Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  She could tell through the windows that the sky was getting darker and that twilight was quickly falling. Was that a snowflake dancing from the clouds above?

  “I have to get back to the convent,” Seïa finally realized. “Vespers will have begun. It may be over already. If the Great Silence has begun and curfew fallen, the doors will be locked—then how will I get back in without anyone noticing?” She cringed at the expectation of penance.

  But how to get back to the door? She attempted to retrace her steps, darting between servants and courtiers. She descended stairways again and nothing looked familiar. “If I ask anyone for help, they’ll know I don’t belong here.” Would she be trapped in the castle forever? She panicked.

  Hyanthé stood down the hallway from the entrance to the banquet hall. She had seen Elisheba deliver the reliquary to the court official. As soon as Elisheba turned, however, Hyanthé had slipped into a niche in the stonework. Elisheba took another corridor and never noticed Hyanthé spying on her.

  “So, she has begun to sell the convent treasures to benefit herself,” Hyanthé seethed. “This is the last proof I need to convince the abbess that Elisheba’s reports of failed harvests were lies. She must be selling the convent grains and now the treasures, even without the blessing of Mother Deborah. I will tell the abbess after Vespers and we will recover both the reliquary and the relic from that official. To think that she asked me to help convince the deans to pressure Mother Deborah into selling the convent’s lands!” Hyanthé blushed at her naiveté, ashamed that she had believed Elisheba so easily. She composed herself and recited a psalm in penance for her misplaced trust in Sister Elisheba.

  Hyanthé stepped out of the niche and turned down the corridor.

  Florina stood beside one of the great piles of stones waiting to be trimmed and fitted into the rising walls of the cathedral. She stared at the convent doors.

  “Closed!” She wiped her face again with the back of her hand. “Oh, how will I get in without getting into trouble? If the scullery girl tells anyone where I’ve gone, they will expel me for sure!” Home, her parent’s estate, was the last place she wanted to be sent now. The disgrace of expulsion plus the humiliation of seeing Damek married would overwhelm her. She approached the doors with caution and hope. She gently tugged on one.

  The door’s timbers creaked but the well-oiled hinges were silent. The curfew had fallen and the Great Silence had begun. The doors were locked.

  “Oh, now what? I can’t stay outside in the plaza all night! If I knock and ask the doorkeeper to let me in, I will be drawing more attention to myself. They’ve probably already noticed that I missed Vespers.” Florina wrung her hands anxiously.

  She heard voices in the plaza. She glanced about nervously but could see no one. It was a group of men, she could tell from their voices. Drunken men, singing Christmas songs. They must be behind the cathedral. They would be here any minute.

  “I can’t let them see me out here, locked out of the convent,” she sniveled to herself. “What can I do?” She darted back to the stones piled about the construction site, hiding behind one especially large collection of stones, tied with ropes into a single block and making theft of any one of them very difficult. Some of the voices were behind her. Now the songs were ribald drinking songs, songs meant to embarrass young ladies. Were the echoes playing tricks with her ears or had the men split into two groups? If they were drunks, would they be violent? Would she simply be ashamed if they found her hiding among the stones, or would she be in danger?

  An idea struck her. She was desperate. She stamped her foot and spit behind her, hissing quietly, “Staniž se!”

  “What is your word, mistress?”

  The imp was now taller than she was, hair growing wildly from his knobby joints, looking like sharp pins and needles. He leered at her in the deepening dusk and made an elaborate bow before her, scraping his yellow fingernails along the ground. The sharp teeth glinted in what little light there was and the saliva hung from the corner of his mouth for an instant before hitting the ground with a “splat!” next to his splayed feet. His arms and legs were no longer the scrawny, bony limbs they had been when she first conjured the imp; they were now thick with muscles and tendons. He had clearly become not just larger but stronger each time Florina had fed him.

  “Get me into the convent,” ordered Florina. “Now. Without anyone noticing.”

