by Kate Forsyth
‘Don’t worry,’ La Strega murmured and stroked away a tendril of hair. ‘I’ll be back soon. A month is not so very long.’ She climbed up onto the windowsill, holding the plait between both hands. For a giddy moment, Margherita thought of pushing her out. La Strega smiled down at her. ‘I’ll be back in a month. Take care. Remember that if I fall and die, or if you damage your hair somehow, so you cannot throw it out to me, you’ll starve to death up here. No one knows you are here. No one can help you. If you are good, I will bring you a present on my return. But if I find you have been naughty, you will have nothing to eat but dry bread and water.’
‘Please don’t leave me,’ Margherita begged, but it was no use. The sorceress slammed the shutters and padlocked them closed, first lifting the braid so it ran through the heart-shaped hole. Margherita was locked inside.
Then the sorceress began to climb down the side of the tower. The pull of her weight on Margherita’s hair was almost unbearable, even with the help of the hook. Sobbing, Margherita braced herself against the wall. Eventually, the jerking stopped. A distant voice called, ‘I’ll be back when the moon is full once more.’
Then silence.
Margherita pulled up the braid, hand over hand over hand, until it lay coiled about her, then stepped to the ground and looked around.
One small room. A tap. An empty bath. A large basket of firewood. A bed with rumpled pillows and silken coverlet.
No door, no stair, no open window, no air, no light, no sound.
A kind of madness possessed her. She ran about the room, looking for a way out. She shook the shutters with all her strength and battered her fists upon them. She put her mouth to the heart carving and screamed for help. She stared down the stinking hole in the latrine. She went back to the window and screamed again. She sat on the floor and sobbed into her hands. She wrenched at the plait, seeking to tear it out by the roots. She paced the floor, dragging the plait behind her. She shouted and called and cried and begged, till her throat was raw and her voice hoarse. She went back to the latrine. She stared down its narrow chute. She dropped a pine cone down it and waited till she heard the faint clatter as it hit stone, a long way down. She sat on the edge and dangled her legs down the hole. Gingerly, she lowered her body down but got stuck straightaway. When she managed to wrench herself free, her hip was grazed and bleeding, and her nightgown was stained and filthy. Tears blinded her. No way out, no way out, no way out.
Eventually, with the spout of her kettle and the poker, she managed to prise one of the shutters off the window, so that it hung crookedly. Margherita leant both hands on the windowsill and took great gulps of air. A panorama of clouds spread across the darkening sky, rose and peach and saffron, limned with liquid gold. She imagined leaping from the windowsill and being caught by soft misty arms. High on the clouds’ shoulders she’d be carried, over the mountains and far away, rain darkening the sky behind her, a lightning bolt sizzling in her hand. Back to Venice she’d be carried, that city of stone lace and shadowy canals, seeming at times to drift among clouds. Down she’d bound, sure-footed and fleet, outside a window opening into a treasure trove of masks and sequins and feathers. The door would spring open, her parents would rush out, arms flung wide, and she’d cry, ‘I’m home.’
The clouds rolled on without her, the glorious colours fading to violet and grey. Far below her, the lake grew dark. Rain lashed the stony cliffs.
Margherita took a deep breath and wiped her wet face on the sleeve of her nightgown. She turned and sat down, hiding her face in her arm. There was no way out. Not unless she grew wings and flew.
If I could cut off my plait, Margherita thought, perhaps I could tie it to the hook somehow and climb down it like the sorceress did.
But there was no knife and no scissors, not even something made of glass that she could have broken, using the sharp edge to saw through the hair.
Maybe I could just tie the end of my plait to the hook and climb down it while it’s still attached to my head, she thought. Once I’m down on the ground, I’ll be able to cut my hair somehow. She thought of the bushes below and imagined slicing through her hair with sharp thorns. Surely it could be done. She tried not to think of the dizzying drop and what would happen to her if she fell. If the sorceress can climb down, so can I.
