A Witch's Burden

by D. W. Goates

  He withdrew a book from the desk’s side drawer and moved to the leather chair, so situated as it was: as far from her as possible. Elke watched as he carefully gathered his robes to sit, but in finally doing so he affected no further pretension.

  “This is my book,” he said, holding the reader in question aloft for her to see.

  “I understand that it is your publication, yes, and a fine one it is, but you did not write most of its contents, nor did I obtain it from your library.”

  “I know where you got it, and am frankly amazed that it still exists. It was, at one time, a gift to the school—the students of Waldheim—one that the citizens rejected, and one I thought since burned.”

  “See, I never understood that . . . I worked at the school. I am a teacher. I found that book and others like it in the old house I was given to live in during my stay in Waldheim. I found the books in a crate, disused, yet in excellent condition. When I made mention to the schoolmaster of adopting them, he became positively apoplectic. But why?”

  “The schoolmaster, like the others, sees in that book a challenge to his fundamental state of being—a condition not based upon any reality, but of delusion. Pure, collective delusion.”

  “I don’t understand . . .” Elke said this slowly, almost whispering as she recalled her original confusion.

  “Where are you from, fräulein?”

  “Up north.” She spoke absently, her eyes still glazed in thought.

  “One of the big cities, then?”

  “Yes, Bremen.”

  “They too are in no ways immune. But you see, fräulein, Waldheim is an especially insular place. Novelty is anathema to them. They have convinced themselves that any change represents an existential threat. That is, I am referring to change initiating from without. Now, change from within—organic change—would be allowable as a matter of course.”

  “You are speaking of acceptance, and issues of shared common culture . . .”

  “There’s much more to it, fräulein—much more to it than any nascent sociology you might have had the misfortune of being exposed to in college. A society that cannot discern the ugly from the different will rot—as have those before it. The ‘community’ of Waldheim is such a place—suppressing as it does the latter, whilst the former eats away at it from within.”

  “Oh, I don’t think it’s that complicated, my lord. Rustics are rustic, after all. Though I must admit the ‘witchcraft’ bit was a new one to me.”

  “Then they failed to convince you of my sorcerous powers?” The Margrave delivered this with a rakish smirk.

  “Utterly.”

  “Well, it’s a shame then that you are leaving. It’s people like you who restore what little faith I have remaining in God’s children.”

  At this the kettle began its song, and while the Margrave prepared the tea, Elke mused on the odd turn of events and even odder conversation.

  The tea was rich with warm spices. Elke had never tasted its equal. Upon inquiry she learned that the Margrave had procured the rare blend from a Bengalese trader he knew and had met some years past during his travels in the subcontinent.

  “‘Rustics are rustic, after all’.” The Count repeated her words from earlier as he returned his fine china teacup to its saucer. The phrase seemed to amuse him.

  “Yes,” she said in agreement, further endorsing her earlier proposition.

  “And what of the metropolitan, such as yourself?”

  “We don’t believe in witchcraft. And as for how far the quite wholesome, thought-provoking subjects in your book go, I was on my way to put that to test. I’ve already prepared a number of lessons in association with it.”

  “So it’s that simple, then? Broad-minded city folk being obviously better than closed-minded ‘rustics’?”

  “Haven’t you all but said as much? Even if my kind reject your ideas, they would never go so far as to burn your book or go around calling you a witch!”

  “Careful, teacher, you forget that not so long ago your enlightened German cities used to reek with the burning flesh of witches who died clutching their books.”

  “That was hundreds of years ago.”

  “So?”

  “So what? Can you not tell the difference between modern Germany and medieval times? Do Bavarian knights still pass by your castle on their blue and white caparisoned steeds? Times have changed, though I can appreciate how living in this old castle might get to one’s head.”

  “Progress. Perception . . . What if I told you that there are no such things?”

  “Open your book, my lord, to one of your brilliant color pictures and tell me whether the same was even possible in a book fifty years ago.” He didn’t, but she continued. “That’s progress. And as for perception, perception is a point you have already conceded with your comment on the insularity of your fair subjects in Waldheim.”

  “People do not progress in the eyes of God.”

  “Begging your pardon, but you’re no God, my lord.”

  “I don’t claim to be, but mechanical baubles, color pictures, steam locomotion—these things represent accomplishments but have nothing to do with moral progress, or of escaping or superseding our fundamental humanity.”

  “Surely we have progressed in our understanding. The world is no longer flat, you see . . .” Elke had expected to be cut off, but wasn’t; nevertheless, enough of her point had been made.

  “Only when mankind understands his place will he have arrived—not progressed, but arrived at where he has yet been all along.”

  “So, semantics, then?”

  With this she had hoped to sting the pugnacious Count, but in his face she could read only disappointment. When he refused to answer her, she felt compelled to try again.

  “All right, my lord, what is mankind’s place?”

  “To what, to whom, is man responsible?

  To God.

