A Witch's Burden

by D. W. Goates

  Re-entering town from the Witch’s Road, along the same grim street as she had left, Elke came to another realization: the place appeared deserted in spite of the late afternoon hour. Before, the townsfolk had at least kept to their windows. Now it was as if the sinister old dwellings were abandoned.

  Warily she made her way to the town square. Arriving at the Marktplatz, it became clear why she had seen no others. They were all here—a great throng; assembled before the Rathaus was Waldheim’s entire habitation.

  Dumbly they stood, like herd animals, their backs to the newcomer. They gawked—the stupid riffraff—either at the nattering bigwig atop his wooden platform, or at the great bonfire raging around the maypole beside him. Within the fire, still lashed to the pole, was something no longer manlike—something charred.

  She was too late.

  Elke could scarcely believe her eyes. The scene before her called into question everything the teacher thought she knew about modernity, about progress. The fundamental nature of humanity itself was now dubitable. Yet this shock—after her experience at the castle—was no longer capable of paralyzing her. She was instead surprisingly emboldened, and did not even bother to stop her horse. Steadily, inexorably, Elke shoved her tired bay through toward the center of the unsuspecting rabble. Cries and murmurs ensued from those displaced, catching the attention of the speaker on the platform. He ceased with his proclamations and stared agape at the woman approaching him.

  It was the Bürgermeister. Elke eyed him coldly as she brought her horse to a halt in front of him.

  “You . . .” said the mayor.

  Elke said nothing, but turned her head deliberately, contemptuously to the fire and back again—a grand survey of the appalling spectacle. In this she spotted Loritz among the men standing with the mayor, but she ignored him.

  The mob became silent.

  At last Loritz spoke, his words coming out in a stammer. “Elke! You’re alive . . . But—But—I don’t understand . . .”

  “Clearly,” she replied, her voice dripping with disdain.

  Elke’s judgment was effulgent. Her quiet righteousness began to make the mayor’s skin crawl, not to mention the hides of the other important men with him. His desire to take her down a peg was evident, but when he addressed her his hesitancy showed.

  “Come—Come down off that horse!”

  Slowly she turned, fixing the man in her gaze. “You! All of you are murderers!” What had begun with the mayor was thus addressed to the mass of them, and she had turned to Loritz as she said it.

  Her accusation served to start the crowd from its stupor; the bold among them, such as they were, began mouthing witchy countercharges.

  “Seize her!” snapped the mayor to an armed guard standing by the fire—a ridiculous sentinel, proof perhaps against the blackened remains of the Count springing forth for his deserved—if now impossible—revenge.

  It was the fiery fräulein he need have feared. Elke spurred her horse at the guard preemptively, with full intent to run him down. Unfortunately, the sudden jolt startled her bay, causing him to rear. That was all the time that the townsfolk needed; they swarmed upon her, tearing her from her horse.

  Fighting fiercely against the crowd, Elke was dragged before the mayor to the accompaniment of angry shouts. Smugly, the mayor called his people to quiet, the better to make his declarations. With things now more on his terms, he would see the recalcitrant woman publicly set right.

  “I don’t know what witchcraft or other evil brings you back to us, fräulein,” he said, twisting her honorific into a sarcastic mock, “but you will come to regret it.”

  Elke was held fast—a man on each arm—and so ceased her futile struggle, but she remained defiant. Standing erect and ignoring the petty mayor, she addressed the people. “How few years has it been, really, since Herr Sachs began his tireless vigil?”

  Facing her from its pedestal, the monument loomed above the crowd—an eternal comforting witness, granting its strength to her rhetoric.

  Neither receiving nor having expected an answer, Elke continued her lecture. “Have you people already forgotten the lessons of that time? Oh, but one cannot forget what was never learned . . . Fools! God-damned fools! You burn your teacher in his differences to be left casting about amongst yourselves for the truth. You will never find it! The truth is that you primitives have murdered a man and your only justification for it amounts to an agreement among fools. Zero plus zero equals zero. The full number of you times zero equals zero. You people are in need of a most fundamental teacher . . . But I see now what the Count meant: one cannot teach a fool at gunpoint.”

  “That’s enough out of you!” spat the mayor. “Lock her up!”

  The riot renewed, jeering as the truculent teacher was gruffly hustled from the platform.

  Later in the town jail, the mayor seemed pleased with himself. “You must have a death wish, girl,” he uttered as the barred door was shut.

  “And what of you? What of your fate when the King hears of this?”

  “Tch!” He had hoped to make sport of her, but she was refusing to play along. Finding her suddenly tiresome, he and the others took their leave.

  The young woman was left alone to her shabby cell.

  Elke spent the next hours slumped in thought atop a simple wood-frame bed with an uncomfortable, lumpy straw mattress. It was the only furniture in the enclosure, and one of only two objects in the room. The other was a chamber pot she found stowed beneath the bed.

  She would warn the King. But this was all that she could come to in a mind now swirling with self-pity, rage, worry, sadness, horror, and fear. That anything, let alone going to Munich, seemed impossible for her at the moment was what finally stirred her to action.

