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Witchcraft

By Henry

01 December 2007

3'130 words.

I stepped from the train and headed for the baggage lockers. The metal suitcase contained some clothes for two days plus my great-grandfather's diaries from the years 1975 till 1988.
Leaving the rectangular building, I contemplated the familiar sights for a moment before I went into the late October sunshine: the Carlton Hotel, San Simeone Piccolo and the Scalzi bridge, whereas further to the left I noticed a cluster of cafés and restaurants. Plenty of tourists moved about although the invasions of former years had been reduced drastically and the lucky ones with visit permits and enough cash to afford the exorbitant area admission charges were distributed evenly throughout the year.
My great-grandfather who had loved Venice more than any other place on earth would have approved of these measures.
For they had been absolutely necessary. After the Great Flood earlier this century in 2016, Palladio's San Giorgio Maggiore was destroyed completely, most of the Giudecca Island was gone, Longhena's Salute church was badly damaged, the Campanile in San Marco had collapsed once again, and hundreds of palazzi were in ruins.
The whole mess was amplified by the constant bickering among international cultural organisations and the local administration, when they tried to put the blame on each other.

Luckily, powerful business conglomerates had stepped in, among them the successors to the Disney people, and they had bought the whole area outright; the same way the Coca Cola Company had bought bankrupt Sudan in 2044, and they had made a profitable enterprise out of the whole region. All major buildings have been restored by now, and particularly those which had suffered from environmental pollution as well as from sloppiness and neglect by the various local governments in succession.
So, what was I doing in Venice, standing at the Scalzi Bridge? As I was one of the fortunate few, who by power of civil servants' privileges were allowed to visit the lagoon city any time and without restrictions, I was determined to retrace my great-grandfather's last steps. I should add that I am a permanent member of the European Heritage Committee, which is, I'm afraid, another one of these ineffectual organizations I have mentioned previously. Venice had been my area of work for the past four years, among other places in danger of decay in that part of former Italy, such as Verona, Padova, Vicenza, to name but a few.
I should also add that I am involved with a scientific group evaluating the ethics of the new Mental Transmission Programme, which will definitely not be made available to the general public for a long time to come, if ever. But I will refer to that subject later on.

My great-grandfather died in March 1988 under peculiar circumstances. His death was pronounced an accident, but some weeks ago I discovered his diaries, read them all and wasn't so sure about this interpretation. He was found in mid-winter in a forest near Cortina d'Ampezzo, frozen to death, together with two empty bottles of Chivas Regal, some weeks prior to his fourty-second birthday. Since he was a fairly eccentric person, nobody really questioned the verdict of the subsequent enquiry. He always wrote regularly in his diaries, until the daily entries stopped on the 15th December, 1987. Only two more recordings followed: on December 31st, 1987, and on the 10th of March, 1988. The last one was just ten days before his death.

Here is a translation of the page dated 31st December of 1987:

"There was this man in Vienna who wanted to die, and he filled his slim leather attaché case with all these miniature bottles from the hotel room fridge, and he intended to go by underground and bus to the Wienerwald in order to die in the snow, but he refrained from the Project because he was bankrupt and didn't have the bus fare to go there and was afraid of the embarrassment should he be checked for the ticket in case a controller would turn up."

That was weird. I didn't make head nor tail of that and I decided to commence with my own enquiry, as there was the strong possibility that he had killed himself. And I wanted to know why.
There was a convenient morning flight to the new Vienna airport. It was cold and rainy and I had to put up the collar of the trenchcoat. I've never liked that provincial city and I didn't look forward to spending more time there than was needed, so I left the suitcase in a café nearby Stadtpark underground station and crossed the street. Unfortunately, the hotel had been demolished, where my great-grandfather wrote these lines, but I tried to come as close to the spot as possible. As recent scientific developments have been made available only to restricted circles, I'd like to state that by means of the new Mental Transmission Programme I have referred to earlier on, remarkable successes in telepathy have been achieved. Currently, it is only possible to use M.T. in the past and present dimensions: the future, or that what we think is future, is not accessible yet, and I'm not sure that people really want to know what's going to hit them one day.
It all happens in the mind, but one must physically work from the place where the events under investigation occurred. It required eight attempts to catch hold of my ancestor's personality complex (I couldn't bring myself to calling him "the old man" as he was so young when he died), but it was not possible to pinpoint the exact circumstances when he wrote the entry of the 31st December. The only clear response I got was "Scalzi Bridge", and this message returned twice. At first this reference didn't make sense to me, but then I recalled his final notes of 10th March in Venice, where he mentioned a certain bridge. In an electronic bookshop I found a guide to Venice: "Ponte degli Scalzi, one of the three bridges spanning the Canal Grande."

