Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  “Churchyard? You mean, like a cemetery?”

  “Yes. The cemetery surrounding the castle has some very old graves. Little more than stubs of gravestones to mark them, they are so old, and worn away by wind and rain and time. Even the ones that are large enough to recognize as tombstones are worn so smooth that they are impossible to read. But many of the more recent graves, those from the late 1700s on, are more readable and easy to identify.” Alessandro thought Elizabeth seemed to be enjoying talking about her family’s ancestral neighborhood.

  Elizabeth sighed and set down her glass, continuing her description. “It is a beautiful, quiet place where time seems to have stood still. You can stand in the churchyard, under the trees, and feel like the whole of the modern world has melted away. It was a wonderful place to grow up. I was happy there as a young girl.” She paused. “I was sorry to leave it.”

  “It sounds like a lovely, idyllic place,” he offered in response. “Do you get a chance to go back home and visit often?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Yes, I do. But, of course it is all different now. My father is gone and most of the girls I knew there growing up have moved elsewhere themselves. It sounds crazy, I know, but there are times when I think I don’t get back home often enough and there are times I think I am trapped there too often!”

  Alessandro nodded in agreement. “I understand exactly! It’s the same for me when I go home. Not often enough in some ways but much too often in others!” He drank deeply from his glass. “You said your family lived across the river. Is no one there now?

  “My father died quite some time ago.” Elizabeth sipped her pint demurely.

  Alessandro murmured his condolences.

  “Thank you,” she acknowledged politely. “I was just finishing my undergraduate degree. I was not interested in coming home to take care of a house! Luckily, an uncle lived in the area and he moved into the house. He is getting quite on in years himself, of course, and it will eventually be mine. But of course, he will not go far. Only to the churchyard!”

  “Is it still a working cemetery then?” Alessandro asked. “I thought a lot of those older churches no longer had space in their cemeteries for modern burials.”

  Elizabeth agreed. “Most don’t. Neither does the village parish, really. But my family has several graves there, including a mausoleum that is still available to family in the area. I suppose there might even still be room for me, when the time comes.”

  “Well, let’s hope that comes no time soon!” Alessandro laughed. “Here’s to long life!” He raised his glass. Elizabeth clinked hers against his, laughing as well.

  “To long life!” she agreed.

  Alessandro was quite enchanted by the Irish beauty who sat beside him, her laugh tinkling like music in the air. Of course, he was often enchanted by beautiful young women, and many of them seemed equally enchanted with him. His relationships, though often brief, were intense while they lasted. He hoped he would be able to spend much of his free time during the conferences with Elizabeth and maybe—looking ahead—keep in contact with her after the conferences were finished. Of course, it would be a very long-distance relationship, as she would be in Dublin, Ireland and he would be in Sydney, Australia. But there was plenty of time to worry about those details.

  “What did you say your subject is?” he asked, anxious to keep her talking so he could keep listening to her voice and enjoying her presence. “You are giving a paper on…?”

  “My area is Celtic studies, which is part of the School of Languages, Literature, and Cultural Studies at Trinity,” Elizabeth shared with him. “My paper—is it the day after tomorrow in one of the afternoon sessions? I’m not sure—is about the Dearg-due, the ‘red blood sucker’ of local Waterford legend.”

  “Red blood sucker?” Alessandro exclaimed, laughing. “Let me guess. You’re part of the monsters conference then, correct?”

  Elizabeth laughed easily with him. “Correct! I take it that means you are at the evil conference?”

  “No, no. Not at all. I’m at ‘monsters’ as well.” Alessandro had nearly consumed his pint. “My paper is about Italian monsters in the diaspora, how the Italian immigrants to Australia change their stories in the retelling and the Italian monsters pick up traits and characteristics of the indigenous Australian monsters of both fact and fiction.” He downed the last of the beer. “Not everyone is as interested as I am but the interaction of immigrant and local cultures has always fascinated me. Especially when monsters are involved!” They laughed again.

