Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  He looked around, able to see by the light of the fire that was already climbing down the stairs behind him. He was confused. Where was he? What did he need to do?

  “The parlor!” he realized, as his coughing subsided. “I must go into the parlor and down to the cellar to fetch my casks of coins!” He darted into the parlor and slammed the door shut behind him.

  The air here was less smoky than in the rest of the house, but without the light of the fire, it was more difficult to see. He paused in the dark, trying to orient himself. He could hear the growing roar of the flames coming down the stairway to the main floor. More timbers crashed above him.

  In the darkness, the winking red coal banked in the ash of the parlor hearth pointed him toward the tapestry of Midas and the door hidden behind it. He made his way across the room and brushed aside the tapestry to find the closed door.

  “My keys! How will I get into the cellar?” In his half-stupor, he forgot his keys were hanging from his belt together with the small pouch with the coin, the cask splinter, and the smudge of graveyard dirt that promised to keep his casks safe from loss. As he realized his keys were at his side, his hand closed around the doorknob and pushed. The door opened.

  “I forgot to lock the door? How foolish of me! How wonderful! That I should leave this door unlocked tonight, of all nights! There is no time to lose at a time like this!” He congratulated himself on his good fortune as he stumbled down the narrow, winding stairs in the darkness to the cellar.

  “A light! I must have a light!” He could see nothing in the total darkness as he neared the bottom of the stairs. “I must have a light if I am to fetch my casks!” He turned and stumbled back up the stairs to the parlor.

  The smoky smell was much stronger in the parlor now than it had been. He could see the firelight under the door that led out into the main hall. He heard wood groaning, flames roaring, beams collapsing as the fire ate through them. A crash and a sizzle accompanied some large piece of wood as it came tumbling down the stairway and burst into pieces just outside the parlor door.

  He was able to find a taper on his desk and light it from the coal on the hearth, though it seemed to take hours for the wick to come to life.

  “Why has the alarm bell not began to ring?” he wanted to know again.

  Taking the candle, the star point of flame atop it now merrily dancing, František darted back to the tapestry and began the descent into the cellar again. Then he heard it. Dim and distant, but he heard it. The alarm bell was ringing. The fool watchman had finally seen the flames from his post atop the Old Town Hall.

  In his panic, he nearly fell down the last few steps. As his foot touched the floor of the cellar, he heard a much closer sound. A roar. A crash. Burning beams broke through the ceiling of the cellar in a corner opposite him. The logs split, scattering sparks and burning lumber around the cellar. Heat from above washed over František and the smell of smoke tickled his nose again. He stumbled to one side and clapped his free hand across his nose and mouth.

  “The casks!” František urgently reminded himself. “I must fetch the casks and get out onto the street!” Grasping his candle and cowering lest more beams come bursting through the ceiling, he made his way to the casks.

  He stared at them. “Three!” he groaned. “How will I ever carry three casks at once? There is nothing to be done for it. I must carry one and then return for another and then the last. I must!” He reached for the foremost cask of the three and realized he could not keep hold of the candle and pick up the small but nevertheless heavy barrel of coins.

  He set the candlestick down on a nearby barrel of ale, a barrel so big it had taken two men to carry it down into the cellar. The light of the candle flickered as the flames across the cellar sent shadows cascading wildly around the rough stones of the subterranean room. He bent over and reached again for the foremost cask of coins, wrapped his arms around it, and stood.

  It was heavy. Heavier than he had expected. He could carry it, but with difficulty. He pressed the barrel to his chest.

  “I had forgotten how heavy coins could be in such quantity. I must think of having even smaller barrels made to contain them,” he promised himself. He turned back toward the steps into the parlor and as he did so, he glanced at the floor. His feet were astride the chalk circle that he had drawn around the casks.

  “The circle is scuffed,” he told himself, staring at it as he struggled to hold the barrel of coins against his chest. But had he scuffed it before reaching over to pick up the barrel? “Yes,” he decided. “I must have scuffed the circle. How could I forget such an important thing as to scuff the circle so that I would not disturb its power when taking one of the casks? I must have done it without thinking. After all, I have done it so many times!” He blundered his way toward the stairs to the parlor, unable to see his feet over the edge of the barrel he struggled to hold.

  Shadows leaped around him on the steps, the fire behind him in the cellar growing more intense. Wooden barrels and trunks were catching fire from the timbers that had broken through from the floor above. He could feel the heat on his back. He trudged up the stairs, new shadows replacing those from below. Sweat poured down his face and stung his eyes. Red light flickered on the stone walls around him and he feared what he might find in the parlor.

  When he pushed aside the tapestry and stepped into the parlor, he was aghast. The walls of the parlor were awash with flame. Heat seared his lungs and smoke stung his eyes. In the fearsome destruction, he struggled to see.

  “There! A path through the center of the room to the door!” He hurried as quickly as he could with his heavy burden across the parlor. “Through the parlor, down the main hall, out the door! Then back for the second cask!” He coughed and gagged, barely able to breathe. A portion of the parlor ceiling collapsed directly behind him, showering his back with sparks and burning splinters. He fell forward and hit his face on the cask he was clutching. He could taste blood dripping from his nose and broken lip into his mouth. Afraid to pause, František looked over his shoulder but could see nothing. He felt the heat behind him. He got onto his feet. He came to the parlor door and discovered it was still closed.