  In all other things he is responsible only to his inventions:

  He who would build is responsible for building,

  He who would destroy is responsible for destroying,

  He who would sire is responsible for rearing,

  He who would adopt is responsible for fostering,

  He who would take an apprentice is responsible for instruction,

  He who would owe a debt is responsible for its payment.

  It is The Way.

  He who goes against this Way invites disaster.”

  He spoke to her as if reading this moral from some ancient and venerated text.

  “What is that from?” she asked, having never before read nor heard such words.

  “It is not ‘from’ anything. I wrote it myself.”

  “You think you can improve upon God’s Bible?”

  “Most certainly not, but there is a nuance to humanity and his tendencies that needs to be teased out and treated in more direct fashion.”

  “A nuance? And what nuance is this?”

  “Man’s tendency to unburden himself.”

  Elke took another sip of her tea and nodded to the Margrave to continue his thought.

  “Life itself is a burden to man because he makes it so. Consider the animals; to be sure, life for many animals represents a struggle, but to none, not even the ox before the plough, does life itself represent a burden unfairly placed. The reason for this is twofold: animals are ignorant, lacking the knowledge—or ‘understanding’, to use your word—of man, and thus the very perception of burden, while at the same time animals are, in the human sense, perfectly bearing their burdens. It is man alone who seeks to unshoulder himself at the expense of others. All creatures under Heaven have their responsibilities—the mother goose to her goslings, the lioness to her pride, each bee to its hive. It is by means of The Way that these animals meet their responsibilities. Yet it is through this Way that these an
imals have no responsibility to meet. Alexander Pope said, ‘A little learning is a dangerous thing’, and he would be right. For man, unlike the beasts, knows just enough to perceive from Heaven responsibilities—which he deems burdens—but not enough to live in a way that is neither burdensome to himself nor others.”

  “The Way?” asked Elke, wondering at the special emphasis he kept putting on that particular word.

  “The Chinese call it ‘Tao’.”

  “I’ve heard of that before—some sort of ancient Chinese religion . . .”

  The Margrave appeared genuinely wounded by her comment. “It’s not a religion. Think of it more as a unifying principle: not a way, but The Way—the way that things are is also the way that we should operate.”

  “Well, any fool can see the way that things are. The trouble only comes as people disagree over what to do about it.”

  “Do you take the advice of fools often, fräulein?”

  “What?”

  “Can fools really see the way that things are?”

  “Well, the ones with eyes can.”

  “Now who’s speaking semantics?”

  “I don’t understand you, my lord. What are we even talking about here?”

  He returned her words in paraphrase. “Trouble only comes when people disagree over what to do about the things that are. What if I told you that the trouble usually starts much earlier: with a foolish misappreciation of how things were in the first place? And that any actions taken upon such a fundamental misunderstanding only serve to compound matters. My point is that your grand disagreements over what to do are typically the culmination of foolishness, not the inception.”

  “So, is all of this in some book of morals you are hawking?”

  “You mock me. You’re not the first, nor do I suspect you’ll be the last.”

  “I do not mean to be rude, my lord, but honestly, you speak as if you know all the answers. I’m not sure how we arrived at this deep chat on the human condition, but it is a complicated subject, and I have often pondered on it myself to no easy answer.”

  The Margrave began speaking rhetorically. “Who are we, creating problems for ourselves, then calling petulantly to Heaven about our unfair burdens? Do animals complain to one another of the harshness of winter? There are no burdens but those invented by people who go against The Way. Hardship and struggle will come in their measure; they need no woe in addition. One who has The Way knows this, that while he may struggle, he need never suffer a burden.”

  “There you are again, speaking in riddles. What you say is thought-provoking, but there is no practicality in it.”

  “It is all practicality, my dear fräulein. You spoke of your ill treatment at the hands of those Waldheimers napping now below us in the valley. You are obviously an intelligent and well-meaning teacher . . . With but that information, I could have easily predicted the outcome of your visit given my past experience with the villagers.”

  “Indeed, with few exceptions, they are an awful people.”

  “Yes. In showing the way to harmonious living, The Tao provides also the means by which its opposite may be identified; and in this capacity it proves an excellent tool for the evaluation of character, which brings us back to those rustics.”

  “What about those rustics?”

  “They are a peculiar breed, which is why I took issue with your broad-brush painting. It is true that there will never be peace among men. It is The Way of Heaven that each thing has a place and each thing is in its place. And while man would see everything under Heaven reordered to suit him, in Waldheim we have man truly run amok. It is ironic that my subjects in Waldheim accuse me of witchcraft when it is their hole that must surely be one of the most Godless, disharmonious places on our Earth.”

  “What happened, anyway . . .? I understood your forefathers were highly regarded.”

  “As no doubt you did, I simply tried to help.”

  “Then, why . . .?”

  “Despite their nature, I tried to help them—on my own terms. They would not have it.”

  “Why not help them on their terms, then?”

