A Witch's Burden

by D. W. Goates

  On this day, it was but rain that hampered them as they hurried to the tavern—a steady and cold rain, the kind that seemed to relish worming its icy tendrils into woolen overcoats, to chill the flesh and bone within.

  Inside was warm and inviting—nothing like that dreadful Gasthof named for its “Beautiful View” that she had first encountered upon arriving in the village. It was nicer too than the tavern she often frequented for her evening supper. Elke wondered at why she was just now discovering such a place, and so close by, but chalked it up to her improved mood of late by the time they found a table.

  “You are set to leave in a few days, are you not?” asked Loritz as they took seats opposite one another.

  So cozy was it that they had taken off their overcoats and draped them over the two empty chairs at their sturdy oak table.

  “Yes. I cannot wait. I hate it here.”

  “I know you don’t like the school . . .” he began, trying to tease out the causes of her displeasure.

  “Oh, I don’t like anybody here.”

  “Anybody?” Loritz shot her a wounded look.

  “You know what I mean,” she retorted. “My only other friend in this horrible place is dead, and this school situation is a disaster. I don’t know if my career can recover. I certainly don’t intend to ask a reference from these people. I will have to start again from scratch!”

  “Is it really as bad as all that?”

  “Yes. It is really as bad as all that. If you intend to belittle my situation then I’d just as soon resume my meal alone, at the school . . .” As she spoke, her voice rose in a tense crescendo, and it appeared as if she was on the verge of bolting for the door.

  “I’m sorry . . .” said Loritz.

  Elke released a shallow sigh, which did nothing to calm her agitation.

  Just then the tavern keeper, a portly fellow with a friendly smile, arrived at the table. “We have fresh trout today,” he said. “I highly recommend it.”

  “That sounds nice,” said Elke, with a weak smile. “I’ll have that.”

  “Make that two,” added Loritz.

  After taking their drink orders, the proprietor returned to his kitchen.

  “I suppose it does beat a stale loaf of bread,” Elke allowed, following some conspicuous difficulty for her in meeting Loritz’s doe-eyed stare.

  “Nicht wahr?”

  “I don’t expect you to understand the circumstances I find myself in—”

  “It just seems that you have much going for you . . . For someone so intelligent and . . . so beautiful . . . I would imagine any setback no more than temporary.”

  Elke blushed at the rare compliment. “You are too kind, sir. Oh, if only that were true! Would that the world be as smitten with me as you, you poor fool.” Like a clock spring come unwound, her expression softened before him.

  “I’ve never met a woman quite like you, Elke Schreiber.”

  “Well, it’s a small town you live in. In Bremen we grow on trees.”

  “Do you now? Is that why you came all the way here?”

  “I came here when my ‘intelligence’ and ‘beauty’ were found wanting despite the comparative sea of schools in that fair city. I wonder if the scion of a beloved political family could understand the travails of someone with only her wits and aspect to her.”

  “Do you accuse me of inordinate privilege?”

  They both immediately smiled at his choice of words. It was obvious to her that he was trying to replicate her manner of speech, and equally evident that he meant so in jest.

  “Well, what’s your story, then? What’s an intelligent, handsome gentleman such as yourself doing in a place like this?”

  “You said it yourself: I’m the scion of a beloved political family.”

  “There’s a short biography. And here I thought we might need a whole page for it.”

  “What would you have me do? This is my home, born and raised. I love the mountains, the valley, and the forest. Its people, which you complain of, trouble me not, though I can appreciate that they may seem somewhat insular to a newcomer.”

  “Did you always know that you would be in the council?”

  “Somehow I did, yes, now that you mention it.”

  “Awfully deterministic, don’t you think?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Loritz, not fully understanding.

  “Well, is that what you wanted to be—a Waldheim town councilman?”

  “I never really thought about it. Is it that different from a farmer, tanner, or blacksmith’s son apprenticing in the trade?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” replied Elke, content to let the matter drop.

  “What about you? Have you always known that you would be a teacher?”

  “No, and that’s my point. People should be free to choose how they will live their lives.”

  “And does this freedom bestow also the right to change your mind?”

  “Of course.” When Loritz did not answer this, Elke felt compelled by his strange expression and intervening silence to press matters. “But why should I?”

  “What if you were to stay here, but do something else . . .?”

  “Something else? I’m a teacher, but I’ll never be allowed to practice my craft in this school. There is no other school here, and I sincerely doubt these people would trust me to start my own.”

  “What if you had children of your own to teach . . .?”

  It was his turn to blush, and she too colored anew upon comprehending him. Nevertheless, her eyes were drawn to his; they sat there for a time, staring at one another. After searching her feelings, Elke was the one who finally broke the silence.

  “It would never work. You’re a good man, Loritz, and I care for you a great deal, but I am a modern woman. There are things I’ve got to do, and I cannot do them in this town.”

