Gruseltal E-Book

Michael Smith

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Lebensstil
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 389

Beschreibung

This story began with the idea of boredom. Karl's boredom. Day after day, just guarding the Graf's castle. Who was Karl, anyway? Why was he bored? The story grew. It may seem an odd way to describe a story, but boredom can be fertile soil for the imagination, and sometimes the best ideas grow from that soil. This Karl realizes; as you'll discover if you read on. The book concludes with an additional short story, describing Christmas in Gruseltal. While an author endeavours to paint pictures with words, it should also be acknowledged that there are people out there who can paint pictures with, well, paint. One such person is Vita Vesligaj, and I am indebted to (and in awe of) her talents when applied to the characters in this novel. I have spent many happy hours exploring the environs of Gruseltal, meeting its inventive inhabitants, and discovering its history. Now it's your turn ...

Leseprobe

Introduction

1 Karl

2 Oma Schaurig

3 Brother Ernest

4 The Graf

5 Brother Justus

6 Albrecht

7 Edgar

8 Horace & Hector

9 Father Paul

10 Woody

11 Wilhelm

12 Peter

13 The Ghost

14 Christoph

15 Thomas

16 Sophia

Epilogue - Christmas in Gruseltal

Imprint

Introduction

           This story began with the idea of boredom. Karl’s boredom. Day after day, just guarding the Graf’s castle. Who was Karl, anyway? Why was he bored? The story grew.

It may seem an odd way to describe a story, but boredom can be fertile soil for the imagination, and sometimes the best ideas grow from that soil. This Karl realizes; as you’ll discover if you read on.

While an author endeavours to paint pictures with words, it should also be acknowledged that there are people out there who can paint pictures with, well, paint. One such person is Vita Vesligaj, and I am indebted to (and in awe of) her talents when applied to the characters in this novel.

I have spent many happy hours exploring the environs of Gruseltal, meeting its inventive inhabitants, and discovering its history. Now it’s your turn ...

1 Karl

The western extremity of the valley known as Gruseltal consisted of a steep cascade of large rocks, down which gushing clear waters plummeted, before being transformed by the gentle contours of the lower terrain into the placid stream known as Gruselbach, which then, exhausted by the rapids, wandered wearily through the wide, verdant valley bed, seeking the line of least resistance. It was a lazy stream. Centuries earlier, its ancestors had been powerful enough to energetically carve out the steep-sided valley through which the current generation now ambled.

Only once in its journey did the stream reach anything that could be described as civilisation and, even then, this description was decidedly questionable. This was the tiny village of Niedergruseldorf.

The north and south sides of the picturesque village faced the near vertical rock walls of Gruseltal. The eastern end of Gruseltal was the only direction affording the villagers any real possibility to explore the world beyond their village, but even that entailed risking the single dirt track that wound through the dense, dark forest of Gruselwald.

A second, even less frequented, path did leave the village, and acted as an umbilical cord between the villagers and the sole inhabitant of Gruselfels Castle, although which was the maternal end depended on one’s perspective. The ancient collection of crenelations and turrets clung stubbornly onto a craggy outcrop of rock several hundred metres above the tiny village. The distance, both physical and social, between village and castle, was defined by this single, narrow route connecting the two. It did not hug the stone wall, as much as grasp it tightly for fear of sliding into the precipitous valley. While most villages will name thoroughfares with such descriptive names as ‘High Street’, ‘West Road’ or the ever-popular ‘Tavern Lane’, residents of Niedergruseldorf had not minced their words, and referred to the castle pathway simply as ‘Up’. Without exception, any occasional visitor to the village speculated whether the castle’s sole resident, the Graf himself, referred to the same stretch as ‘Down’. The villagers, however, ignored such stupidity, observing that, as the Graf never left his castle, it didn’t matter.

The other defining feature of Gruseltal was the regularity of long periods of persistent, fine rain. While a refreshing shower might pass through a location like a tourist, the rain in Niedergruseldorf behaved like a long-standing resident.

For the population of Niedergruseldorf, life was secure. Little traffic passed through their damp, isolated world. They felt safe. The few visitors who did venture through the densely packed trees of Gruselwald were generally interested in only one thing - to gain an audience with the reclusive Graf of Gruselfels Castle. But there are frequently two perspectives to every situation, and for other residents, life was boring.

For one of the villagers, however, boring was good.

Karl had turned boredom into an art form. This was hardly surprising, given that he had so much of the raw material with which to work. Since turning sixteen years of age, Karl had been a soldier. The soldier, in fact. The sole member of the militia of his home village, he had been entrusted with one task, and one task only. On the direct instructions of the Graf himself, Karl had been charged with the defence of the Graf’s residence, Gruselfels Castle.

Each morning at dawn, Karl would leave his home and purposefully march the two kilometres uphill. His three years of military training had consisted almost exclusively of route marches, so he felt well prepared for what he still preferred to call ‘his current posting’, while slowly, and grudgingly, acknowledging that it would probably be ‘his only posting’.

