“Have either of you two ever heard about the terms of trade?”
Malka and Liza returned his question in the form of equally blank stares.
Twenty-Two
The sun shone through the bare branches of the large tree that was centered in the courtyard containing the entrance to the dormitory of St. Nicholas Catholic School. Stas entered the outdoor enclosure; he shivered, moving through the centimeters of packed snow that lay upon the ground. Despite having spent almost two months in Switzerland, he had yet to grow accustomed to the temperature. While he was thankful that the most recent snowstorm had passed, the clear skies that followed brought with them a deceptive coldness that belied their bright appearance.
He turned and headed towards the dormitory’s entrance hall. Pulling on its heavy wooden door, the Slav entered and turned to the monk who usually occupied the front desk during that hour of late afternoon.
“The key to room 204, s’il vous plait,” he asked in a routine manner.
The monk moved to retrieve the requested item. Laying it before Stas, the man then said, “Monsieur Tarkowski. I believe I have a letter waiting for you.” In an unhurried manner he reached under the desk and handed Stas an envelope.
Stas’s heart quickened as he saw it – and more specifically the stamps affixed to its upper right corner. They bore the image of an older woman along with an insignia characterized by a lion and unicorn. It was the seal of England’s royal family.
It’s from Nell! the young man realized with excitement.
Taking both the key and the small envelope, Stas thanked the friar and moved quickly – practically running – up the building’s creaky stairs. The sandy-haired youth was excited. For the most part, his schoolmates had been polite, formal. At some point, Stas could not help but sense that they continued to look upon him, his background and his experiences, as a cause for treating him with fear and pity. Still, he had tried to earn their respect.
The Slav had progressed well in his studies, though at the same time he continued to remain tight-lipped about his adventures, fearing his classmates’ reactions. He had even begun learning German. Stas had always planned to follow in his father’s footsteps; in an attempt to accept his new situation, he had quickly found out that the best engineering schools in Switzerland were located in Zurich. One day, he hoped to attend one of them.
Having a Swiss German roommate, he had progressed quickly and was already able to have a basic conversation in the language. The proud Swiss had been civil. The new arrival from the subcontinent appreciated Jurgen’s attempts to help him feel welcome by introducing him to the other Swiss Germans enrolled at St. Nicholas. Yet, he could not help but get the impression that he was being talked down to. As if it were all too clear to them who was – and should be – in charge.
At the same time, Stas’s rather formal ‘shared-locator’ – the literal translation of the Polish word for ‘roommate’ passed into his mind – had shied away from discussion regarding what he was clearly convinced were horrible things that the young Tarkowski must have experienced in Africa and afterwards, in India. Stas had not volunteered any further information.
As Stas ascended the stairs and opened door to his room, he felt relief at knowing that he was about to get news from someone who understood his situation. Shutting the door behind him, the Egypt-born youth moved immediately to his desk. Extracting a ruler from the top right drawer, he opened Nell’s response with anticipation:
How is she getting on in England? Does she have the same problems as me? Do they accept her? he wondered. Then, he thought wistfully. Even though we are in different countries, maybe we can still find ways of helping one another, as we always have.
Stas removed the single piece of paper from its container. Frowning, he opened it. Nell’s protector had expected a longer response from the traveling companion with whom he had grown up. He unfolded it completely:
Dear Stanley,
Briefly, Stas jerked his head back in surprise. He had known Nell to mispronounce his Polish appellation whilst growing up. But, he could never remember her having ever resorted to the use of its Anglophone analogue.
Slowly he focused on the rest of the letter. Short, it contained only a few lines, ending simply with a phrase of regards and a signature.
Stas felt his jaw drop slightly agape as he processed the information the message conveyed. Then, he threw the parchment away as if suddenly discovering that it contained some mortally toxic substance. He paced around the room for a few minutes in the manner of an animal trapped in a cage. The young Tarkowski briefly realized that he felt oddly distanced from the news he had just ingested. It was as if this must have been happening to someone else.
