Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  Clatter! Loud laughter and the sound of metal pots clanging against each other rang out nearby and Bonifác jerked open his eyes. Several voices mingled in the air, speaking with an accent he could not quite recognize.

  “Aishe!” a man’s voice rang out. He seemed to be giving directions to someone, and the laughter of young girls wafted through the trees as other adult voices Bonifác couldn’t hear well spoke to each other. The black dog sat at attention, his ears taut as if trying to understand.

  “I must be close to Prague,” Bonifác told himself. “Very close. But perhaps not close enough to reach before dark and the city closes its gates. These seem to also be travelers and perhaps I could find a place to sleep among them for the night.”

  The voices seemed to come from every direction, deflected and redirected by the trees around him. He was unsure of which direction to go, though he was sure the travelers he heard could not be far away. Maybe only a few steps. The trees were dense enough along the road in this part of the forest that it was impossible to say.

  There was a dull “thump!” off to his left.

  “Drina!” a girl, probably Aishe, shouted. One girl seemed to be giving orders to a younger sister or cousin. The only response was laughter and the sound of small feet skipping through the fallen leaves on the forest floor. Bonifác turned forward and backward, unsure where the girl was skipping.

  The large dog leapt up and barked, turning and twisting around Bonifác’s feet.

  Giggles and a voice singing a song he did not know, ending in a sharp gasp behind him, answered his question. He turned to see a small girl, perhaps five or six years old, standing between the trees at the side of the road opposite the ravine he had pointed out to the dog. Her eyes were open wide in her lightly bronzed face. Dark ringlets tumbled down beside her face and her colorful dress seemed to have been well-worn by an older sister, its tattered hem hanging between the girl’s knees and her bare feet.

  The dog froze, facing her, his head cocked to one side as if to study her. He barked once, but in a way that was more greeting than menace or threat.

  She stared at Bonifác and then scuffed her foot in the dry leaves.

  “Good day,” Bonifác said to the girl, smiling as he tipped his hat to her. “I hope you are well this evening… Drina?”

  The girl nodded solemnly.

  “Shall we go back to your sister? Can you introduce me to your sister Aishe… and your father?” Bonifác guessed the identity of the man he had heard.

  The dog barked again.

  Drina nodded again. Bonifác, followed by the dog, who trotted a half-step behind him, walked toward her and reached to take her hand, which she slowly reached for, then wrapped her small fingers around three of his much larger fingers. She reached the dog with her other hand and he closed his eyes, pressing against her in pleasure. Bonifác smiled down at the girl and she blushed, quickly looking down at the ground, then straight ahead of her, glancing furtively back into Bonifác’s face and over to the dog. No longer skipping and singing, Drina led Bonifác back through the trees with a certainty that surprised the young man.

  “I always get lost in the woods,” he confessed to his young guide. “I am very glad to have you here to lead me.” He winked at Drina and she blushed again, but smiled. Did she understand his words? He thought not. But she seemed to understand his intent to put her at ease. She walked with a lighter step, and by the time she led him back to her family, she was nearly skipping again, the dog barking and licking her face with his rough, wet tongue. She laughed.

  Drina had led him to a large clearing, and in the clearing stood three covered wagons that looked more like small cottages on wheels. Each was elaborately painted and adorned with decorative carving in patterns that distinguished each wagon from the others yet clearly announced they were part of the same caravan. The empty tongue and yoke of each wagon lay on the ground before it. A campfire crackled merrily in the center of the clearing around which the wagons stood. Another girl in a colorful but tattered dress, perhaps ten or twelve, stood next to the fire with her back toward Bonifác and Drina, and seemed to be stirring the contents of a pot hung over the fire. A large kettle lay on the ground not far from where they stood on the edge of the clearing.