Every day of his working life, Karl had been accompanied by boredom. He would walk the same route to work; there were no alternatives. For unbroken hours, he would stand on guard, protecting the gates of the castle from the marauding hordes he knew would never bother to even consider attacking such a remote and worthless fortress. In the evening, as the sun set (or was assumed to have set behind the heavy cloud cover), he would return to the village, taking care during his descent to safely control the gentle pull of gravity.

While on guard duty, his view remained constant. An artist, sufficiently desperate to paint such a forlorn picture, would not need to change their shade of grey when moving from the castle walls to the surrounding rocks. And, on all but a few summer days, the same grey hue would also suffice for the sky. Through the persistent rain, Karl had a bird’s eye view of Niedergruseldorf, the village that was both the centre, and radius, of his world.

As a young recruit, he had taken his post very seriously, standing to attention for hours on end, and supporting his long axe. Now, twenty years later, grey flecks dappling his ginger beard, it was the long axe that provided the support. The hours on duty had afforded Karl the time to contemplate some of life’s weightier matters. In recent weeks he had been grappling with the possible origins of navel-fluff. Given that most of his garments contained some form of chain mail, he’d concluded that a more logical expectation would have been navel-rust.

While most castles are defended by garrisons of highly trained fighting men, precariously balanced vats of warm oil and tar, or animals that could be described as dogs, but acted more like ravenous wolves, the ancient Gruselfels Castle was defended by Karl. And successfully so. Few visitors had entered the gates in almost twenty years. Karl’s tactic was simply to lie, and inform any unexpected visitor that the Graf was not at home. Dejected, the visitor would return to tiny Niedergruseldorf, deep in the valley below.

Once in the village, however, the visitor would be informed that, “Of course the Graf is at home; he never leaves his castle.” One of two things would happen next; either the visitor would conclude that a second climb up the road to the castle wasn’t worth the effort, and leave as soon as possible; or, he would rest for the night in the old tavern, ‘The Ox’, eat a fortifying breakfast of bacon, wurst, eggs and dense bread, and then try once again to gain access to the Graf, resolved not to be fooled again by that idiot soldier on guard.

In this case, the events of the following day would run something like this. By the time the visitor had reached once more the castle entrance, the swirling morning mist would have lifted, and Karl would already be at his post.

“Mornin’,” Karl would say in a noncommittal voice.

“You told me yesterday that the Graf was not at home.”

“Aye.”

“Well, I found out that you were lying.”

“Aye.” Karl rarely wasted words on strangers.

“Why? Why did you lie about the Graf being absent?”

“Best way to get rid of you.”

“Doesn’t the Graf want to see me?”

“Doubt it.”

“How do you know?”

“He hasn’t seen anyone these past twenty year. Why should he start now? And, what’s more, start with the likes o’ you?”

“Listen here, I’ve come a long way.”

“Well then, the sooner you start, the sooner you’ll get home.”

“I insist ... no, I demand that you inquire if the Graf will grant me an audience.”

“Won’t do no good.”

“I’m not going to ask why. I’m just going to insist you ask him.”

“You’ll ‘ave to wait ‘ere then while I go and ask his lordship. Albrecht will keep you company.”

“Who’s Albrecht?”

“That’s Albrecht, up there. Perching.”

The visitor would follow Karl’s line of sight until both alighted on a jet-black raven who had been sat quietly enjoying the performance.

“Oh, well, just be quick about it, my man.”

“Right you are.”

And with that, Karl would enter through the rectangular, man-sized door that had been cut into the large, solid wooden gates of the castle. Just before closing the door behind him, Karl would turn to the visitor and smile, “Looks like it’s goin’ to rain.” This was always a true statement in Gruseltal. Except when it was raining.

Karl would then relax behind the large castle gate. Maybe light his pipe or, if it was close to a mealtime, he would sit down with his back resting on the gate, and eat. In all circumstances, however, he always made sure that he whittled away at least half an hour before returning to the stranded visitor.

When he felt the visitor had waited for a sufficiently irritating length of time, Karl would then light his pipe again, and wait a further fifteen minutes. Longer if it was raining; no point wasting a good downpour.

Eventually, the small door in the castle gate would creak open, and Karl would inwardly smile at the result of his handiwork. The visitor would be agitated, probably pacing and, hopefully, soaking wet.

“So sorry to keep you waiting. There are quite a lot of steep stairways in the old castle, and I’m never quite sure where his lordship will be. I did locate him,” he lied, “Eventually.”

“Well?”

“He asked a question of me that I was unable to answer.”

“Really? What question?”

“He’d like to know your name.”      

The visitor would then either remain calm, give his name, and resign himself to another long, tedious wait, or he’d completely lose his temper, upon which Karl would become all military, and insist that such vulgar words and poor behaviour would be completely unacceptable to his lordship, and would the visitor kindly remove himself from the castle approach before things turned very nasty indeed. This usually did the trick, mainly because the visitor was, by now, tired, wet and, unlike Karl, probably hungry.

If the visitor had been smart enough to give his name before Karl went inside, the reply would be to say that the Graf was feeling unwell, and would the gentleman in question please consider returning in a day or two? Again, this would usually deter the unwelcome visitor.

And as the visitor would trudge dejectedly back down the steep valley path to Niedergruseldorf, Karl would often observe, “They never learn, do they, Albrecht.” Karl would then look to the sky and make some predictable comments about the weather.

