Where There Is Nothing

Chapter 4

In the year of our lord 1685, a relentless frost, reached forth and laid waste to the once lush and bountiful grapevines that had adorned the rolling hills, as well as the dear corn, which had withered already...everywhere around Odenwald-Rosenburg, in Baden-Württemberg, Germany, leaving the land bereft of sustenance, which had never happened in people's memory, and caused a fervent and desperate cry from the hearts of the populace, a lament that echoed through the winds, reaching the very heavens. They implored the authorities, their voices trembling with fear and despair, demanding to know why the witches and sorcerers were allowed to wreak havoc upon the crops with impunity. The anguish grew into an unrelenting clamor, a cacophony that pierced the veil of royal indifference and reached the ears of His Princely Highness, Johann Georg II.

Stirred by the intensity of the pleading, His Princely Highness resolved to take action against the malevolence that had infested the land. It was this year that the inquisition against witches and sorcerers was ignited, marking the commencement of a dark chapter in the history of Europe, as tales of witchcraft had woven a web of curiosity and fear amongst its inhabitants, and scarred by years of frost following, arose a search for people to commit to the fire.

"The city where beauty never fades," the Reverent Father muttered to himself, the words playing in his ears like a taunt. What a cruel jest, he thought bitterly. If it ever held true, that charm has long vanished, lost to the relentless march of time. However, perhaps it wasn't the towns outward appearance that had undergone metamorphosis; nay, it was something in the very air itself—a ponderous breeze laden with melancholy, hanging like a shroud, inviting the somber spirit in. But these matters hardly concerned him now. A sharp sense of urgency spurred him forward, guiding his steps towards the heart of the town. With each stride, the once pristine thoroughfare revealed itself in increasing disrepair, a reflection of the shattered illusions of a bygone era.

As the sun continued to dip below the horizon, the rays gently caressed the quaint village nestled in the heart of the Swedish countryside, casting a golden hue upon its cobblestone streets and thatched-roof cottages. However, there were no signs of life, no open windows, no structures that hinted at occupancy. It was as if, by some curious custom, the townsfolk had retreated deep into their homes at the break of dawn, and as he continued to walk in hopes of eventually running into someone, anyone who could guide him to the nearest inn, all that was there waiting for him was the same empty feeling that the surroundings woods provided.

After some time, Arthur arrived at the gate of a rundown inn. Its windows fogged and covered in a web of some native spider, and he could see fleeting silhouettes moving inside. He watched them curiously until it became too unbearable. The grounds surrounding the building was overgrown, and fallen leaves from a nearby oak formed a thick blanket, and had for some time now, fertilized the soil.

As he pushed the gate open, it creaked loudly, startling a raccoon that suddenly darted out from under a nearby bush and ran past him, to the now open gate, its spit and hiss like that of a cornered animal as it swerved in between his legs and disappeared into the alleyway. He shuddered at the unexpected encounter, his disdained for animals apparent in his expression, knowing them to be vile, unpredictable, and temperamental in nature—all of the worst types of vices.

Still, despise his unease, Arthur drew up the effort to reach the door with a smile gracing his lips. He gave a peculiar knock, hoping that he would be greeted in. As he waited, he glanced at the windows on either side of him, looking for any sign of movement or approaching footsteps.

At the end, no reception was made. With a sigh, he hurried on and pushed the open and entered into the inn, the musty smell of damp wood and old furnishings assaulting his nostrils as he stepped inside. 

The inn was filled with the sound of laughter and drunken conversation. Arthur wove his way through the throng, taking in the sight of the drunken townsfolk. Some were nursing beers and others seemed to converse under their breath to one another, but what was most certain was that he had the attention of the patrons. He had lolled into an old fashioned parlor, heavy with the familiar musk of tobacco. Not wanting to draw anymore unwanted attention, Mr. Dolling quickly took a seat amidst the crowd of wary stranger, in a tucked away corner of the room beside a fogged window, facing the men who where once again now unloading with half empty glasses.

All things considered it looked like any other respectable business he thought, and he was glad of it, especially since he was dazed with hunger had convinced himself that he was in desperate need of a goodnight sleep.

Emerging from the shadows, a woman appeared, eyes that bore the weight of her age. A faded apron adorned her, hair neatly bundled. "Welcome, traveler," she greeted, her voice a melodic respite from the gloom. "Few wonder our way these days."

Arthur nodded. "I was hoping to find a place to rest for the night."

The woman gaze pierced. "Rest is scare here,"she hinted. "Yet you're welcome to stay here for as long as you desire."