The Well of Souls
Chapter 10
Gertie awoke in the dark, with a jolt. Her hand gripped coarse, scratchy cloth—the only bedding between her and the cold, damp stone floor. The air smelled of dankness and standing water.
Where am I?
She lay still, afraid to move. A single, narrow sliver of starlight squeezed through a tiny window high on the wall. Somewhere in the gloom, a monotonous drip-drip... drip-drip... drip-drip... echoed from a leaky cistern.
Am I alive?
The heavy iron door of her cell clanged open. A stout jailer, silhouetted against the harsh glare of a lantern, loomed in the frame. A second guard stood behind him, a shadow of a shadow.
"Get up, or I will pick you up," the jailer snarled.
Gertie scrambled to her feet. She realized with a fresh wave of humiliation that she was still in her nightshirt, her hair a tangled mess, her feet bare. She didn't know where she was.
"Let's go," the guard commanded.
They led her up a corridor of massive, unadorned stone walls. The silence was heavy, broken only by the click of their boots and the trickle of water. They emerged into a functional, well-lit area. Plain brown wood doors lined the walls, all closed except one directly ahead.
They stopped short of the entrance. The lead guard entered the room, said something inside, then returned.
"Come on," he said, taking Gertie by the upper arm. His grip firm.
She was conducted into a main chamber, where she was left standing alone at a wooden railing, facing a high bench. Three figures in black robes sat side-by-side. They wore the same odd, square caps. They looked at her with a mixture of boredom and irritation.
The figure in the middle spoke. His voice was flat, devoid of warmth. "What are you doing here?"
The demand was rude, abrupt; Gertie's instinct was to snap back, but at once the memory of the hostel, the ghost, and the horror of the images of war—flashed before her eyes. Play along, she told herself. Survive.
"I honestly don't know," she whimpered, letting fear color her voice. "I just... woke up here."
The figure on the left leaned forward, his tone softer; "Superior Magistrate, she's a woman. Be merciful."
The figure on the right sneered. "Mercy is for the innocent. We must catch the traitor."
The Superior Magistrate sighed, an expression of futility. "This is exasperating. The dungeon is getting to be like a Well of Souls. And yet, another one 'just appeared,' as if from out of thin air?"
He held up the letter. The seal was visible, red, and official. "This was picked up by a guard outside the cell you were found sleeping in. Is it yours?"
Gertie froze. It was the letter Father Mateo gave her. She had forgotten it entirely. She looked down at her bare feet, standing upon the bare floor. She reached instinctively for the Iron Cross that had been her father's last gift, her only shield.
It was gone.
The Magistrate watched her movements. "Are you looking for this?"
He held up the Iron Cross. It glinted even in the dim, fluorescent light, black enamel set against silver.
"Yes," Gertie said, her voice trembling slightly. "It's mine."
"Now we are getting somewhere," the Magistrate said, his eyes narrowing. "It tells me you are with the Germans. Is it true?"
Gertie straightened her spine. The fear receded, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. She would not cower. She would not break.
"Yes," she said simply. "The letter with the seal of the castle is mine, as well. I was commissioned to deliver it."
"And so you have," the Magistrate said, his tone shifting from suspicion to a strange, bureaucratic approval. "You have accomplished your mission. You have done well."
He paused, tapping his gavel lightly against the wood.
"But," he continued, "I am sentencing you to seven days of incarceration. Punishment for contempt of court. And for the disturbance."
Gertie's heart sank. "Jail?"
"If you should remember how—or by whom—you gained entrance," the Magistrate said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "it will shorten your sentence."
He rapped the gavel once, hard. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
"I am excused," he said. He stood, turned, and exited through one of the side doors. The two subordinate magistrates followed him, leaving the room silently.
The guard to Gertie's right grasped her upper arm again, his grip firm.
"Turn about face," he ordered.
They marched out the door and down the corridor.