“I reckon that’s enough excitement for one day. You know, Albrecht, once, I was asked by a neighbour to watch the paint dry on the side of his barn. In case it rained. The excitement was too much. I had to return home, somewhat light-headed, I might add, for a much-needed lie down.” It’s amazing what a person will confess to a dumb animal.

____________

The spring sun was trying, really it was, to break through the fine, misty rain that had successfully managed to penetrate Karl’s uniform as he slouched to attention outside the castle gate. Karl’s metrological observations were invariably accurate. “I reckon, Albrecht, that this rain will clear soon, and we’ll have a bit of warmth to enjoy before long. What do you think?” He glanced up at the bird. Albrecht stared back, as if contemplating Karl’s question prior to answering. In the end, the only reply Karl received was an opening of wings and a shake of beak. That would have to do.

He had been on duty for an hour, and breakfast was a distant, yet enjoyable, memory. Nevertheless, his mind was beginning to wander towards the possibility of a little morsel mid-morning; just to see him through to lunch. It was during these culinary deliberations that Karl observed a young woman approaching the castle gates, walking with purpose up the challenging incline.

The young woman was slim, and not unattractive, with flowing, loosely bound, blonde hair. The village was a close-knit community, and Karl immediately recognised the young woman as Sophia, someone with a local reputation for leading a purposeful, yet somewhat frustrated life. The young men of the village, while they were attracted to her undoubted good looks, were of the collective opinion that Sophia might be a bit of a handful in a relationship, given that she was known to have, and regularly express, her own opinions. To the village folk, a woman with a mind was a rare and dangerous animal. Karl decided to take the initiative, if possible; this was his turf, and he wasn’t about to be browbeaten by the village intellectual.

“Mornin’, Miss Sophia. What brings you all the way up here?”

“I’m certainly not here to see you, Karl. I want to speak with the Graf.”

“Well, I’m afraid ...”

Sophia folded her arms; always a bad sign. “Don’t you try none of that with me, Karl, I know your game; how you’re always protecting him,” she said, nodding in the general direction of the castle, “so don’t try your old tricks. I know he’s not been out of this here castle for years. I want to see him. Today.”

“On what line of business do you wish to see the Graf?”

“Family.”

“Really? Whose family?”

Despite there being no one within earshot, Sophia moved her face close to Karl’s, and whispered something. He blushed slightly. “Oh. Well, then. Hmm. Gosh. I’ll just ...” He blushed some more, “Hmm ... Really?”

And with that, Karl allowed Sophia to enter the castle gate. No one before had gained entrance so easily or so swiftly. As they walked in silence across the cobbled courtyard to the main castle entrance, Karl looked at her, and asked again, “Really?”

Sophia smiled.

“Gosh,” repeated Karl. Several times.

They reach the Graf’s study. Sophia was told to wait outside while Karl observed the customary protocol of requesting an audience with the Graf.

Inside, Karl relayed to the Graf, the general outline of Sophia’s message, but without some of the embarrassing details, again in whispered tones, despite there still being no one to hear. The expression on the nobleman’s face confirmed to Karl all the confused thoughts racing through the Graf’s mind; thoughts initiated by Sophia’s brief message.

“Really ...?”

“Yes, sire?”

“How ... ?”

“I don’t know, sire.”

“Shall I ... ?”      

“Yes, I think it would be best, sire.”

“Would y... ?”

“Immediately, sire.”

“Good. Thank you, ... thank you ... er ...”

“Karl, sire.”

“Oh, yes, thank you, K...”

“Karl, sire.”

“Yes, of course.”

While waiting outside, Sophia took the opportunity to observe the Graf’s home. Her first impression was the definite lack of what locally would be called ‘a woman’s touch’. Only a man living alone would allow that much dust to accumulate; no flowers anywhere, and no wall-hangings to pretty-up the place and keep out the cold. The place needed a good airing. And those windows, when was the last time they had been cle...?

“His lordship will see you immediately.”

“I thought he might.”

Karl escorted Sophia into the Graf’s study. As she had expected, the Graf was approximately the same age as Karl, but without the worn facial expression that frequently accompanies someone who spends their working life outdoors. In fact, the Graf’s reclusive nature was all too obvious when she observed his sallow skin.

With elegant grace, coloured by a hint of pride, Sophia approached the Graf. She gave a curt curtsy and, contrary to convention, began the conversation, “Tell me, ... your grace, what do you know of the village below?”

“I’m afraid, my dear, that my work occupies me daily. I have little time for such trivialities as social calls. Unlike yourself, of course.”

“May I be so bold as to ask if you have ever visited the village?”

“Why, yes. Er, quite recently wasn’t it ...” he snapped his fingers impatiently, “er, ...”

“Karl, sire.”

“Karl, that’s it. It was quite recently, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, quite recently, sire. Within the last two decades, I believe.”

“Really? Oh. Well, there you have it, my dear. Twenty years ago. I suspect it hasn’t changed much though,” he laughed nervously. “Well, it’s been lovely talking with you; I don’t want to keep y...”

