A Witch's Burden

by D. W. Goates

  And in their new home, Elke and Sascha eventually found a house. Though it cost them most of their remaining treasure, the pair—now identifying themselves as sister and brother—became the owners of a small villa dating from the late seventeenth century. The size of it was perfect, if not the condition: two stories with a large downstairs room suitable for the establishment of a library. It charmed, despite being run-down. A lack of habitation for over a year had left the inside wanting for improvements, and outside its extensive grounds were overgrown. None of this, however, had dissuaded the new owners from their purchase; they had all the time in the world and saw in it only the good. Sascha loved the view of the harbor from his second-story bedroom, and, along with the library, Elke had grown enamored of the yard. A lush garden had been cultivated in the distant past and still was evident beneath layers of choking weeds. The exotic plants blooming amid the rest of the fragrant springtime mess made for an enjoyable walk even before the hard work that would be necessary in the days to come.

  Move-in day came later than either had hoped. Debris had to be cleared from the house, furniture purchased, and a first pass made at the grounds. Two part-time servants were hired to help in this, but still it proved difficult. Above this assistance, they were most grateful for their friend, Marie—the widow, their first host—who allowed them to stay with her indefinitely, and who insisted on cooking them lavish meals.

  At some point Marie no longer accepted their money, and only later did Elke realize that this had corresponded with the pair’s house purchase. Elke, feeling her debt to the kind woman, did what she could to bring her things from the market, and later planned to establish an herb garden for her benefit.

  Such was their work in setting up their household that it was all Elke could do to rein in Sascha; each morning he would look to the ships and express his desire to join them. Not until they were “in their own house,” she said, and that came to require weeks. The furniture took the longest. They were on a budget now and had to choose carefully among the antique pieces available for sale. Only when the essentials were in place did they move and, sadly for Elke, her library was not included, as no suitable bookcases could be found.

  By late June, Elke and Sascha were settled. Her garden was nicely under way, and a carpenter had been commissioned to work on their library. Sascha was spending most of his mornings at the dock; he had begun an apprenticeship that entailed going out twice a week with the fishermen. On these boat days they always had fresh fish for supper.

  Mornings, even the sunny ones, were lonely alone and without Sascha, and so, upon finishing her coffee one day, Elke was happy to see that her rosemary and thyme were ready. Bundling the herbs in her basket, she set off to make her first neighborly house call. Marie lived only a mile and a half away. It was a pleasant walk in the forenoon race against the summer sun.

  Marie was glad to see her, but not nearly so much as Elke would be at the visit, for on this day the new Antibean learned how to make gibassier. She had caught her friend in the midst of baking and was allowed not only to witness but to help in the task. Their object—a sugared pastry, galette, made with fruited olive oil and spiced with anise, candied orange peel, and orange flower water—proved the most astounding thing Elke had ever had the pleasure of putting in her mouth. Taking down the recipe in her native German to ensure the utmost accuracy, she vowed to attempt a batch of the treats on her own at her first opportunity. When Marie later thanked her for the fresh herbs, Elke promised more, while at the same time expressing her full surrender at ever hoping to meet quid pro quo in their relationship.

  Elke’s first two attempts at making gibassier failed miserably. The texture was all wrong. So unsuitable were they that the birds had required encouragement to carry them off. Another visit to her friend had brought helpful recommendations, but it wasn’t until July before Elke felt equal to trying again. Good news was the occasion: a late morning visit from the carpenter’s son to advise that, as soon as the wagons and men were arranged, her library—some seven custom bookcases—would be delivered. A sea day, Sascha would be out until late afternoon. Elke was in high spirits and decided to surprise him. She set to work once again baking her galettes, taking extra care to follow Marie’s latest advice.

  They turned out perfectly—so well that she made a second batch.

  With time to spare, Elke donned her best summer frock, braided her hair, and opted for a colorful scarf instead of her usual bonnet. The just-cooled gibassier only barely fit in her basket, stacked neatly and covered over with a towel. Sascha had spoken to her of the many friends he had made, and this would be her first chance to meet them.

  The boats were in by the time she got to the docks. The older fishermen were already sitting at their quayside tables drinking and smoking and talking quietly. The younger ones were down the pier loading heavy baskets of fish onto wagons. She knew where to find Sascha: back at the ship with the boys; the youngest ones did the cleaning.

  Oblivious to the heads that turned among the younger men as she walked by, the pretty German made her way out to the fishing boats, looking eagerly for her boy. There he was, with three others about his age scurrying about the boat. Two swabbed the deck of minnows and other sea bits brought in with the nets, while Sascha and the skinny one tied down tarps. Cheerfully they worked, chatting among themselves, and the names she heard were all familiar from Sascha’s stories. Knowing he had a job to do, and not wanting to disturb him, Elke contented herself to watch with a smile at their happiness.

  “There’s a tie come off the mainsail!” said one, over his mopping.

