Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  Elizabeth recognized most of the herbal names George had said. “Baneful herbs? Those are too poisonous for most people to use any more! Few grow them. Almost no one sells them. How did you find them here so quickly?”

  “I always travel with a small kit of supplies.” George indicated the toiletry kit on the table. “You can never tell when you might need something that is hard to find, do you?” He dipped the spoon into the pennyroyal oil and then into the interior of the egg and stirred it gently.

  Elizabeth nodded in agreement and smiled. “You can never tell when you might need just that one particular herb.” They both chuckled.

  George dipped the spoon into the agaric and brought out a few slivers of the dried mushroom, which he carefully dropped into the egg. Finally he scooped out the dried crumbs of green oleander leaves and pink petals. These he also deposited in the egg, which he then carefully gave to Elizabeth.

  “Four elements. Four poisons. Now we add this to the bridge and wait.” George replaced the lids to the prescription bottles and returned them to his kit bag. The spoon he carefully wiped with a napkin and also returned to the kit. The napkin he held in the flame of the candle, and as it caught fire, dropped it into the ashtray.

  “Is that to also summon a visitor?” asked Elizabeth.

  “No. That is a practical measure to dispose of the traces of the poisons,” George explained. “Not everything is symbolic. Just like in the church, some things are simply practical.” He winked at her and she felt included again, a trusted accomplice in their secret conspiracy.

  “I had forgotten you are a Jesuit,” Elizabeth murmured. “What drew you to become so accomplished in the black arts?” she dared to ask, watching him blow out the candle, zip shut the kit bag, and stand up. She followed his lead and stood.

  He half-turned to her. “Power. Authority. This is the most efficient road to authority and power. Straightforward and to the point. No pretending to serve anyone’s needs but my own. No hypocrisy. Too often, people want power more than anything but are too cowardly to admit this, even to themselves. But it is power that they want. Even those who claim to put the needs of others before their own. I am only more honest than they.”

  “That is why you agreed to help Fen’ka, is it not?” Elizabeth remembered. “If you prove yourself able to overcome the magic of the bridge, your power will be famous forever.”

  “If?” He shook his head to chide Elizabeth. “O ye of little faith,” he quoted, but with a sly smile.

  “What about the spirit you summoned with the dandelion? Where and when will the spirit meet us?” she asked.

  “Shortly,” was all he answered. He led her out to hallway and locked the door of his room. Then he took the egg from her and they descended the stairs to the lobby, setting out into the night.

  The last of the bars and taverns of the Little Town had closed more than an hour before. The streets were empty. No one was crossing the bridge. George led Elizabeth onto the bridge and studied the cobblestones.

  “We need to find a loose stone,” he instructed her. “One that can be easily pried up and then replaced.” They took a few steps away from each other and peered at the cobblestones beneath their feet. Elizabeth swept one foot in broad semicircles around her, hoping a loose stone would betray its location if jostled.

  “Here!” she exclaimed. Her foot had caught the corner of one cobblestone and half-pulled it from the roadbed. “This one is loose!” George hurried over to her.

  “Perfect!” he remarked. She could hear the rushing water beneath them, a dull roar in the night. “Pry it up,” he instructed her. She knelt and scraped the crumbling mortar from around the loose stone and then pulled it up. An oblong opening remained where it had been. An oblong opening not unlike an open grave, Elizabeth thought.

  George knelt beside her and set the egg gently into the open crevice. Then he took the cobblestone from Elizabeth and aligned it with the opening. With a single, deft motion he pushed the stone back where it had been. She heard the egg crack beneath it.

  “Now, to meet our invited guest,” George announced. He stood and brushed the dust from his knees. He then offered Elizabeth his hand and pulled her to her feet.

  Dmitri couldn’t sleep. At dinner, his paper had provoked almost as hearty a discussion as it had during the session. The four other academics—Theo, Alessandro, Wilcox, and Sean—had joined Sophia and Fr. Dmitri in the hotel lobby and set out for dinner, stumbling upon a restaurant full of fellow conference-goers. The academics from the other tables spent the evening coming over to Theo and toasting him, offering their congratulations on a conference well-run and nearly completed.