  George made his way back to his hotel through the dark and empty streets. He heard a dog bark somewhere on the hill where the castle sat. Coming to the side street where his hotel was, he stopped and stared toward at the towers that guarded this end of the bridge.

  “Teaching that girl the secrets of power is one thing,” he thought. “It is perhaps time to begin training an apprentice. But taking on this task of hers, vindicating Fen’ka after all these centuries, that… that is something else altogether. Is that anything I am really interested in?” he asked himself.

  “A penny for your thoughts.” Without warning, Elizabeth was standing next to him, also looking to the bridge.

  George glanced towards her. “Finished with our friend Alessandro for the evening?” George asked.

  “We had a wonderful conversation,” Elizabeth told him. “We talked about many things, especially monsters!” Smiles curled across both their faces.

  “Well, I certainly hope you did not tell him too much!” George chuckled, turning his attention back to the bridge.

  “No, I think not,” Elizabeth conceded. “Just enough to tantalize him. He seems quite interested. Both in the monster and the Irish academic,” she added.

  “Very good. Very good indeed. He may prove useful—there is certainly no reason to scare everyone at the conference unnecessarily, is there?” George asked her. “Many of them may even be of some assistance, in their own ways.”

  Elizabeth nodded in agreement. “You also had a friend whose attentions needed cultivating. What of your talk with Magdalena?”

  “She is clearly fascinated by the occult and the allure of power,” George answered. “She has been a shy, awkward girl and I gather she is looking for excitement. She is hoping to become important or powerful or both. She needs us. She desperately wants what we have to offer her.”

  “Good. Though I had thought that was clear from the beginning. Why else would she have conjured Flauros and Halphas?” Elizabeth asked. “But now that we are here, do we still need her cooperation? Can we do what needs to be done ourselves?”

  George shook his head. “Alas, I think not. For whatever reason, Fen’ka reached out to her and because of that we must continue to work with her. It also behooves us to make use of her magical tools—her athame and chalice and wand and pentagram—even though I always travel with my own. But hers are already attuned to the resident powers and it would take time and effort to realign mine to work efficiently with the age-old magic here. Even if her tools are simple and little used, their powers will quickly blossom with proper use. Besides, using her tools rather than mine will also disguise our presence if anyone should happen to look for the source of any trouble that develops. It would therefore be unwise, both in terms of strategy and of magic, to cast her aside too quickly. As a local girl, her knowledge of the city will also make our task easier. She seems to have been happy as a ‘go-for’ for Hron and we can probably make her happy as a ‘go-for’ for us as well.”

  Elizabeth acknowledged the truth of what he said, then asked him, “Why is it that you hesitate to align yourself with Fen’ka?”

  George continued to stare into the night. He finally answered with a question of his own. “Because why should I care if an old woman who was burned for witchcraft over six-hundred and forty years ago is cleared of a charge she may or may not have been guilty of?” He added, “The effort required to accomplish this will be tremendous. Is it really worth my time? I have impo
rtant matters pending in New York.”

  “What important matters?” she asked.

  George turned towards her, not bothering to hide the anger in his eyes. “You doubt the importance of my business in New York, Elizabeth? I only told Magdalena that I am a master of the Old Ways as well as a priest, but I will tell you the full truth. I am the master of a coven in Manhattan and the Grand Master of several covens scattered across the New York City area.”

  “You?” Elizabeth laughed. “You are a priest!”

  “Yes, I am a priest,” George snarled in reply. “But why should that stand in the way of my knowledge of the occult and gaining the Grand Mastery of the New York City covens? Some of the greatest of the Grand Masters of Europe have been clergy since the time of the Knights Templar. Even earlier. Clergy make the best Grand Masters because we have access to the materials and supplies of the Church, so our covens can gain access to them without suspicion for the practice of the Dark Arts. We command both the secrets of the Church and the secrets of the Dark—with a foot in each camp, as it were, we are able to command power that other coven masters can only envy.”

