Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  But—wait! What if the priest had said the Mass for Božena first and Anežka had discovered some other, more powerful tool to keep Božena’s vengeance at bay? What should have been her last, consoling thought—that Anežka was even now suffering in the same way Božena was suffering—was replaced by the tormenting fear that Anežka had escaped and only Božena had been caught in this descent into misery and death.

  She screamed, in fury as much as in pain and anguish, as the dark miasma crept across her vision.

  Even in the flickering, unsteady candlelight, it was unmistakable. Anežka’s flesh was melting away before their eyes. Not her skin, but the muscles and tendons beneath the skin seemed to simply drain from her, wasting away as if by years of famine or illness. The bones of her fingers were each clearly the only support of the skin on her hands and the harsh outline of her skull was the only support that kept her face from collapsing in on itself.

  When her nightclothes were removed to prepare the corpse for burial, her whole body was discovered to have wasted away in the same manner. Her protruding ribs and bloated stomach were the result of starvation, but starvation that had accomplished its grim work in mere minutes rather than anguished, miserable years. The only otherwise inexplicable mark on the body was the large bruise on one heel that looked as if a serpent had crawled into the bed (which was burned in an effort to purge whatever plague had taken the matron), bitten only Anežka and not her husband, then slunk away unseen. But no such creature had ever been seen in the house—though the servants kept anxious watch for the next several weeks.

  The Old Town Square was empty. Midnight darkness and midwinter cold conspired to keep anyone who was awake home and tightly wrapped in their blankets. Few tears had been shed for one woman, whereas many tears had been shed for the other. A lavish funeral for one had been sung while the other had been buried with little ceremony in the potter’s field, with scant attention paid by the clergy.

  Yet both women were here, eying each other warily. Božena and Anežka circled about, each unable to take her eyes off the other and unsure what new devilry the other might be plotting. Anežka’s grand St. Nicholas Day gown and apron with the bright, fresh stain swept along the cobblestones even as Božena hobbled about, neither ever coming closer to the other as they circled the place in the square where Fen’ka had been burned.

  Heat and power radiated from where the fire had burned, power that kept both women from lunging across the open space to scratch the face of her enemy. As they continued their wary dance, shadows collected behind them and dim shapes congealed—almost as if the square itself were remembering the crowd that had gathered there on that September afternoon and called for the death of the old woman in the pyre.

  Other shadows, in other layers of darkness, rose from the stones and mingled with the crowd demanding and delighting in Fen’ka’s execution. The hordes of the nameless poor that had streamed through the square over the decades, those that had died nameless, cold and hungry in the streets and lanes of the Old Town, came to find solace at the dark flames and beg alms from the two women newly arrived in the square.

  Across the square, behind Anežka, another figure entered the square. It was a man, with a large purse, into which he reached again and again, attempting to throw coins to the crowd that always were blown back into his face. Aleksandr—despite having made what looked like a mors bona by his hasty confession and reception of the Last Rites—was trapped in the moment when he had tossed the coins to Božena and the other beggars, but now the wind refused to let him give his charity to the shades who reached towards him. His habitual selfishness and lack of any real concern for others had overcome his perfunctory reception of the Last Rites. Finally, he wanted to share his wealth with the less fortunate and was unable to give anything away.

  Coming from the northwest corner of the square, Jiři struggled to press his coins into the hands of shades stretched towards him, wailing in their poverty and cold. But try as he might, he was unable to release the coins in his hand, as he had died with no opportunity to confess or receive the Last Rites. His habitual charity compelled him to reach towards those around him, but his inability to ease their suffering only increased his. As no alms were forthcoming, the shadows of the poor could only continue their wailing. The men came near where the women circled each other and, knowing now the cause of their deaths, spat at the beggar and the matron.

  It was commonly supposed that St. Nicholas, as he made his rounds bestowing gifts on children and the needy, was accompanied by both a tar-covered čert, a pitch-black devil, as well as a bright and glorious anděl, an angel of light, who each argued for or against the worthiness of the recipient of the saint’s benefactions. The čert was always ready, at the slightest nod from the saint, to carry away the unworthy beggar or misbehaving child and—throughout the year—parents could always warn their children that they might be carried away by the Devil, should their behavior warrant it, when St. Nicholas made his annual visitation. It also came to be rumored that the two women and the two men who could be seen—on the occasional moonless night—in the square, entering it from opposite corners or circling each other, would only be too happy to take a misbehaving youngster into their company.

  Queen of Wands, reversed

  (April–June 2002)

  F

  our months. Magdalena had four months to prepare for the conferences that would begin in August. There was a great deal to do in Professor Hron’s office to prepare for the conferences: dealing with the university facilities office, booking hotel rooms, sorting abstracts as they were submitted, compiling the opinions of the conference Steering Group (several of whom were in Oxford with Hron’s friend Professor Theodore Cooper) as to which abstracts should be accepted, sending out the e-mail acceptance and rejection notices. Magdalena had several versions of the conference program to type and edit as conference delegates responded excitedly at first to their acceptance notices but then had to reluctantly withdraw due to academic, financial or personal reasons.