  “If I put the cask down, I am afraid I will not be able to pick it up again!” he said, worried. He could feel it slipping in his sweaty fingers, his arms painfully weary from the weight of it. “How can I open the door?” But then another burning beam came crashing down against the door from outside, smashing the door into pieces even as the beam broke apart from the force of the impact. František kicked aside the burning remnants of door and beam and struggled out into the main hall.

  The hall was full of the scent of burning wood and thick smoke was all around him. He felt the heat of the fire behind him, in front of him, and on either side. He coughed and sputtered and fell to his knees.

  “I cannot do this!” he admitted at last. “It is too heavy! I cannot carry the cask! I must pay someone from the brigade to come back and fetch it for me. Surely they must be in the street by now. Yes, I will pay one of them! One of the boys! They would love the chance to earn a handful of my coins to rescue my cask!”

  He threw the cask to one side and struggled onto his feet again.

  Or at least he wanted to. He wanted to throw the cask to one side, but his fingers would not obey him. He could not drop the cask. He tried again. His fingers still refused to obey him and drop the cask.

  “What is this? Why will my fingers not obey me?” He inched forward on his knees.

  “Will the floor give way beneath me?” he wondered, expecting he might find himself back in the cellars below. “I must hurry! He heard more crashes from above and fought to make his way through the searing havoc.

  He tried to drop the cask again. It clung to his fingers and he began to realize what was happening.

  “The pouch! The pouch at my side with the coin and splinter and graveyard dust! So long as I have that pouch at my side, I cannot lose the cask! I need only throw the po
uch to one side and then I can be rid of the cask, escape into the street, and send someone back in to fetch it for me!” Clutching the cask with one hand, he reached down for the pouch at his side with the other. Grabbing the pouch from his belt, he tossed it to the floor beside him.

  But again, his fingers would not obey him. He shook his hand again and again and again. Still the pouch would not drop. He seethed with fury and frustration. The pouch hung from his fingers as if affixed with honey.

  “No!” he screamed. “No! The copper jar in the parlor!” He remembered the copper jar on the shelf that held the honeycomb, the length of leather thong, the clippings from his fingernails. The charm that was meant to prevent the loss of the pouch. He had fed both charms the few drops of wine they both required earlier that afternoon! Their powers were at their weekly zeniths; how could he drop either the cask or the pouch?

  He looked behind him. The wall of flames obscured any chance of going back into the parlor to retrieve the copper jar.

  Then the smoldering fabric of the clothes on his back ignited. He felt the flames rush up and lick the back of his neck. He could smell the burning hair on the back of his head. He screamed. He knew the Old Town brigade must have responded by now and would be standing outside with buckets of river water to douse the flames. If he could just get outside, he would be safe. He only had to run into the street through the door in front of him. He clutched the barrel with both hands, the pouch wedged between his fingers. He scrambled onto his feet and toward the door.

  The door was locked. It was massive and heavy and it was locked. Still screaming with panic, he knew he had to throw aside the cask to unlock it. But he could not release the cask. He could feel the fire reaching across the top of his head, around the side of his torso. His sleeves were wrapped in flames. Terror overcame František.

  He whirled around in circles and smashed his burning back against the heavy door of the house. The wood crunched but did not give way. He threw his back against it again. The roar of the fire filled his ears.

  He threw himself against the door for a third time and broke his way through it even as the flames from his clothes swept up into his face and wrapped his hands in mittens of fire.

  He fell into the street, screaming, though the fire in his throat consumed the sound of it even as it consumed his flesh. The street, full of people awakened by the ringing of the alarm bell, fell away from the horrid torch that was František. He rolled over and clambered back up onto his feet.

  He ran a few steps, fiery ribbons trailing behind him in the night air. František was nothing but a pillar of flame in the night, clutching his cask and pouch to his chest. He sobbed. He screamed. No one could hear his sobs or screams through the din of the burning building that filled the air. Folk were screaming and rushing to get away from him, neighbors pushing aside neighbors, as they were all afraid the fire would seize them as well.

  Then František collapsed in the street. The sheath of flame that contained him continued to writhe and twist, the stench of burning flesh filling the air now in addition to the smoke and sparks from the house. But František lay still now and the fire consumed him, even as buckets of river water were poured over him. Clouds of steam rose into the air, hissing and curling, but still the fire burned on.

  Except for the fire in the house. The instant František collapsed, the flames in the house winked out. The sudden silence was as deafening as the roar of the flames had been. Now only the crackle of the flames satisfying their hunger with František’s prone body could be heard.

  Then the flames consumed the wooden chest he clasped and the coins within spilled out. All the neighbors cried and shouted and pushed each other aside again, this time in their rush to seize a handful of František’s coins tumbling across the street.

  The next day, František’s neighbors all agreed that a miracle had spared the other buildings on the street from the tremendous fire. As František’s house was one of the first on the street and near the Little Square, just off the Old Town Square, the fire that had begun in František’s home could have easily become a conflagration that consumed the whole of the Old Town. But it had only destroyed František’s home. And František himself, who had died trying to save the only things he had ever really cared for: his precious cask of coins.