  One of the gentlemen congratulating Theo towards the end of the evening, an older professor from one of the universities in the Middle East, also toasted the priest. “Congratulations, Father!” the professor touched his wine glass to Dmitri’s. “It was an excellent paper you gave this afternoon. I was especially struck at the similarities you described between personal prayer and the meditative concentration generally required to work a spell. I was also interested in the distinctions you proposed in spelling the word ‘magic’ in order to distinguish the ways in which it is being used in various contexts. I wonder if you have published any of this yet.” To Dmitri’s “no,” he continued, “Well, I heartily recommend you do so! Excellent paper!” He returned to his table, leaving Theo and the others to turn to Fr. Dmitri with expectant faces.

  “Well, well!” Wilcox exclaimed. “That was certainly a five-star endorsement! What were the points you were making?”

  “Yes, what were you saying about the similarities between prayer and spell-casting?” Theo leaned forward to ask, laughing. “Hardly the sort of thing one would expect from a priest! Or did he misunderstand you?”

  “How many ways are there to spell ‘magic,’ after all?” Alessandro asked.

  Fr. Dmitri felt himself blushing. Sophia nudged her elbow into his ribs gently and smiled. “I told you that it was a good paper!” she whispered.

  Dmitri coughed and turned to Alessandro. “I suggested that the spelling m-a-g-i-c be reserved for stage magicians and their illusions done for entertainment. I proposed m-a-g-i-c-k be reserved for a religious practice with historic roots and m-a-g-i-k as a contemporary phenomenon perhaps most often practiced by teenagers with little or no continuity with historic practices.” Alessandro nodded appreciatively.

  “Makes sense in written discourse,” he replied, “but would they sound any different when spoken?”

  The priest laughed. “That’s where my proposal breaks down. I’m afraid there is really no way to tell if a speaker is pronouncing a ‘c’ or ‘k’ or ‘ck’ at the end of the word! So you are correct,” he agreed. “My suggestion may help distinguish the uses of the word when written but would make no practical difference in spoken English!”

  “Like so many of the papers I’ve heard this week,” muttered Sean.

  “What else did you say?” Wilcox repeated his and Theo’s earlier question. “How is a prayer related to a spell?”

  “Well, some might disagree with me,” the priest began. “It may sound fairly radical, yes? But most writers that introduce serious prayer to beginners stress the need for quiet concentration and how the words of the prayer—if words are used—need to express the most fundamental aspects of the one who prays. The words cannot simply be rattled off. The mind and the words must be united, the person praying totally present in the words. It the same with serious magical practice. To accomplish anything by magic, the practitioner must be concentrated, yes?—and the mind united with the words. The practitioner must be present in the invocation, the spell, before it can come true.”

  Sophia spoke up. “The word ‘spell’ is an Old English word, I was told once. It is a word that means “story’ or ‘news’ and became associated with witches because they told stories that came true, did they not?” She looked around the table and back to her husband.

  He nodded. “Black ma
gic, the spells of the wicked, are the… the inappropriate stories that come true,” he added.

  Theo chewed over Dmitri’s words a moment. “So, according to your way of thinking, what difference is there between a spell and a prayer?”

  “Very little, if either is done correctly. That is the part I suspect many would find radical,” the priest admitted. “Neither prayer nor spell forces God or nature to respond. But the practitioner of prayer or magic must unite the whole self and express that whole self and open that whole self to the action of God or spirit. It is a basic human act, and sometimes we call it ‘religious’ and sometimes we call it ‘magic’ but it is the same act. And all people do this act to have some sense that they can have an impact on the larger universe.”

  “It does sound radical,” Theo agreed. “But well argued. Very provocative.”

