Castle of Sighs

by Jennifer Murgia

  It is such a tempting notion that my hand rests upon the door, ready to open it. But Laurentz asked me to promise I would keep my wits about me, that I would stay safe and use this time to learn more about my home and its secrets. The fog hovers then retreats, and I turn my attention to boiling water for tea because it will not only chase the constant chill I feel here, but settle my nerves.

  I open the grimoire at the heavy kitchen table. The pages crinkle as I turn them, finding the frayed twine I’d used to mark my place. Most of the entries have only confused me thus far. There are entire sections devoted to the mention of landgraves and electorates and battles for sacred land, but I am so limited in what I can glean from the pages. I surmise that Pyrmont has been won many times over, a constant battle for its deed—for to own it, as depicted in an entry a third of the way into the grimoire, was to own everything. The river, the forest, the villages hugging the royal land—was a power like no other.

  As I read, I begin to see that the grimoire itself is a timeline, and before long, I gather that the castle was not one my mother married into, but a stronghold my father inherited upon taking her hand. There is a detailed entry with my parents’ names and along with it, various mentions of words like her and she.

  “Hmm,” I say to the quiet. “This is a witch’s castle.” That Pyrmont has been in my mother’s family all along thrills me. Every stone laid, every pebble and long board of old timber was created for our safety. It reminds me of the shelter I once knew all too well—the tiny cottage in the Black Forest that is nothing but ruin now. But the sacrifice my mother made for me is one that runs deep in my veins. She kept me from being found by the bishop. Banished me from ever knowing Pyrmont and yet, funny, how here I am.

  A witch returned.

  Hours are lost as I immerse myself in the entries of the book. My tea from the morning, half-emptied and ice cold, keeps me company.

  …the room, hidden well from prying eyes…

  …its intent…

  …stained with magick. It feeds from the Keep’s energy, thus fulfilling the alignment of…

  Keep. “What Keep?” I wonder.

  I stand and stretch, easing the tension in my joints and bones from sitting so long. I do not know what the hour is, but long shadows have formed across the hard-packed snow outside the kitchen window. Even now, as I move about, fetching a link of Landjäger from the pantry, I have the urge to carry the grimoire with me, so intriguing are its depictions of life here at Pyrmont. I have spent the day lost in other centuries, forgetting that I am here and alone, and I suddenly miss the children.

  The room echoes a tremendous hush without their bustle and laughter, and I wonder how they’ve likened to Castle Eltz. The thought of the neighboring castle stirs my longing for a certain tall, chestnut-haired boy. In his absence I know now that my heart belongs to him. My finger traces my bottom lip, recalling the tender kiss he’d placed upon it. How secure and warm I’d felt wrapped in his strong arms. How everything inside me responded, quivering as if coming to life for the first time.

  I suddenly feel too far away from him—that tomorrow is too long to wait for him to come back to Pyrmont, back to me, and I grab my cloak from the hook and lace up my boots. Into the chill I step, breathing in the icy air, feeling it cleanse the longing from my mind and my heart. Heavy as it is, I carry the grimoire with me, holding it close within my cloak. I am alone here, yet I dare not leave it unattended for fear it will become enchanted and disappear. I slip into the winter air to allow me to forget the words of the past, just for a little while.

  The purpling sky is the same one that hovers above Eltz. I face the trees, knowing just beyond them is a long road that winds through the trees to the magnificent castle of spires and turrets. But it is as if a living pulse comes from one side, pulling my attention in another direction. I turn to follow it, away from the comforting door of the kitchen and the snow-covered winter garden.