  “I had to try . . .” he said, with no little melancholy, yet truly unreadable. He seemed almost relieved.

  She smiled at him and was about to speak again when they were interrupted by the tavern keeper arriving with their fish.

  They saw each other only once more before the fateful day—on the eve of her departure. Loritz made arrangements to have her packed trunk moved to the Rathaus that evening before they dined again at their tavern on the square. It was late December, with Christmas nigh, and the wintry mix from before had in the last week given over to snow. Loritz said that while usually the mountain pass could be counted upon to remain open through early January, this year the coachmen had for weeks been reporting deteriorating road conditions.

  When the evening coachman complained that neither he nor any conveyance may be returning to Waldheim for over a month, Elke was fast to confirm her ticket out. He would be departing early the next morning from the square and could take her on as far as Munich.

  No treacherous road was going to keep Elke in Waldheim a day beyond what she must.

  V

  Elke awoke early the morning of her departure, filled with energy and eager to be gone from Waldheim and its citizens. Even a bitter cold could not dampen her mood. And cold it was: she could already see her breath as she closed the door to the dreary old house for the last time.

  Surveying the perhaps two inches of fresh snow that had fallen overnight, she surmised it to be the coldest morning since Milla had died. The weather had cleared, but the sky remained covered in grey foreboding clouds.

  The happy traveler made her way through the quiet streets to the square. The coachman had suggested that they depart at first light, and Elke could not have more willingly acceded to this desire. She smiled, imagining him perhaps as eager as she to avoid being stranded in the isolated village.

  “Good morning, Herr Coachman. Right on time, I see.”

  Elke crunched through the snow toward the man busily fussing with his team.<
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  “Can I get that for you, fräulein?” He gestured to the carpetbag that she lugged with difficulty in her right hand.

  “Yes, but please put it inside. I have a trunk to be stowed without.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Inside. I have a key . . .”

  Loritz had left her a key to the Rathaus. They had stored her heavy trunk inside to avoid having to move it that morning. Opening the door, Elke was almost surprised to see the thing right where it had been left, and still locked fast. The safety of her belongings had been her chief source of worry after receiving the last of her pay from the schoolmaster and thereby being finally done with him. Nothing ever seemed to go right in Waldheim. Perhaps this was a sign she was to be finally done with it as well.

  As the coachman tackled the trunk, Elke went to stash the door key where Loritz had instructed her. She was to leave it in the left drawer of a desk in one of the first offices in the building. Finding the desk, she opened the drawer to place the key and was met with a surprise: within was a letter. “For Elke,” it said. With a bemused smile, she removed it from the desk before putting away the key. Turning to go, she made it only midway to the door before she stopped and broke the seal. “My dearest Elke,” it began, but she read no further before tucking the letter in her coat and hastening outside to the coach.

  It took them little time to get under way once the coachman managed to lash the unwieldy box to the cab. Fastidiousness—a trait long admired by the teacher in students—appeared equally excellent to her, if not more so, when exhibited by the likes of coachmen whose stock-in-trade it was to keep to schedules.

  Up they drove into the snow-clad foothills. The lone passenger sat close to her window, engrossed in her view of the dreamlike winter landscape. According to the driver, there was some danger to them if they encountered a storm up on the ridge near the pass. If they could clear the pass by noon, however, he assured her of their safety to Bergdorf and beyond. An overnight in Bergdorf was even possible, if the weather were to necessitate it, though the tiny hamlet was not considered a regular stop. Indeed, months ago, the little place had been skipped entirely by the coachman who first brought Elke to the valley.

  It was neither the scenic beauty nor her apprehensions about the weather at the pass that prevented her from reading Loritz’s note. At elevation now, and with a clear head, Elke admitted to herself no small feelings for the man she was leaving behind. Desperation to avoid any reason to remain in Waldheim explained her deferral. She told herself that she would read his letter when she got home. If she still cared for him, then she would pen a letter of her own—an attempt to entice him to leave the wretched place.

  Yet despite her disdain, looking down upon Waldheim as they climbed slowly into the mountains, she would also admit that it was most attractive—as pleasing to the eye as it was displeasing to the soul. The village with its crisp white blanket looked from the hills like the very picture of Christmas. And she would miss the sight of those grand, majestic mountains. Even the foreboding castle . . .

  Where was it?

  Craning her head and looking out from the corner of her window, Elke could just make it out, ahead and across the valley. Beneath the cloud cover it appeared grey, almost invisible in the snowy mountainside. Elke lamented the overcast; on sunny days the fortress positively glistened, glorious and terrible.

  Did the Margrave really publish that book?

  Loritz had said the family crest with its dragon was unmistakable—that even today, the now-banned symbol could still be found in certain places within the village. Waldheim remained the Count’s fief, though he was no longer welcomed in it.