  “Ah, mistress asks servant to bring her home a few short feet,” the imp drawled. “Servant is happy to bring mistress home safely, so that no one notices and no one is given penance by the nuns. Or so that no one is sent home to the countryside either. Is not that what worries mistress?”

  “Yes, yes,” Florina hastily agreed. “That is what worries mistress. Now get me into the convent before these drunken men find me here!” She peered into the gloom. The songs were no longer merely ribald but had taken on a vicious tone, even if she couldn’t quite make out the words. She was even surer she needed to get inside the convent gates.

  “But what token will mistress give to servant for such a small and trifling task?” the imp wanted to know. He sucked his thumb, as if contemplating which of many possibilities Florina might offer.

  “I don’t know!” hissed Florina. “I have nothing with me! There is nothing here but stone! Can you eat stones?”

  “No, mistress,” the imp whined. “Servant cannot eat stone. Does mistress want servant to starve? Or does mistress mean to make a joke and laugh as servant chips a tooth on all this rock?” The imp gestured at the stones all around them and hung his head.

  “Well, what do you want, then? What can I give you?”

  The imp’s head popped up, his eyes bright. “These doors.” The imp pointed to the convent doors. “Give servant whatever comes out of those doors next.” He hunched over and smiled at her.

  “No!” Florina was aghast. How could she offer the imp whatever—surely, whoever—came out of the convent doors next? She could not give over someone she knew to the imp.

  “Then, perhaps…” The imp seemed lost in thought, twisting his head from side to side. “That door, then!” He pointed to a nearby door in the castle. “Let servant take whatever next comes out of that door.”

  At least she didn’t know anyone in the castle. It wouldn’t be the same as giving someone she knew to the fiend. An animal might come out of the door next. One of the stray dogs that always lurked about a kitchen perhaps would find its way down a hall and out that door.

  “All right, all right,” Florina agreed. “Whatever comes out of that door next, servant can take.”

  “Oh, thank you, mistress! Thank you! Mistress is too good to servant!” The imp bowed low again. Florina heard steps behind her and the men sang so loud the notes pounded in her ears. She could smell the wine and ale that hung about them.

  Hinges squealed. The imp lurched towards the door, his forked tongue hanging from his mouth. He reached towards the castle with quivering fingers. Florina was dumbstruck as a familiar figure emerged from the doorway.

  “No!” screamed Florina, hurling herself at the creature that stood between her and the castle. “Not Sister Hyanthé! Mistress does not give Sister Hyanthé to servant!”

  “No?” the imp whirled back to Florina. “Then which door shall it be? Servant cannot wait forever, mistress! Servant must eat. Servant is hungry. Servant cannot get mistress safely into the convent without some token—which door shall it be? This door?” He pointed towards Sister Hyanthé, who seemed to not hear Florina’s cries and was crossing the plaza toward the convent.

  “Or that door?” the imp pointed to another door at the other end of the plaza, past the construction site and all the stones.

  “That door, that door!” Florina pointed wildly towards the second choice the imp offered her.

  “Thank you, mistress! Servant thanks mistress for such a token and a pledge of mistress’ good will. Servant wishes mistress a Happy Christmas.” He bent over as if to kiss her hand, whic
h she pulled back in disgust from the creature’s slavering lips.

  Seïa stood before a door that opened out into the network of plazas that led to the convent. She had finally dared to ask a servant where the nearest door out of the castle was to be found. The servant had pointed, and Seïa, heaving deep sighs of relief, rushed down the hallway towards the exit. Now only a few timbers and a set of iron hinges stood between her and freedom. She pushed the door open and stepped out.

  The fiend gestured to the convent doors behind it and the great timbers shuddered, then silently glided open. Florina darted towards them, half-conscious that the figure of Sister Hyanthé must be watching all this, but she was unable to stop herself. She hurtled through the open doorway and, tripping over her own feet, collapsed in a heap just inside the convent walls.

  The doorkeeper peered from her cell, holding a candle aloft. “Is anyone there? Who goes there?” she called into the dark, apparently unable to see either the open doors or Florina huddled inside.