  Several adults, men and women, milled around the wagons, talking and laughing. Bonifác guessed they were unpacking what they would need to eat their supper or to camp that night. One man, with brilliant silver hair and beard, sat in the driver’s seat of one of the wagons and seemed to be carving a stick of some sort. Glancing up from his carving, he saw Drina holding Bonifác’s hand and a bright smile lit the old man’s face. He waved to the girl, who dropped both Bonifác’s hand and the dog’s fur as she charged across the clearing to the old man, who dropped down to the ground from the wagon.

  “Puro dad!” Drina exclaimed, the old man sweeping her up in his arms and swinging her about. “Puro dad!” Drina cried again. She babbled in a language Bonifác could not understand. Everyone in the clearing, including Aishe tending the pot on the fire, dropped what they were doing and turned to stare at Bonifác and the black dog. Silence enveloped the clearing.

  The grandfather slowly stopped swinging Drina and set her back onto the ground. He looked in Bonifác’s direction and then walked towards him.

  Bonifác could see that the grandfather was the patriarch of the travelers, as they all watched his every movement in silent respect. He was also clearly quite strong for his age, much stronger than Bonifác’s father, who needed the support of a cane to walk and would need to sit after only a few steps. Drina’s grandfather moved with strength and assurance. He wore a supple leather vest over a faded linen shirt and well-oiled leather boots into which he had tucked his rough, baggy trousers. Even in the fading light, Bonifác could tell that none of the adults were dressed in what might be called finery, though all of the clothes seemed well-cared-for and clean.

  Drina’s grandfather stood before Bonifác and looked the young man in the eyes. Bonifác felt himself being examined, his soul weighed in a scale, and feared he would be found wanting. The old man looked steadily into the dog’s face as well. Then the old man broke into a large grin again and slapped Bonifác on the back.

  “Welcome, young man! Welcome to our caravan!” the grandfather exclaimed in German, which Bonifác understood in large part. “Thank you for bringing our little Drina back to us safely. She is forever running away into the forest to find a squirrel or a bird to play with and we are forever looking for her when it is time to eat or sleep.”

  He clapped his hands and the clearing burst back into life as the travelers resumed their talking and laughing and preparations for the night.

  The dog jumped and barked happily. Drina called something across the clearing and the dog rushed over to her, barking and licking her face and tumbling with her as the rest of the people turned their attention away from Bonifác. Other children appeared from the wagons and joined the game with Drina and the dog.

  “She… she really brought me to you,” Bonifác stuttered, embarrassed to be taken for a hero.

  “You must stay and share our simple meal!” the grandfather continued as if he had not heard Bonifác’s protest. “You and your dog both! Share our meal, for that is the only way we have to show our gratitude!” He drew Bonifác into his arms and embraced him, then turned and led him back toward the fire.

  Bonifác embraced the old man in return and nodded with enthusiasm. “Yes, yes! I will be happy to share your meal with you! I am so glad, so happy to share what little I have as well!” He pulled his knapsack from his shoulder and retrieved a small bottle of wine he had obtained in a market town a few miles back. “Will you drink with me?”

  “We will drink together, yes!” the old man cried, his eyes twinkling. “But put your small bottle away, my friend. Put it away and share a bottle of ours!” One of the women brought an open bottle to the grandfather and Bonifác while another found two tin cups and brought them.
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br />   The old man poured wine into one of the cups and gave it to Bonifác, then gestured toward an abundant mountain of pillows and cushions that had been deposited against one of the wagon’s large wheels. Both he and Bonifác eased themselves onto the pillows without spilling a drop of the precious wine that filled the tin cups now, and soon Bonifác nearly forgot they were sitting in the midst of a camp of busy, hardworking folk.

  “Where have I come from? Where am I going?” Bonifác repeated the old man’s question.

  “Yes, yes,” the man encouraged Bonifác to answer, nodding and smiling.

  “I am from Kostelec, a small town three days’ journey from here, and I am going to Prague, the great city of our great king,” Bonifác answered proudly. He drank deeply from the tin cup in his hand and the old man generously refilled it.

