Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  “Not so loud!” he urged his companion across the table.

  “What’s the matter? You don’t like this plan?” Peter asked. “It seems even a bit better than our original plan. Turn their very own chalice against them, heh? Too clever by half. Ironic. Much easier to locate as well.” He paused. “But maybe not so easy to get away from them.” He brightened up again. “But at least we know where to look!”

  “Yes,” agreed Sean. “But much more dangerous to obtain, too. Tricky. Taking their chalice will alert them that we know what they are doing and that we are on their trail, that there is someone out to stop them. They will retaliate.”

  “That is inevitable. They will discover, in short order, no doubt, that they are not alone and that there are those who aim to stop them.” Peter pointed across the square. “Why, if George or Magdalena goes to fetch the rabbi’s staff and discovers it already taken, will that not alert them as clearly as our taking their chalice?”

  Sean seemed reluctant to admit Peter was right. “That may be,” he finally said, “but my vote is to investigate the treasuries of the churches and museums first. We can always cite research interests as an opening to handle any chalice candidates.”

  Peter raised his mug. “Well, then. Let’s divide the responsibilities, then. Why don’t you go look at the St. Agnes Cloister and I will go look at the treasuries of the cathedral and Our Lady of Victory across the river. Does that sound agreeable?”

  Sean finished his beer and nodded. “Sounds good to me.” They stood, left enough coins on the table to cover the tab while Peter added a generous tip, and stepped back into the square. Sean shook hands with Peter and each wished the other good luck as they agreed to compare results of their searches at dinner. Sean then set out for the cloister, following directions Peter copied from his museum guide, while Peter set out for the bridge and the churches in the Little Town across the river.

  After only a half-dozen false turns, Sean arrived at the front gate of the St. Agnes Cloister. He would have happily spent the afternoon in the halls of St. Agnes if he hadn’t felt the pressure to identify a chalice that would aid stopping George and Magdalena. He was a knight on a quest and was torn between his desire to examine all the beautiful art spread through the hallways of the cloister and the need to rush past the paintings and icons in order to concentrate on the chalices and goblets. He discovered relatively few chalices on display and attempted to speak to a curator about viewing the chalices not on public display.

  After an initial effort thwarted by language difficulties, the curator understood what Sean was looking for and—after verifying Sean’s academic identification—took him into the private storerooms of the cloister. Spread out before him were shelves and glass cases of goblets, chalices, bowls and other ecclesiastical metalwork. Jewels set in gold and silver glittered in the lights, much brighter here than in the public areas.

  By this point, the museum would be closing for the evening in little more than an hour. Sean pulled out his notepad and began reading the small cards identifying each piece in the cases before him.

  Peter made his way across the bridge towards the Little Town, acutely aware of each chalice or chalice emblem he passed in the statuary that lined the bridge. There, on the left, was St. Barbara, patroness of those who die suddenly without the Last Rites, holding her chalice. On the right was St. John the Evangelist, standing under the Crucifixion, holding his chalice. There were other saints he did not immediately recognize as he passed, apparently clergy, holding chalices.

  “This certainly is the place to hide a chalice in the open, if that’s what one sets out to do,” he muttered.

  Coming into the Little Town, he consulted his museum guide and made his way forward, then to the left to arrive at the church of Our Lady of Victory. The shrine of the Infant of Prague was filled with a group of pilgrim-tourists, busily lighting candles before the statue and offering their prayers for family and friends. Others were strolling up and down the narrow aisles of the church, tilting their heads back and straining to see the painting on the walls and ceiling. Peter made his way to the entrance to the treasury in the right-hand corner of the church.

  Certain he could have gained a free admission with his academic identification, he decided it would be easier to pay the few coins and enter the treasury. He climbed the narrow, spiral staircase with difficulty, given his girth and bulk. Floors of display cases jutted from the stairway at various angles. Dim lighting made the brilliant vestments, designed to adorn the statue in the church, glitter as the jewels and gold threads caught the light. There were also vestments for clergy on display. Then he saw the church metal work.

  The chalices, patens and cruets were breathtaking. Intricate details adorned each object, jewels peeking out from the tendrils and leaves of grapevines that curled along the chalices or the sheaves of wheat that adorned the patens. Each was gorgeous. Stunning. But, according to the information on the small placards that identified each piece, most were gifts to the church from somewhere else. Peru. Oklahoma. Spain. Japan.

  “They’re from everywhere but here! Damn!” Peter exclaimed in frustration. An older Asian couple glanced at him in consternation and hurried on their way. He was certain the chalice they wanted would have been made in Prague. Not imported from halfway around the world.

  He made his way slowly down the steps to the main floor of the church. No magical chalice at Our Lady of Victory. Alas. Coming out onto the street, he turned and trudged up to the castle and the cathedral treasury.

  As he made his way along the steep streets, gasping for breath, Peter realized that there were many more people making their way down the hill than going up. Passing through the great gates into the first courtyard of the royal complex, he was nearly knocked over by the numbers of people headed out the gates and back to the Little Town. He slowly navigated his way to the cathedral entrance and discovered that no more visitors would be admitted to any of the Hradčany buildings that afternoon. Closing time was fast approaching.