  George took a deep breath and looked back to the bridge. “The festival of Lammas Day was last Thursday and we celebrated it in the covens of New York in an especially grand style,” he boasted. “It is the fallout of that celebration that sparked a great deal of important work that I, as Grand Master, am the only one capable of tending to. But it was those important matters, my dear Dearg-due, that I put on hold so I could come here and see what was so important that it demanded my attention. I have seen now. I have met Magdalena. I am not convinced that my talents and abilities would be best furthered by becoming involved in this rather petty matter.”

  George admitted to Elizabeth, “I can see the attraction of the project for you. It was your ticket out of Ireland, away from Dublin, the chance to travel across the water to a new and richer hunting ground. But me? What would it benefit me to assist Fen’ka in her quest for justice?”

  “Flauros and Halphas were not reckless in their selection of who would be best able to assist Fen’ka in this project,” Elizabeth urged him. “There must be some reason to invite you, some benefit you would gain by assisting Fen’ka.”

  “Some benefit? Yes, I can imagine what that might be,” sneered George. “The undying gratitude of a dead woman!”

  “You say that the effort required to accomplish what Fen’ka desires will be tremendous. What exactly do you think that effort will be? How can justice be won for her?” Elizabeth sputtered.

  “Before I came, I suspected what it would require, but I could not be certain until I saw for myself. Now I have seen. Now I am certain.” George scraped the cobblestones beneath their feet with his heel.

  “What is it that you have seen? What are you certain of?” He could hear the irritation in Elizabeth’s voice.

  “What have I seen?” George asked her. “I have finally seen the famous Charles Bridge, the great stone bridge that was devised to serve as the primary weapon in Prague’s arsenal of defenses against all who would oppose or destroy her. I have seen the bridge that was built to defeat anyone and everyone that would rise against the city. The bridge I have spent years studying. The bridge which must be destroyed and whose power must be entirely broken if Fen’ka’s dying words are to be fulfilled.”

  “The bridge destroyed? Its power broken?” Elizabeth laughed. “Are you mad? This bridge is more than famous, George. It is infamous in the occult world. No greater defensive magic has ever been assembled. But it was assembled to protect the whole city. Why should the incredible power of the bridge stand in the way of one old woman’s vindication?”

  “One old woman’s vindication?” George snorted. “Do you realize what that old woman wants as her vindication?”

  Elizabeth blushed. “No, I do not. What does she want?”

  “Let me show you.”

  George led the way towards the bridge and then turned to the left just before crossing it. He led her down around its great foundations to where the river rushed past. He stepped into the shadows under the bridge, where Magdalena had stood when she had met Fen’ka and Jarnvithja, and gestured for Elizabeth to join him.

  He squatted on the cobblestones and pulled something from his pocket. It was the green candle he had thrown to the floor after setting the tabletop afire in Magdalena’s apartment. He pulled a box of matches from another pocket and struck one. The tiny flame blazed and then he touched it to the candle wick and held the candle at an angle, allowing a few drops of hot wax to drip onto the cobblestones. Then he pressed the candle into the hot wax to fix it in place.

  “Look into the heart of the flame,” he instructed Elizabeth.

  She squatted down across from him, her torso blocking the sight of anyone who might have come around the pilings of the bridge. The tiny flame atop the candle flickered but continued to burn. She peered into the depths of the flame.

  At first, nothing seemed unusual. She saw the wick, a dark smudge at the center of the fire. Then the smudge elongated, becoming thinner and taller. She was looking at a stake in the midst of a bonfire. A stake to which an old woman was bound. An old woman who was coughing in the fire, smoke from the green wood piled about her filling her lungs. Elizabeth could hear a small voice, as if from a great distance. The woman was shouting at first but then her voice grew thin and raspy, becoming weaker and weaker until it was little more than a whisper in Elizabeth’s thoughts.

  “Svetovit! Hear me!

  “Curse them, Svetovit! Teach them to fear you!

  “May they lose what they have… May the sky above them be brass… Let their tables be traps and snares…!

