Castle of Sighs

by Jennifer Murgia

  With my finger, I pinch bits of salt and place the grains near my feet. Grinding them into the floor with the pad of my thumb, I drag the small chunks of white until they form the runes as well as any chalk. I mark the signs of protection and call upon the rune, Algiz, to keep us safe.

  When Laurentz and Adelaide return, I ask them to trace the rune over their hearts, instilling courage in the face of fear. While I have become trapped within the dark circle, they are able to slide the herbs to me.

  “Agrimony will create our barrier,” I tell them. “It will break the force that binds the oldest of shadows to this plane, opening the gate to send it back. Now, very carefully, slide the Nightshade across the circle.”

  Adelaide does as she’s told. Holding the winter-dead stem in the fold of her cloak, she shuffles it carefully across the dark line, and I smile, noticing her luck that the bent shoot refuses to give up its precious magick. Hanging precariously from the small twig is a lone witch berry. “The Mother has blessed you, Adelaide. She thought you worthy to find this—and our endeavor shall be fruitful.”

  The Casting comes easy to me, as if my own hand is guided by an unseen force. One by one the herbs are laid on the makeshift altar. By the light of the still-lit torch, I assemble them, thanking each one for its sacrifice, as I know Adelaide has already done in the forest, knowing we are closer than we care to admit, each touched by Matilde and her lessons.

  “Are you sure, Rune?” Laurentz’s eyes hold concern enough for the both of us, but he keeps those thoughts inside, and I nod.

  “Let this darkness beware, for if I’m ever to claim Pyrmont as a Witch, the moment is now.”

  My eyes meet Laurentz’s and I hold his gaze. “I will be here when you return. Always.” My heart soars at this, and I know he will keep me safe. I’ve already warned them the herbs induce visions—that they will send me, and hold me, as I search for Niclaus in the dark confines of the castle. I reach deep inside, knowing a spell is a merely a wish one sends forth.

  “I call upon the bones of olde

  Buried deep within the stones

  Of earth and dust and sacred fear

  I call my own to meet me here.”

  I let my eyelids flutter closed, and a rush of warm wind courses through the room, upsetting the herbs I’ve painstakingly laid within the circle. My body waits, and then it floats upon an invisible current, swaying back and forth like a wave. I test myself, for I’ve only ever heard of projecting one’s self and never had the courage to attempt it, but it comes easily and I will my limbs to undulate slowly, feeling the ripple of magick carry me.

  My legs stretch, elongating toward the edge of the circle, feeling as if they are able to cross over the line that keeps me in, and when I do, my skin tingles as the salt brushes over my soul. I take a deep breath, hold it, and let myself slip past the border that holds my flesh and blood self contained.

  I am spirit now—entering the same plane as the Mother and the darkness that awaits me below the castle. Floating, I lift up and over, and look down upon the circle. There, on the floor, I watch Laurentz and Adelaide keep guard over my body. I hear them, their voices muffled. I am a pulse in the air that hovers.

  And then, I let myself go.

  Chapter 40

  “Rune…” the castle calls to me. “Come, my child.”

  I leave the tower behind and trail down the steps toward the beating heart of Pyrmont. Past the rooms that before had cloaked themselves in rot, now brilliant and wondrous. I sweep past the rooms where the paintings grace the walls like never before. Each brush stroke is visible to my eye, every color I pass, vibrant and alive. Pyrmont is in her glory as if newly built, untouched by time or tragedy.

  I stop at the door to the passage hidden behind the kitchen wall. I am able to push it open as though I were solid—I am more than just a spirit within the walls of Pyrmont, and I feel myself growing stronger with each step I take toward the chamber. I follow the passage until smooth stones line the walls and the sacred water washes them clean.

  Down the spiral staircase.

  Down into the dark.

  “This way, Rune.”

  Bones jut out from the briny earth. Bones of my ancestors. Bones of witches. The room waits, door open wide, light from within. Today it is I who quiver as the wavering spirit lingering at the door.

  I cross the threshold, and enter.