The door to the room opened suddenly, almost hitting Stas in the face during the course of his pacing. Jurgen entered. The Slav stumbled back a few steps in a lackadaisical manner, almost falling onto the floor.
“Stanislas, wie gehts?” Jurgen asked as usual when entering their shared living quarters. Since Stas’s decision to start learning German, Jurgen had proved most eager to help. Though, he had shown little respect for the non-western languages in which Stas’s upbringing had left him proficient.
“Leave me alone,” Stas replied in French. He continued to pace. An air of panicked disbelief emanated clearly about him.
“Stanislas, what is the…?”
“Shut up! Just shut up!” Stas found himself screaming as he turned to face his roommate. “You think you’re superior? You can’t even understand what I have gone through, what has just happened. What I have always prayed would never be God’s will. How can you even dare try to console me, when you or any of your family – you in your idealistic little village – haven’t suffered any form of hardship within your lifetimes! After what I have gone through, what I am going through now, it is you who should be looking up to me! I know you never will.”
Stas exhaled quickly. He took a step backward, finally regaining control over his uncharacteristic outburst. The distraught youth took in a deep breath. Shuddering, he anticipated his roommate’s response.
“Stanislas, I can...I can tell you’re upset,” Jurgen replied guardedly. “I understand that you are still learning High German. But, could you speak French, please?”
It was only then that Stas realized: his strikingly direct tirade had been uttered completely in Arabic, the language of the land where he had grown up. A short silence passed between the two.
“I’m sorry,” Stas whispered eventually. Then he sat on his bed, lying down on his back. He turned to stare at the ceiling.
“What is the problem? No matter what has happened, how can you permit yourself to act in this manner?” Fischer queried.
Stas continued to look vacantly upward.
Turning to his own desk, which sat exactly adjacent to Stas’s, the suit-dressed Swiss German noticed that a spare piece of paper had fallen across its immaculately organized surface. He picked it up; although his English was not what could be considered advanced, he was able to glean an understanding of what had caused Stas’s tortured mood as he read the letters written on it:
Dear Stanley,
It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you of this most unfortunate news. Two days before I write this, your friend, Nell, was found half submerged in the freezing waters of the Thames. Apparently, she had wandered away from school. A local gardener tending the commons found her and brought her back to my home. She regained consciousness, but remained delirious. I am pained to inform that Nell passed away only a few hours later. I understand the two of you were the closest of friends; as her aunt I can only understand how you must feel at this moment.
My sincerest condolences,
Helen Andrews
Jurgen turned back to his friend.
“Stanislas? This was this girl you were in Africa with, ja?”
His roommate did not respond, continuing to stare upwards. The native of Steckborn noted that a single tear fell from the Slav’s eye as he lay dej
ectedly on the bed.
The African-born young man gazed at the ceiling. His mind processed what still seemed too horrible to accept. After all of their adventures. All they had survived. None of it had mattered.
Stanislaw Tarkowski had never felt more helpless or alone as the unthinkable reality crystallized in his mind:
Nell is dead.
Twenty-Three
Four legs curled under her black-furred torso, Liza looked down from her perch on the roof of the small store, where she sat in waiting. A rude wooden building, the small shop sat alone on the left side of an earthen road. Its main purpose was to provide provisions and supplies to travelers. She had sat there for the past couple of days waiting for a carriage suitable to the plan initially conceived by Henry, who along with Malka, now lay waiting within a secluded caldera they had found a few miles away.
On each day that the felinoid had been watching the shop, a dozen or so persons had stopped in front of its entrance. They had gone inside to purchase a few items, but only a few rode in wagons. What was more, almost none of those conveyances appeared to carry cargo. When Liza had sprung briefly down to investigate those vehicles, she could not locate the papers that Henry had said were key, if his plan were to be successful.