Ignoring the Graf’s motion to the door, Sophia pressed on. “Actually, your grace, your last visit was made eighteen years and nine months ago.”

“Well, well. Fascinating. How do you know that? Some sort of celebration day in the village is it now?”

“It is a day some residents of the village remember all too well. Shall I tell you what you did on that visit?”

“I say, you’re rather a bold young thing, aren’t you? Just you remember who you are talking to.”

“Oh, I know exactly who I am talking to. Nearly twenty years ago, you visited the village and tried your young hand at quaffing and carousing.”

“Ah, er, yes. Yes, but only out of scientific curiosity. I found the quaffing left me with a headache the following morning and, worryingly, an inability to remember much of the carousing.” Then, coming to his senses, and realising that he, a nobleman, was being questioned in such an improper manner by a mere village girl, he continued “Good lord. What, what impertinence. How would you know? You weren’t ... even ... born ... ... then.”

The Graf’s voice trailed away into deep contemplation. He turned to face the window, as if grappling with what he should do next. All was still in the room; even the rats had stopped scratching in the corners. Suddenly, the Graf turned to face his visitor. He smiled.

“I believe I must wish you a very happy eighteenth birthday, my dear,” he choked, “let me look at you; come over here to the light.”

Sophia did as instructed, and the Graf adjusted nervously the pince-nez perched on the bridge of his noble nose.

“They call you Sophia, don’t they? Fine name, fine name. One I would have chosen myse...” the Graf turned away, “I’m sorry, I seem to have something in my eye. Do forgive me.”

While the Graf was busy camouflaging his sudden and uncharacteristic display of emotion, Sophia took the opportunity to view the Graf’s study. She had not seen so many books in her life to date. And the equipment, what was it all for? She gazed curiously at the proliferation of brass equipment, some with smooth discs of glass attached. Technical-looking charts hung from the walls where one would expect rich tapestries. Scattered on work surfaces were stout wooden boxes containing wondrous items beyond Sophia’s comprehension; and this despite her reputation as the smartest and best educated young person in the village. Strewn amongst the boxes were all manner of books and papers. A quill and ink pot looked well used. Glass jars weighed heavily on bowed wooden shelves, the green, murky fluid thankfully obscuring their unknown contents. And there was a strange smell in the air; possibly associated with burning of some sort. She returned her attention to the Graf.

“There is more news you should know, ... your grace?”

The Graf looked thoughtful for a moment, “I suppose you should really stop all that Your Grace nonsense.”

Sophia smiled, and continued,

“There is more news you should know, ... father.”

“Yes, that’s much better. And what is the other news?”

“I have a twin brother.”

The Graf’s eyebrows moved towards each other.

“And this twin brother of yours; am I his father also?”

Sophia paused slightly, before, “I believe that’s how it works.”

“Yes, yes, of course; how silly of me.”

The Graf became lost in his own thoughts for a while, before asking, “And how is your mother?”

“She died a few years back. I live with my aunt now.”

“I’m so, so sorry to hear that. I wish I had ...”

Sophia observed that the Graf was having difficulty completing his sentences, probably because he was having difficulty completing his thoughts.

“I’ve been rather busy of late,” he continued. “I’ve been so engrossed in my work.”

“Yes, I can see that. What’s it all for? This stuff, I mean.”

“Well, this item here is an ocular device for the measurement of ...” he stopped himself. “No, no. This is no time for science. This is a time for ...” The Graf became preoccupied with his own thoughts again.

Sophia decided she was going to be patient, a virtue she used sparingly and with purpose.

“This is a time for family,” the Graf continued, “We have so much to discuss.”

“I’d like to know more about this science stuff; it looks interesting.”

“Oh, it is ... unfortunately. Too interesting. Once you begin you can’t stop; and lose all sense of proportion.”

“I understand.”

“Thank you, dear.”

Karl coughed. “Would your lordship and ... er ... Would you both like me to prepare some refreshments?”

“Thank you, that would be ...”

“No, thank you, Karl,” interjected Sophia, “I’m afraid I have to leave. May I return here soon?”

“Nothing would delight me more, my dear. We must discuss ... erm ...”

“Arrangements?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it. We must discuss arrangements,” smiled the Graf; and then continued in a more worried tone, “Er, arrangements for what?”

“Our new relationship, of course. You are now a father. You have a family. Your life is going to change.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose so.”

Sophia turned to Karl, “There’s no need to see me out. I’ll make my own way back.”

She then turned to her father and kissed him on the cheek. As she walked elegantly from the room, the Graf stood still, open-mouthed. Only after she had left the study did he offer a slight wave of his hand.

Karl felt that this was a moment when the Graf would need someone to make a few basic decisions. “Would you like that drink now, sire?”

The Graf nodded.

“Brandy?”

The Graf nodded again.

Karl poured his master a drink and, knowing the Graf was completely immersed in his own thoughts, took the opportunity to pour one for himself.

“Interesting times, sire?” he ventured, wanting to start a dialogue.

“What? Oh, yes, interesting. Very interesting.”

“May I venture an observation, sire?”

The Graf took a sip of the brandy. This helped him to focus his thoughts.

“I beg your pardon.”

“May I venture an observation, sire?”