  Chapter 41

  Whispers fill the room. “She is here. She has come.”

  In this realm I am equal to those who belonged to Pyrmont before me, for our blood is one. I am light. I am dark. I am glory, and chaos, and hope. This plane is brilliant and bright, made of the truest magick.

  A cloaked woman greets me, grayed hair peeking around the edge of a hood that hides her face. I know this woman, have always known her. She throws back the covering and it is Matilde. My heart leaps and I run to her open arms. She is warmth and wonder, all at once. She smells of Bergamot and Lavender, and as I close my eyes I feel the warmth of the cottage taking shape around us.

  I am home.

  The whispers shift closer. They welcome me. They merge and pull together. A swish of a cape. The drag of a veil upon the stone floor. Some are bone, some still flesh.

  And then there is one who steps forward as the others step away. The room fills with the scent of smoke and fire as she draws near, her eyes shining with pride. I have no reason to ever fear her or despise her, for I am hers and she embraces me, at last, filling my veins with her love.

  Her eyes stray toward the corner, where shadows flit and a figure, hazy and dark, sits. It is the space where Laurentz and I recovered the box. There the vaporous image of a boy folds in on itself, dimmer than the rest of the room pulsing around me.

  My mother and Matilde speak to me without words. Just like the grimoire, my mind fills with what I am to know.

  “The key. The key will save him.”

  I leave the safety of my mother’s spirit and cross the room toward the dark corner, steeling myself against what truly lies within this small form. I reach for the key upon the floor, but as my finger brushes the smooth metal, it disappears into thin air. Niclaus turns toward me, eyes bright like orbs. His mouth opens and a silent mist protrudes, reaching toward me like a filmy tentacle.

  The walls shake. The herbs above sway. Bottles rattle upon the shelves and the air fills with sharp, choking fragrance. A massive crumbling echoes from beyond the door, followed by a rush of water as the bones from beneath the castle’s foundation shift and inch closer, and soon, each witch, from the day Pyrmont was erected, joins us in the chamber.

  The old box atop the altar opens with unseen hands. The grimoire’s pages flap and flutter, rip and scream, its cover paling to the color of human skin. My mother’s skirts glow with flame. Ash falls around us.

  Fight fire with fire—magick with magick.

  Niclaus coughs, expelling a sooty mist that wrenches itself free from the boy’s tiny throat. It hovers at the ceiling, stretching and recoiling. No longer contained within its borrowed form, it tastes the air, aiming to strike.

  “Niclaus!” I call out.

  He pulls himself to his knees and scrambles toward me but moves as though he is ill, slow and with shaking limbs. And it is too late. A filmy extension of the dark mist creeps lower, circling about his ankle, preventing him from reaching me. Fear fills his eyes, and he cries out.

  There is a hum at my back that raises the hairs along my skin as each witch joins her magick to her sister, pushing that energy toward me like a tidal wave. I step closer to Niclaus, “Grab my hand. I can almost reach you.”

  I feel the enormous pull that refuses to release him, and I stretch myself toward the dark force surrounding his small body. Our eyes lock. I give a nod, and he clamps his eyes shut, his lips white as he exerts all he can muster into a giant heave in my direction.

  I stretch out toward him and he reaches long and hard, falling into my arms.

  A rush of heat surges past us and th
e ceiling ignites in an enormous orange blaze.

  “Rune!” Niclaus screams as he clings to me, his tiny arms wrapped about my neck as I nuzzle my face into his skin, feeling his warmth.

  An angry roar fills the chamber as the grimoire flies to the box, settling itself inside with an enormous tremor. The lid slams shut and a million stones fall from the ceiling, burying it beneath.

  “Come!” I tighten my hold and carry him across the chaos toward the other side. We cross the threshold, staring back through the door and into the chamber where the world quakes and the ghosts remain—my mother, Matilde—all lost inside, as Niclaus and I make our escape.

  The wooden door slams shut. The passage falls silent, the only light coming from the keyhole. I bend down to see—

  “Rune, no!” His small arms are strong for one so young, as he pushes against me with all his might, preventing me from peering within the keyhole.

