Castle of Sighs

by Jennifer Murgia

  “I see someone is feeling better.” Slipping from Niclaus’s little arms is Margret, awake and much too heavy for him to carry. He passes her to me and I automatically press the back of my hand to her forehead, relieved her skin feels cool to my touch. “Come my kindl, you must be hungry.”

  I show Niclaus how to tend the fire, which pleases him beyond measure. He rolls up his sleeves as if he is a man and jabs the logs with an iron poker, while I rummage through the food Laurentz delivered the day before, Margret on my hip. Together, she and I find sacks of flour and large lumpy potatoes, which I wash clean and shred with a grater into a large wooden bowl. There are a half-dozen brown eggs from Eltz’s hen, and soon Margret’s fingers and my own are coated in sticky dough as I help her roll large circles between her palms. We drop the dumplings into the boiling water. It is not long before the kitchen fills with the pleasant smell of Knödel, a dish Matilde would make on cold, snowy nights.

  When we’ve had our fill and the kitchen is tidy once again, we climb the stairs to the nursery. A candle lights our way through the halls, and our breath forms little clouds in the places not warmed by the kitchen’s fire. Shadows follow at our backs, allowing my thoughts to return to what I believe I saw in the woods, and all at once my sense of reason proves short-lived and unconvincing. I cannot help feeling as if someone watches our every move, even through the thick walls and closed doors. The children cling to me and I tell myself it is only because they’re cold and tired, that they do not sense what I do. But there is an odd feeling to the air—something old beyond measure. It feels very patient and unsettles me until we are safe behind the nursery door where the lamplight glows against the walls, projecting distorted shadows of the wooden toys against it.

  “Where did you grow up, Rune?” Niclaus is tucked into his bed and while Margret sleeps a few feet away, he is still awake, thumbing through the bound book of pictures I’ve handed him while I build up the nursery fire.

  “I grew up just outside of Württemberg, in a very small cottage.”

  “I don’t know where that is.”

  “It’s far south of here.” I settle myself at the foot of his bed and smooth the quilt over his feet. “It’s hard to picture where things are when you’ve never seen them with your own eyes. When I was young, I would hear stories of grand castles and towns while I visited the market near my village, but I never quite knew where to begin to find them, so I’d picture them in my mind.”

  He folds the book closed and lets it rest upon his small chest. “Can you tell me about your home? I’d like to picture it, too.”

  I nod in agreement but a lump forms in my throat just as I begin. Revisiting the forest, even in my mind, holds a sweet bitterness, but now, as I do this for him, I find the words come easily, for I’ve missed it terribly. “Close your eyes, Niclaus. Now, picture a thick forest of green behind your lids. Let it stretch far and wide, larger than any grouping of trees you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”

  “Can I picture the forest that lies just outside Pyrmont?”

  “You may.” But remembering how timid he’d seemed, I don’t admit it is one and the same. “Now, picture yourself walking past evergreens of the most beautiful emerald. Let your feet crush the soft carpet of pine needles and grass. With each step of your shoes, the bright scent of Yule…I mean, Christmas…fills the air.”

  His small face is clenched in deep concentration and I watch with amusement as he tries to inhale the invisible forest I’ve just described. “I can’t smell it, Rune.”

  “Try harder.” I gently wave my hand between us and will the forest to life in front of his closed eyes, projecting the exact memory I myself carry, and my heart beats with glee. I’ve refrained from using my magick in front of the children for fear of scaring them. Especially Niclaus. But I want him to experience the forest as I had, to feel and smell all the wonders of it, not fear it as he did earlier.

  He gasps. “I can smell it!”

  Margret stirs just then. “Hush, Niclaus. You don’t want to wake her.”

  “How can I, though? It’s as if I am really there!”

  “You must have a vivid imagination.”

  “What else, Rune? Let me see something else.”

  I lean closer. “There is a bubbling stream nearby. Peer into it and see how the clear cool water spills over the stones as it works its way across the forest floor. Can you see the stones? What color are they?”