“Certainly, ... er, Karl.

“How do we know the young lady is telling the truth?”

“What?”

Karl finished his brandy, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and repeated, “How do we know the young lady is telling the truth?”

The Graf looked at Karl.

“How do we know the young lady is indeed your daughter? By all accounts the carousing followed a considerable amount of quaffing. Such activities ... can ... sometimes ... be, er, counter-productive.”

“What? Sorry, don’t follow you.”

“What I mean is ... er ... following a large amount of quaffing, ... a man’s ... ability to carouse ... may be ... somewhat ... diminished.”

“Sorry, still not sure what point you’re trying to make.”

“It may not have been possible for you to ... complete the carousing process ... leading to ... your first steps towards ... fatherhood.”

The Graf took another sip of his brandy. There was a pause. Then ...

“Oh, I see.”

Karl smiled. Gravity had done its work on the penny.

“No, surely not? Why would she pretend to be my daughter?”

“Look around you, sire. If you lived in a dark, damp hovel, with an intermittent supply of poor-quality food; and if you were the smartest person in the valley, wouldn’t you want to better yourself?”

“I see what you mean, but ...”

“I know you feel like you’ve just gained a daughter ... and a son. But, please, sire, be careful.”

“Thank you. I do need to give it some serious consideration, you’re right. But how can we be sure?”

“There’s only one person I know of in these here parts that might be able to help. I’ll make some enquiries.”

“Thank you, Karl. I think I need some fresh air.”

As they left the study together, Karl felt nothing unusual at all, no shiver down his spine, nor unusual cold spot in the room. Neither did the Graf.

“Damn and blast,” thought The Ghost. “What’s the point in being both dead, and a ghost, if you can’t go around scaring people?”

2 Oma Schaurig

In a tight-knit community, such as Niedergruseldorf, news can travel faster than smallpox. However, on this occasion, there were only three people ‘in the know’. The Graf was absorbed in his science; his reclusive lifestyle preventing any leakage of information. Sophia had no desire to feed the gossipmongers who regularly cast her as an outcast. And Karl was considered a soul of discretion by all in the village; the saying being, ‘It’s easier to get a free drink out of the barman at The Ox than it is to get a secret out of Karl.’ This arrangement allowed all parties time and space to consider the consequences of the recent revelation.

Upon Karl’s return home from work on the next Saturday evening, he was visited by Sophia. He invited her to sit a while with him as he assaulted his evening meal, armed with little more than a wooden spoon. She declined the seat, preferring to pace back and forth in front of the warming flames crackling in Karl’s blackened fireplace.

“I just have to know.”

“Mmmhmm.”

“She’ll remember, won’t she, Karl?”

“Hmmm.”

“She has to.”

“Whmm?”

“What?”

Karl finally finished his mouthful. “I said, why?”

“Why what?”

“Why does she have to remember?”

“Well, for a start, it can’t have been that often that she’ll have delivered twins in this little village. And, for another thing ... well, she just has to. I just have to know.”

“Why?”      

“If I was born first, ...”

“... it won’t make any difference; Peter would still be the heir.”

Sophia stopped pacing, made it clear to Karl that she was trying very hard to refrain from hitting something, and then looked at him in a manner daring him to finish the thought he’d just started.

Seeking refuge in his food, Karl thought it wise to shovel another spoonful of grey matter into his mouth.

Frustrated, Sophia resumed her pacing.

“I know it won’t make any difference now; but when the Graf dies, and clearly without any offspring other than Peter and me, I just want to know who is going to inherit. If Peter is older than me, even by a few minutes, then, of course, it is only right he should be the heir. But, if it’s the other way round ...” Sophia left this revolutionary suggestion hanging in the air, right in front of Karl.

Fortunately, the piece of meat currently occupying most of his attention was of such dense and combative consistency, it afforded Karl plenty of valuable thinking time before he could swallow and, therefore, be obliged to respond.

“Sit down, Sophia, you’re making me dizzy while I eat.”

She did as suggested, but with little grace.

“Tell you what, Sophia, why don’t you and I go and see her tomorrow?”

“Really? You’d do that? Accompany me through Gruselwald to her cottage?”

“Of course. And, anyway, I’m quite curious myself to find out how this is going to develop. If I outlive the Graf, I could be serving you.”

“Or Peter,” she said, with deflated shoulders.

“My instinct tells me that tomorrow the rain might be light; with even the possibility of some sun later on. Meet me here an hour after sunrise and we’ll set off to see Oma Schaurig.”

“Thank you,” she smiled.

____________

“Did your mother never tell you, then, who was the oldest?”

“No. She refused to tell us anything.”

Karl and Sophia approached that point on the path beyond which, traditionally, children would not dare to venture, knowing full well all the stories about the Witch of the Woods. Oma Schaurig did little to dispel these stories, as they generated the best form of security for which anyone living alone could hope. She enjoyed the solitude, but was always courteous to any travellers who ventured, or strayed, close to her cottage.

“And you’re sure she was the midwife who delivered you and your twin?”

“That’s what mother always told me.”

“So, what did your mother say when you asked her who was born first?”

“She always insisted that she was in so much pain that she didn’t notice. I never believed her, though. It always sounded like an excuse to avoid the truth surrounding the birth.”