  There was always tension in the office as well. Lida was hovering over Magdalena’s shoulder, the more senior secretary eagerly awaiting the younger secretary’s first major gaffe, which would prove Lida’s indispensability and Magdalena’s incompetence. But as each day passed, Lida waited in vain for Magdalena to appear incompetent. Lida was seething.

  The other secretaries in the department, told by Hron to take over some of Magdalena’s usual responsibilities, as she was involved with preparations for the conferences, were alternately excited for her and resentful of her new status.

  But Magdalena was also preparing in private for the conferences, as two of the conference delegates would be coming in response to her conjuration of Flauros and Halphas. These two delegates would be coming to Prague to help her clear Fen’ka’s name and would be—she hoped!—magical experts who would trust her with their most important and most powerful secrets. She would need to prove herself worthy of their trust and instruction.

  “I know that I need to show them that I am not a total amateur,” she told her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her hair one morning in early April. “I know that I am… I know that I am able to do this.” She was afraid to use the word “skilled” or even “competent” to describe her facility with magic. “But how do I prove that to the two delegates Flauros showed me and that Halphas will bring to Prague? Really, I don’t want the two delegates to come in response to my call and then leave me aside once they begin the work of clearing Fen’ka’s name. After all, Fen’ka came to me! Fen’ka called me to clear her name with the assistance of these delegates! I can’t let them forget that! I have to be… well, if not the leader of Fen’ka’s defenders, then certainly I have to be as involved as they are! I must!”

  She studied the reflection in the mirror. “I have to demonstrate that I have at least some… skills,” she decided at last. “They cannot ignore me if I have already proven that Fen’ka was not wrong to trust me!”


  That evening Magdalena began to reread the introductory chapters of her handful of books about the modern practice of magic and witchcraft. One book stressed that the modern witch should thoroughly acquaint herself with the magical properties of the herbs found in the typical modern kitchen or garden.

  “The contemporary witch,” Magdalena read, “will also plant in her garden or window box a variety of herbs not often used for cooking but which are nevertheless important for the working of many basic invocations.”

  “I will have to study the back garden more closely this year,” she advised herself. “I need to know which plants are herbs to be used and which are weeds to be pulled out. Then I should plant new herbs as well.” The back garden was returning to life after the cold of winter. Although she had never given much attention to the garden, this spring she would need to rectify that.

  “This weekend,” she promised herself. “I will spend this weekend identifying herbs in the garden and planting new ones.”

  She opened the next book in her short stack of texts. This one suggested that meditation and the ability to concentrate were the most important building blocks of current magical practice.

  “Clearing the mind of wandering thoughts is an essential component of the modern witch’s toolbox,” the author instructed her. “But the mind cannot simply be kept vacant. The witch or practitioner must learn to focus on a single point and allow that focus to fill the mind. A frequently used focal point is the flame of a candle placed on a table within a magic circle.”

  Magdalena was intrigued. She had never attempted meditation before.

  The author continued, “The practitioner will set the candle on a table and draw the circle around it with the athame, the witch’s ritual dagger. The practitioner will sit in a position that is neither too comfortable—likely to induce a drowsy state—nor uncomfortable and distracting. The practitioner will place the palms on the table alongside the circle and focus the attention on the flame of the candle. Thoughts will come but must be allowed to go. The practitioner will find the center of the flame and direct his or her attention to that steady, central quiet point of the flame.

  “Images may reveal themselves to the witch in the center of the flame. The witch must not try to force her-or himself to see any image in particular,” the author directed. “The practitioner must accept whatever image may present itself, or none at all.”

  The possibility of seeing images in the flame fascinated Magdalena. She read on.

  “Breathing must be kept calm and steady as well. A few moments of such meditative concentration may be all that the practitioner may be capable of at first but extended periods of such practice, several times a week, must be the eventual goal if the witch is to reach the focus required for the proper working of magic.”

  Magdalena resolved to begin the meditative practice the book recommended. “Twice, maybe three times a week,” she promised herself. “In the evening, after work but before supper,” she decided. “Beginning now.”

  She got her athame and a new green candle from the pack she had purchased for the conjuration in her back garden. She placed the candle on the kitchen table and traced a circle around it with her athame. She sat where she could easily focus on the candle and its flame. Then she struck a match and lit the fresh wick.

  The wick flared briefly and then quickly withered as the fire consumed it. The white tuft of wick grew long and slender and black in the heart of the flame. When the fire reached the wax, it paused and shrank and then grew long again as it began to feed on the wax as well as the wick.

  Magdalena struggled not to blink and then realized she had forgotten to keep breathing. She forced herself to begin breathing in a deep, steady rhythm. She set her palms on the table on either side of the circle she had drawn around the candle.

  The flame flickered and danced in an otherwise imperceptible breeze that wafted through the kitchen. Magdalena’s eyes found the steady, clear oval of light wrapped about the wick in the heart of the flame. She stared at it and tried to think of nothing in particular.

