hear what Master Majonika has to say about our find.”
He turned and walked down the narrow gravel path. Katja noticed the stranger’s eyes follow him, widening, round as plates, when he opened the car door.
“She seems afraid of cars,” Katja said quietly. “I can’t simply let her go. She’s the only witness we have. Maybe even in a murder case.”
Marit bent down, arranging the leaves in her basket.
“Witness or victim, who can say. My suggestion: instead of dragging her to Stralsund for questioning, bring her to me first. She can wash, eat, put on clean clothes. I still have things from my daughter Emma. When she moved to Berlin, she left clothes here so she wouldn’t have to travel with a suitcase each time.”
Katja nodded. Together with the two very different women, she walked along the grass-covered path between the graves until the iron gate came into sight.
The stranger hesitated, then put one foot in front of the other, as though leaving the safety of a harbor.
“Come, girl,” Marit said gently. “The sun will soon burn hot, and the nettle leaves must dry.”
The wind stirred the branches above them, a flock of sparrows took flight, and between the old stones lingered the heavy scent of earth and dew.
The woman lifted her head, drew in a deep breath.
“De windes wot, whar mine kinde layeth buryed…”
The words came softly, toneless, spoken more to herself than to them.
Katja stopped short, staring at Marit.
“What did she say?”
Marit shook her head. “That’s no Low German I’ve ever heard. But…”
“The winds know where my child is buried.”
The look she gave Katja said everything: Help me. Please.