  After he told her this about the book, Elke had redoubled her efforts to discover some sinister subtext, but to no avail. She read every word carefully over the course of many a night, yet in each theme she discerned only the innocuous. When she said this to Loritz later, he remained unconvinced. He was as unfamiliar with the book’s provenance as he was with the schoolmaster’s indictment of it, but of the malevolence of their liege he was certain. He had been raised on it.

  She would perhaps never know the truth about the mysterious Margrave, but she did resolve to look him up in the great library in Munich if time and a layover permitted. He was Bavarian, after all; she doubted her modern library back home in the industrial north would carry lore of this sort. Elke had never in her life heard such gothic, superstitious poppycock. And if the pedagogical community at home had never heard of, or seen, the Margrave’s fine student reader, they were about to, for she had liberated her sole surviving copy.

  Thinking of the book, she was just looking down at her carpetbag when came frantic bellowing from the coachman outside. He was yelling for his team to “Whoa!” With but this brief warning, Elke had little time to brace herself and lurched forward violently when the coach came to an abrupt stop.

  Peering out from her side vantage, she could discern no reason for the hold-up, but she could hear the driver as he climbed down from his seat. She waited expectantly for a report that quickly came.

  “We’ll have to go back, fräulein,” he said with disappointment after opening the door to the coach.

  Elke couldn’t believe what she was hearing. Her mouth formed a great “O” as she sat there, eyes wide and jaw dropped in disbelief. The coachman then answered the question that he knew was coming, and before she could manage to recover enough to ask it.

  “The road is blocked.”

  “‘Blocked’ . . . by what? Can’t you go around?” Her voice was laden with distress.

  “It’s a huge tree. The snow must have gotten to it. The road is far too narrow here. I’ll be lucky if I can get us turned around . . . Just sit tight, fräulein.” At this he re-closed the door, but she could still hear the man muttering to himself, something about having to unhitch the team.

  This was horrible news for someone who had convinced herself she would never have to see that village again. Elke was not going to take it sitting down. Flinging open the door, she swung herself down into the powdery snow. It bit through her boots, devouring her to her ankles.

  She surveyed the situation in short order. Indeed, the impeding tree was massive and must have collapsed under the weight of the snow. It lay there, perfectly blocking their path—an uncanny placement—as if intended by the engineering corps of some retreating army.

  The coachman was right. Ignoring his pleas, Elke explored nearby, only to confirm what he had told her about the road. Even a single-horse sleigh would be hard-pressed to navigate around the obstacle on such a thickly forested and treacherous hillside.

  She stood and watched while the man unhitched the four from the coach. Her presence seemed to annoy the team; they stared at her with black eyes, ominously, snorting their steamy horse breath into the frigid mountain air.

  “Can you get it turned?”

  “Yes,” he replied curtly, “but I will need some time.”

  “Can I help?”

  “You can help by getting back in the coach.”

  Chided, Elke did just that, but not without some difficulty. The man who was done with honorifics was also done with helping her back into the coach that he had told her not to leave in the first place.

  Back inside, she was surprised at the difference made by the slight breeze that swirled outside. Still very cold, she was now no longer painfully so, especially upon re-bundling herself in the blanket she had eschewed for her investigation.

  Becoming more miserable by the moment, her mind began to race with ideas of how she might escape a fate that included another month or even more in Waldheim. By the time the coachman had turned the carriage, she had hatched a plan that just might work to get her out of the valley.

  “I’ve got us turned. We’ll be back in Waldheim soon, fräulein.” His voice came through the door this time before he climbed back up into his seat.


  Soon they were off, descending whence they came.

  It was still well before noon when the coach came to a stop in the familiar square. Elke looked out to see Herr Sachs, sitting there as always, unperturbed, though in her absence a light snowfall had begun the business of covering him up.

  The coach door was opened, and this time a step box was placed for her, yet Elke remained seated. She was in no way eager to reset foot in the place.

  “Do you think I have time to make it over the pass on horseback today?”

  The coachman snickered under his breath at his passenger’s lame joke until a look at her face confirmed that her question had been in earnest.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, fräulein.”

  “I’m quite serious.”

  “It would take an experienced rider . . .”

  “You could do it. I know you could . . . please?” she implored him.

  “I probably could if it came to it, but I won’t leave my coach and team here.”

  “Well then, I know a huntsman who might . . .”

  “Maybe so, fräulein, but you’re forgetting something.”

  “Oh, and what’s that, then?”

  “I said an ‘experienced rider’, not an experienced rider having to lead you and that box of yours.”

  So much for her plan . . . Elke was just about ready to surrender the coach when, thinking out loud, mostly to herself, she declared, “I just cannot believe there is only the one road in and out of the valley . . .”

  “There isn’t.”

  The man’s comment took her back out of her head. “Isn’t what?”

  “There isn’t just one road out of the valley: there are two to the pass.”

  “You mean there’s another way out?”

  “Yes, the old Roman Road. We were just on the new road, which I guess you could say is now the blocked road.” He snickered again as he said this, obviously amused with himself.