  “What brings you, my son, from your home in Kostelec to the great Prague?” the elder man asked.

  “I have loved nothing so much as learning, even from the time when I was a small boy. My father, though poor, found the few coins he could to hire a tutor that was able to teach me the rudiments of how to read and write,” Bonifác confessed. “But that only made me thirst even more for learning the great secrets of this world and so I used what few coins I could earn to then hire another tutor who would unlock the secrets of this world to me.”

  He leaned forward and spoke in a quieter voice, as if he were sharing the plot of a conspiracy. “That second tutor was an alchemist but I am afraid that I have exhausted everything that he has to teach me,” Bonifác went on. “He taught me what words of German I know, so that I am lucky enough to speak with you now. But I am coming to great Prague to find a master alchemist and serve as an apprentice to him and study all the secrets of the universe that he can teach me.” He beamed with pride in his accomplishments and attempted to sit a little straighter, hold his head a little higher. But the wine was rapidly making his head spin, as he had not eaten since he had chewed and swallowed the hard crusts an old woman had given him just after dawn.

  “Ah, I see,” the old man nodded thoughtfully. “An alchemist, your tutor was? And now you go to the great city of Prague to serve as an apprentice to one of the great alchemists there?”

  “Yes,” Bonifác agreed. “I dare to hope that I can serve as apprentice to an alchemist as learned as John of Rupescissa, the Franciscan from Catalonia—who I have heard has been imprisoned by our father Pope Innocent because of the lies the pope’s advisors fill his ears with—I hope to serve one of the alchemists serving the great court of King Charles himself!”

  The old man nodded again thoughtfully and filled the tin cup in Bonifác’s hand again. “Such ambition for such a young man.”

  Silence hung between them as Bonifác drank from the cup.

  “So, tell me, young man… What is your name?” the older man asked.

  “My parents gave me the name Bonifác,” he answered.

  “And your dog?” the old man asked. “What do you call him?” The dog’s barking and children’s laughter came from somewhere in the trees behind the wagons.

  “I have no name for him,” Bonifác confessed sheepishly. “He is not, in truth, my dog at all. He joined me on the road yesternight, and has kept at my side since then. He is clearly well-fed and well-cared-for, but I know not where he comes from or which manor house he ought to be returned to. But so long as he travels with me, I am happy of his company.”

  The grandfather nodded. “A faithful dog can be a man’s greatest treasure,” he agreed.

  “And you, sir?” Bonifác realized he had expressed no interest in knowing his host’s journey and hoped the old man would not consider him rude. “What is your name and where have you come from? Where does your journey take you… if I may be so bold to ask?”

  “Me? I am called… I am called Djordji,” the man answered, seemingly unsure of his own name. He gestured about them, with the almost empty bottle in one hand and his tin cup in the other, to the other people in the camp. “My family and I—my sons and their wives and children—we all travel together the roads of the world.”

  “What do you look for on your journeys?” Bonifác wanted to know. “Are your sons looking to be hired by craftsmen and tradesmen in the towns you pass through? Are you merchants that buy and sell as you go?”

  “We neither look for work nor buy and sell,” Djordji told Bonifác. “We are Roma, those whom many call gypsies, and we travel the roads of the world because that is what our people, the Roma, are called to do in this life.”

  Bonifác could not recall ever hearing of the wandering Roma or gypsies before.

  “We are the first of our people to come so far west,” Djordji explained. “But we hope to return to our clan in the east and tell them of the treasures and riches and magnificence we have seen here in Bohemia and the German lands.”

  Bonifác nodded and sipped the last drops of wine from his cup.

  “Tell me,” Bonifác asked, “do you know how much further through the forest I must follow the road until I reach the castle and towns of Prague? Must I walk many more miles? I think I passed the great chasm that is said to be one of the mouths of Hell as I met your granddaughter on the road. I have been told that the chasm is not far from the castle. I am hoping it is less than a day’s journey!”