  “My family…” I move toward the lock again, knowing the opening is just large enough for my eye. “I must know what happens…how it ends.”

  “Rune!”

  Chapter 42

  “Something is wrong.” Laurentz stands at the tower window with a tense jaw and fists clenched at his sides.

  I lie before them, deathly still. My body gives no hint at what unravels far beneath their feet, in the depths of the castle, as I stretch out my senses, trying to find my way back. Laurentz and Adelaide’s voices draw me closer as I try to escape my dreamlike state. But soon enough, the chaos travels up and through each dark and dusty passage, disturbing the unearthly quiet, snuffing each brazier like a storm cloud. It is as if the castle prepares to fold in upon itself, belching out the force that it has held secret, and I am tossed in the maelstrom, trying to pull my way out, but with each effort to return I am ripped away and sent tumbling.

  The stench of decay is strong now. Rising from the depths, it rolls through the walls and seeps through the cracks in the floors toward the tower room, upsetting the very floor Laurentz stands upon as it grasps for freedom at the window. The exterior wall of the tower gives way and the beam above his head groans as it comes loose.

  Adelaide screams as Laurentz dodges the showering hailstorm of wood and stone. Then, with a will of its own, the eruption of magick and mayhem travels beyond the castle turrets. The trees bend and shrink away from the invisible, malevolent tide until it becomes part of the forest itself, lost among the darkness of the trees.

  “Don’t do it, Laurentz.” Adelaide’s eyes are frantic as he heads for the door and she manages to catch his sleeve as he pushes past her. “You do not know what you’re up against. This magick is far from the likes of what you and I have ever seen before.”

  But Laurentz shakes his head and rakes his hand through his hair. He stares down at my still form, waiting for a sign that I will come to…a twitch, a sigh…but there is nothing. They are not aware that I am here, of how hard I am trying to return fully to my body—to him. She clasps her hands together and presses them to her lips, then closes her eyes, hoping and praying to the Sacred Mother that all has gone well. “Bring Rune back to Laurentz,” she whispers fiercely, “and please, bring my boy back to me.”

  “And you’re content to wait and pray for both of us, but are you prepared to lose the one most precious to your heart?” He turns, startled, as I wake, gasping, smelling of fire, and smoke, and death.

  There is a flurry as Laurentz rushes to my side and then, Adelaide gasps as I drop my arms and reveal the small boy I’ve carried safely with me.

  Chapter 43

  “Let me see,” I insist.

  He knows I will press at him until he has no choice but to allow me to tend his shoulder. The last few hours, Laurentz has not let me out of his sight for fear I will slip away from him in an unearthly trance. He has given instructions to Adelaide to alert us if Niclaus does not seem himself, but the boy no longer shows sign of possession. And if truth be told, he does not seem to recall having ever been under any sort of spell and is content to chatter away while he plays on the carpet in the salon beneath Adelaide’s loving gaze. With the rising of the sun, the stench has lifted from Pyrmont, the sour magick gone from her stone walls.

  Uncomfortable minutes tick away until Laurentz sighs and then slowly unbuttons his shirt. I swallow hard, forcing myself to focus on my work, but compared to applying Sphagnum Moss to a thorn splintered in his arm, this is entirely close, personal, and I cannot help notice how his skin blazes beneath my hand.

  I slip the needle into Laurentz’s shoulder, swiping past the flesh until I catch the skin and glide it gently across the open wound, pulling the thick, black thread to close the gap. He flinches beneath my touch, but doesn’t complain. I’ve made sure I used enough Chamomile and Juniper to numb his skin. Matilde taught me long ago that the two combined made for an analgesic that would last long enough for a suture, and given the only needle I could find among my mother’s belongings was a thick, twisted thing with a length of silkworm ligature, I gave him more than I probably should.

  His back is a canvas of rippling sinew and it easily distracts me, but I find myself again and finish my task, tying the ends of the thread into a tiny knot.

  “Finished already?”

