Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  “But how do we combat it?” Sophia asked him. “We are incapacitated. It is all I can do to get from the bed to the toilet and back.”

  “Pray,” he husband urged her. “We can pray, at least.”

  That evening, the official acknowledgment of reality finally came. A state of emergency was issued by the Prime Minister, and all the districts of Prague alongside the river were deemed in danger of horrific flooding. Certain neighborhoods were singled out for particular attention, including the whole of the Little Town. “Residents are advised to leave their homes,” the news announcers read.

  News reports later confirmed the flood’s first human victim, a man who had drowned in the swiftly flowing water.

  Magdalena was exhausted when she smeared the last of the toad-extract-and-Eucharist paste. She had been walking from block to block and stooping or kneeling to smear the paste on the curbs and lanes and alleys in the Little Town for hours. The cotton swabs had long since been worn to shreds and she had been dipping her gloved fingers into the bowl and wiping them against the stones she walked on. Luckily, the gloves had remained intact until the paste was gone. She slipped them off and dropped them into a garbage canister at the next corner.

  Entering her apartment, she set the bowl in the kitchen sink, unsure of the proper way to cleanse it.

  “I will have to ask George for instructions,” she noted mentally before stripping off her street clothes and changing into her sleeping wear. She sat down to rest briefly before getting something to eat but did not stir again for several hours.

  Dmitri glanced around the hotel room, careful to move his head as little as possible. Evening seemed to have fallen, as the light that crept into the room from the window had the harsh glare of artificial light. He heard Sophia’s even breathing beside him on the bed.

  “At least she seems to have finally gotten some rest.” He sighed with relief. “But what about the rest of us? If George incapacitated Sophia and me, he must surely have done the same to Sean and Victoria and Theo… We cannot all simply lie about sick until George and Magdalena have destroyed the city and set free Svetovit.” The effort of thought provoked another spasm of pain across his temples. He gasped and then tried to breathe slowly and deeply, his eyes shut tightly. A tear slipped out the corner of one eye and across his cheek.

  “We must… I must… Do something,” he wheezed. “But what? How?”

  Which saints were patrons against illness such as they had been stricken with? The pain in his head made it difficult to think. Images of frescoes and mosaics flitted and shifted through his memory, but he could not recall the names of the saints whose faces briefly peered at him from the dark recesses of his mind. Then one image, a statue he had recently seen while walking the streets of Prague, snapped into focus. The figure was that of a man, carved from pale stone, pulling up his tunic to reveal the open sores on his leg as a faithful dog sat at his feet and clutched a loaf of bread in its mouth.

  “Saint Roch, patron of plague victims, help us!” he gasped as the pain racked him. “Come yourself… Send us aid… Send us your dog, even… to stop the afflictions… that plague us.”

  People gathered in the plazas of the Kampa district, where the gypsies had camped in the Middle Ages. Trucks rumbled along the lanes normally filled with tourists, delivering sand and bags. As the sandbags were filled, wheelbarrows were filled with as many as could be carried and the heavy bags delivered to the buildings adjacent to the river in hopes they might staunch the flow of the water. The work went on throughout the night, floodlights illuminating the scene as if it were a movie set.

  The clock in the tower over the Loreto cloister chimed eleven. The plaza in front of the cloister was empty, as everyone who might have wandered leisurely in the summer darkness had gone near the river to either watch the disaster in the making or help in filling sandbags. The chimes of the clock echoed quietly and faded in the night. A breeze rustled the branches of the trees and bushes.

  A large black dog emerged from the shadows on the far side of the plaza. He stood momentarily, surveying the scene before him. Not so different from other nights. He had come to this plaza nearly every night at almost this same time for what seemed like forever. He came to protect the innocent, the lost, the aimless, the foolish. He came to protect those who were in danger. The area he was able to protect was not large, but he had always looked out for those in harm’s way in the plaza and a little further beyond. The plaza was not so different tonight, but different enough. A multitude of strange, new scents assaulted his nose and he lifted his head to sniff the wind. He needed to distinguish the smells that mingled in the air, determine what they meant and how he should react. Whether he ought to ignore any or all of them. He stepped further into the plaza and sniffed again.

  The dominant scent was one he recognized but had not detected for many, many long seasons. It was the mixture of putrid magic and fear, a massive supernatural assault on the city and the fear of the populace in the face of the attack. Although the attack disguised itself as a natural, earthly event and the fear it inspired was a natural, human reaction to such an event, he smelled evil and power hovering over the city. He smelled Svetovit’s approach.

