by D. W. Goates
They dined on ham, eggs, apples, and Käsebrötchen. To drink, there was hot coffee and milk. Elke made something of a scene of herself, eating voraciously until it was too painful for her to continue. Only then did she realize the breach of her usual decorum.
“You are a wonderful cook. Thank you very much for this breakfast. I fear I may have eaten too much!”
Ute laughed. “You eat like Oskar in the summertime: one has to be careful of one’s hands and arms! You are most welcome. I expected you’d be hungry.”
“You’re surprisingly well stocked up here on this mountain.”
“Yes, we have to be—especially in winter.”
“How many families live here in Bergdorf?”
“Less than a dozen year ’round. Many only come up with the cows—at the late spring thaw.”
“And they stay until winter?”
“Only late summer. In September they go back down.”
“That’s quite a way to travel for just a few months,” observed Elke. “Is there not enough pasturage for them down below?”
“They have enough. They come for the Mutterkraut, and I suppose it’s also tradition.”
“Mutterkraut?”
“Yes. It’s a flowery weed, really. It only grows up here. They say it makes the cows give more and better milk.”
“Does it?”
“Oskar swears by it. But then again Oskar believes in elves and fairies. You should hear him run his mouth.”
The schoolteacher smiled and took a sip of her coffee. “It seems peaceful up here.”
“Oh, it is. We love it. On a clear summer’s eve it’s like Heaven. And I don’t mind the snow.”
“Have you lived here all your life, then?”
“No. I’m from Regensburg. Hated that place!”
“I’ve never been, though I know what it is to hate a place. How did you end up here?”
“Well, I met Oskar. He was visiting and took me and my love for him back to Munich—but I hated that place as much as Regensburg!”
“And so you moved here.”
“Yes. We decided to move together. He hated his job and his family there, and we have always loved the mountains . . .”
“Sounds romantic.”
Knowingly, Ute agreed. “What about you, fräulein? I’ve not seen you before. Have you worked long for the Margrave? Has he got you off on one of his secret missions?”
“Oh, I don’t work for the Margrave, though it was interesting making his acquaintance.”
“I see. You came with Drahomir, so I assumed that you live in the castle.”
“No. My visit with his lordship was—shall we say—unscheduled.”
“This must explain the odd timing of your arrival. I was going to tell you today that you may be with us for quite some time, fräulein. The coachmen are at the mercy of the weather this time of year.” Ute paused, but then started up again, unexpectedly, as if a thought just occurred to her. “Why just the other day—”
The result was an interruption, for Elke too had begun to speak before stopping at the collision. “I was—Sorry, I was going to say that I was with just such a coachman until we suffered a terrible mishap.”
Ute’s eyes grew wide with a kind of weird realization.
Startled by the sudden change, Elke waited for the stout woman to speak; it was clear that she had something important to impart.
“You don’t come from the castle—you come from Waldheim.”
“Yes. But how do you know this?”
“There was a man here. He came on horseback and inquired about a coach that had left Waldheim via the Roman Road over two weeks ago, bound for the pass.”
“That was my coach . . .” said Elke, her mind now racing as to the identity of the mysterious rider.
“He mentioned a young woman travelling alone,” Ute continued. “When I told him we had seen no coach pass, he seemed convinced that she—you—had been captured or something by the Margrave.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?” Elke reacted as if Ute had kept this from her deliberately.
“I am sorry. I had no idea, fräulein. I thought you were from the castle. And the hatred of those yokels in Waldheim for our liege is well known.”
“What did he look like—this man?”
“A younger fellow, in his twenties I would suppose. He had a trimmed goatee and moustache. At first, he didn’t seem quite as awful as most of them from that place, but when he started in with his threats—”
“What did he say? Please, this is very important!” Elke’s heart quickened with desperation.
The teacher’s pained expression made Ute choose her words carefully, summarizing exactly as she recalled. “It must have been four days ago. That was when the weather cleared. He came—this man—alone on horseback. He said he was from Waldheim and that the new road was now blocked; a massive tree had fallen. He had just made it around this, but was certain the way was barred to any carriage. He asked about a woman—you. He said that he had overheard from others in the village that a coach with a woman had left Waldheim two weeks ago by way of the Roman Road. He called it the ‘Witch’s Road’—as do all the superstitious people of that place—but I knew the one he spoke of: the one that passes the Margrave’s castle. No one from Waldheim takes that road, but after seeing the tree, he was sure that it must have been you. He wanted to know if we were certain that no such coach had arrived here or had passed us. I told him that we had seen no coach, that he could see for himself the way just outside. Day or night, we hear anything moving by us on that road. Anyway, this information seemed to convince him that your carriage had been intercepted by his lordship the Count, and he began muttering all manner of curses.”
“What kind of curses, exactly?”
“He said that the Margrave would burn,” replied Ute, without matching the gravity of the question.
Shocked and frightened, a look of horror developed on Elke’s face.
Ute was at once disconcerted and compelled to dispel Elke’s distress. “Fräulein, surely it is an idle threat.”
