“Because bridges unite,” George went on, “they can also divide. They make it possible to defend the shore by limiting an enemy’s access to the land. Instead of launching an assault along the entire length of a river, an enemy will naturally cross only at the bridge and assault a town where the bridge first touches land. Any bridge, simply by virtue of its being a bridge, is a town’s first and most important line of defense.
“But this bridge,” George swept his left arm to indicate the length and breadth of the tourist-filled span, “this bridge is the most famous of all bridges built to protect a town. Its magic is not simply that of its being a bridge but includes that of astrology and numerology, of the four elements of the world and the patronage of the saints. The most famous occult practitioners of the time were consulted by Charles when he built this bridge and they overlooked nothing in their search for ways to reinforce and strengthen the magic of the bridge and the protection it would provide Prague.”
“Did it work?” Magdalena blurted out. “Were their efforts successful?”
George laughed again. “What do you think, Magdalena? Are we not here, walking across this very bridge tonight?” Magdalena blushed.
“But consider history,” George offered, patting her hand still nestled in his elbow. “Does not Prague still stand? Do not the buildings that were here when the bridge was built still adorn Prague? Epidemics swept through Bohemia, but never to the extent as in the rest of Europe. The greatest plague, the Black Death, never came here at all. No great fires swept through and destroyed the city, like that in London. The city was never overrun by foreign invaders or torn down by besieging armies. The terrible Thirty Years’ War that engulfed Europe ended here when the Swedish army was unable to fight their way across the bridge into the Old Town. The treaty that ended the war was signed in the middle of the bridge itself. The Allies never bombed the city during World War Two. Even when the Nazis were here, they only blew up one wing of the Old Town Hall as they were retreating. Considering their fury at the Resistance fighters here, did it not ever surprise you that they never retaliated with more force?”
It was true. Magdalena had never considered the possibilities, but that Prague—ancient, beautiful, mysterious—still stood with all its wonders intact was nothing short of a miracle. What other city of Europe had been the site of so much history and yet remained unchanged, inviolate, uninjured? It was perfect. Whole. Entire.
They passed the statue of St. John Nepomuk on their left, people still lined up to touch the brass plaques on the base. Not many months before, she would have thought that act a superstition said to portend a return visit to Prague. But now she was sure it had much older roots and portended something else altogether. There was probably nothing about the bridge, she now realized, that did not have its roots in the primordial magic built into it by Charles IV.
George guided them to the right side of the bridge and they paused to look down on the Kampa plaza. The statue of Bruncvik stood on his pillar, separate from the bridge but beside it.
“His sword is also built into the foundations of the bridge,” George reminded her. Magdalena nodded. That was one story her grandmother had told her.
“He was a Czech hero, wasn’t he?” she asked George, wanting to confirm her memories of the story. “He was a Czech hero and his sword is here somewhere, waiting to be retrieved and used again in Prague’s darkest hour.”
“He set out from Prague on a series of adventures—on which he was always victorious—and eventually returned,” George agreed. “His magic sword, a formidable and invincible weapon itself, was kept as a treasure of Prague and eventually walled up in the foundations of the bridge for safekeeping until it is needed to defend Prague again—in its darkest hour, as you say. Its power certainly blends into the power of the bridge as a whole. But where in the foundations the sword can be found or how it can be extracted, no one knows.”
They stepped back into the dwindling currents of people in the center of the bridge. The last of the statues watching over the bridge slid past them. They stepped through the gateway of the towers that guarded this side of the bridge. One fork of the road dipped down to their left, leading to where Magdalena had met Fen’ka and Jarnvithja last spring. A pair of tourists peeled off from the bridge and followed it, making their way to the hotel that had once been the bishop’s house.
Magdalena and George, however, walked past the shuttered shop windows that lined the street leading directly away from the bridge. George pointed to his hotel down the next side street. There were fewer people walking about as they left the bridge behind them. The restaurants and bars along here were all closed. Dark windows overlooked them, though there were occasionally windows still lit.