  “For now.” I press a square of cheesecloth soaked in warm Juniper tea to the wound. “I’d like to check it regularly for signs of infection, but yes, I’m finished. You may put your shirt on.”

  But instead of covering himself, he chooses to let the air dry his shoulder, and once again my eyes cannot help stealing glances of his skin.

  Without thinking, my finger lifts and rests upon him, just above the stitching, and I trace a simple healing sigil over his flesh. I trace Erda and Ul and imagine his skin binding together. Within seconds, the slice I’d just sewn begins to heal, and without pain.

  “It feels better already. What did you do?”

  I open my mouth to explain, but my words stutter on my tongue. I don’t know why I continue to hide what I am when I’m with him. “I traced runes upon your wound to help you heal.”

  “Ah,” he whispers thoughtfully. “So the witch has marked me, after all.”

  I know he means me, but I can’t help noticing the small X that sits at the base of his neck. “She has.”

  He turns with a smile and I see the kiss on his lips, waiting for my mouth to accept it—but I do not want to ruin this moment. I should tell him that his dream was true—that Matilde created him—and I hesitate, causing him to stop short of pressing his warm mouth to mine.

  “What is it, Rune?”

  I think of how I’ll form the words—how I’ll tell him he has indeed been marked, but not by me.

  “I see it in your eyes. Tell me.”

  “Have you ever noticed how fast a healer you are?”

  “I have you to thank for that.” He catches a lock of my hair between his finger and his thumb.

  “Do you believe in magick?” I ask him.

  He tilts his head at this, surmising that I am not willing, after all, to tell him what plagues my heart. And somehow, it is enough, and he bestows upon me a little magick of his own. “I believe in you, Rune.” His voice is soft as he leans toward my cheek, placing a gentle kiss upon it with his lips. “You’ve truly enchanted me.”

  I slip away from his side and step toward the long drapes of the salon window, pulling them open along their brass chains. The sun shines. The snow is melting. Tomorrow, Margret will come back from Eltz, and Niclaus and Adelaide, too, will join us.

  “Will you ever return to the forest, my love?”

  I shake my head, even though the trees beyond the glass call to me, their pull on me as strong as ever. “My place is here, now.”

  “Ah,” he breathes. “In the end, Pyrmont always claims its Witch.”

  “And the Witch must choose an Elector,” I add. “One worthy enough to help her protect these walls and her secrets, for they are worth fighting for.”

  Across the lawn the pine boughs sway in
the breeze, as though nodding in approval of my choice. Now that I have learned where the old tales came from, I have no reason to believe I will see anything out of the ordinary. There will be no more shadows other than the natural fading of light between the thick trees. Bellermines will not hang in superstition. Wraiths and specters need not haunt here.

  But the one thing I am frightened of, with good reason, is Laurentz’s answer. Silence is at my back. And I understand. My family has caused him too much pain.

  A warm breeze touches the nape of my neck and I close my eyes, feeling the warmth of his lips there. And I smile.

  He has not left me.

  He never will.

  Chapter 44

  In the shadow of the keep, fenced in by iron walls, my mother’s grave waits for me. I’ve brought her a bouquet of Angelica blossoms and Rosemary sprigs, my promise that I will forever keep our legacy safe, and more importantly that I will never forget what she did for me. I nestle the flowers across the mound of old earth and ask the Sacred Mother to watch over us all. To watch over the children who will live here at Pyrmont—Niclaus, Margret, and the ones yet to be born.

  To watch over Laurentz, for thanks to Matilde, his heart beats with the strongest love.

  My own heart squeezes tight as I send a special prayer for her. Hers was the greatest sacrifice of all. For my mother, for me—for every witch that ever lived alongside the deep haunted forest and within Pyrmont’s impenetrable walls.

  I rise to my feet, ready to begin my walk back to the castle, when I notice an oddly shaped mound at the far end of the graveyard. Now that much of the snow has melted, it is clear the grave has been covered by a collection of large stones. I am curious about them, much like Niclaus was the day we’d gone exploring, and so I begin to swipe the remaining snow away. Round and smooth, gray and cream, like the river rocks from the Berg.