Castle of Sighs

by Jennifer Murgia

  “They are mine, aren’t they?” he asks. “I found them.”

  “I believe they belong to someone else.” I continue scrubbing his hands clean, ignoring the pout that forms on his face. “If you tell me where you found them, I’ll return them for you.” He doesn’t offer anything more than a frown and the silence allows much to run through my mind—I wonder if he truly knows what lies at the bottom of his basket, or if he believes they are sticks.

  Will he remember where he’d found them? Will I find more buried beneath the snow? A chill creeps along my skin as I allow myself to recall the bone we found, half-buried in the snow, and suddenly, I fear how alone we are. Laurentz’s return feels a lifetime away.

  “You know.” Niclaus looks up at me as I warm his pink fingers in the folds of my apron. “They came from the big stick. You saw it. I wanted to show you more but you pulled Margret and me away.”

  His innocent face holds nothing but a little boy’s curiosity, and yet I am left with an unsettling urge to protect him. I free his hands but long to hold them close to me. I want to make sure he is warm, want to make sure what he has touched outside does not linger and take hold of him.

  Margret lets out a loud cough just then, followed by an even louder yawn. I draw her into my lap and the three of us settle on the thick, braided rug at the hearth, listening to the crackling logs, but I know well that Niclaus wonders about the bone. I can almost feel his eyes shift toward the kitchen door, longing to return to the white world on the other side. To him it is a conquest, an adventure. I, however, wonder to whom the limb belonged. Is it someone I would have loved, had I been raised behind Pyrmont’s walls? Is it an arm that would have held me, as I hold little Margret?

  “There was no grave stone,” he announces, slicing the silence in two, “at least not one big enough for us to notice.”

  Now I am certain he understands his find. “Then perhaps it is a small one, buried deep beneath the snow.”

  Niclaus stifles a yawn with the back of his hand. “Nah, it was a lost soul.”

  Something in his words causes my skin to prickle and the fire’s warmth retreats. “Whatever do you mean—lost soul?”

  “Someone like me.”

  “And why would you ever think that?” I watch him closely, his tiny face mesmerized by the flames.

  “That’s what the nursemaids told me.”

  “You’re not a lost soul, Niclaus. You’re here, safe and sound with me and Margret.” But my heart is heavy for all he’s endured. The day I set foot inside Pyrmont’s great hall, Laurentz told me the bishop had found Niclaus very young and alone. His mother, accused of witchcraft, had been pressed to death beneath a mound of stones—another victim of the terrible ordeal that rattled our region. It was a miracle the day Niclaus reached for the bishop’s cross, and he kissed it, a sure sign from God there was hope for his tiny soul. That he was still pure enough to overcome the darkness that had claimed his mother. But I know babes from helping Matilde, and any nursemaid would argue that the little boy was only searching for something to gnaw on. Perhaps they were too afraid to remark he’d only been teething—that it was easier to agree it was a sign from God to spare his life than to point out a reasonable answer to the bishop, an answer only a woman would understand.

  “Margret’s one too,” he tells me. “Only she’s too small to feel it.”

  “Then I suppose I’m one, as well.”

  “Oh no, Rune. Not you. This is your home. You belong here.”

  Do I? But I cannot tell him that while it was once home to my ancestors, it is not truly mine. I once believed it could be, and strangely, even though the deed proves I am the rightful heir, I feel more like a stranger within Pyrmont’s walls than I do its owner.

  “I don’t remember her, Rune.”

  “Who?”

  “My mama,” Niclaus whispers.

  His body settles in closer to mine and I cannot help the tearful tremor that courses through my bones. “I don’t remember mine, either.” Just her voice, but that, too, is fading.

  Despite the yawns, he is ever the curious one. “Was someone mad long ago and broke something? Why was there glass near the trees?”

  Margret is a leaden weight in the crook of my arm but I manage to wrap the other about Niclaus’s thin shoulders. “They say if you hide a bellermine deep within the earth it will keep harm from invading your property.” I don’t want to tell him I suspect the broken shards are witch bottles. I can’t imagine I’ll be ready for the onslaught of questions he will ask if I dare. “Perhaps the snow weathered the ground away and that is why we found them.”