  “Provocative? That’s putting it mildly!” burst out Wilcox. “Don’t you think that your bishop would have some rather harsh things to say?” he asked Dmitri.

  Dmitri winked. “Probably, yes. But does he read the journals I would most likely publish this in? I think not!” They all burst into laughter.

  “But that does raise a rather serious point,” the priest went on after the laughter died down. “If Peter has still not been found…?” Theo shook his head.

  “Well, then,” Dmitri went on, “I fear we must assume the worst. None of us have seen Victoria since yesterday. If neither she nor Peter have returned, then we must assume that they has been harmed by this Elizabeth or George. I suggest that we must protect ourselves to avoid any further harm coming to our small fellowship.”

  “Protect ourselves?” Sean sounded incredulous. “Were you listening to me at lunch? There is no protection against the Dearg-due. No garlic. No holy water. No crucifix. Just the cairn of stones on her grave.”

  “Yes, I understand you,” Dmitri explained. “And yet our Alessandro was able to see her true self when he clutched the medal of the Infant of Prague. It is unusual for the Dearg-due to be seen, even in the presence of religious images. But the Infant of Prague has been primarily an image concerned with the protection of the city, yes? I think the Infant was trying to do just that, protect the city of Prague, by revealing Elizabeth’s true self to our Alessandro. Perhaps there is little we can do, according to the Irish folklore, that will impact the Dearg-due creature. But there are methods of protection against the undead, against workers and practitioners of evil, against black magic.” He looked around the table.

  “Methods of protection?” Wilcox asked in a shocked voice. “Are you asking us to pray? Or perform some magic spell, some ritual that will stop Elizabeth or George from hurting the rest of us?”

  “Call it what you like,” the priest told him. “A prayer. A spell. Whatever form we choose to employ, I believe it is vital that we do something.”

  “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.” Wilcox shook his bald head in disbelief. “It’s one thing to admit we shared some vision-experience. Or even agree that we must collect these objects, these Tools of Prague, to prevent some disaster from overtaking the city. But perform a magic ritual? That sounds ludicrous. Not in this day and age!”

  Dmitri looked at the others around the table. “Given what we have experienced, yes? Why is this so ludicrous??”

  Theo and Alessandro quickly glanced away.

  Sean stared at the priest as if he had grown a second or third head, but then slowly nodded. “It makes some sense,” he agreed, “especially if I am expected to ask my cousin’s boys to confine the Dearg-due. But it seems… almost pointless. There is nothing that protects one from the Dearg-due.”

  Wilcox chimed in. “Alessandro saw something when he clasped the medal. I concede that. We saw something when Victoria lit the candle in her footprint. I concede that. But I have never been much at practicing anything in terms of religion. I am not about to become a practicing… whatever you want to call it, however you want to spell it—with a ‘c’ or a ‘k’ or whatever! Preposterous!” He slapped his palm on the table in front of him, rattling the glasses.

  Dmitri looked at Theo and Alessandro again. They were both still avoiding his gaze. Theo seemed torn, distraught. Alessandro looked embarrassed.

  Sophia spoke up. “It is a shock to some, yes,” she agreed. “To practice what you have been studying all these years. It is a large step, as you say, to go from study to practice. Or even to go from looking for the mystical Tools to practicing magic or religion against those who would destroy the city. But do you not think it necessary to take steps, even if those steps seem… preposterous?”

  Theo responded quietly, “But, even according to Fr. Dmitri’s own paper, if we cannot commit ourselves to this act, if our minds and selves are not totally present in this defensive spell or prayer, then it cannot be effective.” He paused and then looked at Dmitri. “I’m afraid I must agree with Wilcox, here. I cannot see myself committing honestly to a prayer or a ritual or a spell. It’s too… medieval. I wouldn’t be able to take it—or myself—seriously.” He shrugged apologetically.

  The priest looked at Alessandro, who was looking at Theo and then Wilcox and Sean. “Me, neither,” he finally admitted with a nervous laugh. “I wouldn’t be able to take it at all seriously.”