  The pull is so magnetic, as if someone waits for me just beyond the bend, but the snow is smooth here, untouched. No one has passed here. I trudge through the blanket of thick white, through drifts that dip as low as my ankles and rising as high as my knees, up the tree-covered hill that rises behind me and obscures Pyrmont from my view. The pulse beats strongly here as I stop to look around at unfamiliar surroundings, spying a low fence erupting along the horizon. The swirling black iron creates a beautiful, intricate pattern against a desolate white canvas. My eye follows it, tracing the long rectangular area it holds within. A garden, perhaps, tucked safely away from forest animals and then, to my right, an enormous structure beckons. It is covered with long scraggly vines of thorns and brown leaves curled in the winter wind. Clinging to it are thick roots, as large as my wrist and laden with coarse bristles that cling to the stones of the looming tower. I’ve never seen such a building before and I circle around the structure. Its formation is narrow and cylindrical, made of centuries-old stones and obscured by overgrown vegetation. Around one side is a small door, so close to the ground, it is as if the earth has made attempts to devour the opening. Like the door in the dark tunnel below Pyrmont’s floors, the lock does not budge.

  Scouring the ground where the snow does not cover so thickly, I find a large sturdy rock and proceed to hammer away at the rusted padlock. The effort aches my hands, but I keep at it and soon I am rewarded. The lock falls. I push my shoulder into the door. Once. Twice. The third push is enough to open the door just enough for me to slip inside. A heavy sigh escapes the keep. My initial thought is that the sound is a deathly gasp, one aimed at my intrusion. It causes me to still myself, waiting for other noises to make themselves known. But there is only darkness. Peering into the space between the door and the rotted framework I cannot distinguish anything at all. The air is thick with the scents of mildew, forgotten wood, and of vegetation seeking refuge then dying and rotting away.

  The thought of becoming trapped inside, so far from the main castle, unnerves me, so I leave the door open ajar, and then, slowly, I inch my way in and allow my eyes adjust to the dark.

  Chapter 25

  Closer and closer still…

  Come, dear one, for if you seek answers then you shall find me. I have seen many years, have seen many come and go before you, but it is you I wait patiently for.

  Let me be your witness, oh great witch.

  Set me free.

  Chapter 26

  I recall the other name I’ve heard for such a place—Bergfried. I’ve heard others mention such a structure but have never seen one up close for myself, until now.

  Surrounded by old gray stones that bend toward me, I walk amongst large crates of long-forgotten ammunition. Barrels of crudely shaped spheres line the perimeter of the room, waiting for cannons they will never fill, for as long as I am the only one living at Pyrmont what use will I have for them? Who will go to war against a girl, a witch? My enemies would sooner take me by force and burn me in a village square, like they did my mother.

  Bales of hay remind me of the filler stuffed between the boards at the Drudenhaus stake, but instead of sweet meadow hay, these are black with thick patches of wet fungus. The smell is so pungent that I press my hand to my mouth and nose, gagging. I turn away from the foul odor and spy a set of stairs curving high into the neck of the tower. They do not appear very safe but it does not stop me from testing the first step with my foot, listening for what should warn me against climbing them—and climb I do. Holding tight to the flimsy railing, I make my way toward the top, each step groaning in protest.

  There is a simple landing when I arrive, one that juts out into a tiny room with a series of small windows, each barely large enough for my head to fit through. “A watchtower,” I marvel and, although the height causes my head to swim, I am eager to survey what is mine.

  A cold breeze pushes its way through one of the openings and I look out, my hair whipping about my face, the zephyr threatening to yank the warm cloak from my shoulders. I am nearly as high as the tallest tre
es that surround Pyrmont, and then the strangest feeling overwhelms me. A heaving sigh rushes past my face from within the tower, out into the forest, parting the trees which creak and bend. Breathless, I watch an invisible line stretch from where I stand to the other side of the forest. I squint, pushing my senses out as far as they may reach and there, in the distance, I feel it, see it with my own eyes, though it is impossible for me to fathom.

  This window of Pyrmont’s keep aligns perfectly with the tallest turret of Burg Eltz.

  The rush of excitement fills me, telling me that I am not as far from Laurentz and the children as I’d felt earlier. Then I tell myself that the battles I’d read of within the grimoire’s pages were most likely fought between here and there. That at one time or another, Eltz and Pyrmont could have been enemies, keeping watch over one another should a reason for battle arise.