So she took the end of her plait and wound it round and round the hook and tied it in a knot, as tightly as she could. But every time she pulled on it, testing her weight, the slippery hair simply unwound itself and she fell to the floor. Nothing worked. Her hair unravelled each time.
By now, Margherita was utterly disheartened. She curled up in the plaited coils of her hair and wept. When she woke, much later, it was dark. She started up in terror, afraid that she had somehow been buried alive in the crypt of her dreams, but then she saw the narrow arch of the window, glowing with silvery starlight. She managed to grope her way to her bed and climb into its softness. Soon, she was asleep again.
The next day, Margherita sat in her bed and looked around hopelessly. She felt the weight of the invisible fetters on her wrists and ankles and tongue. Only her need to use the latrine gave her the will to get out of bed and walk across the tiny room. Three paces to the latrine. Ten paces to the fire, to poke it into sullen life once more. Six paces to the pantry, to look for something to eat.
Hanging from the top of the little cupboard were a sheaf of dried cod, a string of salami and a small leg of salt-cured ham, the hoof still attached. On the top shelf were a row of wooden spice boxes with salt, pepper, ginger, saffron, and other spices that Margherita did not recognise, and a wooden lidded bowl filled with dried fruit and nuts. Small sacks of turnips, onions, cabbages, beets, parsnips, dried peas and beans, and limp purple carrots were piled on the bottom shelf. On the shelf above were sacks of rice, flour, yeast and semolina, a bowl of apples, a tub of honey and a large ceramic jar of olives in oil.
Somehow, this cornucopia of ingredients only made Margherita even more miserable. Although she had helped in the kitchen at the Pietà since she was seven years old, she had only ever assisted the cook, and she was overwhelmed by the thought of preparing and cooking all her own food, with only a few basic tools. And no knife. How could she slice the ham, or peel and cut up the turnips, without a knife?
She ate an apple and a handful of nuts and dried fruit, then sighed and began to mix flour and salt and yeast together with water. She cooked it on the griddle. The smell of baking bread brought her new courage. She washed her face and hands and tidied her hair as best she could. Once she had eaten her flat bread with some honey and tidied up, there was nothing left to do but try once again to escape.
She tried tying the end of her plait to the hook with ribbons; she tried weighting it with her iron pot; she tried tying it to the stool. It always unravelled. And her hair became messier and messier, which frightened her terribly. She did her best with the comb La Strega had given her, but soon her arms were aching and she had to stop. She tried to stuff it all into the snood, but somehow there seemed so much more of it, and the snood became all entangled in her hair. Why is it I cannot tie my hair in a knot when I want to, yet it gets all snarled up when I don’t want it to? she thought, struggling to unravel the snood. In the end, she just yanked the snood loose and plaited the great mass of the hair again, knots and all. Then there was nothing to do but pace the floor, the plait trailing behind her, her hands clenched white-knuckled.
What if something happens to the sorceress? she thought. What if she catches the plague? No one knows where I am. I’ll die of starvation.
Margherita sank onto her bed, overwhelmed by panic.
Surely she’d have thought of that. Surely she’d have left a letter. Then Margherita remembered the giant, Magli, with his high shrill voice and imperturbable face. He knew. He’d carried her here. Surely he’d not leave her here to die. Surely.
What does she want with me? Why am I here? Was it magic she was doing last night? Is it my blood that she wants? Old stories of
bloodsucking ghouls came back to her, chilling her blood. She looked down at the thin red cut across her wrist. It was a little puffy and sore but was already healing.
Such panic filled her that she could no longer be still. Once again, she stood at the window, screaming for help. Once again, she ran around the room, searching for a chink in the stone, a rope, a knife. Once again, she wept. Eventually, she had no more tears in her body. She lay in a daze, retreating from the horror of the present and the dark uncertainty of the future into a daydream of the past.
The beam of sunlight through the broken shutter faded and retreated. Soon, it would be dark. And Margherita was hungry once more. She stood and stared at her pantry, then took a deep breath and began to make a rudimentary meal.