So I caught the train from Vienna, a journey I had made many times before and took the detour via Salzburg. This time I spent only a few hours there, appalled at the sorry state of that city, which once had been described by Humboldt as „one of the three most beautiful cities in the world“, and then I boarded the night train to Venice. I was aware that my great-grandfather had been travelling this same route plenty of times as well, as he used to live in Salzburg for a number of years, and I was hoping to be able to feel a bit closer to him after the trip, maybe even getting into the workings of his mind, if I may say so.
I would have to walk up the steps of the Ponte degli Scalzi in order to find the answer, but on an impulse I turned to the Olimpia café which still exists today and asked for half a litre of Orvieto Classico. While I sat there, I recalled his last entry which I knew by heart now and tried to feel some sadness for his early death but only managed to intensify my current level of curiosity.
He must have possessed certain telepathic powers himself, although he wasn't able to control and channel the procedures, the way we have learned to operate them these days.

Here is a translation of the final pages of his diary, written ninety-eight years ago and unlike anything else he ever put down on paper:

"I left the station and decided to have a late breakfast nearby. The sun was bright and the first warm hours of the year were a fine gift. Coming down from the wide steps I turned left searching for a place to sit down for coffee and toast. Some Africans had displayed their fake Vuitton bags. They must be organized because they all had the same blue canvas spread which would later serve as a hold-all for the leftovers at the end of their shift.
The Olimpia restaurant was open and I went in to sit at a table with a view of the Scalzi bridge. I remembered the bridge very well: the first time I arrived here with M., I had christened it 'Ponte Santa M.', because everything here is San or Santa, although at that time it was clear to me that she was no saint and would never be.
I was very much in love, and we went up the bridge, taking photos of each other, behaving exactly as scores of other tourists have done before, and later we went to this restaurant for a bottle of wine and took our seats outside.
But now I realized that some kind of fight had started: the shadow of M. appeared at last, exactly as I had expected. I was determined to get rid of her ghost right here in Venice.
The waitress brought the tray. I had two fried eggs on toast with a big cappuccino, later I took salami and the first glass of cool white wine of the day. The sun was wonderful now and I hoped that the Gritti terrace would be open later in the afternoon. I had got the day all to myself and had not made any plans. I got up and paid, asked for the nearest tobacco shop to buy my Gitanes and stood there for a moment or two, finally gazing at Ponte Santa M.
Then I couldn't resist walking up the stairs of the bridge. I was nearly alone up there, with my hands on the cool granite railing. I looked down into the grey canal water and I watched a group of schoolgirls in a small boat disappear underneath. To my right was the large square in front of the train station with the ugly concrete and glass building in the background. To the left I looked at the facade of one of the countless churches, I didn't know which saint was responsible for that one, not that it mattered. Now a black large barge appeared below, filled with green cabbages and crates of pale garlic.
I drifted off to faraway places, I saw the trees and hills of Lake Manteith, and the crystal clear water of the Red Sea and the fountains and flowers of the Alhambra Palace.
At first I thought there was a cool wind coming up, but the surface of the water showed no reaction and the flags on the square continued to hang lazily from their poles. I felt something cold going down my spine, ever so slowly, taking possession of my back and my arms, and I could not move and I froze and my hands were glued to the granite, and then I knew that she was there.
I did not dare to turn around as I knew for sure that I would see her, directly opposite, leaning against the other granite railing, facing me, and I knew she would be wearing her black high heeled shoes, the blue jeans with the leather belt, the white cotton blouse and the jeans jacket, and I would look into this awfully familiar face, into her lovely dark brown eyes, as I had done thousands of times before, when I was with her together, and in my imagination when I was away, and she would smile at me, one of the edges of her lips turned into that slightly ironic smile, and I would see her black hair falling down to her shoulders, and by now I was ice cold all over and I thought I would have to die and I didn't really mind.
So this is Death, I thought, and I was not scared at all. I knew she was behind me, waiting for me to turn, waiting for my kiss, and I would lose the fight before it had even started. She was close now, I could feel her presence, but I was numb and couldn't move and that saved me in the end.
A boat sounded its horn and a kid yelled for his mama, the cold ice slowly went away and I knew I could turn round again. My hands came off the granite and I looked over my shoulder: she wasn't there any more and I was still alive. Go to hell, ghost, I said to her, just go to hell, you can't touch me any more, ever! Just go to hell and burn!"