  “Like an invisible fence to keep the haunted forest from growing closer?” He is so wise for such a young one. I allow my lips to touch the top of his tousled head and long to tell him the forest is not as haunted as one might think, that a village—or a castle—can be just as frightening. But the day has darkened beneath heavy winter clouds, bringing a damp chill that threatens to creep across the floorboards to where we sit. The children are sleepy and I miss Matilde terribly. Has it been a year since I sat at her feet by our own fire while she told me stories? So often I had prayed to the Sacred Mother to keep her on this earth a little while longer. I was afraid to be left alone, and now, I am here, in a place I once longed for with all my heart. I’ve found where I am supposed to belong, but the forest is the only home I will ever want.

  Niclaus’s breathing becomes long and steady and soon, the quiet reminds me my shoulders bear a heavy weight. I do not know how to act like a mother, but only as a shelter for these small treasures in my possession. Suddenly, Pyrmont feels stifling—its walls too thick, the dark, whispering corners full of long dead secrets. My very being longs for the protective cover of green pine and I admit, it is the forest’s shadows I am familiar with, not the ones buried deep within the castle’s stones. I have seen far too much evil since leaving my humble home in the Black Forest and I shiver as my thoughts turn toward darker things. Slipping from beneath the gentle weight of the children, I stand, careful not to disturb their slumber. I enclose the stub of a candle within the lantern and gingerly take Niclaus’s gathering basket from the floor. Then, as quiet as I can be, I slip outside to dispose of the bones.

  Chapter 5

  In the distance, the forest’s emerald stillness greets me with ominous shadows against stark white snow that glows blue in the light of the half-moon. I don’t think. I don’t stop and wonder if what I’m about to do is sensible. I begin my trek toward the edge of the forest, winding my way around the deep drifts and hills of white reaching as high as my knees, my lantern’s light casting an eerie, wobbling path. I stop just short of the tree line, where the murkiest of shadows creep, as if they taste the very land I walk on. A chill finds its way beneath my cloak and I shiver, knowing well it is not just the cold hand of winter that sends my skin into a panic, and I realize the weight of the sky and all the gloom it seems to hide is almost unbearable.

  The thick layer of snow has created a vacuum causing the forest come to life, amplified as if for my ears alone. I know the Black Forest well, but tonight, it is as if the old tales have come true. What I know, logically, to be snow slipping from heavy boughs and animals on their nightly hunts, is a living nightmare in the dark—of something horrifying come to claim my soul, and my sanity.

  I raise the lantern high and hold my breath, and then I see it. Distorted in the dimming light, the bone juts out from the snow at an odd, twisted angle, its color resembling a pale animal hide, alabaster and cream now grayed and foreboding in the dark. I edge closer, the light bouncing off of it, accentuating the thin onion-like layers where the elements have chipped and picked it clean.

  Shadows are heavy and thick at my back. The stretch between the forest’s gloom and the comfort of the kitchen, an impossible length, yet I kneel beside the protruding appendage—curious, disgusted, cautious. I see why Niclaus had been so captivated, for I, too, am suddenly intrigued. Settling the basket beside me, I swipe a
t the snow, shifting it away from the bone to fully unearth it. I am careful not to touch it, but continue to clear away, until shoots of yellowed grass kiss my fingers. The length of the larger bone tapers to what appears to be the slender slope of a wrist. I follow it with my eye, and then, I pull back. Breathless and cold, I let my body grow numb as I stare at the ground. It is hauntingly beautiful, yet terrifying, and I take all of it in. The snow-covered bone. The color of what truly lies beneath our skin. The broken limb that elongates into the remains of a hand. With upmost care I pull one of Niclaus’s finds from the basket and hold it against the skeletal stump, matching the delicate finger to the eroded joint. It is a perfect fit. So slight are the digits. So simple are the knuckles. With rapt, studious attention, I compare it to my own hand, and then, I remember what I am holding and drop the thing to the ground, wiping my hands upon my snow-soaked skirt.