  “A day’s journey?” he laughed. “The great city you seek with its master alchemists and great court of the great king is near, but not so near as that. A day’s journey? Perhaps it is the journey of only two days, but only if you walk quickly the entire way.” Djordji laughed so heartily he had to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  Bonifác was crestfallen. “Two days’ more walking? I was certain it was much closer than that. Many on the road with me earlier today promised that I might even reach the walls of the city this evening, if I had but the strength to walk as quickly as a horse could trot.”

  Djordji shook his head and clapped Bonifác on the back, his eyes twinkling. “They misled you, boy. Travelers are terrible judges of distance, especially the distances that others must travel to reach the destination of their hopes and dreams. Even the tales of that chasm do not speak the truth about its distance from the castle. But, stay with us tonight and you will be safe in the forest from the brigands and thieves that wander these woods.” Djordji gestured and a woman brought another bottle of wine and filled Bonifác’s cup again.

  Bonifác had sat around the campfire with Djordji’s large family, eating and drinking until the fire had sunk into the coals and the children had all fallen asleep around their mothers. Only Djordji knew enough German to speak with Bonifác but the others had all laughed and smiled and encouraged him to eat and drink and sing with them. The dog had run and jumped with the children until the stew was ready and then was happy to throw himself down on the ground beside Bonifác and eat whatever tidbits he was given, gnawing on the bones from the pot at the end of the meal.

  But at some point, sleep—sleep and wine and exhaustion from walking on the road all day—overcame Bonifác and his head fell forward. His chin touched his chest more than once and he bobbed upright again, struggling to not seem rude to Djordji and his sons, who seemed to sit upright and drink and talk without ever growing tired. The women stirred finally to put the children to bed and even the great dog beside him began to snore and Bonifác felt his chin tipping forward one last time.

  Now, as he was waking again, Bonifác felt sick and his head felt like it would burst with pain. He struggled to sit up and could not; tight knots of rope bit into his wrists and ankles. He raised his head, fighting to open his eyes.

  Phlegm, crusted around his eyes, clutched his eyelashes and made it even more difficult to open his eyes. His head fell back onto the hard ground he realized he was bound to, exhausted with his efforts. He gasped deeply for air and fought back the mounting fear in his chest.

  “A nightmare! That is the only thing it can be!” Bonifác argued with himself. “How else would I think myself trapped here, tied t
o the earth? I must wake!”

  He tried again to pry his eyes open with sheer strength, unable to bring his hands to his face. He could feel the phlegm and crust crack and gasped for breath again. He twisted his face, contorting his nose and brows as much as he could in order to dislodge the crust binding his eyes shut. He tried to forget the rope biting into his flesh. With one more valiant effort, he cracked open one eye and almost cried with relief. A moment later, he was able to open the other eye.

  The sunlight hurt his eyes but as his vision slowly adjusted, he realized it was the gentle light of early dawn dancing in the air and darting through the autumnal leaves. Lifting his shoulders and head, he was able to make out four stakes in the earth to which his hands and feet were tightly bound with many knots of stiff rope. He was lying on the bare ground and could only see trees around him. There was no sign of Djordji, his Roma family, or their wagons.

  “I must wake myself!” Bonifác realized that only by waking could he free himself from this nightmare of sunlight and rope, so he shouted in both German and Bohemian. “Help me! Someone! Please! Come cut these knots!”

  No one came. His throat felt parched, as if he had not had a drink of water for many days. He tried to lick his lips and shouted again.

  “Someone! Help me! Please!”

  Only birds answered him, their songs taunting and mocking his cries. He was about to cry out again when footsteps crunched in the fallen leaves behind his head. He twisted his neck around as best he could to see who was coming.

  The toes of well-worn, supple leather boots came into view. Did he know those boots? He squinted against the sunlight and made out the shadow of a man looming above him.