  Through the open doors, Florina could see the length of the plaza. The great, hulking mass of the cathedral stood in the midst of it, ringed by the castle walls. Snowflakes, now coming more densely and heavily, swirled through the sky. The drunken singing seemed faint and far away, fading in the night. With uncanny clarity, as if she were only a few feet away in the daylight rather than several hundred feet away in the snowy dark, Florina saw the door she had finally chosen open and Seïa step out. Spectral fire flashed up from the stones, wrapping itself around Seïa as the earthly fire had wrapped itself around Fen’ka bound to the stake in the Old Town Square. The stench of brimstone filled the plaza just as the stench of burning human flesh had filled the Old Town Square the afternoon Fen’ka was burned. There was a scream, cut short as the ghostly flames vanished as quickly as they had reared up.

  As Florina huddled on the floor, gasping and on the verge of tears again, the great convent gates glided shut.

  Going out and coming in. Florina and Seïa had been caught in Fen’ka’s poisonous words just as Jephthah’s daughter had been caught in her own father’s rash vow and each of the girls had, in their own way, paid for it with their lives.

  Seven of Swords

  (Sunday, August 11, 2002)

  S

  ean sat before the terminal in the alcove between the hotel lobby and the dining room. Back from the dinner with the other academics, he sat before the flickering screen, listening to the hotel door open and close repeatedly as other guests returned from their dinners. He heard happy voices cheerily wishing each other good night and footsteps trudging wearily up the stairs or fingers impatiently, repeatedly pushing the button to call the elevator down to the lobby. He heard the elevator groaning as it made its way up and down, its doors wheezing open and shut.

  Sean stared at the hotel’s website, which served as the homepage of the Internet server. He typed a few strokes and the page on the screen asked for his information to access his e-mail account. He logged into his e-mail account and saw more unread messages clamoring for his attention than he wanted to deal with. He ran his eyes over the list of subject lines and decided that none of them demanded his immediate attention. He clicked on “Compose” to open a new page, waiting for his input.

  It was unnerving, wondering what had happened to Peter—could Sophia be right that Elizabeth had transformed the professor into a toad?!—and if anything had happened to Victoria. It seemed undeniable that George and Elizabeth must have harmed Peter. It was less clear why Victoria had disappeared. The only real safety precaution available to them was to rebuild the cairn of stones on the Dearg-due’s grave in Waterford.

  But he hesitated. “How can I ask my nephews to do this?” he muttered. “They already think I’m an eccentric, crazy uncle. This will only confirm their opinion. They’ll never take this seriously. They’ll laugh themselves sick.” He sighed. How would he be able to face his brother, their father, if he asked them to do such an insane favor?

  He filled in the field asking for the recipient’s e-mail address. He shook his head and wondered about the subject line. What to say? Maybe it would be safest to say, “Greetings from Uncle Sean in Prague”? Why put something like “Dearg-due Hunters Required” since that would only discourage them from ever opening and reading the e-mail?

  He clicked on the field to begin typing his message.

  Magdalena rose early on Sunday morning, the next-to-last day of the conferences. She needed to be on hand to assist Professors Hron and Theo with the afternoon sessions of both the Evil and the Monsters conferences and the completion of attendance certificates or any outstanding bills that the professors had expected their universities to pay. But this morning, she could step out after the first sessions had begun and complete the assignment George had given her: retrieve the staff of the rabbi from the attic of the Old-New Synagogue. She made herself coffee and sat at her table, hands wrapped around the chipped mug.

  “How will I convince them to let me into the attic?” she asked herself. “What can I say to explain walking out with the staff? There is no way that I can hide it. I will have to explain it somehow. Then, where will I take it? How can I get it to George without anyone noticing? Bring it back here? Maybe hide it in the office someplace. Yes, that would probably be the best thing. It’s Sunday and no one else will be there except me. I can put the staff in a closet or behind the curtains if it is too long to fit in the closet. At least that problem is settled.” She sighed and sipped at the steaming coffee.