Elke did not answer but remained in dreadful aspect, staring without focus.
Again, Ute attempted to assuage her stricken guest. “You can’t believe him. The enmity of that entire town for the Margrave has existed for decades—well before our time here. They talk, and he lets them. That’s all that it is, fräulein: talk. Nothing more—just rebellious talk.”
“I must go! I must warn them!” Rising to her feet, the tense teacher addressed her host with newfound determination. “Please, you must let me borrow a horse.”
Elke had been obliged to invoke all of her powers of persuasion in convincing Oskar to lend her his horse—a bay gelding with a coat matching her own hair in color. As he saddled the beast for her, he made certain that she understood the basics of its care, and that he expected it returned to him alive, in good health.
Like Ute, the farmer did not at first believe the situation warranted such drastic action: the release of his best horse to a novice rider—notwithstanding the cold, the snow, and the mountains. In the end, what had tipped the scale for him was her dire demeanor, the unusual way in which it roused his own concern for their friends within the castle.
Once persuaded, Oskar had even contemplated joining her; however, Elke would have nothing of it—conscious of her albeit unwitting participation, she steadfastly refused responsibility for “yet another soul” in the potential disaster.
And so it was alone that Elke set out from the Dorf atop her fine loaner. Though still forenoon, she was in a hurry and paused only briefly to exchange worried looks with the farmer and his wife, standing before their cottage. None spoke as they saw her off—their concerned expressions spoke for them.
Only when she reached the pass, with its towering ruins, did the misgivings set in upon her.
Instantly, Elke questioned both her quest and her ability to fulfill it. Everything around her made her feel small and insignificant: the massive Roman wall, mountain peaks that pierced the sky, and everywhere, everything covered in white.
She had seen no one since departing Bergdorf, and though usually quite pleased with her own company, was now almost overcome with feelings of loneliness. That her horse seemed undaunted—stepping along briskly through the snow—was her only source of comfort.
After clearing the pass, she saw by her watch that she was making much better time alone than ever by coach. At this rate, she could expect to arrive at the castle in no more than two hours’ time.
Despite its layer of snow, Elke had little difficulty in keeping her horse to the road, and as the weather remained fair, she was afforded perhaps too much opportunity to deal with her demons. These apprehensions began to torment her, taking the form of horrible what ifs that ranged so generally that she knew neither what to fear most, nor even what to expect.
What if those wolves come for me?
She had no gun or other weapon, and would not have known how to use them if she did.
What does Loritz really mean to do with the Margrave?
What about the others?
What if that superstitious fool gets himself killed?
The possibilities seemed endless and universally terrible, so much so that Elke found it difficult to focus her mind. She wanted desperately to think on something else, something productive. Yet there was but one product in need at the moment, and her horse needed no other to aid in its production.
Even the hour itself numbered among her greatest fears. Oskar had told her of a point of no return; she would reach it near the castle—a point at which she would be committed, and could not turn back. The horse would be simply unable, irrespective of the coming of nightfall.
With her mind so fermented, Elke rode on, persistent in the face of flagging confidence and growing worry, eventually reaching a point around a segment of sheer rock outcropping. She remembered this panorama from her journey the day before. At that time it had been her and Sascha’s last great view of the valley, but now it was to be her first.
There was Waldheim—distant, yet visible—nestled in the narrow valley below.
And there above it was the Margrave’s castle—precariously clinging to the mountainside as great billows of black smoke heaved from its towers in arrant spoliation of the azure sky.
IX
Elke stopped her horse, riveted by the dreadful scene. In spite of her fears, she had almost managed to convince herself of the impossibility of such circumstance. But could there be another explanation for the smoldering truth revealed to her eyes?
No. Neither a confluence of smoke from every chimney in the castle nor a substantial bonfire set within its courtyard could explain such a conflagration. There was but one logical explanation, and at this Elke became distraught, the implications washing over her in terrible waves. Imagining such murderous barbarism as must have taken place overwhelmed her, reducing her to trembling abhorrence.
It was not too late: she had not yet reached the point of no return. Suddenly desperate to escape, Elke began instinctively to turn her horse before hesitating. Her racing thoughts had alighted upon the others. What had become of them? And surely those monsters had not seen to harm young Sascha!
A seed of indignation began to grow within her, restoring and bolstering the strength that despair had so casually sapped. Steeling her eyes, resolved now to be fire with fire, Elke spurred her horse—not in retreat, but onwards—to the castle!
On her arrival, Elke dismounted well outside and tied the bay to a tree. Unsure of what to expect, she crept quietly along the outer wall to the gatehouse. There she could see that its great timber door—the main entry to castle and courtyard—had been burned; warmth still radiated from its ashes.