  “They’re brown and gray, and oh! There are some yellow and red ones, too!”

  “The red pebbles were always my favorite,” I tell him, smiling at the memory we both share. “Now follow the stream to where it flows just beyond the large hemlock and there, between the trees, you’ll see a small, moss-covered roof with a crooked chimney poking through. Do you see it?”

  His eyes tighten in utter determination. “I see it. It’s a funny little building. Did you grow up there, Rune? Was this your home?”

  I nod then realize he cannot see me. I am about to describe more when his brow furrows. “But, this is the Black Forest… it’s not a village.”

  “That’s right. You see, the forest is nothing to fear, Niclaus. You were frightened of it earlier, but it’s my home and it’s beautiful and…”

  With eyes still tightly closed he shakes his head, as if about to argue with me. I lean closer. Something is wrong. My hands grip his shoulders. “Niclaus! Open your eyes.”

  But he doesn’t. His breath quickens and his mouth opens as though trying to speak.

  “Niclaus!” My concerned whisper chafes against the quiet of the room—and then he screams.

  Margret awakens and cries in her bed at the sudden commotion filling the room. I rise to my feet and yank the covers from his body. His limbs twist and contort in terrible spasms.

  “Niclaus! Wake up!” He rolls onto his side, his back bends forward and back again, thrashing. His arms and legs stiffen, fingers splay and clench. Beads of perspiration dot his forehead and soon his bedclothes are soaked through with a cold sweat. Then, as quickly as it began, the fray stops. Niclaus lies still upon the rumpled sheets, his breath raspy and uneven with exertion.

  I wait, breathless, my hands clenched at his bedside. Uncertainty leaves the three of us silent, and the nursery holds still like a giant breath waiting for release. It is a deafening quiet that pulses against us, against the walls, against our skin. And then he opens his eyes. They are cloudy and manic at first. He stares past me, seeing something I hadn’t yet described to him. My heart fills with icy fear as I reach my hand to cover his.

  “You didn’t tell me the woman would be there, Rune,” he whispers. “You didn’t tell me she would be waiting among the trees.”

  I shake my head as my thoughts take over, running wild. Does he speak of my mother? After months of silence I’ve let myself believe the whispers have finally stopped. I’ve left her behind since crossing the stream. The things left unfinished that had driven her were done. I am safe. The bishop is dead.

  Niclaus rises to one elbow. He is shaky and frail and in a matter of minutes I cannot fathom what has just taken control of him. My heart bears the guilt of having suggested he play what I thought to be a simple game. I only wanted to offer a taste of my home. This morning his eyes filled with fear as we approached the edge of the woods. I only wanted to prove the Black Forest is a place of wonder and beauty, not the place of nightmarish tales children grow up with. But it seems those tales hail from a truth after all—and now I am one of those stories.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “What woman, Niclaus? Who are you speaking of?”

  “The one who visited today. She gave me the key. The crone.”

  The word crone sends my stomach careening to the floor. It is one I’ve despised my whole life, for it has only ever been used in my presence when someone sought out the cottage for something they wanted. A fortune. A birth. Money. Love. Revenge.

  The nursery walls close in around me, suffocating the very breath from my thro
at. “Did she say her name? Did she tell you who she was?” I wring my hands and will them to stop trembling. Niclaus blinks, clearing the haze from his eyes, then sits up on his own and nods. “She’s been waiting, too.”

  “Who? Tell me who.”

  He looks me square in the eye and his small voice chimes out into the quiet. “Matilde.”

  Chapter 9

  It cannot be. I saw Matilde dunked in the village stream with my own eyes. I’d hidden that night behind the blacksmith’s tools, shivering with fear, as the bishop’s guard pulled her from the dark water and removed the stones they’d used to weigh her down. That night had closed in around me, cloaking me as I followed the men across the prickly hedge and into the village. Through my tears I’d watched as they hoisted Matilde’s drowned body upon the cart and taken her away.