  It all makes sense, and for the moment I am satisfied with the answer. My gaze drifts outward at the castle across the trees. Something moves. Staring back, seeing me as I see it, and then it is gone. Without warning a gust of wind wraps itself about the keep, swirling just beyond the open window. My hair whips violently about my face. There are twigs, leaves, snowflakes… like an angry storm sprang into action the moment I saw the movement across the way, the instant I felt the panic welling inside me.

  Steadying myself, I rest my hand upon the stone sill of the tiny window but I recoil, not expecting the sharp stab upon my palm. I look down to see the head of a long-forgotten spike protrude from the old crumbling mortar, but when I do, my stomach involuntarily lurches.

  Could that be…? It takes a few moments to register and then it becomes clear, sending a sharp taste of disgust to tease the back of my throat. Yellowed with age, sticking out from the splintered, weathered wood is a small fingernail—its gentle curved half bending toward a gnarled snag. It is small enough to belong to a child.

  I am sent reeling backwards, knocking into cobwebs that have refused to be swept away by winds that have managed to make their way into this contained space. My back collides with something solid and my breath rushes out of my lungs. It takes a few moments for me to gather myself, all the while my gaze never straying from the tiny obstruction at the window. It is barely discernible from this distance but I know it is there, and it affects me as if my own nail has been ripped from the cuticle, from the bed of my smallest finger. There is repulsion and sympathetic pain and I cringe involuntarily.

  And then I shake my head and close my eyes. Never in all my life have I found myself so alone. Not in the forest as I escaped from the men who took Matilde. Not even at the Drudenhaus, in the small desolate cell. But here, at Pyrmont, I am more than on my own. I am trapped.

  “That’s it,” I say out loud. “I’m going to Eltz.” If I don’t leave Pyrmont I’ll certainly become one of its many ghosts—forgotten. Only no one will have been left to pen me into the grimoire to tell my tale.

  I rise to my feet, a new determination coursing through my veins. I’ll pack the little I have and begin the trek across the forest—to the children, whom I miss dearly. To Laurentz and his arms, his kisses, his heart. Just as I turn to reach for the top railing to manage my way down the tricky steps, a forceful gale sweeps through the tiny windows, circling around me. I almost lose my footing, so close to falling down the entire flight, but I stop myself, pressing my palms against the uneven walls on either side of me.

  Swirling about, the unholy wind keeps me, like arms holding me still. A captured queen in her tower, and then, inches from my own face is another.

  I open my mouth, unsure what will come out—a scream? My heart beats a furious pace and then, the face is gone and the rustling of papers fills the room.

  “No!” I reach for the grimoire. The pages flutter violently. I am so afraid the small storm will tear them from their binding. But the wind does stop, leaving me completely disheveled and off-balance. Straw and small pebbles lay scattered about. That face, human and yet inhuman, has rattled every nerve inside me.

  “Sacred Mother…” I begin a meager petition to keep me safe, sane, but my words fumble inside my head. Too much has forced its way into my conscience—the spying figure at Eltz, the fingernail, and now the face of a specter inches from my own.

  All at once the tower feels smaller, closed in, with a peculiar mixture of ice and heat striking against my skin, causing me to question everything. And then I notice the runes and sigils marked across the stones that surround me. How did I not notice the markings? They are scribbled, rushed, the handwriting slanting oddly. Only these are unlike the protective sigils I placed upon the castle the other night. These are darker, sinister, their meaning intent upon calling what is ancient and binding it to this very spot.

  The grimoire lies open to a page that is different from the rest of the book’s bound pages—creamier, pulpier, with tiny plant fibers embedded within—and it brings the sting of unexpected tears to my eyes. I know this paper well. Matilde had kept a sleeve of this very same parchment in a chest at home. It was the one treasure she held dear, which utterly confused me, as my dear Mutti could not write. But she did know how to make a mark and often etched a strange X-shaped symbol into what she claimed as hers.