Truth be told, Liza still wasn’t sure if she understood what the young American proposed. She did, however, remain unconvinced that attempting to pull off a heist in whatever manner was a good idea. Especially given their current circumstances. As Henry outlined his idea, Liza had at first refused to participate. But, she quickly realized that her refusal would not only decrease the plan’s chances of success, but also place Malka – and the Fragment – in a most dangerous and conspicuous position by default. Finding herself to be in the minority of opinion, Liza eventually relented. The cat-girl with the blue pendant was determined to protect her charge, no matter what she thought of Malka’s decision, or her traveling companion’s scheme.
Yet, she had insisted on a few modifications to it. Initially, Malka had been intent on being the one to steal a wagon and its cargo. When Liza had challenged her, the blue-eyed girl retorted: “I am the one here trained to crusade for Shakti. It is my competence.”
“Shakti? Wait, you mean that Hindi goddess? Since when is she supposed to demand that her followers go around acting like thieves?” Henry cut in.
“Maybe, I am no ordinary thief,” the dark tan-skinned girl had responded, mildly incensed by his characterization of the Sect whose auspices she had grown up under.
“That’s for sure,” he responded flatly.
Letting out a short huff, Liza interrupted.
“Ordinary or not, if we do this, I get the wagon for us.”
“Why? It is my duty as….”
“What exactly are you going to do? Just hang around a trading post waiting for a suitable mark? How is that not going to look suspicious? And even if you do find one, there’s no way you’re going to be able to steal it without attracting the attention of those around you. You stand out here, Malka; if word of this gets back to the three Urumi tracking us….”
“Okay. I see your point. With your...abilities ...you are better able to achieve greater stealth,” she sighed. Raised in a cult that relied on stealth and secrecy to carry out its larcenous activities, the Thag had conceded the felinoid’s line of reasoning from just after the black-haired girl had spoken her first sentence of her argument. Honestly, she should have thought of it, remembering how Liza had first made her presence known to the Thag in Calcutta.
With that, Henry had continued his explanation. Malka, though having said previously that she had a plan of her own, decided that she liked Henry’s plan better. It was more subtle. Liza got the feeling that the Thag didn’t really follow Henry’s technical-legal explanation, nor his descriptions of the methods that his cash-strapped parents had used to falsify documents in the mining camp. But, the felinoid surmised that it probably was relatively preferable to what likely amounted to the three of them attempting to deceive, distract, and then strangle, knife, or otherwise incapacitate an entire bank staff and its customer base.
In the interceding few weeks, they had continued to move in a northeasterly direction, looking for a suitable location in which to put their plot into action. After happening upon this small store, situated along a desolate, but not untraveled stretch of road, Henry had checked a map of the area that had been in his parents’ supplies. It was roughly a day from the nearest town by horse. Not too close, but not too far away either. Against Liza’s better judgment, the first phase of the plan was set into action.
Now, on the store’s roof, the black-furred being lifted her head slightly and scanned the road for what seemed like the millionth time. She wondered – not for the first time – if the chances of securing a wagon that carried a payload, while traveling in the correct direction, on a mostly deserted road, had been greater than Henry anticipated.
Maybe, the felinoid thought, it will kill this whole harebrained scheme before it gets off the ground. Which I would be perfectly fine with, thank you very much, if it would keep me from being stuck on top of this roof for hours every day. To hell with this. Malka can do whatever she likes.
She had been about to head back to the caldera with the intention of telling the two there that she’d had it with their plan. But, that was when she noticed a covered wooden wagon appear over the slight rise to the west. Slowly, it drew closer. Liza could make out two horses and a single driver. Her green eyes watched it lazily; it probably would pass like most others. Contrary to Liza’s expectations, the driver pulled on the reins as he approached and halted the conveyance directly in front of the building. Then, he climbed down and went inside.