  Rising, Elke confirmed her solitude and began testing the bars and door for weaknesses, then the walls; all were sturdy and solid. She estimated her cell to be ten feet square. It was windowless, with the ceiling, floor, and three of its walls made of mortared stone; the other was comprised entirely of narrowly spaced iron bars, and within them a matching door. She was successfully trapped.

  Frustrated, despairing, she returned to her bed and lay down to sleep.

  When she awoke, it was evening. The sunlight that had before sought her out through an open doorway had been replaced by a weaker though equally imperceivable source—a candle, surely, by its flicker. Hungry and thirsty, Elke called out, but to no avail.

  It was morning before anyone came; a guard entered the anteroom outside her cell. He brought bread and a small cup of water, passing these to her through the bars. Elke took from him hungrily, ignoring his lecherous look. The cool water refreshed her; the bread was stale and tasteless.

  The guard said nothing but continued leering at her as she ate, and when she finished and asked him for more water, he hesitated. She soon surmised from the wicked gleam in his eyes that the awful man hoped to get something from her in exchange for quenching her thirst. What this was, however, she could not guess as he was too much the coward to give word to it. When Elke again implored him, disarmingly—in the name of decency—he finally acceded to her wish. Yet he did not then depart; he remained outside her cell, ogling—leaving only when she resorted to feigned sleep.

  It was late afternoon when the young prisoner received her next visitor. Casting his shadow upon her from the doorway was Loritz. Mercifully, he had brought her a large meal and plenty of beer. While Elke was in no mood to speak with him, she was also famished; wordlessly she devoured his offering. As she ate, he pulled in a chair for himself from the room outside.

  After she had eaten her fill, Elke began swallowing the beer in thirsty gulps, pausing only for air and to stare—coldly—at Loritz, wishing that he would go away.

  When this became unbearable, he spoke. “The Margrave was no witch.”

  “It’s a fine time to make that discovery,” s
he replied sardonically.

  “But I don’t understand—”

  “I do. You’ve murdered a man.”

  “No! I saw your coach dashed to pieces near the castle. Where were you? How did you come back?”

  “That’s rich! I don’t suppose it’s any wonder that we get witchcraft from such magical thinking!”

  “But . . .”

  “But what? It was an accident. Your witch was my rescuer, his familiar my nurse.”

  “So, you were not held prisoner in the castle?” asked Loritz.

  “Of course not! But I suppose you didn’t bother asking your liege any of this before setting him alight.”

  “We asked him, but he would tell us nothing of your fate.”

  “He was a proud man . . .” said Elke wistfully. “I don’t suppose I would be willing to give answer to my vassal at the tip of a pitchfork either.”

  “But to go to his death over such a thing—”

  “Such a thing? But if it’s not one thing it’s another, is it not? He was already thrice damned by you people—what price another? Perhaps he sought to offer a final lesson to those of you already—no doubt—well on your way down the road to Hell. As they say, it’s far better to show than tell.”

  “But where were you?”

  “I had just left the day before. I learned of your awful raid from the farmers in Bergdorf and borrowed a horse to return.”

  “I am sorry.”

  Elke said nothing but looked on dispassionately as her admirer’s face began twisting with profound grief.

  “I am sorry, Elke. I am so very sorry.”

  Her reply came devoid of inflection. “Do not speak my name.”

  “Please, please forgive me!”

  “If you ask it, I must grant it. God requires it, and so this I do. But know this: I want nothing more to do with you, Loritz. I forgive you, but I never want to see you again.”

  Disconsolate, with his face in his hands, Loritz began weeping.

  Elke just stared at him, unblinking, until a single tear belied her aloof aspect.

  That night, Elke found sleep difficult, in spite of her exhaustion. On the morrow she was to be freed, but this fact, if indeed true, brought her little comfort. Before leaving her, Loritz had shared the details of a deal he had struck with the Bürgermeister and the others of the town council. Loritz held some influence in Waldheim, though he had been obliged to spend much of it to secure the now-reviled teacher’s release. It was to be a quiet affair: her horse would be returned to her just before dawn, and she was to leave with it immediately, departing by the new road. The mayor warned that should she ever return she would be hanged; however, Elke had assured Loritz of the impossibility of this particular danger.

  Though intent on petitioning the King, Elke did not expound on these plans with Loritz. She no longer trusted him. She was furthermore surprised that the Bürgermeister did not seem to fear such an outcome given her previous threat. But perhaps it was all just a ploy, and there would be someone waiting for her outside of town.

  It wasn’t for any fear that she could not sleep. In some sense she had resigned herself to her fate before returning to Waldheim. What vexed her now were the irreconcilable examples of human nature that she had so recently witnessed—such a spectrum of kindness and barbarism she had once thought wholly impossible. And still she worried for Sascha. Surely it was he who had escaped. Was he somewhere here in Waldheim? And if so, how could she find him?

  She knew she must take this opportunity to leave, if it truly was one. And while it did occur to her to tell Loritz about the boy, in the hopes that he could help him, she did not—could not—for fear that it would put Sascha in greater danger.

  These were her thoughts as she struggled to sleep, until the sound of the door shook her from her nightmares.