  He took a chance and tried speaking Romanian to the ticket taker, but to no avail. He then tried German, much more successfully. He tried to explain that he simply wanted to see the treasury but the ticket taker, an older, slightly overweight balding gentleman with glasses, was adamant. “Come back tomorrow.”

  Peter turned and slowly walked away, joining the masses milling about the courtyards and flowing down the hill. He felt dejected, disappointed. Out of breath. Exhausted. Aching muscles. A lot of walking and thinking and nothing to show for it. Well, at least no success to show for it. He had at least ruled out the collection at our Lady of Victory. Maybe the collection of the St. Agnes Cloister was bearing more fruit for Sean.

  Peter trudged his way down the cobblestones on the steep incline that wound its way back to the Little Town. The overcast sky that made it seem nearly dusk and the air was muggy. He was sweating profusely. His feet hurt. He was altogether uncomfortable. Short matrons, older but less overweight than he, walked down the hill more quickly than he did. At the turn in the road, he pulled out his handkerchief to mop his brow. The sweat dribbling down his forehead made his eyes sting. He leaned against the balustrade that had been meant to keep the horse-drawn carriages from careening over the side of the hill to rest before continuing.

  The crowd seemed to thin somewhat here. Perhaps people were either going to dinner or resting in their hotel rooms. Peter thought about his room. Maybe he should stop there for a brief rest. But if he did that, he would be too late getting back to the conference sessions across the river. There had been no real plans made for that evening, only that they would share any information gathered over dinner. But if he made it back to the conference after the sessions were over for the day, how would he find the others? He was too exhausted to go directly back to the Angel House and—even if he did—it seemed unlikely he would get there in time anyway. He would have to meet the others later. “Maybe I will just sit in one of our hotel lobbies after I rest up and have
dinner alone,” he considered.

  He roused himself from the balustrade and began walking again, painfully willing each foot to step in front of the other. He wiped the salty sweat from his eyebrows again and lifted his head.

  There! Down the street! As the crowd parted and came together again, he was not sure he had identified her correctly. Then there was another lull in the crowd and he was sure of it. Magdalena was walking up the street toward him but then… She turned down a side street.

  “This might be my chance!” Peter perked up. “If I can get the chalice that she used with George, then this afternoon will not have been a failure after all!” He moved as quickly as he could without arousing notice toward the street Magdalena had turned down.

  “Maybe I should take another street and then meet her coming the other way?” he wondered, but there seemed to be no other streets branching off of this one. It kept gently swinging in an arc. The street was lined with small shops and older buildings converted into apartments and offices. He couldn’t see Magdalena now. Was she just ahead, around the bend, or had she stepped into one of the apartment buildings? Damn! He stopped in front of a bakery to catch his breath.

  Jingle! The small bells set atop the bakery door jangled as it opened and nearly knocked him over. He caught hold of the wooden frame of the display window for balance as Magdalena stepped out of the bakery holding a small white box tied with red twine, nearly stumbling into the gasping professor.

  “Why, professor… Thomlinson? What a surprise!” Magdalena caught herself before tripping over the older man. Peter pulled himself upright and extended his hand.

  “Peter. Call me Peter,” he offered. Magdalena extricated one hand from her pastry box and shoulder bag to shake his pudgy hand.

  “What a surprise to see you here,” she said, recovering her poise. “What brings you to this neighborhood? Did you skip out on this afternoon’s sessions of the conference to do some sightseeing?” She winked at him.

  “Well, ah, yes. As a matter of fact, I did,” Peter admitted. Was he blushing? In the heat and humidity, he wasn’t sure but thought it could only help him in his ruse. “I was coming down from the castle but took a wrong turn and got so… so winded. So much walking and such a steep hill.” He gestured with his sodden handkerchief in the direction of the castle and then mopped the sweat from the creases in his jowls and under his triple chins.

  Magdalena nodded. “You look like you need to sit and rest a bit,” she said, looking concerned. “I live right down the block. Would you like to come sit and have a glass of water?”

  “Why, why yes. Thank you, Magdalena. I would.” Peter could not believe his good luck. Without any suggestion on his part, Magdalena had invited him into her apartment. It might be easier to obtain the chalice than he had dared to hope.

  “Come this way. Just a few doors down.” Magdalena offered an elbow for the professor to hold on to, which he gratefully took. He tried not to lean much of his weight on her, but couldn’t help it. Magdalena stepped out onto the narrow sidewalk and led him to her building. She fumbled for the key to the lobby and then Peter held the pastries for her as she opened the door of the apartment.

  “So sorry to be intruding on your little party,” Peter said, slightly lifting the pastry box he held for her. “A dinner for friends tonight?” he asked, trying to make conversation, now that he had caught his breath, to distract himself from his nervous stomach. How would he find and take the chalice without her noticing?

  Now it was Magdalena’s turn to blush. “Well, I’m hoping, professor. A friend might be coming over and I wanted to have something to offer.” She pushed open the door and flicked on the light. She took the box from Peter and led him into the apartment.