  “… let all their nightmares come to life.” The woman’s chin fell forward and the fire rushed up into her face.

  Elizabeth shook her head. Her face was dangerously close to the candle, her eyes fixed on the wick. As she squatted there, staring into the candle flame, she saw a drop of wax grow fat and then hover at the edge of the candle’s top before slipping over the edge and sliding down, leaving a thin, bumpy trail of wax behind it. The vision was gone.

  George pulled the candle up from the cobblestones. He blew it out and stuffed it back into his pocket. Then he pushed himself onto his feet. Elizabeth felt the pins and needles beginning to prick her legs and stood.

  “Fen’ka.” Elizabeth had not seen the old woman before but guessed whose death George had shown her.

  “Yes. Fen’ka.” George nodded in agreement. “Who was it she was calling on?”

  “Svetovit. She was calling on Svetovit, whoever that might be,” Elizabeth answered.

  “Svetovit is the old god who was worshipped here, on the castle hill, before Christianity supplanted him. And what did Fen’ka want, finally? Her last words as the fire took her?”

  “She wanted all their nightmares to come to life,” Elizabeth repeated the old woman’s words.

  “Precisely. All their nightmares come to life. Terrible atrocities, horrible creatures straight from the depths of their worst imaginings. Brought to life by Svetovit. Exactly the kind of things the bridge was built to prevent. The only way to vindicate Fen’ka is to break the power of the bridge and give free rein to all the nightmares of Prague.” George shook his head.

  The so-very-solid bridge soared above them, rising from its foundations and gracefully leaping away toward the Old Town across the river. George ran his palm along the stonework nearest him.

  “Impregnable,” George whispered. “It has stood here for more than six hundred and forty years and bears hardly a scratch. It has been damaged fewer than a handful of times in flooding.” He briefly scratched at the mortar between the stones with his fingernail. “Its power remains unshaken.”

  Elizabeth could sense the wheels and cogs turning in George’s mind. She held her breath, waiting to see what he would conclude.

  “Its power remains unshaken,” Elizabeth repeated at last. “If someone were to shake that powe
r, if someone were even to scratch that power, if not overthrow it—the fame of that person would spread throughout the occult world. His fame would outshine all previous occult practitioners, maybe even becoming as recognized in the mundane world as Merlin.”

  She could see the possibilities unfurl in George’s imagination. “To become as famous as Merlin? Yes. But a Merlin who, this time, will not be satisfied with serving as the tutor and protector of another but who will seize the reins of power and stand in the center of the stage of history. Anyone who overthrows the power of the bridge would be acknowledged as the Grand Master of all grand masters. In order to do that, the bridge’s power must be more than scratched. It must be overthrown completely.”

  He felt the cool stone beneath his palm. “I have studied the secrets of this bridge for years, Elizabeth.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I have dreamed of seeing it, touching it, experiencing the thrill of its energy and power. Now I have done that. But can I be the one that overthrows it?”

  “You can at least be the one who attempts to overthrow it,” Elizabeth whispered. “Even that is worth something. But if your power is even half as great as you claim—if holding the Grand Mastery of the covens of New York reflects power that would only win you the coven-mastery of a single coven in Europe—why should you not be the one who overthrows the power of the great Charles Bridge?”

  George stood there, his hand on the stones of the bridge, running his eyes up and along its supporting ribs. Elizabeth placed her hand atop his and knew that he felt the same hum of energy deep within the stonework, unabated after nearly seven hundred years that she felt. She knew it taunted him. It was calling his name, siren-like. She could see the image of the bridge’s power in George’s mind’s eye, coiling and recoiling upon itself like a serpent, poised and ready to strike at him.

  “Yes.” He heard his voice as if it were someone else’s, someone standing far off but articulating his thoughts. “Yes. I will overthrow it.” But the bridge would defend itself as well as the city it was built to protect. He knew that much. The bridge was a living thing and, like a caged animal, would lash out at anyone who dared attempt what George and Elizabeth were contemplating. “I will destroy it or destroy myself in the attempt.”