The dried cod had to be soaked overnight before it could be cooked, so she put some in a bowl of water and set it aside on the dresser, then made some more bread dough and this time set it to rise. She then filled her iron pot with water and a selection of vegetables, throwing them in whole with a pinch of salt. Then she examined the ham longingly. The skin had been expertly cut at one end and she was able to peel it away, revealing the dark crimson flesh beneath. After a while, she lowered her mouth to it and bit into it. Her mouth was filled with an explosion of flavour. She was so hungry that she gnawed off a few more mouthfuls, then bit off chunks and spat them into her soup. She then smoothed down the skin to protect the ravaged flesh beneath, a little worried by how much of the ham she had already devoured.
Everything has to last me a month … She looked in some dismay at her shelves, and what had seemed a cornucopia now seemed dangerously paltry.
The silence of the small room bothered her. She was used to the low murmur of chanting, the soft sound of singing or the playing of musical instruments, the constant ringing of the church bells, the scrape of chairs and boot leather on stone, the rustle of cloth, the small farts and burps and squeaks of a dormitory of girls. High in her tower room, there was no sound but the wind and the occasional high cry of a hawk.
So Margherita hummed as she worked, then broke into song. The sound of her own voice steadied her. The smell of soup and bread helped her even more. She ate a meal by the low light of the fire, washed up her pots and dishes, then curled up in her bed, taking comfort in her favourite daydream. Tomorrow, the door would burst in, and her parents would rush in, calling her name. ‘Margherita, we’ve found you at last.’ All three would embrace, weeping, and then her father would lift her onto his shoulders and they’d march out triumphantly.
Except there was no door. No door and no stair.
There must be a stair, she thought. La Strega and the giant could not have brought the bed and the table and the chairs and the pantry and the bath and everything in through that narrow window. Under the carpet, she thought.
She sat up in bed and stared at the floor, covered by the beautifully woven rug. For a moment, she wanted to fling herself out of bed and set to work shifting all the furniture, but it was dark and cold and she was tired. Tomorrow, she told herself. She lay down and sang herself lullabies till she slept.
The next day, she jumped out of bed eagerly. The first thing she did was take down the portrait of the sorceress and turn it to face the wall. The sight of that perfect oval face unnerved her. Then she set to work moving the table and chairs and the bath. This took a while and a great deal of effort, for they were heavy and she was only twelve and all alone, but eventually all the furniture was shoved together on one side of the room. Margherita folded back the carpet and sat back on her heels.
A trapdoor was set in the flagstones.
It was made of stone and was as long as a pace on all four sides.
It had no handle.
It took Margherita eleven days to prise it open, with the help of the poker and the iron hooks.
At first, urgency drove her. Using the skillet as a hammer, pounding on the end of the poker, she chipped at the stone around the trapdoor. Her arms and shoulders ached, her back throbbed, but she kept pounding away as long as she could, only stopping to eat and drink and rest. The masses of her hair were a terrible encumbrance, constantly slipping undone from her snood and getting entangled.
It was such hard work, though, and all her efforts seemed to have so little result that gradually she grew discouraged. One day, she did not even get out of bed but lay still, staring at the flagstone, surrounded by its halo of chipped stone. The silence and her loneliness were impossible to bear. She curled in a ball, gazing at the crack of light revealed by the broken shutter, twisting a loose lock of hair about her finger, her thoughts slipping back to the past. She sang to herself in a monotone, Oh, come, sleep from the little mountain. The wolf’s devoured the little sheep, and oh, my child wants to sleep. Tears began to seep from under her swollen eyelids again and she buried her head in her pillow, wishing with all her heart for someone to come and rescue her.
But nobody came.
That night, Margherita stood on the chair and stared out through the broken shutter, looking for the moon. I’ll be back when the moon is full once more, the sorceress had said. It was now waning, dwindling away to a tiny sliver. Soon, it would begin to swell again.
Panic stole her breath. She half-fell from the chair, knocking it over. She crawled to the trapdoor and took up her tools once more, chipping and chipping and chipping away at the stone, working more by touch than by sight, for her little room was filled with shadows. She only stopped when her arms screamed with pain and her hands bled.