  But how? How could Niclaus have seen her? I’ve never once described the woman who’d raised me. But perhaps I didn’t have to. My own heart had been heavy tonight. Matilde had certainly been in my thoughts. She was present as the wind howled outside the kitchen shutters and little Niclaus tended the fire. She was with me as I taught Margret how to roll the dumplings. I felt her as the sun disappeared behind the trees and the night awoke around us, as the kitchen filled with a glorious aroma, as the log crackled away in the fire. I know well that the power of thought is a strong tool. I should have known better than to engage in such a game.

  As soon as Niclaus’s chest rises and falls with sound slumber, I take what is left of the candle and steal downstairs into the cold depths of the castle. Only embers are left in the kitchen hearth yet I ignore them, pacing the chilled floor. My skin is cold with sweat as my mind races to come to a conclusion—a possibility—that what Niclaus said is even plausible. But I know better than to wonder. I know the dead come back from their graves. They seek the living to do their bidding. I know firsthand that it is possible.

  “Why?” I whisper out loud. “Why would you appear to Niclaus? Why not to me?” My ears strain for Matilde to step from the shadows and answer me, but nothing comes. Panic overwhelms me that someone is playing a devious game, preying upon us as we wait for Laurentz to return. And why not? My entire life has been about fear—living in hiding, keeping still, ever watching lest I turn my back and fall victim to another. Someone knows I’m here, that I hold the deed to Pyrmont. Perhaps it is a former associate of the bishop, come to take from me what they don’t believe I should own. A girl, a witch, to own something other than her own reputation is unthinkable. Even if Pyrmont is rightfully mine there are countless people who believe I should not own it. I have no right to play Lady of Pyrmont for I am no lady. I am a vile thing that should have been destroyed long ago.

  Niclaus, however, is an innocent. He has no reason to lie about what he sees. He has not yet grown enough to question or judge what his mind conjures, even if it is with the help of another—like me.

  I, on the other hand, have been tainted. My soul fears the devious trickery of others. There is only one person I’ve learned to trust, and that is Laurentz. Would I even recognize my beloved Matilde had she come to me herself? After months of enduring whispers from my own mother, would I see Matilde as anything more than a specter? Her soul is but a lost woman come to find her way home—only she has no home to return to. The bishop’s men burned it down.

  The kitchen walls feel as if they are closing in on me. There is only one remedy that will clear my mind. I gather a few items from around the room—a bundle of White Sage, a white wax candle, Basil leaves, Cinnamon and a small plate. Then, I drop to my knees before the fire, coaxing the embers to grow and blaze bright. I assemble the tiny altar, placing the offerings on the floor according to how I believe they should be laid out, for I’ve never in all my life Cast my own circle, but this feels… right, as if I’ve done it before, long ago. And with the warmth of the Sacred Mother’s blessing, I begin.

  “Protect me, Great Mother Goddess, for I am your servant. Bless me with your sweet protection. Calm my fears. Give me strength. Give me the power to banish the darkness I feel watching from afar. Let me face it and keep those I love safe.” I light the Sage and let the room fill with its sweet scent, purifying any lingering fear the children, or I, have left behind. I lay the Basil leaves across the plate knowing Matilde taught me of its ability to dispel negativity, and sprinkle Cinnamon into the candle’s flame. Then, I close my eyes and envision a white-blue light around me. When my resolve strengthens, I open the door and let the frigid night claim the very last warmth of the fire. Plucking my shawl from the hook nearest the door, I wrap it tightly about my shoulders and disappear into the night.

  I have brought nothing to light my way, yet strangely, I can see with absolute clarity as I pick my way down toward the forest’s edge. The bottles I’d spied earlier knock gently against one another, swaying in the crisp breeze. And while the sky is an endless sheet of pitch, the glass hums softly with color—of an iridescence that is remarkably vivid against the deep, green boughs. Six bottles hover above the ground on various lengths of twine. I study them for a moment, trying to understand what I see. Haphazardly tied, I cannot distinguish any sort of pattern in them, or why they’re hung as they are. Oddly still, my skin is not affected by the cold, as if my utter disbelief and intrigue is enough to keep me warm.