Karl looked up as they passed under the first of the Gruselwald fir trees that would form their environment for the rest of the journey. Albrecht was perched on one. Karl suspected the raven already knew their destination, particularly when the bird took flight and headed in the correct direction.

“Do you think Oma Schaurig is a witch?” asked Sophia with a mischievous smirk playing around her mouth.

Karl knew of Sophia’s reputation for being a free thinker, with new ideas; modern ideas. He opted for caution. “Possibly.”

They walked on in silence, their footfalls cushioned by a carpet of old pine needles.

“That’s not a very good answer, is it, Karl?”

Karl sighed deeply. He knew he was going to be forced to do some thinking. He didn’t mind thinking; he just wanted to be the one who chose the topic.

“Do you think Oma Schaurig is a witch?” she reiterated.

“Well. Hmm?” An idea struck him, “I have been brought up in that belief,” he replied, neatly transferring blame for any potentially old-fashioned thinking onto his upbringing.

“And, what do you think now?” She was persistent, he thought.

“Well, she lives alone in the woods. That’s ... a start.”

“So does a bear. Does that mean a bear is a witch?”

“S’pose not,” murmured Karl reluctantly.

“Go on, what other evidence do you have that she’s a witch?”

Karl thought hard; then, suddenly, seeming pleased with his new thought, ventured, “Children are scared of her, so she must be a witch.”

Sophia smiled, “Oh, Karl, really? Children are so easy to scare; you can tell them any lie. They will always believe what adults tell them.”

“You never did.”

“I was different. I could see through those lies.”

“Well, then; maybe you’re a ...”

Sophia stopped walking, forcing Karl to do likewise.

“Seriously, is that what people in the village think? That I’m a ...”

“No, no,” replied Karl as quickly as possible, “you’re much too young.”

Sophia moved the heavy basket she was carrying from one hand to the other. They resumed walking. In silence. The tiny particles of drizzle falling from the inevitably grey sky, caught in the pine needles on the trees, collected into larger globules, before completing their descent with vengeance onto the travellers below.

“So, what makes someone a witch, in your opinion, Karl?”

Opinion? Opinion! What’s all this about opinions, thought Karl? Nobody ever asked me for my opinions before. He decided on a different tack ...

“You know, Sophia, you make people think. And people don’t like that. You’ll make yourself unpopular if you make people think.”

“What’s the alternative? Just accept everything as it is?”

“There you go; asking awkward questions again.”

“That’s not an awkward question. I just want to know if you think there’s an alternative to just accepting everything as it is?”

Karl’s discomfiture was growing as the journey progressed. “Certainly, ... I can see ... some advantages with ... progress. I just wish it was optional.”

“You avoided answering my earlier question.”

“Oh, really. Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment, Karl; and you know it. Well?”

“Oma Schaurig,” began Karl reluctantly, “has had a ... reputation for witchcraft for as long as I can remember. And, she’s never denied it. That must count for something. On the other hand, ...“ Karl halted his speech.

“Yes?”

“... I’ve never seen her actually DO any magic. There’s just ... stories.”

“What sort of stories?”

“Oh, you know.”

“No, Karl, I don’t know. And please don’t say that everyone knows the stories.”

Karl had to quickly rethink his response. “Well, er, there’s that one about a traveller going missing in Gruselwald, and never being heard of again.”

“And that’s it? The traveller could have got lost, or gone home a different way, or been attacked by a wolf. Why does it have to be witchcraft?”

“Well, how does she heal people then? Hans had that terrible thing on his leg. Oma Scahurig wrapped something on it. And it healed.” Karl sounded most disappointed with the outcome.

“That sounds to me like the action of certain medicinal herbs, working by the application of a poultice.”

“Really? Not magic, then?”

“What does the Graf do all day in his castle?” asked Sophia, commencing an alternative route into Karl’s naive prejudices.

“Well, science.”

“And is that a good thing?”

“Oh, yes. He makes all sorts of wonderful things.”

“So why is what Oma Scahurig does any different to what the Graf does?”

“Because she’s a wi...”

They continued walking without speaking, enjoying the fragrance of a damp forest. Sophia shifted her basket again. Eventually, Albrecht’s calling was to be heard, and they realised their destination had been reached.

“Have you actually been here before, Karl, or is your view of her lifestyle based solely on hearsay?”

“Well, I have heard say that ... No, this is my first time visiting the old wi... woman.”

“Surprised are you, perhaps, that her cottage is of a decidedly non-confectionary construction, hmm?”

“Well, ...”

“And look, no broomstick propped up against the front door!” Sophia’s mock surprise and mocking sarcasm were beginning to irritate Karl.

“Of course, ...”

“It’s not even a thatched roof. How disappointing.”

“Can I remind you, young lady, that I’m here voluntarily; I didn’t have to accompany you, you know.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. But you must admit, this is not what you were expecting? It’s a quite delightful little place; just right for an elderly lady living a quiet life away from people who view her as something of an oddity. I do like what she’s done with the place, though. Those window boxes are delightful.”