  “The only way for me to do so would be to become one of them. Nine times in ten the actions of a group are predicated not by what is right, but by what is cultural, customary.”

  “Is that true, my lord, or are you being ungenerous in your generalization?”

  “Have you really never encountered parishioners willing to bend the Word of God Himself in the name of tradition?”

  Elke was stumped, and as she had no answer for him, he continued.

  “Where it cost me nothing, I ingratiated myself as best I could, but on principle I did not—could not—bend. You speak glowingly of my student reader here; did you know that they would have had me change it?”

  “How so?”

  “In two most considerable ways: first, they complained that it was too difficult to read, and then, after I answered that charge, they branded it immoral.”

  “I think struggling a bit with vocabulary is the best way for students to truly learn a language. And the lessons in your stories are wonderful and intriguing—perfect for developing that critical thinking . . .”

  “The truth is that the teachers at the time felt one-upped. They themselves had difficulty with the vocabulary and therefore couldn’t countenance students reading along with them at their level, or beyond. As for the morals of the stories, here it was clear that they believed the material too provocative for their comfort—too incitive of questions from students whose eyes were no longer content to remain closed.”

  “It still surprises me that they would go so far as to accuse you of witchcraft.”

  “You heard them yourself. I hide not any critical part of the story from you. It is as simple as that, and my lack of participation in the inanities that serve to bond those people to one another. ‘Witchcraft’ is just the ultimate charge of other. I am their opposite, their outsider, their ‘witch’. They—insular, stupid, and self-perpetuating—are my fools.”

  “But you know better, and are, by right, their liege. Wouldn’t it be moral to insist upon the rescue of those you could save from among them—at least their youth, the young students . . . What does your ‘Way’ say of that?”

  “What, indeed . . . Would you have me cease their foolishness at gunpoint?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Well, what, fräulein?” he prodded.

  “You claim to have so much knowledge of human nature, and yet you look to me rather powerless.”

  “An outsider changing the hearts and minds of strangers intent only on expelling him from their society . . . Yes, on that task I will admit to my utter powerlessness.”

  “But, with sufficient will, you could do it from the inside . . . You’ve all but said as much yourself.”

  “Only by means of a fundamental dishonesty: by lying both to them and to myself. I’m no rogue, nor am I an actor. I perceive from neither God, nor the mysterious Tao, any requirement that I take the multifaceted steps necessary to bring such people into my confidence, thereafter inculcating them with incontrovertible truths. Besides, I’m not entirely convinced that we don’t all somehow receive these realities in our own special way—in spite of the recalcitrance of certain counts—morals for our acceptance or rejection, as is our right as living or dying souls bound for God’s ultimate judgment.”

  “Do you think they will ever change?” she asked, as someone who hadn’t a clue about the answer.

  “If they change, that change will have to come to them from within. It cannot be imposed from without, especially by an individual. I have yet to know a society undeserving of its fate.”

  She pondered these words as she finished her tea and stared into the fire. “I leave tomorrow. May I please have the book? I can assure you, my lord, that it will receive the appreciation it is due
from the people of Bremen.”

  “Can you? I know not the people of Bremen, but would remind you that, while most certainly less insular than the Waldheimer, in every place is man but man. Here, take it.” He handed her the book, adding, “I have always regretted what I had come to believe was a wasted effort. Beware that its lessons be neither twisted nor discounted.”

  “Thank you,” said Elke, grateful her plans had been preserved.

  “Why did you come to Waldheim in the first place, fräulein? It’s such a long journey from Bremen.”

  “I was stuck. Try though I might, I could not get hired on as a permanent teacher. Despite my education and qualifications, the school where I worked relegated me to an assistant position.”

  “Were there no positions elsewhere in the north?”

  “None. Through correspondence I finally earned an offer from faraway Waldheim, only to arrive here and have even it reneged upon.”

  The Margrave found this absurd and seemed on the verge of laughter. “So this is how German society sees fit to perpetuate itself in its foolishness.”

  “It seems that way . . .” Elke replied, with a forced grin.

  “Where two fools are gathered, there will soon be a third. God help us all!”

  VIII

  Elke slept little that night upon her return to the gatehouse. Whereas before, in her eagerness to depart, she had nightly dreamt of returning home and of her plans once there, now her mind raced with subversive thoughts, ideas brought forth as a result of her strange midnight exchange with the Margrave. In particular, she wondered at the implications for her chosen profession should his mystic theories prove true.

  Was this why she had such difficulty in getting hired on—too much of a concern for lessons and subject matter, and not enough of her simply going along to get along?

  Could she be more—to use his word—“ingratiating,” or would this just cost her, or worse, her students, what she truly had to offer? Did she not pride herself as better than those other teachers in whose shadows she seemed to perpetually dwell? In all of this she considered not the dread stock of Waldheim; their pedagogical shortcomings were axiomatic. Here Elke concerned herself only with those whom she considered her peers—her fellow educators back home in the bustling city of Bremen.