  My hand reaches out to touch the first swaying bottle. It is about the length of my hand, resembling a blue sky, but in the dark it is the color of a storm. There is no mistake that it is indeed a bellermine. I grab it and still it from swinging back across the threshold of the forest, all the while keeping a close eye on the trees in front of me. Whoever watched me is gone now but that does not stop my senses from being on high alert. I listen for the telltale snapping of twigs, of rustling underbrush, or breathing—but thankfully, I am alone in the darkness, protected by my incantation.

  What lies at the bottom of the bottle appears to be a tangled mess. Taking a portion of the twine, I swing it toward the nearest tree trunk, severing its neck. The vessel itself is not destroyed, simply opened, and I spill the contents into my waiting palm. My hand tingles with my newfound prize and I pocket it all deep within my dress to inspect once I’ve returned to the kitchen. I do the same for the other bellermines, smashing them and collecting all they hold. When my mission is complete, I make my way through the thick snow, wondering if it is possible that whomever left the witch bottles for me to find wishes harm to me and the children, and once my feet land upon the stone steps of Pyrmont a resilient plan solidifies inside my head. I must protect my home as it protects me.

  My childhood training comes back full force—of gathering and harvesting only what Matilde and I needed to survive, giving thanks to the Sacred Mother for her gifts. I send silent gratitude to the sturdy walls of my new home. Along a jagged stone I scrape my index finger and trace my blood across the exterior wall of the great castle, marking it with protective Bind Runes. I’ve memorized all the stones that lie within Matilde’s old rune stone pouch. I know the symbols and the meanings well now, having spent hours learning them on my own. Over and over again, I trace the symbols—protection, balance, love—for these are the signs my heart wishes to live by each and every day. I layer the symbols on top of one another rather than separately, instilling power, casting with all my soul that the marking is a strong enough seal against harm. I do so around the castle, until I am confident the old runes will guard us.

  At last, I latch the door against the night and retrieve the contents of the witch bottles, spreading them onto the table so that I might inspect each one—and my heart nearly stops. Before me are items I myself have offered to the Goddess over the last year—a spoon, an acorn, flat round river stones of the most brilliant red ochre I’ve ever seen. There are others that are quite peculiar—masonry nails and tea leaves. I bring the leaves to my face and inhale. Is it possible the Sacred Mother has been with me all along? That I’ve never truly been on my own since having lost Matilde to the lies and judgment of the men
in the village square?

  I rifle through the items one by one, careful not to jump ahead, for as rune stones are read, the ingredients of a bellermine must be read one item at a time, and with patience. Matilde would be proud that I’ve learned patience. I was never very good at it. But I frown in confusion. I’d always thought a witch bottle was to contain that which belonged to a witch to keep her from harming a person or place. All of these items seem to be something of mine. And if the spell guarding the bellermine was done properly, I would not have been able to enter Pyrmont. Yet here I am.

  The extraordinary notion that Matilde protects me, even in death, sweeps over me. That perhaps the Black Forest’s tales harbor truth—and that even though I am a witch, I am not safe among the trees I still call mine. Have the bellermines been hung to keep the witch safe? “But safe from what?” I ask out loud.

  It is then that my eye catches the one thing that stops my heart. There, wrapped amongst the treasures is the most familiar of them all—a lock of gray hair, Matilde’s hair, still wet from the dunking.

  Chapter 10

  The offering has been given. So mote it be… I will not be Cast out with sigils and spells. I am the one and only. I am the darkness that dwells in the witch’s soul. Look deep, dear child, find me. For you shall be my queen, dear Rune, and together we shall reign.

  Chapter 11

  The angry wind outside the castle whips against the shutters and the doors, searching with all its might to find its way through the cracks and small openings I’ve left unguarded. I feel this darkness has followed me since my mother’s whispers ceased, keeping close watch from the moment I crossed the stream in the forest. And I have tried to ignore it, for my life has been a whirlwind since then.