George spoke again, breaking the comfortable silence that had descended between them. He turned his face towards her, an eyebrow raised. “There is power here in Prague. Beautiful, mysterious Prague, Magdalena. Magic permeates everything in the city. In responding to Fen’ka’s call, you may find yourself in the position of calling on powers that have lain dormant here for centuries and whose full capabilities no one—not even I—can fully predict. Are you willing to face them?”
Magdalena shivered in the warm night air with excitement. The possibilities that awaited her, the new world opening up to her, beckoned with outstretched arms.
“May they lose what they have and not gain what they want!”
(January 1357)
D
ietrich stood by the entrance to the narrow lane that ran alongside the Tyn church leading to the customs gate in the wall around the Ungelt courtyard. Wearing fine (but not too fine) clothes, he was watching the mob in its mad rush to burn the old woman he had heard was a witch. Even on the periphery of the crowd, he could feel the urge for vengeance everywhere around him. He had been looking out across the unusually quiet Old Town Square when the mob had burst around the corner of the Old Town Hall. Unsure at first of what was going on, Dietrich had thought for a moment that the crowd was rushing toward him with the intent of punishing him for some crime or crimes unknown. When he realized what was going on instead, he chuckled.
“These poor, silly Bohemians,” he thought. “Thinking they can keep themselves safe by burning a single witch. If they only knew.” He chuckled again. Although he was no witch or worker of magic, he knew no one’s wealth was safe while he was around. He had come to Prague after living in the great market towns of Köln (where, about one hundred and fifty years before, the relics of the three Magi had been splendidly enshrined), Lübeck, Hamburg, and even London far to the west. He had been careful to not draw attention to himself and had always moved on before any real suspicion of him could develop. He was a thief, and an excellent one at that, who never let himself be carried away by greed or the need to impress others.
The old woman was led to the stake, he could make that much out through the crowd surging n the square before him. He saw the Jews come out of their town to watch the goings-on in the square, too. More Germans came up the alley from behind him to watch as they heard news of what was going on in front of the Tyn church, where most of them attended the Mass. The old woman cried out against the crowd but he could not understand what she was saying, as he spoke no Czech. Her intent seemed clear, however. Her voice was filled with anger, and with fear. He saw storm clouds gather and lightning begin to play across the sky.
“What’s that?” he asked himself, his attention briefly diverted from the old woman. A young man hurried across the southern side of the square, coming towards the church. He was shabbily dressed and pulled his jacket tightly around himself for protection from the coming storm. Dietrich saw him pause, however, and look around furtively. No one else in the square seemed to notice him. The young man drew close to the buildings, where baskets of food and goods had been dropped by members of the crowd earlier as they had gone in search of the old woman or to watch the dunking in the river. He reached down towards one of the smaller baskets that seemed to contain br
ead, cheese, maybe some meat. He slipped it under his jacket and vanished around the other side of the church. As he turned to assure himself that no one was following him behind the church, Dietrich was sure he recognized the face.
At that moment, lightning struck the square. The crowd ran screaming in every direction as soldiers burst into sight, also from around the Old Town Hall. Dietrich melted into the confusion like a shadow.
Christmas and New Year’s Day came and went. Hans sat drinking his beer in the pub behind the Tyn parish church, on the other side of the customs gate in the wall that marked the division between the Ungelt and the Old Town. He had come to Prague from a small town in Bavaria, to the north, looking for work.
“I am strong. I am young. I can work hard,” he told one of the many merchants who populated the Ungelt district when he had first arrived. “I can carry your wares for you and watch them while you are in the Customs House paying the customs tax,” he continued. “I can run errands for you while you sell your goods at your stall in the Old Town Square or even sell for you while you go to eat or tend to business.” The merchant looked at him, smiled weakly, and shook his head.
Hans had spoken to almost every one of the German merchants who filled the Ungelt and did business in the great market of Prague. This great cosmopolitan hub of business and commerce thrived off the taxes paid by these merchants. It had beckoned to him from afar, promising work now, and in the future, wealth. Not just him, either. The courtyard was full of young men like himself, looking for work among the German-speaking businessmen. Even with so much money just waiting to change hands, there were many poor among those young men and not all of them found the work they had come searching for.
