The cellar in which František now stood, the cellar below his parlor, was full of casks and barrels. Most were casks of ale or beer. Some were barrels of pork. But there were three large wooden casks that František kept together, slightly apart from the others in one corner of the cellar. It was those three casks he stood before now, holding the leather pouch of coins in one hand.
A circle was drawn with chalk on the floor around the three casks. He scuffed away a portion of the circle with his foot and stepped to the three large barrels, placing his candle on a nearby ale cask. The covers of two were nailed down but the third was easy to remove. He set it aside next to the candle .
The cellar was dark and shadows flitted around him as the flame quivered in a draft from the winding tunnels. But the open barrel before František glowed gently in the firelight. It was half full of coins, gold and silver and copper. František smiled, drinking in the coins with his eyes and taking a deep, contented breath. He took a handful of the coins and let them run through his fingers. The music of the coins jingling as they fell together always soothed him. Then he poured the contents of the leather pouch into the barrel and replaced the wooden cover.
František took the fragment of chalk he kept on a rough and splinter-edged shelf above the three casks and redrew the circle around the three barrels of coins. Putting away the chalk, he took up the candlestick and climbed the steps back to the parlor.
Entering the parlor again, he lit another taper on the desk and then gathered a few things from the fine oak shelves behind the desk and sat down. He pulled the other small leather pouch from his belt, where it always hung next to the ring of iron keys, and set it on the desk next to a small copper jar with a wide mouth and cork stopper and a flagon of wine he had taken from the shelves. He pulled the cork from the copper jar and set it aside. Within was a portion of honeycomb, to which adhered a length of leather thong and clippings from his fingernails. He had placed these things in the copper container several years ago; the rich and heavy scent of ripe, fermenting honey rose from the jar to hover around the desk.
He opened the leather pouch from his belt as well, loosening the leather thong that served as a drawstring. Inside the pouch was a coin he had taken from one of the casks in the cellar and a splinter from one of the casks. A thimbleful of soil clung to the coin and another smattering of dirt—over the years—had been worked into the supple creases of the leather pouch or had settled at the pouch’s bottom.
František dipped his fingers into the flagon of wine and sprinkled a few drops onto the honeycomb in the jar. Then he sprinkled a few drops into the pouch. He licked the sticky remains of the wine from his fingers, and left the open jar and pouch on the desk to allow the wine drops to dry while he went into the dining room to await the cook’s serving of his supper.
Later that evening, after his solitary supper, he returned to the study. He closed the jar with the cork again and pulled the pouch’s drawstring tight. He reinserted the pouch beneath his belt and replaced the copper jar and flagon of wine on the shelf.
This had been his routine each week for years. Late in the afternoon each Saturday as dusk approached, he would feed a few drops of wine to each of the charms he had constructed following the advice of Albrecht, the German hexenmeister in the Ungelt neighborhood.
“I need to protect my assets,” František had told the German. “I keep my coins hidden in casks in my cellar but even there, I fear they could be stolen. I need some way to protect them, to prevent them from being lost or stolen. How can that be done?”
Albrecht had closed his eyes and run his tongue along the edge of his upper lip. František thought he looked almost serpentine in his dark, crowded little shop on the Ungelt square.
“There is a way,” Albrecht had announced at last, opening his eyes. “It involves two simple charms. The first is a charm to prevent the theft or loss of the casks of coins. You must take a leather pouch with a leather drawstring, a pouch of quality that will endure. Take one of your coins and a splinter from one of the casks and place these in the pouch with a bit of graveyard soil. Keep this pouch always with you and the casks of coins can never be lost or taken from you so long as the pouch is yours.”
“That does not seem like a difficult charm to make,” the moneylender agreed. “But a small pouch such as you describe could easily be lost or stolen. What is the second charm?”
“The second charm is to prevent the loss of the pouch,” Albrecht had replied. “Take a portion of honeycomb, sweet and sticky. Cut a piece of the leather drawstring from the pouch and place it on the honeycomb with the clippings of your fingernails.”
“This also seems a simple charm,” František thought. “I imagined the charms would be more difficult.” Aloud he asked, “What should the honeycomb be kept in?”
“Copper is the metal associated with the Aphrodite, with Venus, the goddess of love and attraction,” the hexenmeister had explained. “Keep the honeycomb in a copper bottle or jar and the sticky magic of attraction will be reinforced.”
“And then?” František was certain it must be more difficult. If not, then why had not everyone with any coins employed such simple charms to prevent loss and theft?
“Then keep the copper jar somewhere safe; but even if it is lost, the magic will continue so long as the jar and its contents remain intact,” Albrecht had insisted. “Each week, as dusk approaches on Saturday, feed the power of each charm with a few drops of wine. Not too much wine, or the leather and the honeycomb and the splinter and the nail clippings will all rot and the charms will be destroyed. Feed the charms with just a few drops of wine and let them dry before putting them away so that mold and rot do not consume the magic.”