A slight breeze blew in a direction opposite that in which the carriage had been traveling. Silently, Liza jumped into its front section. Padding around the bench on which its driver was intended to sit, she inspected her immediate surroundings. Behind her, the wagon’s cargo was stacked high in its covered bed. It appeared to be comprised of several rectangular objects, covered completely in a burlap tarp.
Lying on the edge of the driver’s bench, she looked down to see what was under it. A formal-looking folder lay in the space between the carriage’s floor and bench. Jumping down and turning her body, she nudged it with her nose, managing to dislodge a few official-looking documents.
These must be what that boy was talking about. I guess.
Now, time was of the essence. As long as she remained in her current form, if the driver returned to his wagon, all he would find was – ostensibly – a stray cat curious about something new in its environment. But, in order to take control of the wagon’s horses, Liza needed to assume her human physiognomy. If the wagon’s owner returned at the wrong second, her true intentions – and humanoid appearance – would become apparent to him. Besides, Henry had not seemed too picky about the type of cargo that he required. She moved to the floor of the carriage just in front of where the reins lay. She steadied herself. Then, in a blink, Liza transformed, assuming her human shape while bending down to grab the reins as she threw her weight back. She landed in a sitting position on the wagon’s bench.
The green-eyed girl snapped the reins hard.
“Yah!” The sound pierced the air; the horses responded immediately. Liza urged them as fast as they could go. Vaguely, over her shoulder she thought she heard a voice shouting, but she did not look back. From the distance she had already covered, he would be able to see only her long black hair waving in the wind from over the top of the cargo’s covered bed.
Liza kept the horses galloping for about one hour down the road. Then, she slowed. Turning leftwards, the wagon strayed off the beaten path, over an increasingly stony landscape toward a thin line of trees. It entered the forested area and ascended the small incline, which the arborage concealed. The felinoid stopped the horses just before what seemed to be the summit. She climbed down from the carriage and continued on foot the rest of the way, stopping just before th
e edge of a circular cliff. Her green eyes looked down.
The tent and cooking fire sat on a wide outcropping about ten feet down from her vantage point. Another two feet below that, the other half of the caldera was comprised by a natural pool of clean, still water.
Malka and Henry stood by the fire. They looked upward, having heard her arrival. Liza could not help but notice that Malka held the jewel-encrusted dagger in her right hand. Over the past couple of days, Malka and Henry – they still did not trust the latter quite enough to be left completely alone – had usually dropped off Liza in feline form and picked her up from a point a few hundred yards near the store. The Thag was clearly anxious.
“I’ve got your damn carriage for all the good it will do us,” Liza yelled down to them without preamble.
“Great!” Henry said.
Although the caldera’s walls were steep, the two scrambled up to Liza’s level, using its many handholds. Malka ascended first, then turned to help Henry over the top. He stood up and then scampered over to the waiting conveyance. He extracted the papers from where Liza had seen them under the driving bench and rustled through the documents. Eventually the boy settled on one entitled ‘Waybill for Overland Transport of Goods.’ The brown-haired youth perused it. His eyes narrowed shortly before he let out a bark of excitement.
“This is great! According to our maps, the town of the consignee’s bank is just a day away from here! This isn’t even theft! I mean, all we have to do is just deliver the goods to that bank. You know, with a few added intentions. And, um, look here! They wrote the terms of trade finance in pencil. We can just change it. Easy!”
Grabbing the graphite writing implement from a corner of the folder from which he had extracted the document, Henry set about erasing what had been written there. Then, writing carefully, the brown-haired youth replaced it with a phrase of his own.
Meanwhile, Liza’s sensitive, felinoid nose noted an instinctively familiar smell wafting from the wagon’s cargo section. Now that the wind in their location had changed, she moved towards it and pulled back the burlap tarp from one of its edges. A pink eye stared back from the side of a roughly oblong head. Above it, two large ears, covered in white fur, pointed toward her.
Outcast_Keepers of the Stone_Book One Page 21