  He immediately saw the living room to his right and the kitchen area to the left. “Please, professor. Have a seat at the table,” Magdalena told him, setting down her bag and the pastry box on the counter. Peter did as instructed by his hostess and glanced around the small apartment as unobtrusively as he could manage. Magdalena had her back to him, running water into a glass.

  The apartment was small but nicely laid out. Comfortable but not lavish. Similar to apartments of secretaries at the university where he taught in Romania’s infamous Transylvania region. There seemed to be a certain commonality to all the housing in the formerly Communist countries. Magdalena set the glass in front of him on the wooden table, which Peter noticed appeared scorched along the edges. Had there been a fire in the apartment? he wondered. Or had she picked up the table on the street after it had been abandoned by previous owners? He sipped at the water. It was rejuvenating, and he was grateful for the chance to sit. He closed his eyes and felt the cool water slide down his throat as it gurgled through him.

  “Please, excuse the disorder,” Magdalena insisted. “I was hoping to tidy a bit more before… before any company arrived.”

  Peter opened his eyes and smiled in what he hoped was a convincingly paternal way. “Not at all, Magdalena. It looks lovely. Not to worry.”

  She stood smiling at him in return, twisting her hands nervously. “Why should she be the one to be nervous?” thought Peter. “Is she expecting George to walk in?” He sincerely hoped not. He sipped the water and the two of them were silent, the air in the apartment slightly stuffy after being closed up all day in the heat.

  Magdalena was the first to break the silence. “Could you excuse me a moment, professor? I just need to freshen up.”

  Peter shook his head. “No, no. Please. I just need to sit a moment and finish the water.” His heart was racing, he hoped in what was a simple case of nerves and not a dangerous reaction to his exertions that afternoon.

  “Please, help yourself if you would like more water,” Magdalena gestured toward the sink and then slipped off to the bathroom down the hall. The door closed and Peter could hear water running in the sink behind the closed door.

  He looked around the apartment, more carefully than before but still quickly. He might not have more than a few seconds. Would he find what he wanted?

  He saw a few dirty dishes. A countertop that looked like it might be sticky. Glass jars of herbs and a box of matches on the shelf above the sink. A few stubs of candles. Nothing that was immediately helpful. He stood and stepped to the living room.

  Magazines. A few books and souvenirs on the bookshelves. Was it hiding in plain sight? He could hear movement in the bathroom. Magdalena could step out in an instant.

  Then he saw a small end table in the corner, next to a slightly worn couch. On it was a platter, a silver disk engraved with an intricate pattern. On it sat a short wooden wand, a dagger, and a simple silver goblet.

  The chalice! These must be her ritual tools, the ones she and George had used to awaken the old witch’s curse. “Maybe I should take them all?” he considered. “That could certainly foil their plans.” But there were too many things for him to carry through the streets and too large to grab quickly. The noise alone would alert Magdalena. As it was, she might not immediately notice the missing chalice, given that it was in the corner.

  He heard the toilet flush. If he was going to do this, it had to be now. He stepped to the table, picked up the goblet from the tray and slipped out the door and onto the street as Magdalena came out of the bathroom. He turned up the street, away from the bakery, and trotted as quickly as he could away from Magdalena’s building, hoping he could find his way back to his hotel through the labyrinth of side streets in this neighborhood of the Little Town. The street continued its curve back on itself and finally met the main road again, not far from where the steep descent from the castle rejoined the Little Town.

  Peter felt safe here, with all the crowds of tourists and visitors, and dared to stop and look at the chalice. It was a simple, silver-plated goblet. No engravings, no etchings. No decoration of any kind. Nothing to draw attention as it glinted in his hand in the gathering dusk. He turned it around, examined the interior of the base, peered at the freshly polished metal t
hat ill-disguised the worn and discolored areas where the plating had worn thin. Probably something she had stumbled onto in a second-hand store. It felt like… a goblet. Neither especially heavy nor light, but neither was there the electric tingle he had expected when he touched it. No undercurrent of power to signal what it had been used for, what it had become. He was slightly disappointed.

  He tucked into the crook of his arm and set out for his hotel.

  Magdalena looked around her apparently empty apartment. “Professor?” she called out tentatively. There was his glass of water on the table, the chair pulled out and at a jaunty angle from the worn wooden table that had burned with such drama the other evening and become the site of her giving herself up to George. She stepped around it into the living room.

  “Professor?” she called again, less furtively. The door of the apartment stood ever-so-slightly ajar. Had they not properly closed it when coming in from the street? Or had the professor been frightened by something and run out into the street? If he had felt something like a heart attack, surely he would have called out and stayed in the apartment, knowing it was safer there than trying to find medical attention on his own outside. His disappearance made no sense. She slowly turned from the door to look around the living room. Were there any indications of what might have startled the professor so? Nothing seemed disturbed.

  How odd. But there was nothing to be done about it now. She would make herself a simple supper and wait. Wait for George, who had promised to speak with her tonight, promised to give her another lesson in magic. Promised to come, she hoped, to spend more time privately with her. After her simple meal, she set the pastries on a dish and lit a candle stub for atmosphere. A different kind of magic to which she hoped George would prove susceptible.