A Witch's Burden

by D. W. Goates

  Elke lay there, exhausted, thinking about the old woman, but it was not long before she was again fast asleep.

  When Elke next opened her eyes, she was in the forest, with no knowledge of why or how she came to be there. She was running. Her body knifed swiftly through frigid night air, but she was not uncomfortable. Pathless, she coursed beneath high trees, but she could see without difficulty. She was ravenous, and this hunger drove her, ever faster, though to what end she did not know.

  In time she emerged from the wood into a small moonlit glade. There before her in the clearing was a cabin: the cabin. But what cabin? Why, why did this cabin seem familiar to her?

  She ran to it, only to find that the closer she approached, the more unfamiliar it became. The cabin seemed much larger than she remembered—as if a giant dwelled there. Arriving at its great door, she had to look up just to see the door handle, set as it was above her head. Rather than reach for it, however, she stood there aching with hunger, longing for what she knew to be within . . . something warm, something spicy?

  Elke awoke. It had been a dream. Still disconcerted, she was almost startled to find the old woman close upon her. Once more the saucer was offered, but this time it held a warm broth. Hearty and well-seasoned, it was obviously the liquid from some delicious stew. Elke devoured it eagerly until sated.

  This time the old woman stayed, pulling up a chair close beside the bed. Elke had been somewhat restored by the food, and this newfound strength must have shown to her nurse.

  “Where am I?” Elke asked, finally. Her eyes were wide open, but she stared mostly at the ceiling; it still hurt to turn her head.

  “You are in the castle,” replied the woman.

  “The Margrave’s castle?”

  “Indeed. You are his guest. I understand you took a fateful turn on the road . . . You are quite lucky that Drahomir found you.”

  “He found me . . . How did the Margrave find me?”

  “He didn’t, dear. Drahomir is our coachman. Had he not returned from the pass when he did, and if it were not for Sascha’s keen eyes, you would no doubt have died out there in the snow.”

  “The coachman . . .?” asked Elke, wondering aloud.

  “Yes. His name is Drahomir.”

  “No, my coachman . . . What of him? I remember now . . . We were leaving Waldheim . . . There were wolves . . .”

  “You are the only one.”

  After a long pause, Elke again addressed her nurse. “So, you work for the Margrave?”

  “I have for many years. My name is Bogdana.”

  “The people in Waldheim say he is a wicked man.” Elke blurted this before she thought better of it, but was soon put at ease.

  The old woman just chuckled dismissively. “The people in Waldheim say lots of things, but that doesn’t make them true. You should get some rest. I’ll be back to check on you in a while.” Having said this, she collected the bowl and saucer and shuffled to the door.

  “Sorry. My name is Elke. Elke Schreiber. Thank you very much . . .”

  Bogdana turned to her and smiled.

  A week passed before Elke was able to move around on her own without suffering a great deal of pain. During her convalescence, Bogdana had continued to faithfully bring her food and tend to her other needs. Elke now felt most indebted to her nurse and became anxious to do what she could to help out.

  She started by doing little things like straightening the room and doing her best to tend the fire. She even managed some exploring, though soon found herself limited in the endeavor to the three rooms she could access. It wasn’t that she was a prisoner; she was simply incapable in her injured state of navigating down the wide stone stairway she had discovered in the adjacent room. Elke did encounter one locked door; however, given that Bogdana neither arrived nor departed by it, she presumed it to access a storeroom.

  These three adjacent rooms each appeared to span the width of the castle’s outer wall. Having heard Bogdana refer to this place as the “gatehouse,” Elke assumed herself to be located above the main passage to the road. Now, free to stand, she could see it through one of the converted arrow-slit windows by the fire. The staircase, by which Bogdana entered, led to the snowy courtyard. Through another window on the opposite wall from the fireplace, Elke was able to witness her nurse’s comings and goings.

  Bogdana apparently lived in the main house situated across the expansive yard, as it was from this structure that she brought Elke’s food each day. Elke had yet to see any other inhabitant of the castle, but she was able—during her brief mealtime conversations with the old woman—to deduce a basic framework of the castle society. Though smaller than she had imagined, this habitation comprised at the very least the Margrave himself, Bogdana, his maid, a coachman named “Drahomir,” someone who helped him named “Sascha,” and a cook. Bogdana had not named the culinary artist behind the tasty meals she brought, but admitted freely that they were not of her own creation. As to whether anyone else resided in the castle, Elke did not feel comfortable enough to ask.

  One afternoon when Elke went to the window to check the greying sky for snow, she spied a strange figure in the yard: a man surely, by his height, though he wore a great black hooded robe that covered all but his gloved hands. Elke would have thought him quite sinister but for his activity: he was busy clearing snow from odd symmetrical humps. She had noticed these before but had not asked Bogdana about them. These strange humps in the snow were all in rows along one wall on the left side of the yard. When the man picked one up, Elke could see finally that they were domes made of blown glass. Each protected a green plant within. The man was tending some kind of garden. Fascinated, Elke stood there at the window and watched him until the pain forced her back to her bed.