  It was the warm fur riding cloak Loritz offered—his own—that caused Elke to change her mind and reveal her secret about the boy. If she was to be murdered out there on the road, then something about his generous offer and accompanying expression confirmed for her that he, at least, knew nothing of such a plot.

  In fact, he had offered to ride with her to Bergdorf before she refused him. He would not be denied, however, in seeing her well supplied for the journey. That Loritz had personally cared for her horse during her brief incarceration showed: the farmer’s bay was rested, in good spirits, and held its head high. God too, it seemed, was on her side, for the weather remained clear.

  Loritz alone saw her off, a look of grave regret upon his face. He promised to search for the boy, and help him, if he could find him. He would tell no other.

  “I loved—still love you,” he said in farewell.

  “I know,” she replied.

  And then she was gone.

  X

  Only a press of trees and crisp winter air waited for her on the road out of sight of the village. But once she was certain of being alone, Elke managed to invent for herself other worries in her anxious state. Wolves bold enough to attack a coach and its team would think nothing of pursuing a lone rider. And so, she kept her valiant horse moving as fast as she dared lest she strain him prematurely.

  She made good time, even navigating the blockage that remained without undue difficulty. By early afternoon it was almost warm—the sun baking in its cloudless sky—and, squinting, Elke could already discern the houses of Bergdorf scattered before her in the treeless, blinding white snow.

  With her safe arrival assured, Elke slowed the tired bay to a walk, steering the horse to its master whom she soon spotted while still some distance from his colorful house. For a mountain dweller in the dead of winter, it was a particularly fine day to attend to chores out of doors.

  “Praise be to God, you’ve returned!” exclaimed Oskar heartily.

  “That is, I am afraid, all that we have to be thankful for,” replied Elke, too tired to enjoy much relief in her arrival.

  A dire melancholy was etched upon her face; the farmer seemed to notice this as he moved to take the reins of the horse.

  “What happened?” he asked, his concern quickly blanketing his usual cheer.

  As he held the horse for her, Elke swung from it easily with a new and certain skill. Riding astride agreed with her—this had been her first experience with it. She felt more in control now and was a better rider for it.

  “The Margrave has been murdered, as were the others. Drahomir is dead. Waldheim is a horror show of evil.”

  “Oh, my God! Let’s get you inside, fräulein.”

  Oskar saw the weary rider into the house but remained outside to care for the horse. Inside, Ute was waiting with a warm greeting.

  “Come inside, fräulein. Rest yourself by the fire. I will make you a hot drink. Would you like some coffee? Cider, perhaps?”

  “Do you have anything stronger?” said Elke, slumping down into a cozy chair and beginning to remove her gloves.

  “We have some wine and beer as well. Which would you prefer?”

  “Either, I suppose, though I should care for something stronger still. You wouldn’t have any port . . .?”

  Ute was amused. “Port? Where do you think you are? Although . . . I do have a little something you might like.”

  “Oh, I’ll have that!” replied Elke, looking over her shoulder at the suggestion and exhibiting what almost amounted to a smile.

  “Then I’ll join you.”

  Elke turned back to the fire and eased deeper into the chair, allowing her tired, strained muscles to relax. She felt uncommonly safe here with these friendly, unassuming people—so much so that it suddenly occurred to her to never leave. Such peace. Such comfort. And whatever Ute was preparing back there in her kitchen was sure to be good.

  Shortly, the stout woman reappeared. She placed a tray on the low table before them and took a chair beside the teacher. “I thou
ght you might like something to eat as well.”

  Elke beheld an attractive array of treats: crusty rolls, sliced cheese, butter, some sort of pastry, two red apples, and alongside all of this a queerly labelled brown bottle with two short glasses. The liquid in these glasses was aflame with preternatural blue fire.

  Elke was intrigued by the strange beverage. “What’s this?”

  “It’s an herbal liqueur. They say it’s been made by monks for hundreds of years—some sort of cold elixir, but I’ve found it works for pretty much anything that might ail you.”

  As she said this, Ute inverted a cup over each glass, smothering the flames in turn. When she was finished, she handed one to Elke who could still feel its warmth. In fact, the rim of the glass remained too hot to touch, causing her fingers to migrate to its base.

  “Prost!”

  Their toast thus given, Elke lifted the glass to her lips in nervous anticipation. As expected, there was pain when the hot glass touched her mouth, yet she tipped it back nonetheless just as her host had demonstrated, though with slightly more difficulty.

  The viscous nature of the drink surprised her, as did its sticky sweetness and stark anise flavor. It warmed and then burned her throat but still she managed to drink it all in one lusty gulp. When she was finished, Elke marveled at the unusual aftertaste.

  The women shared a conspiring look, as if Elke had just joined in some secret society.

  “Tastes like pine needles,” suggested the novice, with a wrinkle of her nose.

  “Right?” replied Ute, smiling.

  Elke returned her grin, mischievously. “Could I have another?”

  “Of course! Oskar can make his own supper tonight.”

  Ute poured them both a second, larger than the first.

  Later, Elke told them all of what had happened. The farmer and his wife were appalled. Their empathetic reactions to the events she described, however, brought her much comfort. At last she had escaped to the bosom of civil society.