František paid the hexenmeister the coins they had agreed on. As he was about to leave the hexenmeister’s shop, he asked again, “I only need a splinter from one of the casks to prevent the loss of any or all of them, yes?”
Albrecht nodded several times. “Yes, you understand the charms correctly. Only one splinter from one cask is necessary, but it would be good to bind the casks together, yes… by drawing a circle around them with chalk. Scuff away the circle when you wish to open the casks to add or take a coin from any of them.”
František wanted to be sure he understood this correctly. “What if one of my casks is opened without first wiping away the circle?”
“Opening one of the casks without wiping away at least a portion of the circle will certainly harm the one violating the circle,” Albrecht had warned him. “If it were you violating the circle, it would not only harm you but it could certainly thwart the efficacy of the charms. You would have to construct new ones. If you survived the violation of the circle,” he warned.
“I will be careful,” František promised. “I will not violate the circle of chalk.”
It had then been a simple matter to collect all the materials Albrecht had said would be needed: the pouch, the coin, the splinter, the honeycomb. It had even been a simple matter to take a bit of soil from the graveyard when he next attended a burial: no one noticed him taking a bit of soil between his fingertips as he stood next to the mound of soil piled next to the newly excavated grave.
František had constructed the charms as Albrecht had instructed him and they had served him well. The pouch had never come loose or dropped from his belt, even in the most pressing of marketplace crowds. The casks in the cellar had remained safe and intact. He was sure no one, not even his few household servants, knew where he kept his coins, and there was never any sign that anyone had disturbed the casks or attempted to open them. He had never seen any indication that any foot other than his had ever scuffed the magic circle of chalk around the casks.
The charms had been well worth what he had paid the hexenmeister.
But then the new German priest had come to the parish of Our Lady of Tyn and he had preached often and virulently against the use of charms and witchcraft. The German priest had finally convinced the townsfolk that the old wit
ch across the river ought to be put to death. František had heard shouting and loud cries and a thunderous commotion in the street outside his parlor windows. Looking out, he had seen the mob surging along Karlova and Fen’ka being led dripping wet to the Old Town Square.
Without stopping to think about it, František hurried out to join the mob and see what happened next. He had been there and seen the old woman burned in the fire, seen the storm clouds massing in the sky and the lightning strike the square, heard her call on Svetovit to curse the four towns of Prague.
“Curse them going in and coming out! Curse them in the castle and in the towns! Curse their casks and cellars!”
But she had could not have known about his cask in his cellars, surely? Certainly not! He had nothing to fear from her imprecations, did he? He made his way back to Albrecht’s shop one day to ask the hexenmeister.
“No, no. I think not,” Albrecht reassured the moneylender. “She did not mention your name in her curses, did the witch? No, no… Of course, it is always difficult to say in these cases… But you might want to hang a sprig of holly near your door or hearth,” he suggested. “Just for peace of mind.”
So František had bought a spray of holly in the market, meant for the upcoming holidays, and placed one sprig on the mantle of each fireplace in his house.
As the weeks went on, his business continued to flourish and the coins in the casks continued to multiply. František forgot his worries and continued to feed a few drops of wine to his charms each week.
Aleš was awakened by his wife, who was gasping and wheezing and panting beside him. He had paid his debt to František the moneylender weeks ago and struggled to set aside a few small coins for the midwife since then. But even though he had been able to keep food on the table for his wife and children, he had often gone without supper himself and the hearth in their home had often grown cold for lack of kindling or coals. Now, on a night in mid-December, the hearth was cold again and the family all slept together beneath a great quilt to keep warm. But his wife was sweating and panting and the children were stirring in their dreams.
“It is time, Aleš,” his wife managed to say. “It is time to call the midwife for the birth.”
“But… are you sure? There have been false pains before now.” He urged her to reconsider. “If I fetch the midwife and there is no birth…”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she snapped at him. “If she comes and there is no birth, we still owe her a coin or two and then we will owe her more when she comes for the birth.” She gasped as another contraction seized her. “Please, Aleš! Fetch the midwife! It is time!”
Aleš looked at her with pity and fear. He stroked her hair.
“Yes, I will go,” he agreed. “I will fetch the midwife. Ryba will surely not refuse us, coins or no coins!” He knew the midwife to be a good woman and though he had been too ashamed to admit his difficult circumstances, he was certain she would come to his wife’s side no matter how many times they called on her and no matter how few coins they had to offer.
Aleš stepped from the bed and found his street clothes in the dark. He stirred the cold ashes in the hearth, hoping there might be some spark to nurture into life. But there was nothing but cold, black ash. His wife’s cries were more urgent now and the children were waking.
“I will return with Ryba,” he promised. “I will bring her quickly!”
Aleš stepped out into the night and made his way down the dark alleys and lanes to Ryba’s cottage. He knocked on the door quietly, to avoid disturbing the neighbors. He listened. There was no sound within. He knocked again. And then again. Still no answer.