  That evening when Bogdana brought her supper, Elke asked about what she had seen in the yard. This was Paul, Bogdana said—their cook, out in his garden. Of all the inhabitants of the castle, Bogdana knew the least about Paul. This she owed to his broken German and thick, almost unintelligible accent. He was from Scotland and had at one time been a monk of the Benedictine order, which explained his black robe.

  A few days later, following her breakfast, Elke felt well enough to try the stair. Bogdana had returned to her household duties, and the young woman was again feeling cooped with nothing to do and especially nothing to read. She had of late begun to wonder if her other effects were in the room below, and though she still experienced some residual pain, and was by no means ready enough to ask to leave, today she resolved that her three-room-run would no longer suffice.

  Placing her hand upon the wall, Elke made her way carefully down the stairs, only to discover another sparse stone room. Her trunk and bag were nowhere to be seen. It was possible that these had not been recovered from the accident. She would have to ask her rescuer, Drahomir, when she found him. The dress she now wore—the same from the day of the accident—was the only object she owned whose location was known to her. The robe and nightgown that she had been afforded during her convalescence were alien to her.

  She decided to go outside. The door from this lower room to the courtyard was unlocked and opened easily, though the brace of cold air that greeted her was unwelcomed. Seeing no one in the large snowy courtyard, Elke moved as quickly as she could to cross it to the main house. Along the way, she noticed smoke rising from at least three stacks in the main house complex and what appeared to be a carriage house or stable on that same side of the yard, though its doors were closed fast against the elements.

  By the time she arrived at the great metal-bound door to the house, Elke was frozen to the bone. For this reason, and because she considered herself something of a guest if not an inhabitant of the castle, she chose to open the door instead of knocking at its equally great iron dragon-headed ring.

  However, once inside, she immediately regretted this decision. With no one there to receive her, Elke
felt like the intruder she was. In none of her conversations with her nurse had she been invited to the main house, nor given leave to visit it. After closing the door, she stood in the entry for a while, looking around, hoping that someone—Bogdana, especially—had heard her arrival. Her wait was in vain; no one came. The place was quiet as a crypt.

  Dim flames from ornate iron sconces to each side of the entry cast spooky shadows that danced upon the surroundings. Unlike the Spartan gatehouse, even this entry of the Margrave’s castle was sumptuously decorated, though not in any contemporary fashion. A carpet of fine, yet threadbare, material led from the door to the hallway. A tapestry with its draconic family crest hung from the ceiling opposite the door. And a suit of fine Maximilian plate propped up to one side served lifeless sentinel—a corseque grasped menacingly within its gauntleted hand.

  Meekly, Elke announced her presence before daring to explore. “Hello. Hello . . .?”

  Her voice resonated on the stone walls.

  Approaching the cross hall, she asked again, louder than before, though to the same effect. Once at the intersection, Elke stopped and admired a fine polished silver mirror upon the wall before considering which way to go. To the right, the way was shorter, and ended with a door. To her left the wide hallway proceeded for some distance before opening into at least two rooms, one of these appearing quite large.

  She decided to go left in the hope that if there was a spacious room it would be occupied and thus offer her a chance to announce herself properly. A formal introduction might help to excuse her intrusion, but it would work better if she could avoid being surprised in the meantime. Anyone but the Margrave, thought Elke, as she began creeping quietly down the hallway.

  The first room that opened from the hall was an expansive library. A fire roared in the fireplace to her left; opposite it was a switchback stair, ornately carved. Elke had never beheld as many books in one place in her life. Pausing at the entry, she could not help but gaze in awe at the three full stories of books before her. Every wall was covered with them, with the tallest bookcases on the second level twice as high as those below. So high were these above that wheeled ladders were required; she could see three from her vantage, positioned at intervals along a metal tracked railing.

  Elke became at once desperate to peruse the shelves of this library, though she knew it imprudent under the circumstances. Her curiosity, however, made short work of this conflict; the book lover would simply never forgive herself should she miss such a chance.

  Stepping inside, Elke’s eyes were drawn down from the books to a beautiful pattern woven into the carpet, a massive rug whose edges almost reached the walls. Perhaps Persian—it was in any case of central Asian design. Crossing it to the center, Elke could see through the fireplace into another room sharing it on the other side of the wall. She presumed this to be the other large room that opened off of the hallway.

  The furnishings were sumptuous and included—facing the fire—an immense couch, a leather chair, and a small black-lacquered Chinese chest between them. Behind this setting was a great desk of superbly carved mahogany, along with its fine chair in matching style. Copious bric-a-brac completed the scene—on the mantle and about the room and its corners—with each curious piece speaking to the travels, wealth, and influence of its owner.

  One of these caught her eye: a finely etched oil lamp made of brass, burning upon the desk. Its arabesque patterns suggested it was of Middle Eastern origin. When Elke moved closer to admire it, she noticed some papers spread out beside as if their owner had been interrupted in the course of a writing project.