  I reluctantly begin the search for the rest of the poor soul, but cannot find any more than the arm. It looks as though the limb has been buried here for some time, forgotten until now. I spill the remaining finger bones from the basket, returning them, and cover them with slushy white. Rising, I straighten my wet skirt and start toward the kitchen, but stop in my tracks when I hear a quick snap at my back.

  Haunting images sift through my mind, one after another, and with them stories. Tales. Screams. I close my eyes to shut them out. Don’t be silly. The old stories are for children to fear, not you. You should be the one to be least afraid. Only, I am. I am afraid of what I’ve discovered here tonight. For that is very, very real.

  The night grows quiet and still once again, and I turn and continue on, knowing my warm bed beckons, for I’ve planned much to do in the morning so the children do not long for Laurentz. But a different sound comes trailing behind once I turn my back on the trees—one I am certain does not come from an animal or belong to a spun tale. A hollow chime catches my attention. Behind me there is unmistakable movement near the edge of the forest. Something sways between the evergreen boughs then darkens in shadow. Back and forth. In and out. Heavy on their ends of pale twine, hovering over the snow, colorful bottles knock against one another.

  I narrow my eyes in disbelief. They were not there earlier when Niclaus and Margret and I went collecting. They were not there mere minutes ago when I’d returned the bones to the snow. Now they hang suspended as if someone hung them afresh the moment I’d turned my back to the forest. It shouldn’t surprise me that bellermines hung here once. This land that borders the Black Forest has long been superstitious. It is the birthplace of terrifying myths and tales of ghosts and goblins—and witches. Any castle as fine as Pyrmont would have protected itself. But I swear the bottles were in pieces upon the trampled snow, not intact, hanging from the trees.

  The wind catches one and propels it forward like a living pendulum. I feel that the bones are not the only company I have on this dark night. Between the swaying bottles, hidden behind the distorted lead glass, a pair of eyes stares back at me.

  Chapter 6

  The kitchen door is in sight, but dreadfully far away. I hurry through the snow, focusing on the fire’s glow through the paned windows, a beacon of safety urging me onward, seeping beneath the door in strands of quivering orange light so the snow outside the castle bleeds ginger. All the while I am certain I hear footsteps behind me, my mind frantic at what I believe I have just seen. Eyes. An animal? I didn’t want to linger to find out. I am breathless but force a calm to wash over me, slowing the world long enough to collect myself. The other side of the door lies quiet and still, save for the wood crackling in the hearth, and I gently swing it open, careful not to disturb the children. Margret sleeps, her body curled into a tight ball, a stuffed rabbit clutched to her chest.

  At her side, Niclaus sits keeping watch. “She started to cough so I gave it to her,” he explains the moment I walk in, motioning toward the rabbit.

  When I’ve bolted the door behind me, I creep toward them, ever-so-quietly, and drop to my knees, settling the lantern upon the floor with care. The warmth of the fire tells me how chilled I’ve become and I rub my hands before the flames to warm them. “How long have you been awake?”

  “Not very.” Spice and warmth do their best to comfort me, yet there is a tense spark that splits the air, following me in from outside. The soles of my feet ache and I feel guilty that I’ve left the children alone far too long.

  “Did you give the bones back?” he asks me, spying the empty basket.

  “I did.”

  “And did you find a grave?” He looks at me with those curious dark eyes, and a strange chill finds itself comfortable along the back of my neck. I shake my head. I will not tell him what I’ve found. Perhaps it is just the flickering of the fire and the pounding of my pulse that have me on edge. My mind was set to face my fears today. I should not go looking for them purposely, but only tackle them as they present themselves. And what’s to fear in the curiosity of a little boy? But my imagination stirs when I see he toys with something dark and misshapen in his small hands.

  “What have you got there?” I lean closer but Niclaus hides his closed fist, reluctant to share it with me. I back away, allowing space between us. If we’re to live with one another I want him to trust me. I’ve spent enough time facing the distrust of others. I couldn’t bear for a child to fear me.