Keeping to the wall, Elke peered inside. Seeing no one, she entered the littered courtyard—strewn throughout with various household effects—taking care to avoid detection. The spectacle, bespeaking a rapacious looting spree, was even worse than it had looked nearly an hour before from the road. The ancient stronghold—veteran of so many bygone wars—was now a ruin: a stony, inglorious, smoking husk. All of the windows had been smashed—the stone above them stained in soot from the fire that still burned, though with lessening voracity. Built of wood, the carriage house too had been reduced to ash. Of the entire place only brick and stone remained. Stepping to the entrance of what had been the house, Elke confirmed the worst: nothing within had escaped the catastrophe. Without a doubt, even the Margrave’s great library had fed the flames.
Such evil struck Elke dumb with bewilderment. She began to search amidst the debris for any signs of her friends’ fate. She spied a crumpled figure, clad in black and lying in the yard. At first, she mistook him for a collection of discarded clothing, but upon seeing a person, she ran to him.
He wore a monk’s robe. It was Paul the Scotsman—Paul the gardener—Paul the castle cook, murdered. Stabbed to death. Elke, late his almswoman, having never had occasion to meet him in life now held his lifeless body. With his head in her lap she began to sob, though this mourning was to be cut short.
A sound from behind her started Elke to her feet. She was not alone.
Across the yard, another lay as if dead. It was Drahomir. She called to him, and in response he weakly raised his hand.
She raced to him and dropped to her knees. “Are you all right?”
He turned to her, barely perceptible, his eyes mere slits, his feeble voice quivering. “Fräulein . . .”
“It’s all right. I am here to help. It’s going to be all right.” Spoken as much for her own benefit as his, the teacher’s words were unconvincing and served no match for her accompanying affect.
Delicately, Elke began to feel and tug at his clothing in an effort to identify the nature of his injury. Noting an ichorous black pool in the melty snow beneath his torso, the diffident nurse focused upon his abdomen and discovered a horrible oozing wound there. The sight of it almost made her faint.
She removed her riding cloak and pressed it to the coachman’s side in an unavailing attempt to staunch the bleeding.
He winced. “The Count . . . They have taken him,” said Drahomir.
“What of Sascha and the others?”
“Sascha is safe. Secret stair. Path down the mountain . . .”
“What ‘secret stair’?”
“Please, fräulein . . . leave this place. Save yourself. For me. Do it . . . for me . . .” Drahomir became still. He was dead.
Overcome, comfortless, Elke Schreiber wept. There were no others. This time she was alone.
After an inordinate period during which even the frigid cold had no effect on her, Elke recovered herself, only to be almost stunned again to inaction by what was required.
A proper burial would be impossible under the circumstances. Even if she had a shovel, she doubted her ability to break the cold earth deep enough to prevent the wolves from defiling any grave she managed to dig. And so, the distraught teacher carefully collected what burnables she could find from the scatter in the yard. When a suitable mound had been constructed, she dragged the lifeless bodies of Drahomir and Paul to it and set it afire with a burning brand from the house.
She had seen no evidence of the others’ fates.
Finishing her prayer over the pyre, Elke recalled what the coachman had said about a secret stair. It was not unheard of for medieval castles to have escapes hidden within their construction. Perhaps such a passage had served Sascha and the rest. A brief search through the lingering smoke of the house proved all that was necessary to find it; with the guts of the place now removed, all such features lay bare.
A trap door made of iron concealed a constricted spiral stone stair. Inside, it was dark—too dark! Quitting the passage, she
manufactured a torch from the embers before resuming her tentative descent, calling out to Sascha on her way.
The cramped stairway was claustrophobic, so tight for her that she wondered at the ability of a full-sized man to make use of it. And its length was such—down, down—that she was given to imagine that her destination might be the valley floor itself. When she had almost reached the point of declaring it interminable, finally the corkscrew ceased and became an equally narrow stone corridor, which Elke followed for some forty feet more. Here she encountered a closed door, the hinged Judas window set within it also closed. Cautiously, Elke opened the window; through thin bars she beheld sunlight and the valley below.
She called out again for Sascha. Receiving no reply, she opened the door, inviting the chill wind inside. A path led from the door down the mountainside, just as Drahomir had said. Like the corridor it was narrow, but unlike also treacherous. A single set of prints led away in the snow. If it was Sascha who had escaped this way, he was sure to have hours’ head start on her.
Once more she called out to him, this time cupping her hands near her face in a proper yell down the mountain. Only the wind replied.
Her concern for the boy was considerable, but no more so than her confidence in his resourcefulness. And he could have but one destination: the only settlement in the valley. Knowing that she could not follow him this way, she went back up to get her horse.
There would be no turning back. She was going to Waldheim.
Her journey was eventless and swift. Elke’s mind was now clear and untroubled in stark contrast to her morning turmoil. She returned to the damned village of one mind: determined. Burned through with an inner fire, she no longer even needed the cloak she had left behind; the icy air refreshed her as she rode.
A planner by nature, she was uncharacteristically devoid of stratagem—righteous fury was all she had or needed.
Only when she reached the outskirts of town did Elke come to her senses. That her horse was exhausted was her first discrete thought. His breath came labored. His head was low. Mercifully, she slowed him to a walk, and then she began to worry for him.