  Intrigued, she examined the papers, careful not to disturb them. What she could see appeared to be stanzas or a canto of some queer poem written in un-rhyming German. Next to these documents were a quill and inkwell, along with sheaves of other paper written in some eastern Asian language, perhaps Chinese. A large scroll sat beside all of this on the edge of the desk. Inspecting it carefully, Elke felt assured of its antiquity. Of neither parchment, nor paper, the scroll was made up of individual slips of bamboo, connected to one another with delicate silk cord. Though tied, the end protruded, allowing her to see the characters printed upon the first few slips.

  He must be translating some Asian text, thought Elke, still peering at the desk as if it were a museum exhibit. “Fascinating,” she whispered.

  Eager to head to the books, Elke was turning to do so when she heard sounds coming from the adjacent room. These echoed through the great fireplace that the two rooms shared. Jarred, the snooper skipped softly back to the entry to avoid being caught.

  With the matter-of-fact air of someone who belonged, Elke then swung around through the hallway and into the next room by way of its wider passage. Still hoping to meet Bogdana, she placed a closed-lipped smile upon her face, but this expression soon turned blank when she discovered that it was not the old nurse in this room, but instead a man.

  There he was—staring down at her from across the room on a narrow, rail-less, stone stair. Though his bent posture made him look somewhat precarious, his expression was one of surprise. He had been descending the stair when Elke appeared, but checked himself at the encounter, just as she had, in from the hall.

  He was an old man of medium height, perhaps in his seventies, yet handsome for his age, statuesque even. His mane of long hair he wore swept back from his face; not yet fully grey, this was streaked and peppered throughout with dark youthful strands. By contrast, his suit was an anachronism: grey, with coat-tails and frills, the likes of which Elke had only seen in paintings. He clung to a four-wicked candelabrum, one candle of which was dark. A moment passed with each assessing the other before Elke broke the silence.

  “Eee, my lord . . . Begging your pardon . . . My name is Elke Schreiber. I am staying in the gatehouse. I came over looking for Bogdana. Or rather, the coachman . . . My things . . . from the accident . . . You see . . .”

  Could this be the Margrave? Wasn’t he supposed to be younger? Her thoughts raced as she stammered on at this man who stood there peering at her over his Roman nose.

  Finally, he interrupted. “You should not be here,” he said, speaking eloquently and with a faint accent. “You are not permitted here.”

  He began to approach as if to arrest her.

  Immediately Elke regretted her misadventure and offered her apologies, “I am very sorry, my lord. I will return to the gatehouse forthwith. But might you send the coachman, Drahomir? So that I may speak with him . . . I had some things which were lost in the accident. One of them was a book: your book.”

  “My book?”

  The man had almost reached her, but he stopped at her last remark; it clearly perplexed him.

  “Yes, your reader . . . the student reader. I found a copy in Waldheim. Exquisite, though the fools refused to allow me to use it.”

  The man’s mouth developed a wry smile. “You think me the Margrave?”

  “Are you not, then, my lord?”

  “I am Arnaldo, his steward. The Margrave receives no callers, especially ones from the village. Being from Waldheim you are fortunate to have received any of his tender mercies. I must ask you to leave now.”

  “But I’m not from Waldheim—” she protested.

  He resumed his approach and began shooing her to the door like a wayward goose.

  It was no use trying to argue the matter. Elke allowed herself to be herded back down the hallway to the door. Arnaldo stayed close behind, ensuring she did not wander.

  At the entry, she tried once more to argue her case. “Could you have the coachman visit me in the gatehouse? Please. It is important. I’ve lost everything I own.”

  “I will send him to you, fräulein, but you must stay put. Do not test the Margrave’s hospitality.”

  With this ominous warning, he then closed the great door behind her, leaving her out in the cold.

  Later that
afternoon, Elke heard the door open downstairs. Presuming at first it to be Bogdana arriving early with the evening meal, she soon suspected a visitor of a different sort from the heavy, deliberate footsteps that followed. This must be the coachman, she thought, though it did nothing to assuage her apprehension, which only grew as he slowly ascended the stair.

  He stopped just outside her door, the intervening pause before his knock providing enough time for Elke to catch her breath involuntarily.

  “Fräulein?”

  “Yes, please come in.”

  In stepped a thin, pale fellow, his face bestubbled. He wore a long, fitted overcoat, which was open, and a wide-brim felt hat with a decorative band.

  “I am Drahomir,” he said in German, but with an accent Elke couldn’t begin to place.

  “You’re the coachman that rescued me!”

  “Aye.”

  “I am in your debt, good sir.”

  “I am pleased to have been of service, fräulein,” he said, bowing his head and sheepishly removing his hat, having forgotten to do so earlier.

  “While it seems now too much for me to ask, is it quite possible that you were able also to recover my things from the coach?” The look on his earnest face at this request gave her instant reproach. She went white, stammering for words. “How gauche . . .” she admonished herself. “The coachman . . . My coachman . . . He was killed, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” replied Drahomir.

  “Did you see it?”

  “I did not see the accident, no. But we must have come soon after. We were returning from the pass and wondered at what had happened. No one from Waldheim travels this road anymore.”

  “What happened? I remember wolves . . .”

  “I saw them—the wolves—just off the road. I knew that they had something—the way they were carrying on. It was only after Sascha noticed the faint remains of your coach’s tracks that we stopped and went back.”