  Thoughts did come to her and she struggled to let them go. The quivering flame suggested a variety of images but none persisted for longer than the time it took her to draw a breath. After what seemed an inordinately long period of concentration, she glanced at the clock on the stove.

  Five minutes had passed.

  The next day, Magdalena consulted another of her magical guidebooks. In addition to meditation and herbal lore, this book insisted that a necessary first step to successful occult practice was an easy familiarity with the images and interpretation of the tarot cards.

  “That makes sense,” Magdalena acknowledged as she read this author’s admonitions. “It was the tarot reading in New York that led me to Fen’ka.” She recalled her dreams and their insistent fascination with the Six of Swords that had driven her to the edge of the river beneath the Charles Bridge that night she had encountered Fen’ka and Jarnvithja.

  “Although a witch ought never read the cards for herself,” the book warned, “one ought to practice with the cards by drawing one daily to recognize the imagery and symbolism of the card and study its interpretative meanings.”

  “I’ll draw a card every morning before I leave for work,” she resolved. “Then I can chew it over in my mind throughout the day.” This system of card-by-card, day-by-day study also seemed much less intimidating that sitting down with the deck of seventy-plus cards and attempting to memorize them all.

  “One card a day? I can manage that!”

  Magdalena remained true to her intentions. She worked dutifully in her garden, identifying herbs and pulling weeds, planting new herbs. She took index cards to make flashcards for herself: on the front, she wrote the names by which each herb was known and on the back, she noted the magical uses of the herb.

  “Thistle… associated with the element of fire… use for protection, healing, and hex-breaking,” she practiced during her lunch break as she sat on a park bench near Hron’s departmental office in the spring sun. She flipped the card over to check her memory and then went on to the next cards in the pile.

  “Ferns, associated with air… used for making rain and good luck… Bedstraw, considered a water herb and used for attracting love…. Snakeweed, which the alchemists categorized as an herb associated with the element earth… is useful for fertility.” She struggled to remember the names and elements and uses of each herb and felt that sometimes she was giving herself a headache for the rest of the afternoon.

  Magdalena also continued her fledgling meditation practice. The green candle slowly grew shorter as she was able to gradually extend her periods of concentrated gazing at the candle’s flame. Some evenings, she saw nothing at all in the depths of the fire, while on other evenings, a cascade of images swept through the flame before her eyes. But none persisted or demanded her further attention.

  In addition, she pulled a tarot card each morning from the deck she kept with her occult tools: the athame, chalice, pentacle and short staff. She would commit the image to memory, look up the interpretation in the occult guide she kept with the occult tools, and try to make up a story about the image and its meaning that she could tell herself again later in the morning and again after lunch.

  One of the first cards she pulled in her new daily morning routine was the Queen of Swords.

  “I know this card!” Magdalena exclaimed. “The card reader in New York pulled this card for me in the reading she did! It was… what did she say about it?” Magdalena consulted her tarot interpretation guide.

  “The Queen of Swords is a sad and angry woman.” Magdalena put the book aside and returned her gaze to the card, to make a connection between the image and the interpretation so she might more easily remember the meaning of the card later.

  “The queen sits on her throne, wielding the great sword in her hand,” Magdalena described the card to herself. “She is both sad and angry—she has been betrayed? She has been tricked? She is looking to
avenge herself against whoever betrayed or tricked her. That is what the big sword is for. She will cut whoever it was to shreds!” Magdalena was proud of the little story she had made to remember the meaning of the card.

  May had nearly arrived, the spring weather growing consistently warmer and steadily more sunny. The popular holiday commonly known as Pálení čarodějnic, the “burning of the witches,” would be celebrated throughout Prague the next night with carousing and drinking, as bonfires burned and people dressed as witches in black hats with broomsticks would fill the city. But Magdalena had discovered that Pálení čarodějnic was more than an excuse to dress up and go drinking. From one of her books, Magdalena knew that May 1 was an important occult holiday and that its eve, the night of April 30, was also known as Walpurgis Night.

  “Traditionally considered the first day of summer,” Magdalena read, “Walpurgis Night and May 1 together mark the midpoint between the vernal equinox in March and the summer solstice in June. Walpurgis Night was long considered a night of intense occult activity and an occasion of diabolic celebration. Magic worked on Walpurgis Night is given an additional boost as the earth makes it way to Midsummer, the solstice on June 23-24, which is the zenith of those powers commonly called ‘white magic.’ Midsummer is the night when nearly all magical possibility is waiting to be explored and Walpurgis Night anticipates the power of Midsummer.”

  Magdalena sat back in her chair at the kitchen table. “Tomorrow night is Walpurgis Night.” Now that she realized this, she thought, “I should celebrate it in some way, observe the occult holiday, if I want to really make myself an accomplished occultist.” The book suggested that modern-day witches gather for a potluck dinner and an evening of meditation, divination, and spell-casting.