I found this entry disturbing and I was certain that something had gone very wrong. I finished the Orvieto and got up. Climbing the steps I buttoned my coat and put up the collar. I went to the same spot where my ancestor had stood during his encounter. Even during the initial stages of mental approach I received strong positive signals; finally, a recognizable sequence came back to me and there was a connection.
"You know who I am?" I said.
That wasn't really intelligent, but I was nervous.
"I've been expecting this sort of thing from you," he said, irritated. "I don't really want to talk to you. I know what you're up to, you're a troublemaker. Muck raker. Leave me alone! It's got nothing to do with you, none of your business!"
I had not expected this hostility. And I had not come all the way to Venice, incurring all that trouble and expense to be told off like a school kid.
"Now hold on a minute, just take it easy! All I want to know, and then I'll leave you in peace, I promise: was it murder or was it your own choice? That's all I want to know!"
There was a silence and I thought I had lost him.
"She was a witch," he said finally, "a damned sixteenth-century witch. They should have burnt her at the stake, you know. Now she'll come for you, too."
"Wait," I tried to signal, confused and alarmed. "Wait, don't go now! I need to..."
There was a blank as he cut off the link. I was very angry and I felt like a fool. But there was nothing I could do. The link was gone and I would be unable to get back to him. He was gone, and he was probably gone for good.
Slowly I returned to this world.
Somebody shook me. "Are you all right, signore?"

Maybe they thought I wanted to jump from the bridge. I took my hands off the granite and stuck them into the coat pockets to give them some warmth. I walked down the steps.
I might as well have left Venice now. What had I accomplished? Nothing, really. I was worried, though, and what did he mean "by witch"? What did he know that I didn't?
I had booked a room at the Gritti and I decided to take my case from the locker and call for the hotel boat to pick me up. The trip along the Grand Canal would be as relaxing as always and I looked forward to checking for progress at a couple of palazzi which underwent restoration under the auspices of the European Heritage Committee.
I remembered the passage in that unfortunate man's diary, referring to the Gritti terrace: I would sit down there, too, I would have a good drink and something to eat, I would enjoy the view and the busy proceedings on the Canal. And I would make plans for tomorrow.
The hotel motoscafo did not take long to reach the Campo Santa Maria del Giglio. Soon I was placed at a corner table on the terrace. Across the Canal, Palazzo Dario was as lopsided as ever, but still as beautiful as ever.
I can't remember how long I was sitting there, lazily, just staring into space and letting my mind wander. Now most of the tables were occupied, and there was a constant level of talking and laughing. Something bothered me, but I couldn't say what it was, it was just an uneasy feeling, as if someone was watching me intensely. There was nobody who took an interest in me, when I looked around. At the far side, a young woman was seated, maybe waiting for someone, with a glass of Campari in her hand, but she was watching the boats which were passing by.

With a telephoto lens, I could have taken a snapshot: a solitary woman at a table, with shoulder-long dark hair. She was wearing something white underneath a denim blue jacket, a bit old-fashioned, I thought, the red drink as the only colourful spot in that photo, set against the dark grey water of the Canal, nice shot, really. I couldn't see her face, though.
The feeling of uneasiness increased, more like a premonition of doom, couldn't say, exactly. Some kind of connection seemed to build up between this woman and myself. My fingertips felt cold, suddenly – no explanation for that – sure, it was October, but it was still very pleasant to sit outside. I decided to leave.
Later that night I woke up all of a sudden, with my heart beating loudly, and I was sweating and shivering at the same time. I also had the impression that someone was in the room. The windows facing the Canal were outlined silvery on the carpet, perhaps there was a full moon. I switched the light on – there was nobody in the room, of course. Had I been dreaming? Yes, dimly I was aware of the woman from the terrace whispering into my ear, but what?
After breakfast I checked out from the Gritti, travelled in their boat to Santa Lucia rail station and got myself a ticket to Padova. Might as well do some work there, since I was in the region. The oppressive feeling remained with me until I boarded the InterCity train. With a sigh of relief I dropped into the seat, then the train departed for the brief trip across the lagoon to Mestre. The gloomy mood had vanished.
What should I do with the diaries? Lock them away somewhere, and just forget about my great-grandfather.

I wasn't angry any more and I even thought, what the hell? He was just another one in an eternal succession of failures, and who was I to start digging in his past?
This man had not been very lucky with his women: amongst others and apart from the witch, there was this one in Paris, beautiful like a dream, who all of a sudden went mad after they had returned from a Venice trip. I remember the photos he took of her in Piazza San Marco. What a beauty she had been!
Did this city which he loved so much finally turn against him? There was a time when it was fashionable to associate Venice with death and other evil fate, especially in films and literature. Thomas Mann's book had not really helped. Did Venice destroy him in the end using his women for that purpose? And why?

There was another statement in his diaries, scribbled across one of the flyleaves: "What you love most kills you in the end."
I don't know where he got that platitude from, but as I've said before, he was considered rather eccentric and people expected opinions of that kind from him.

And maybe it is true, after all?