  He eyes me cautiously, then produces a thin stick from his protective grasp. My heart shudders and I wonder if he’s stolen one of the small finger bones from the basket before I could notice it missing, or worse—that he’s found another. Swallowing a wave of revulsion, I think of all the reasons to tell him these are not to be played with, but the fire’s glow moves the shadows and I finally see what he holds. It is a small, black skeleton key.

  “Wherever did you find this?” Without warning, my skin aches to touch it, as if it is something of mine that has been lost for longer than I could ever recall.

  “It’s a gift.”

  He peers with apprehension over his shoulder and I follow his eyes. The kitchen door stands closed. The room is quiet. The children’s shoes are still lined up neatly by the broom. All is quiet.

  “It woke me,” he whispers, “the rattling at the door. I thought it was you and when I looked around and saw you were gone, I was sure you were knocking from the other side. So I opened it.”

  My head fills with the thumping of the bellermines near the forest and I feel like I am swaying along with them as Niclaus stares at me. His eyes are glassy. I cannot tell if they contain fear or if he’s caught what ails Margret.

  “She told me you would need this.” He holds the key out on his flattened palm for me.

  “She?”

  He shrugs. “The woman at the door. It wasn’t you.”

  In a breath I am on my feet, crossing the room. I throw the door wide open and survey the outside. It has grown incredibly dark since I returned the finger bones to the ground—too dark. My eyes scan the vast lawn of white where earlier we’d played and laughed. Just hours ago our day was full of adventure, but now the night sky has clouded over, hiding the light of the moon.

  “You say a woman gave this to you? What did she look like?” I search the forest line for evidence of an unwelcome guest, as well as the snow between here and there, but there is no trace of anyone having visited the castle, only my footprints and the echo of my racing pulse.

  “She was old and strange. She placed the key in my hand and said the castle has been waiting for you.” Niclaus peers up at me with a crooked grimace. “Then Margret coughed. By the time I turned back, the woman was gone.”

  It is not the cold that makes my teeth chatter. If the woman who’d visited left any sign of her call, it is long gone.

  Chapter 7

  The witch stands watch at the door, her eyes connecting with mine for but a moment before the gap between our worlds closes. She is a strong one, yet she does not know the extent of her powers, and I am drawn to her like a moth to a brilliant flame.

>   She is all that I crave. Youth. Life. The one called Rune carries the blood of the one who banished me, and it is she who will revive me, opening the door so that I might come forth once again.

  Oh, how I yearn to teach her the old ways…for she is much stronger than the one who birthed her and stronger still than the one who vowed to protect her by destroying me.

  Through her I will taste life once again and never be destroyed.

  Chapter 8

  “Has it?” Niclaus asks, dropping the key into my open palm.

  An overwhelming satisfaction floods me as it makes contact with my skin, as if every memory my bloodline has ever endured—every heartache, every happiness—fills me, distracting me.

  “Has the castle been waiting for you?”

  I’ve tried to make light of the uneasy feeling that accompanies me when I walk through the castle. For some time now, I’ve had the sensation of being watched, which I tell myself is my imagination, that I’ve grown up wild and unruly, the Black Forest ever-present in my veins. To be contained within a fortress as grand as Pyrmont is like shedding my human skin for feathers or gills.

  I smooth Niclaus’s hair. “I do think Pyrmont has been waiting for us, but not just me.” I close the door and lead him into the middle of the large kitchen. “Listen carefully. Do you hear anything?”

  His head tilts to one side then he shakes it.

  “Exactly,” I smile. “This place is a dusty old thing in need of laughter and happiness. That’s what it’s been waiting for.”

  Niclaus’s face lights with a cheery grin, allowing me to deposit the strange key deep into my pocket without another word about it. I send a silent prayer to the Sacred Mother he doesn’t see through my façade—because deep in my bones I do feel as if someone, something has waited for me. For weeks I’ve entertained the fact that perhaps the cold shadows of winter play tricks on me. Pyrmont is a large, looming place I am not accustomed to yet. It carries noises so unlike the forest, which teems with life even in the stillness of winter. Here, my thoughts echo against old stones and empty passageways, so it is no wonder I jump at the slightest sound.