  “I’ll get it!” replied Sascha, looking up.

  “No, come help me,” said another, from the front of the boat. He had been mopping as well but had put that down and was straining with a crate. “Claude can get it.”

  “I’ll get it,” said the skinny one without turning around. When he and Sascha had finished with their tarp, Claude began to climb like a monkey in the rigging.

  Elke watched in admiration as Sascha helped his friend shift the crate, but she was soon distracted by Claude’s acrobatics. The skinny little boy had shimmied out onto the yardarm, inverted with his legs locked onto the thing until . . .

  Her hat fell off.

  Over two feet of flaxen hair cascaded into the air, billowing as the girl hung upside down, tying at a rope. Elke’s eyes steeled.

  Later, after Elke had given each of them a pastry, one to all of the appreciative younger men, and the remaining to a few of the older ones, she again had Sascha to herself.

  “Who’s the girl?”

  “Claude,” replied Sascha matter-of-factly. “You’ve got to make more gibassier! They’re my new favorite!”

  “Claude? What kind of a name is that for a girl?” pressed Elke.

  Sascha turned to her with a genuine look of confusion. “Claudette is her name.”

  “Oh . . . Well, what’s she doing on that boat with you boys?”

  “It’s her father’s boat.”

  “I see . . .”

  They spent the rest of their walk home talking about French pastry.

  A few days later Elke’s library arrived. Her treasured books, confined for so long to their trunks, and the newer ones stacked in cairns about the place would finally, like their owner, have a home. Lovingly she set to ordering them, placing each book on its designated shelf, and when she got to the last book, at the bottom of her oldest trunk, the one that had accompanied her on all of her adventures, she made a discovery. As she placed this novel on the shelf, something that had been trapped within the pages fell to the floor.

  “For Elke”

  The letter. The one from Loritz. The one she had never read but had thrust into her coat pocket. The one she must have later tossed into her trunk.

  For a moment she was paralyzed, holding the book and looking down at the letter, but she collected herse
lf, put the book away, and reached down. There’s no use reading this now, she thought as she picked it up, though she knew that she would. Something had been bothering her since that day she left Waldheim for the last time.

  I forgive you, but I never want to see you again.

  Had she really said that to him? What did it mean?

  What had plagued her since that day was the nature of her forgiveness. Had it, in fact, been forgiveness at all? Can one forgive, but no longer accept? Must one accept everything about someone they have forgiven?

  Sitting down, she unfolded the letter and once more beheld those words, “My dearest Elke.” She began to read.

  “My dearest Elke,

  I know you have spoken on it, and that I can never convince you otherwise, but I cannot now help myself from this missive. My pen acts of its own accord.

  I love you.

  I will miss you.

  My heart aches at your departure. You leave me here alone in a home that I can no longer recognize as such without you. Your brilliance and wit, your kindness, your radiant beauty and charm—without these I am desolate.

  I cannot hope that you will return to me given your hatred of this place; if that is not possible, then please, won’t you consider calling for me. For you, I would leave this place of my father, and of his father before him. I would surrender even my position on the council if only to be with you.

  Eternally yours,

  Loritz”

  The tears had begun to fall as Elke read, and when she was done, she could do nothing but sit staring at the letter clutched in her lap. The ink began to run, marring the words and threatening to stain her dress, but she didn’t care.

  Attempting to pool her watering eyes, Elke threw her head back, but to no avail; tears streamed down her face onto her tanned neck.

  A resolve came over her, causing her to stand suddenly and move to their most recent purchase: a worn but sturdy antique secretary, the surface already covered with her writings. She prepared a quill and a fresh sheet of paper, then sat down to write.

  “My dear Loritz . . .”

  La Fin

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Though it sometimes felt like it, this book was not created alone, in a vacuum. Notwithstanding Almighty God and all those who have positively influenced me throughout my life, I had help—help made all the more precious to me in light of my aim and circumstance.

  Thank you very much to David, Emily, and Lisa for your thorough, timely, and gracious feedback on the early manuscript.

  Thanks also to that certain someone at the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek who was kind enough to answer what must have been an odd question coming from an unpublished stranger, no longer academic, emailing cold and without herald from another continent.

  The lion’s share of my earthly gratitude is reserved for my wonderful wife, Lesly. The metaphor holds, for as everyone knows, the lioness is the true chief of the pride. Lesly served as no less than the developmental editor of this book. Anyone who knows what this entails, knows that such a contribution is nigh impossible to overstate. Suffice it to say, you probably wouldn’t have acquired this book in the first place if it weren’t for her efforts.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Like Elke, his protagonist, D.W. Goates is a history teacher without any students. Many years have passed since he lived in Germany, yet his love for the place endures. He now resides in Florida with his lovely wife and a menagerie of woodland creatures. A Witch’s Burden is his first novel.

  Visit his website at dwgoates.com.