Reviews

Written by Fledermaus (3281 comments posted) 1st December 2007

Interesting story. It leaves many questions unanswered though, which on the one hand makes it even more mysterious, but on the other hand is a bit frustrting. The narrator's ancestor is the most curious of the characters I think, more so even than the witch...
Not sure what to make of it all, perhaps I should reread it.
It has a nice atmosphere anyhow and your future Europe doesn't seem like a bad place.

Open Questions
Written by Henry (57 comments posted) 3rd December 2007

Maybe I have included too many codes or hidden meanings between the lines - my old problem, I must admit that cheerfully.
I have reviewed the story and did not find any loose ends - on the contrary, I feel there is a closed circle when the narrator boards the train and leaves Venice.
Thanks for reading and reviewing - as always, I appreciate that.
Henry.

Written by Phil (6713 comments posted) 3rd December 2007

I enjoyed this very much. I thought it was well rounded, but I can see where Fledermaus is coming from. Open ended stories are not for everyone.

A good read.

Phil.

Expecting something ghostly
Written by BedtimeStoryteller (103 comments posted) 4th December 2007

Not an easy read, especially for those of us that have never been to Venice and don’t recognise the place names. I found some of the background info heavy going, but there was enough story to hold my interest, and I read to the end, expecting something ghostly or bewitching to happen to the storyteller, but not a lot did, so I was somewhat disappointed. Despite a few oddities, e.g. ‘the hotel had been demolished, where my great-grandfather wrote these lines’, and, ‘a black large barge’, plus overuse of, ‘all of a sudden’, I began to like the writing style, and might just take a look at some more of your stories, Henry.

Just read the other reviews. I sometimes hide stuff ‘between the lines’ but don’t make it an essential part of the story, so probably 99% of readers don’t see it.

Notes on The Witch
Written by Henry (57 comments posted) 4th December 2007

Hi BedtimeStoryteller,
thank you very much for your time to read and review.

Place names: not extremely important; the location of the Scalzi bridge was described, same as the Olimpia Bar, and the Gritti is a well-known hotel, anyway.

Oddities: 'black large barge' – there are plenty on the Venetian canals, transporting vegetables, fruits, fish &c to the hundreds of restaurants and to the markets and shops...

Overuse: 'sudden' (once in the story), 'all of a sudden' (twice in the story); will review that, thanks!

Something ghostly: The witch got to him in the end – maybe you were looking for a spectacular development? Sorry to disappoint you – I prefer to keep things on a low level.

Codes and hidden meanings: Yes, you've caught me there. My problem is simply that I expect everyone to decipher my codings or references or 'stuff between the lines'...
Let me quote a very simple example: with Thomas Mann's book I am referring to 'Death in Venice', of course. I would always assume that everyone knows about that, and then I'm extremely surprised when someone asks me '...what book??'. It is no arrogance on my part, I just want to refer to something, quickly, to give that paragraph or sentence an additional meaning. Will have to work on that, I guess, to avoid raised eyebrows.
Another example which comes to my mind: Maybe you have read my story 'The Barman...“ - towards the end, there are a number of so-called death symbols (yes, I know, a bit oldfashioned now, but the story is from 1992): the black walking stick of the seller of posters, the two deep furrows between her eyes (borrowed from 'Death in Venice', incidentally), and the reference to Thin Lizzy.

OK, enough of that – thanks again, Henry.

Mirrors etc
Written by Levi (31 comments posted) 8th December 2007

Some comments!

There are a lot of things I really enjoyed reading "Witchcraft". First off, I disagree with the comment that it's "not an easy read" due to the arena - I've never been to Venice or many of the mainland-europe places referenced (nor have ever been to Mars, Egypt or Middle Earth), but the post-modern setting crucially gives the reader the oppertuinity to create THEIR OWN idea of how these already incredibly visual places might be. Plus the 'exotic' location names compliment the use of language and create an air of exploration and discovery that mirrors the protagonist's journey. I also especially like the narrative style that adopts a journal-like quality in its straightforward explanation of events - again mirroring the diary entries detailed in the story - and creates a clear yet always quietly haunting picture. Which is quite an achievement.

The story itself seemed quite gentle and understated, and I never got the impression the protagonist was in any danger - I'm sure this was intentional as you 'prefer to keep things on a low level' - and this isn't really a criticism. However, this does create a necessity for the reader to figure out the deeper meanings and references to get the most out of the story which - as has been pointed out - are often too obscure for any casual reader. Again, not a criticsim in itself, but the combination of the two doesn't quite work - the story either needs to be very dramatic and laden with subtle hidden messages, or understated but the majority of references kept fairly obvious. But then I try to keep my own stuff at 'popcorn entertainment' level, so maybe I should just steer clear of that one.

Enjoyed. Best, Jon

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