  “But how will I get the staff out of the synagogue?” she wondered. Her thoughts disorganized, she moved into her living room and absentmindedly turned on the radio. It had been days since she had listened to the radio or watched the television. She certainly hadn’t had the time or the energy once the conference started and she had begun working with George and Elizabeth to clear Fen’ka’s name. Maybe the distraction of the voices on the radio would help clear her thoughts.

  A newscaster’s voice was reading the headlines, but Magdalena found it difficult to set aside her worries, making it hard to pay attention to what he was reading. She sipped at the steaming cup again and forced herself to listen to the words coming across the radio waves.

  She was listening to a station broadcast by an American news service, aimed at Americans in Central Europe. She had found it helpful to practice her English this way. The man’s deep voice was saying something about the weather. Rain. Lots of it. Last week and yesterday. Lots of rain did not seem newsworthy. But why was his voice so tense? What was so worrisome about a large rainstorm? Clutching her cup, she listened more closely.

  “Rainfall accumulations across northeastern Austria and the southwestern Czech Republic totaled ten inches during a two-day period last week, although some locations reported even more than ten inches of rain,” the announcer read, using the American measurements. “Localized flooding resulted, resulting in losses due to property damage.”

  “Ten inches of rain in two days? That’s nearly thirteen centimeters!” Magdalena calculated, familiar with the American measurements and making the conversion to centimeters. “That’s unheard of! When is there ever so much rain in two days?”

  The announcer continued his report. “Extensive runoff from the rainfall has been contained in the series of reservoirs commonly referred to as the ‘Vltava Cascade’ upstream from the capital, Prague. This excess water has been gradually released into the countryside, but the reservoirs remain at full capacity. Authorities worry that the ongoing rain of this weekend, which is predicted to continue over the next few days, may result in further flooding, perhaps reaching Prague. If this worst-case scenario comes to pass, the areas of the capital nearest to the river—primarily the Old Town and portions of the Little Town with certain portions of the Jewish Quarter—may experience slight disruptions due to high water levels.”

  Reservoirs at full capacity? More rain expected? Slight disruptions of life in the Jewish Quarter and other areas of Prague along the Vltava
? Magdalena nearly dropped her cup down as the bits of the report swirled around in her head, not unlike the water under the great Charles Bridge.

  “That’s the answer! It will only be an exaggeration, and only a slight exaggeration at that, to say that there have been incredible amounts of rain resulting in flooding—I’ll say extensive flooding—in the countryside upstream from us. It will sound truthful. Plausible. Because it is true. Or, well, nearly true. Partly true, at least.” The news reporter had given her the tools to gain entrance to the synagogue’s attic.

  As the first session of the morning got underway, Magdalena waited at her post behind the registration desk to help direct any last-minute stragglers who needed to know which room a particular panel was meeting in. There seemed fewer latecomers than usual that morning.

  “Because it is Sunday?” she wondered. “Or because they’ve slept in late and decided to skip the first session?” Either way, she was glad there were so few academics in need of her assistance after the doors of the various meeting rooms had all gently clicked shut. Knowing that the time available to her was limited, she slung her bag over her shoulder and set out quickly for the Old-New Synagogue.

  Magdalena approached the synagogue and walked down the steps to the door. It was a cloudy, overcast morning and her stomach was tied in knots. Strange tingles of electricity tickled the hair on the back of her neck. Would she be able convince the keepers of the synagogue to allow her into the attic? Luckily, only a few people were lined up waiting to be admitted to the synagogue.

  “Am I more likely to get in if the ticket takers are distracted, or would that irritate them and make them refuse to let me in?” she wondered, looking at the line of tourists. She decided that irritated ticket takers were less likely to be cooperative, and as the line was short, she would wait her turn. She joined the line and stepped through the door of the shul and down into the vestibule. No one had joined the line behind her. The tourists milled around the vestibule, peering at the old stones or stepping into the synagogue itself, but no one was waiting in line behind her.