  “I am sorry to hear that, my friends. I am truly sorry that even after our experiences of these days, and with Peter’s disappearance, that you would still feel so.” Dmitri shook his head and it was his turn to look at the table before him.

  Later that night in the hotel room, Dmitri felt a deep unease. He was nervous. His mind darted from thought to thought and he constantly adjusted his position in the bed, attempting both to find a comfortable position and to calm his mind enough to sleep. He could hear Sophia’s even breathing, as she had slipped off to sleep almost immediately after lying down. The priest, in a final burst of frustration, got out of bed and sat at a small table on the far side of the room.

  He turned on the nearby desk lamp and turned it toward the wall, its light reflected gently into the room. He thought it was diffuse enough to avoid waking his wife. He took out a novel he had picked up in the airport bookstore and tried to read a page or two, but found it difficult to concentrate. He admitted defeat and set the book down.

  “This is… what was the word Wilcox used? Preposterous!” the priest muttered. “How can they be so blind in the face of such danger?” Dmitri shook his head. There was a whisper of sheets across the room as Sophia rolled over. It seemed foolhardy and reckless for them all to take their safety so lightly. It was irresponsible not to take measures to protect themselves, for the sake of those who cared for and depended on them if not for their own sakes.

  “I have included them in my daily intercession,” the priest admitted. He had named each of them among those he prayed for each day, but that seemed insufficient. His daily prayer on behalf of their small fellowship, as he had called it during dinner, was a beginning. But more was needed.

  Maybe it was too much to ask grown men who had never been practitioners of any particular religious or spiritual tradition to engage in a ritual invoking powers they had always assumed—at least until yesterday—were abstract constructs, at best. Perhaps if they had the time to take smaller steps first, to engage in some other rite that would prove a success and give them the confidence to go on to a more complex invocation.

  “Does it even need to be complex?” Dmitri wondered. “Maybe not so much a complex ceremonial invocation. More like an all-encompassing prayer that would prove effective against the machinations of the neprijaznĭ and her friend the viestae, that devil-woman and the male witch, George, who seems to be behind all this. With no gaps or loopholes that can be exploited by the wicked ones. A protective fence that they cannot penetrate.”

  Dmitri turned over this possibility in his mind. What would such an all-encompassing prayer look like? What saints and angels would best be invoked? He opened the novel again and made notes on the back of the last page. Eventual
ly, there was no room left and he paused to study his scribbling in the dim light.

  “Yes, this is too important a responsibility to neglect,” he realized. “If they will not join me, then I must do it.” He looked again at his notes. Words and names connected by arrows swarmed before his eyes. Was there any other possibility he had overlooked? No, it seemed fairly complete. All the proper precautions he could think of were there.

  Dmitri stood and took out his priest’s stole that he always traveled with, the vestment essential to his performing any official priestly function, and gently draped it around his neck. The silk and brocade rippled down his torso to his knees. He lit the votive candle before the small icon he had propped on the table earlier to say his evening prayers. The broken piece of charcoal that remained from his prayers was still in the censer next to the votive light. He held the charcoal to the candle flame. It sparked and sputtered into life. He quickly dropped it back into the censer and added a few pearls of frankincense. The fragrant wisps of smoke curled into the air around the icon. He crossed himself and began his prayer.

  Elizabeth let George lead her back the way they had come, towards the Little Town, but instead of continuing along the street to the hotel, he turned and led her to the cove beneath the bridge where he had shown her Fen’ka in the candle flame. The water swirled and eddied here, a bit calmer than the furious rush in the midst of the river. The water reached the top of the sea wall, throbbing and pulsating as if attempting to clamber out and over the stonework.

  “Here?” asked Elizabeth. “This is where we meet…?”

  “Yes,” George said. “This is where we meet.”

  “Who?” she asked, curious about the answer.

  “Someone, probably two someones, in fact, who can assist us,” was all George would answer.

  “Now? Are you sure?” she demanded.