He had been here for months now, able to find an occasional odd job and work for a few hours or even a few days for only a few coins. He ate when he could and slept where he could, drinking most of what he earned. He was able to at least keep himself washed and clean through the charity of some of the German innkeepers in the district who provided a place to wash and eat on occasion for many of their younger compatriots. Now, this night, he stared into his beer and wondered, “Is this what the rest of my life will look like?” He might have considered going back to Bavaria if he wasn’t so ashamed of admitting defeat in Prague and if work was any more likely to be available at home. But that was why he had come here in the first place. If he couldn’t find work in bustling, energetic, exciting Prague, where could he go? The life and energy swirled around him, though, and left him in their wake. He sat by himself in the crowded pub and his soul hovered on the edge of despair. The food he had taken in the Old Town Square a few months before had been his first theft and had been followed by his taking a few links of sausage or a small head of cheese from the few merchants who had employed him since. Had he really descended so far as to become a common thief?
Hans didn’t realize it, but he had become the object of Dietrich’s intense scrutiny. “I need someone to work with, to enlarge my operations. An apprentice, almost,” Dietrich had decided in the weeks since the witch had been burned. He had seen Hans in the Ungelt and in the square and marketplace, looking for work. Looking. Always looking. The young man’s face was growing more and more desperate each day. Dietrich asked questions of a few of the merchants and listened carefully to those the young man had spoken to. He had seen Hans take the food in the square. It seemed a safe bet that Hans would at least be interested in his offer.
Hans looked up suddenly, startled by the man who sat down beside him with a mug of beer in each hand. “My name is Dietrich,” he introduced himself. “You are Hans, yes? I have seen you in the Ungelt and in the marketplace,” he explained. He saw that Hans seemed shocked that Dietrich knew his name.
“Yes, I am Hans.” He returned to staring at the few drops of beer remaining in his mug. The man called Dietrich pushed one of the mugs he held across the table towards Hans. “You can use this, I believe.” The two men looked into each other’s eyes and Hans reached for the mug Dietrich offered him. He grasped it and, after a pause, lifted it to his lips. Dietrich sipped at the foam of the beer in his mug, too.
“I am searching for a young man,” Dietrich offered to Hans as explanation for his interest in the youth. “A young man, such as yourself, whom I might take on as an apprentice and teach the ways of a trade. My trade, while humble, does offer a secure living and the promise of enough—though not extravagant—means.” He gestured to the doublet he wore and the two mugs of beer in their hands. “I was hoping I might discuss this apprenticeship with you.”
Hans could not believe his ears. “An apprenticeship? Learn a trade?” he repeated, coughing on the words even as he said them. His heart leaped in his chest. “Is my luck finally changing?” he gasped. His prospects in the world, which had seemed so dark but a moment before, burst into dazzling light. “I would be happy to discuss a trade—even a humble trade—with you, sir. Means that are secure are the foundations of a good life.” He remembered hearing that from an uncle once. At the time, he had not been convinced of his uncle’s view. Now he believed the truth of those words wholeheartedly.
Dietrich clapped Hans on the shoulders. “I like your enthusiasm, boy! I will be happy to teach you my humble trade.” The first smile in weeks crept across Hans’ face. Even as he felt the skin stretch across his cheeks, he was surprised that his muscles remembered how to smile. “I only ask you to remember that this trade requires concentration and quiet. I cannot teach my secrets to a young man—even one as eager as you—unless he first understands the need for discretion and agrees to reveal the inner workings of the trade to no one.” Dietrich stared into his mug, which he grasped with one hand even as the other rested on Hans’ shoulders.
“What can this trade be that requires such an oath of secrecy?” flashed through Hans’ mind, but the lure of a profession, of a life lived without hunger or want, was more powerful than any momentary hesitation on Hans’ part.
“Of course, I agree!” he exclaimed. A few men around the pub looked over at the sudden outburst from the young man in the corner.