In the morning, Margherita began her work once more. She found that, if she held the poker at a certain angle, she was able to knock away larger fragments of stone. She began to concentrate all her efforts just on one point. By evening time, she had gouged away enough stone to lever the trapdoor up just a few inches, but it was too heavy and crashed back down, almost crushing her hand. She levered it up again and wedged it open with the iron skillet.
A foetid smell rolled up into her face. She gagged and moved away, staring at the black slit in trepidation.
For a moment, her spirit quailed. She dared not try to lift it any higher. Old childhood stories of ghosts and goblins came into her mind; she thought of rats and spiders and snakes. It was growing dark. Margherita could not bear the thought of exploring the tower at night, even though it would surely be just as dark down there in daylight. But neither could she bear the thought of going to sleep with that black slit staring at her. After a while, she pulled the iron skillet away and let it slam shut again.
At first light, she was awake. She had not slept very much. All night, her brain had whirled with schemes and worries and fears. It would be best, Margherita thought, if she prepared herself as if expecting to find a way out. She was dressed in nothing but a soiled nightgown. Her feet were bare. She would need food and fire and other necessities if she was to survive out in the forest. So she made herself some breakfast, then emptied a sack and filled it with supplies. She took the eiderdown off the bed and wrapped it over her shoulders like a cape, then took up a candle in a holder with one shaking hand.
Then she levered up the heavy trapdoor again, opening it as wide as she could. A flight of steep steps spiralled down into darkness. Margherita wedged the trapdoor open with the iron spit, so it would not crash down and trap her below, then gathered up her courage and tiptoed down the steps. Her hair trailed behind her, dragging a clean path through the dust and cobwebs.
Margherita’s candle flame trembled. The air was dank and heavy. She would have liked to clap her hand over her nose, but since her hands were full she could only breathe shallowly through her mouth. Here and there, the wall was pierced with arrow slits. She put her mouth to each of these and breathed in the fresh spring air, and then looked out. All she could see was sky.
Step by step by timid step, she went down, till the staircase opened out into the lowest floor – a dark echoing place with heavy beams on the ceiling and a base of hard-packed earth. It was so lightless down there, it could well
have been midnight instead of noon.
Margherita lifted up her candle and then, with a jerk and a scream, dropped it. Darkness snuffed her. She fell to her knees, her hands covering her face. Her breath came in sharp uneven gasps.
The cellar was filled with skeletons.
WATCHING THE MOON
The Rock of Manerba, Lake Garda, Italy – April 1595
Margherita crouched motionless, her heart thundering, listening with all her might.
Silence.
After a long time, she fumbled for the candle, fitted it back into its holder and then felt through her sack for her tinderbox. She tried to strike a spark, but her hands were shaking too much. She remembered the breathing exercises Elena had taught her, to calm her nerves before singing with the figlie di coro. After a few deep breaths, filling her lungs from the bottom to the top, Margherita felt calm enough to try once again to light the candle.
By its wavering light, she saw eight skeletons laid out on the floor. Heads to the wall, feet facing each other, each laid out like radius lines in a circle. Their bony arms were crossed on the empty cage of their ribs, their leg bones stretched out neatly. Beneath them lay the rotting remains of fine velvets and brocades, much like the eiderdown Margherita clutched about her shoulders. Their empty eye sockets gazed serenely at the ceiling.
A heavy oaken door was on the far side of the room, beyond the skeletons. Margherita struggled to control her breath. She could not bear the idea of walking across the room, stepping over those bones. Yet it was the only way out. Holding her breath, walking as gingerly as if stepping over sleeping guards, she tiptoed forward. Her eyes moved from skeleton to skeleton. One was small, about the same height as her. She had, weirdly, a thick hank of filthy matted hair coiling in the cavity below her ribs. The others were taller. A few were heavily shrouded in cobwebs and dust. The skeletons closest to her were only lightly draped, as if they had been lying here in this room for a lot less time than those against the far wall.