  František’s charred corpse was buried in the paupers’ common grave. Though he had been rich, so few coins were recovered from the smoldering ruins of his cellar that there were not enough to pay for a private grave or even a memorial stone with an inscription asking for the prayers of the living. There was no one to beseech God to grant rest to the incinerated moneylender.

  A few weeks later, when another fire broke out a few streets away in the Old Town, František’s fiery specter was seen running from the ruins of his house as sparks and ash fluttered in the air of the Old Town.

  “Look!” the townsfolk cried as they hurried to the burning house and passed the remains of what had been František’s residence. They pointed at the brightly burning figure tumbling from the broken, cold black beams that reached up like claws toward the stars.

  “František still runs down the street!” called out one of his former neighbors.

  “And he still cannot bear to part with his cask of coins!” cried another. Gales of laughter met this observation as some in the crowd paused to watch the ghostly spectacle, hoping that more coins would scatter across the cobblestones if František fell to the street as he had when he died.

  Months later, there was another fire on another of the cobblestone lanes of Prague, and even though the ruins of František’s house had been pulled down, the blazing phantom moneylender was again seen hurrying from the place that had been his home.

  “František is running from his home again! Running, running! Always running!” men shouted as they hurried towards the new source of the smoke curling into the air. The bell in the Old Town Hall tower rang its warning. People fell out of their houses into the street, some drawn by the tolling of the bell and some by the shouts of František’s name. Children and youth made it a game to dodge the panic-stricken figure of František as he ran down the street trailing long plumes of fire and smoke in the night.

  He was always clutching his cask of coins and unable to set aside his burden.

  Page of Swords

  (August 6-7, 2002)

  P

  rofessor Theodore Cooper, who had never been called anything but “Theo” in his entire life, sat in his hotel room. He had arrived in Prague that afternoon and would be meeting his old friend Hron the next morning to make the final preparations for the conference that would begin tomorrow afternoon, August 7. He sat at the desk in the room, glancing out the window that opened out onto the Little Town side street below, the Charles Bridge only two short blocks away. His family had asked him to keep a diary on this trip to share with them on his return. So he opened the composition book his eldest daughter and given him and began to write.

  Day 1

  Leaving the UK in almost-August, the weather was unpredictable; the height of

  summer, yet rain and wind mixed with the most glorious of late summer

  days. So much expectation. Prague! City of dreams; city that haunts my

  dreams. Plus friends—good friends; a place where I can relax, be myself

  in the company of people I know, trust and love. Wonderful.

  We land at Ruzyne. The wheels of the plane hit the ground. The

  unbidden voice within comes again—as it does every time: “I’m home,”

  I say quietly under breath. I don’t know why. Twenty years of coming here

  —and each time we hit the earth, I say exactly the same thing. The

  first time it startled me; and then it comforted me. I am home. But I

  don’t know why.

  In the taxi from the airport it begins; the heat—oppressive. Clear

  blue cloudless skies; brilliant, intense sunshine. And the heat; oh,

  bloody he
ll. The heat. Wet, hot, sticky. No relief. Penetrating,

  encompassing. No escape. Hot; heat; wet all over. Unbearable. And no

  bloody air conditioning in the hotel.

  The hotel is as it always was. Friendly greeting from Indian owners:

  Professor Theo—how good to see you. No; no need to register. You are our

  friend. Here are your keys—yes, yes, we’ll bring your bags.

  Theo paused to consider what he had written. It was true. He always felt like he was coming home when he arrived in Prague. But would his children appreciate knowing that? He thought he might strike that from the diary before presenting it to them. But he was exhausted now and in no state to edit his thoughts.

  Theo collapsed onto the bed.

  After lunch the next day, Professors Hron and Theo helped Magdalena set up the materials behind the desk—the boxes of registration folders for each participant, complete with conference programs, the publishers’ advertising flyers common to all such conferences, a notepad and pen, the identification badge to clip on a shirt pocket or lapel. Magdalena was thrilled to finally meet Theo after all the months of e-mail correspondence and phone calls between Prague and Oxford.

  Hron introduced Theo to Magdalena, who shook his hand vigorously.

  “Professor, it is such an honor to work with you these past months,” Magdalena bubbled in English, like a schoolgirl meeting a rock star. “I am so happy to be involved in putting the conferences on Evil and Monsters together! You made my work here so easy… You were so agreeable to all the demands of our Facilities Department and the different hotels in the city that we are utilizing for the participants.” Theo smiled at her.

  “Professor? Please call me ‘Theo,’” he insisted, and his British accent sounded so elegant, so refined to Magdalena that she imagined she were being addressed by the royalty of the academic world. “Everyone does. I don’t think I would know you were speaking to me if you did not call me ‘Theo!’” They all laughed together. Magdalena felt like she had been welcomed into an elite fraternity or secret conspiracy. Almost as elite or secret a brother-and sisterhood as that to vindicate Fen’ka, which she was excitedly expecting to reveal itself shortly as well.