“Ryba! It is me, Aleš! Aleš the bricklayer! My wife, Ryba! The time has come!” he hissed as loudly as he dared through the keyhole. “The time for the birth has come!”
The house was as still and quiet as he could imagine.
“Ryba!” He pounded on the door with his fist. “My wife! The birth pains have come upon her! We need you to come! Now!” His words echoed along the street.
Nothing.
“She is not here,” he realized. “She must be at another birth; some other man’s wife had need of her first… Now who do I call?”
A shutter swung open on the house the next door.
“She is not there!” a gruff voice rebuked him. “She has gone to a birth! I saw her go and she will not return at least until morning!”
“Please, I do not know… Perhaps you can tell her when she returns that we have need of her services as well?” Aleš asked the voice in the dark. The silhouette of the man leaned from the window but he could discern no details other than the angry voice.
“Maybe I could,” the voice grudgingly admitted. “But Ryba comes and goes and I might not see her before she goes out to another birth. Perhaps you should call another midwife.”
“But I know no other midwives,” Aleš confessed. “Ryba was always the midwife when my children were born.” He looked up and down the street. “Is there another midwife nearby?” he asked.
The gruff man at the window seemed to think. “There is a woman I know. Not a midwife but one who has assisted at births before.”
“Thank you, sir!” The words tumbled from Aleš’ mouth. “Where can I find this woman?”
“Why, she is here!” the gruff voice chortled. “My wife! I will send her along with you to assist your wife with the birth!”
“Your wife? Thank you, sir!” Aleš paused, afraid to ask the next question.
Recognizing the pause in Aleš’ voice, the husband at the window told him, “I will be happy to send her along with you… for a proper fee!” Then he named a price that sent Aleš reeling. “And you must needs pay the fee now, before I wake her.”
“Please, sir! I do not have coins in such quantity! I cannot give the fee you ask!” Aleš held out his hands. “I do have a few coins, the fee I would have given Ryba, but those are at home. I did not bring them out into the night with me! I am afraid that in the time it takes for me to fetch them and then fetch your wife back to my house, the child will be born already. Please, sir! Is there no chance I could pay your wife when we arrive at my home? Or that you would be willing to accept, perhaps, a smaller fee?”
“The fee is firm,” the husband insisted. “And must be paid in advance.”
Aleš stared at the shadow in the window.
“Very well,” the man said at last. “I see we cannot make a bargain. I wish you luck with the birth of the child.” He pulled the shutters closed.
Aleš stood there a moment longer. “I cannot promise to pay what I do not have. Even if I run home to fetch the coins, they will not be enough to meet what he demands. What to do? What to do?”
Aleš wrung his hands and looked up and down the street. He tried to recall where he might have heard any other midwife living. “Surely there must be more than one midwife in the area!” Aleš argued with himself. “This cannot be the first time Ryba has been at a birth when another woman began her birth pains! O, what to do?”
He finally turned and made his way home, alone. There was no midwife, no one with him to assist his wife.
“Perhaps I should fetch her mother,” he told himself, thinking of his wife panting and sweating in the bed as he trudged along the lanes back home. Although his wife’s mother was an elderly woman, she would surely be of more assistance than no midwife at all.
“Why didn’t I think of my mother-in-law before?” Aleš chastised himself. “I could have saved all that time bargaining with the man in the window.”
Aleš was back at his own home by now, standing in the street before the door.
“Ryba is at another birth,” he announced as he opened the door and stepped into the main room of the house. He could hear children wailing and his wife crying out in the room beyond, where they had all been sleeping earlier. Aleš hurried to the next room, to the bed.
“I will go to fetch your mother,” he said, the words catching in his throat as he understood what he was looking
at in the room and house.
His wife lay on the bed, bedraggled and drenched in sweat. The children were all awake and sitting on the edge of the bed, on the floor, in some of the chairs brought from the kitchen table. Some were watching in wide-eyed astonishment and others were weeping and crying. His eldest daughter, a girl of ten, stood next to her stepmother and was wiping the woman’s brow with a rag.
“Father! What can we do?” she cried when Aleš came into the room. “I have never seen a birth before! Where is Ryba?” she asked, as if she had not heard his announcement.
“I will go to fetch your mother,” he repeated, looking his wife in the face. “She will come and you can help her and you will see how it is done,” he said to his daughter.
“No,” gasped his wife as he turned to go from the house again. “There is no time. You must help with the birth, Aleš!”
“No, I cannot!” he protested. “It is not proper for me to even be in the room! I must go! I must go and fetch your mother!” He turned again.
“No,” the woman on the bed wheezed. “The time is now. The babe is nearly born!” Anything else she might have said was swallowed by the great cry that roared from her throat as she clutched at her large stomach.
She cried again and kicked aside the blankets still wrapped around her legs, sodden with sweat and birth waters. Great moans and cries and wailing burst from her lips and from the lips of all the younger children in the room.
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 24