  Wiping my blurry eyes, I softly steal the paper from the book. It yields easily for it is not sewn into the binding, but simply folded and placed between two secure pages. I unfold it and stare, confused for a moment because the page is blank. It does not hold the same curious writing, the splendid calligraphy and looping letters, as the other entries. I find this strange, believing it had dislodged itself from the grimoire at one point, and begin to refold it when my breath hitches and my hand trembles. At the bottom of the empty page, in the lower right corner is a crudely written X.

  I fight the tears as I hurl myself down the stairs from the upper compartment. Carefully, quickly, I slither past the door I’d left open for myself and abandon the tower, thankful I had thought ahead to make sure I could escape.

  Escape. That is exactly what I feel I must do now, although what I am escaping from is a blurry mess. Now that I am outside in the cool winter air my head has begun to clear. I feel foolish for letting myself overreact. That is what I’ve done, isn’t it? Overreact?

  A light sleet has begun to fall and I slip the grimoire beneath the folds of my cloak, making sure the pages face upward so the loose parchment does not fall out. I hurry, following my snowy footsteps back to the castle, trying to ignore what has happened, for I feel eyes watching me and I know that it is not my imagination.

  Deep in my bones I know I have not overacted. Something dark does lurk here, something that has existed for a very long time, dormant, waiting.

  And I am afraid I have awakened it.

  Chapter 27

  There is no time to build a fire in the kitchen hearth even though the damp has followed me in. I have not even bothered to lock the door. Whatever will follow me, if it does, cannot be shut out by a simple iron lock. It is much too intelligent for that.

  Grabbing a large lantern, I light the flame and shut its tiny door to keep it burning bright. Tonight will be long, for I do not plan to sleep, and I make long strides for the door that opens to the corridor. The skin on my neck flushes at the memory of the breath that followed me in the dark, but I swallow my fear and step inside the passage, my foot lingering at the threshold.

  “I am the daughter of Leise, the Witch of Bavaria. What lies here is mine now.”

  I say it with conviction, over and over again, then shut the door behind me with a decisive click. Cobwebs sway along the ceiling, following me as I pass beneath and begin the long trek deep into the lower caverns.

  When I arrive at my mother’s room the door slides open on its own as if it has been waiting for me. Each step brings a flicker, a strike at the stale air, and then the lighting of each candle by an invisible hand, until I am in the very center of the room. The large center table is surrounded by warm, quivering candlelight I’ve never drawn a flint to.r />
  I prop the grimoire up against a brass stand, my fingers flying across its pages, finding the spells and secret words within. “If I am to live here harmoniously with the past, then I will acquaint myself with this room first.”

  As soon as I speak the words there is a notable presence in the room—one I recognize as my mother’s, and others, much older than she. In my heart I know they are the witches that claimed this space long before her—witches who practiced long before the great Witch of Bavaria. Those whose blood runs in my veins. I survey the tools left behind all these years—my mother’s and the bishop’s, but his presence is most assuredly absent. This castle was never his.

  My fingers inch toward the parchment the grimoire has kept safe, its tattered corner peeking from the worn pages. The invisible specters loom closer, hovering near me in wait. I touch the blank page, running my finger over, hearing it come to life as letters and rune symbols slowly appear before my eyes. It is as if the page is enchanted, speaking in a strange tongue within my mind, louder, clearer, as my finger slides over the spaces the words should fill. And I begin to read it slowly, suddenly able to devour every word.

  1594

  Upon this Samhain Eve, I have much to confess.

  I have created an enchantment upon this entry, for I do not have the skill for which to write it myself. I have purposely impaired this page, and myself, for the sake of concealment, and trust the novice, Adelaide, keeps her promise to ensure the safety of what I am to reveal.

  I’d rolled the bones earlier today when the sun rose across the trees and it was she they’d assured me would be the rightful one to keep my tale from the scrutiny of the others.

  For it is a tale that will chill your bones.

  I’d warned the girl to come only by the light of the Samhain moon. Poor as she was, I’ve given her my cloak so she might steal away from the village as a wraith and not be questioned. She arrived whilst the fog crept across the hedge, penning in those who slept in their warm beds—those who would not dare cross the border into the forest Black. But Adelaide did. Just like I’d asked her.