Dietrich shook his head sadly. “Do you see that?” he murmured out of one corner of his mouth. He gestured to the men, reassuring them that all was well and they returned to their own beer and conversations. Some were singing an old drinking song they half-remembered from their homes to the north. “Such an outburst attracts too much attention already.” Dietrich withdrew his hand from Hans’ shoulder and stood up.
“I am sorry to have bothered you,” Dietrich apologized to Hans. “I thought you might be good apprentice material but I am afraid that I was mistaken. I had hoped you might be a man of discretion, a man of silence and honor. I wish you well in your work here in Prague.” He turned and stepped away from the bench he had shared with Hans.
“No!” whispered Hans urgently, grabbing Dietrich’s coat sleeve. “I know how to keep the secrets of your trade, sir. I can serve you well and learn all you have to teach without drawing any attention to myself!” he implored the older man. “That was a—a mistake, sir. It will never happen again, sir. I promise.” Hans could not let this opportunity escape him.
“Do you swear?” Dietrich leaned down into Hans’ face. “Do you swear that as an oath, that you will never bring attention to yourself again—or to me—if I teach you the secrets of my trade? Do you swear that on your mother’s life?”
Hans was taken aback. To swear an oath was one thing but to swear such an oath on his mother’s life? If he broke such a solemn vow, his mother’s life might be forfeit in payment to the power that oversees and governs all that is. God took such oaths very seriously and Hans knew that he should as well. If the stranger had secrets that demanded such an oath, they must be mighty secrets indeed. The trade he promised to teach Hans must be lucrative, despite the stranger’s insistence that his was a humble craft. Even a quick glance at the clothes he wore testified that what the stranger described as “not extravagant” would be considered “quite fine”
by many.
“I swear,” Hans told the stranger. “I swear on my mother’s life to never bring attention to myself or to you in exchange for you teaching me the secrets of your trade.”
Dietrich still appeared to somberly weigh Hans’ words. Then he sat down and smiled broadly, clapping Hans on the shoulder as he gestured to the serving boy behind the bar to bring them two more mugs of beer.
“That is what I had hoped to hear, m’boy,” the man chuckled. “That is what I had hoped to hear.”
The boy set the mugs of beer on the table. “We work at night,” Dietrich explained to Hans, who lifted the draught to his lips and coughed as he swallowed wrong.
“At night? What trade is this?” Hans was now suspicious of his benefactor.
“A trade with a long history,” Dietrich reassured him. “Finish your beer and we shall begin this very night. I will demonstrate your new trade and begin teaching you before the sun rises. What other apprentice can say that his master teaches him the ways of their craft so promptly?” Dietrich grinned at Hans, who still felt nervous. The allure of a trade that promised food and security beckoned, but what honorable craft was practiced in the dark of night?
Finally Dietrich led Hans into the snow-covered street. Hans had stumbled as he stepped away from the table, three mugs of beer and no food causing his head to swim. Dietrich grasped his elbow and guided him to the door, dropping a few coins on the bar for the pub keeper as they passed. Other patrons streamed out of the pub with them and turned in differing directions, groups of two or three or four each, walking briskly towards the gateway of the Ungelt or across the Old Town Square.
Additional folk already filled the narrow street and flowed past them, up and down this alleyway behind Our Lady of Tyn. They were scurrying, intent on reaching the security of their homes. It was not safe to be out and about in the dark, especially away from the more crowded streets and lanes of a town. The common practice was to get home and lock the doors and—unless a household was very wealthy and could afford the multitude of candles to illuminate the rooms—go to bed and sleep. This “first sleep,” however, would last only a few short hours and then an hour or two of wakefulness would punctuate the night. It was during this waking period in the midst of the night, especially a long winter night, that a man and wife would sit up in bed to discuss the events of the day or engage in marital congress before lapsing into their “second sleep” until dawn. During the gap between a couple’s first and second sleep, they might hear noises on the street, but few would open the shutters to investigate and even fewer would dare to open their doors. No one wanted to risk troublemakers, thieves or killers bursting into their homes, and only a cry of “Fire!” was likely to bring neighbors running to assist another, because fires could so easily spread if the entire neighborhood did not unite against the flames.
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 32