To the right of the cottage’s front door stretched a low, uneven veranda, currently occupied by Oma Schaurig, swaying gently on an old wooden rocking chair while enjoying the tobacco in her pipe. She looked directly at her two visitors, who stood opened mouthed, uncertain of the protocol of the situation. In the end, it was Albrecht who broke the deadlock. Perched now on the tiled roof of Oma Schaurig’s cottage, he was chattering away with greater voice than Karl had previously experienced.

“I’ve been expecting you, young lady.”

“What?”

“I told you she was a ...” whispered Karl.

“Sshh.” and then to the old woman, “What do you mean you’ve been expecting me?”

“You’re here for information, aren’t you?”

“Y - e - s,” replied Sophia cautiously.

“And you think I can supply you with information your mother couldn’t? Or wouldn’t. Isn’t that right?”

The basket changed sides again. Karl was beginning to enjoy Sophia’s unease at the hands of Oma Schaurig. See how she liked it!

Karl’s spare time was often spent angling in the Gruselbach, and he had been taught how to patiently land a fish through a mixture of pulling on the line, followed by an easing of the line, to allow the fish to relax. Oma Schaurig was angling with Sophia.

“But my, you have turned out to be a fine young woman, Miss Sophia. I ‘xpect you are well fed in the village?”

“Er, yes. We don’t go short. The river ensures the fields are well nourished, and our harvests are frequently ...” suspicion overtook Sophia, “why do you ask?”

“Oh, it is sometimes difficult for an old woman, such as I, living out here, to gather sufficient sustenance to keep body and soul together,” answered Oma Schaurig, while keeping at least one eye fixed on Sophia’s covered basket.

And, in the twinkling of that eye, a contract had been made, negotiated, and understood, before being agreed upon by Sophia, when she replied, “I have some freshly baked bread here, a selection of vegetables from the garden, and a pot of honey.” She placed the basket carefully next to Oma’s rocking chair, as a supplicant would making an offering at a venerated altar. “You mentioned my mother?”

Oma Schaurig, sensing further commodities could be extorted, ignored Sophia and turned her attention to Karl, “That’s a fine-looking pipe I see sticking out of your top pocket, Mr. Karl, which baccy do you use?”

Karl knew his answer would be immaterial, followed as it surely must by, “Really? That’s my favourite, too.” So, he merely removed a quarter ounce packet from his other pocket, and handed it over to Oma Schaurig without a word. The glance that passed between them confirmed that both parties had fully, and correctly, understood the manipulative nature of the transaction.

“Well, now, isn’t this nice,” declared Oma Schaurig with an irritating amount of satisfaction. “You wanted to know about your mother, my dear?”

“I know plenty about my mother. The bit I don’t know about, is my birth. I believe you were the midwife. You helped me into this world.”

Karl noted that the rain was easing, and the forest was brightening as beams of sunlight fought their way through breaks in the retreating clouds, and then gaps in the canopy of fir trees that formed a protective ring around Oma’s cottage.

“Where are my manners? Please do come in. Would anyone like tea? I know I would.”

Sophia realised patience would, once again, be needed if she was to succeed in finally solving a riddle that had been a constant companion. “I’d love some tea. Can I help?”

“Of course, my child.” Neither cared that Karl’s beverage preference had been ignored.

As they passed into the darker interior of the cottage, and unable to resist teasing Karl one last time, Sophia whispered to him, “Not a hint of a cackle, and she hasn’t even got a wart on the end of a crooked nose.”

It is frequently the case that, when a person living alone receives visitors, they become quite determined to hang on to their catch for as long as possible, using all manner of well-tried tactics.

“Before we return to the subject of your birth, I must inform you of an unusual occurrence that happened just yesterday. As you know, I live here at the crossroads of the world, as I like to think of it.” Sophia and Karl exchanged identical glances. “Well, it was around midday; I know this because, I can hear the church bells when the wind is in the right direction; which it was yesterday; although not all day, I seem to remember; it became quite chilly in the evening; well, that usually happens at this time of year after the sun sets.” Oma Schaurig paused. “Where was I?”

“At the crossroads of the world, I believe, was your location before the weather report, ma’am,” replied Karl with patience.

“Oh yes. It was lunchtime.”

Please don’t tell us what you had for lunch, pleaded Sophia inwardly, while outwardly smiling the sweetest of smiles.

“I was just sitting down to a plate of bread and cheese. That good stuff, the one that lasts for ages, with the blue bits in.”

“Kopperburg Veined, I believe it is called, ma’am,” informed Karl, trying to maintain the monologue’s momentum.

“Yes, you’re right. And some apple chutney too. Well, I was just about to slice the loaf when I heard a noise outside. So, I got up from my chair. Not an easy task these days, what with my bad leg. Did I tell you about my bad leg ...?”

“What was the noise you heard outside?” interjected Sophia quickly.

“What? Oh, yes. Two gentlemen were standing there whispering to each other. One was quite tall and gaunt; he was the quiet one. The other was the complete opposite, short, round, and very talkative. They inquired in which direction the village lay.”

Karl and Sophia realised that suddenly there was a break in the monologue. Oma Schaurig had stopped talking ... just at the interesting part.

“Well?” they asked simultaneously.

“Well, what?”

“What happened to the two gentlemen?”

“Did you tell them in which direction to continue?”

“Oh yes; oh yes.”

“And that’s it?”

“Didn’t you ask them what they wanted in the village?”

“No. Didn’t have to. They told me.”

For a midwife, Oma Shaurig had surprising difficulty in recognising a pregnant pause.

“Go on,” encouraged Karl calmly.

“What did they want?” added Sophia, with enthusiasm.

“They are on a mission. They have been directed by, er, by, oh, who was it? They did say. Oh yes ... by God. Yes, that’s it. God had told them to travel these valleys and save the lost.

“I did try to point out that if they managed to find the folk in the village, then they’d no longer be lost folk. But this only seemed to confuse them. Actually, when I thought about it afterwards, it struck me that those two were the ones who were lost. They had to ask me for directions.”

“Oma Schaurig?”

“Yes, my dear, what is it?”

“You still haven’t answered my original question.”

“No, child, you’re right, I haven’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because you haven’t asked it yet.”

“But I think you know what my question is going to be.”

“Yes.”

Sophia sighed, and with overacted patience, asked, “Who was ...”

“... born first, you or your brother?”

“Yes!”

“Given the ... unusual circumstances of your mother’s pregnancy, I have been expecting this visit. I know of the Graf’s one night stand; well, one night lie down, really. May I ask, child, your purpose in wanting to know?”

“Given the unusual circumstances of mother’s pregnancy, I suspect you already know why I wish to know.”

Karl felt he was spectator to some form of polite sport, with the potential to turn violent at a moment’s notice; this was just the exchanging of colourful flags prior to a brutal jousting battle.

“Your motives are no different to those of many other people. Power, influence, greed, all with a certain amount of self-importance.”

Sophia remained unusually silent. Oma Schaurig smiled. A kind smile; under the circumstances. Sophia inhaled, ready to launch into a retort. But caught herself.

“It makes no difference, my child. If the Graf has no further offspring, which is the way things currently appear, then Peter will be the next Graf; whether he arrived before or after you. It is his gender that makes it so, not his timing.”

Sophia looked directly at Oma Schaurig, “Was he the first?”

“You won’t like the answer, my dear.”

“Was he the first?!”

“No.”

“I knew it. I knew it. I knew I was the first.”

“That you were not, my child.”

“What? But ... How ...?”

“Please sit down, Sophia.”

Confused, Sophia did as instructed. Oma Schaurig sat close to Sophia, looked her directly in the eye, and announced, “The first child out of your mother’s womb was your sister.”

“But I don’t have a sister.”

“You did have. Briefly.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You and Peter are two thirds of a triplet birth. Your older sister, Martha, arrived first. Unfortunately, she did not survive the first week. I’m sorry, my child. Many things are not spoken of to spare the feelings of the child, that can later deeply hurt the adult.”

Oma Schaurig’s cat, Rache, arrived, strode purposefully across the stone floor, and selected, for his next snooze of the day, the warm spot in front of the ever-burning fire. After a satisfying stretch, the mottled cat settled down to a satisfying hour of ignoring the others present in the room.

“So ... let me get this right. Martha was first. Then, ...?”

“Then you, my dear. And, then Peter.”

Sophia remained silent, and neither Oma Schaurig nor Karl wished to disturb her inner reflections.

Eventually, Sophia spoke, “You said I wouldn’t like the answer. Why not? I’ve always sort of known that I was the elde ... that I was older than Peter.”

“This affirmation of your suspicions will do little to quell any feelings of injustice. In fact, it will stoke those coals burning within you, my dear. Life would have been so much easier if Peter were just a few minutes older than you. But, when he becomes Graf, you will feel cheated out of a birthright.”

Silence descended again. Oma Schaurig knew from experience that when emotive issues hang heavily in the air, a mundane activity can help redress the imbalance caused by the introduction of a weighty matter. “Well, I must get Rache something to eat,” she said, raising herself from the table, and winking at Karl while jerking her head in the direction of the kitchen.

“Oh, yes, er, I’ll help,” replied Karl with the woodenness of a poor actor.

Once in the kitchen, Oma Schaurig whispered to Karl, “Look after her. She’s had a terrible shock. I suggest a slow, quiet stroll back through the forest will do her the power of good. You’ll both stay for something to eat first, though?”

Between them, Oma Schaurig and Karl set an appetising table for lunch. To the bread and honey brought by Sophia, Oma Schaurig added the remains of the Kopperburg Veined, a pat of freshly churned butter, and a selection of her famous home-made pickles and preserves. A sharp, and completely voluntary, cough from Karl, served as a reminder that a quart of beer would be a welcome addition to the repast.

Returning, Karl and Oma Schaurig found Sophia in a position identical to when they had retired from the room ten minutes earlier; the only detectable difference being moisture on the girl’s cheeks.

Oma Schaurig nodded slightly at Karl, who suddenly remembered his hastily rehearsed lines, “Er, I do not know about you, Miss Sophia, but I am famished and thirsty and could do with some lunch.” To which, Oma replied, “I have prepared us lunch. Come this way, please, both of you.” An amateur theatre director would have let it pass - but only just.