  There was nothing he could do at this point about such an attack. It was too massive, too broad, too far-flung to respond in any meaningful way. Svetovit was both too far away and too large a power for the dog to pose any real threat, and the dog knew it. He bared his teeth and growled at the sky nevertheless. He growled and sniffed the breeze again.

  Another scent was in the air, a scent both fainter and closer than Svetovit. Another kind of bad magic hovered, a bad magic close at hand and more focused than Svetovit’s malice. This bad magic was aimed at a few, a handful of people, and its intent was much more specific than the general destruction Svetovit threatened. The dog sniffed the air again.

  What direction was this faint scent coming from? The breeze had dispersed it, scattering it across the plaza, making it difficult to follow back to its source. The dog took a few hesitant steps and snuffled along the ground, hoping to get a deeper whiff. Any of the scent that hovered near the ground was also more likely to be heavier, more concentrated than the more volatile tendrils that slithered through the air, riding the breeze. More concentrated fragments of the scent were also more likely to make a trail that led back to the approximate area of its source.

  Instead, sniffing along the ground, the dog detected a third smell that had been easy to overlook before. A murky and shadowy presence lurked under the other two scents. It was human but tainted with strong notes of Svetovit’s approach and the more specific rotten magic close at hand. He sniffed again and distinguished two human sources, a man and a woman, who had been involved together in calling Svetovit and working the hex the dog was attempting to track.

  He moved along the side of the plaza, sniffing and searching for the human smell beneath and tangled up with the magic. He caught a whiff and then lost it again. He continued along the edge of the plaza, picking up occasional hints of the human smell. He lifted his head briefly and glanced around to be sure no one else had stumbled out of the lanes and alleyways.

  Satisfied that no one else needed him tonight, he lowered his head again and continued his slow and cautious hunt for the human scent.

  It slapped across the snout. The human scent had pooled in a deep, seething puddle in this spot. They must have stood here, together, for some purpose. Why? He looked up again to determine his location on the plaza’s edge. The lowest branches of the yew in front of him brushed his snout.

  Yew! They had stood here to cut slips of yew for some further wickedness. Yew in the hands of such people, people who had conjured Svetovit and worked some other wicked spell in this plaza, was dangerous. It was impossible to predict how they might use it, but it was to be used for no good purpose. He was sure of that.

  But he was not allowed to go beyond a certain point atop the castle hill and that the man and woman who had cut the yew
were no doubt safely hidden away further down the hill. He might not be able to protect whomever they would use the yew against but he could do something to protect whomever they had hexed here.

  Lowering his snout to the cobblestones again, he easily tracked the dense ropes of human scent across the plaza to another cluster of bushes not far from the corner of the Loreto cloister. The tangled aromas of wicked people and wicked magic was unmistakable. Whatever hex they had worked, they had worked it here. Exploring the area around and under the bushes, a sharp tang sliced his nostrils. They had buried something! He dug at the spot, furiously churning up the earth with his great paws.

  A dough figure flew up, sailing past his floppy ear. He stopped to examine it for any damage resulting from hitting the cobblestones so roughly. He saw that it was intact, no broken limbs, so he returned to his excavation more slowly and carefully. He exhumed the other figures, gently lifting each in his sharp teeth and setting it carefully beside the one that had sailed past him. Each one, in fact, half covered the one before it. The five figures made a tidy little pyramid.

  The dog snuffled in the dirt to be sure no other smells rose to indicate other figures might be buried deeper. Satisfied that he had retrieved them all, he turned to examine those he had dug up.

  Careful not to disturb the pyramid of figures, he sniffed again to determine as much as he could about the hex the figures had been used to work. It was a simple, uncomplicated spell that he could undermine fairly easily.

  Positioning himself over the stacked figures, he lifted his hind leg.

  Theo stirred in his half-sleep on the couch in the hotel lobby. Strange figures appeared in his dreams, pudgy figures not unlike animated characters made of dough that pummeled and pinched his legs. The pain crackled and shot along his nerves, and a muffled cry was buried somewhere in his throat. But then a mysterious shower, an unexpected cloudburst opened above him and washed away his attackers and, he realized, washed away the pain with them. His legs felt soothed and refreshed by the rainfall. He was even conscious of bones knitting themselves back together, picturing this in his groggy mind as peculiar sensations rippled through his shins.

  Urine, associated with the water of life and healing, soaked each figure thoroughly. Urine played in the crevices and spaces between the figures and drenched the cobblestones beneath them before it ran off in the cracks and fissures of the mortar between the cobblestones.

  As the last of the dog’s urine washed over the figures, a small cloud of rainbow-hued lights heaved and writhed above them. Startled, the dog dropped his leg and stumbled a few steps away. The lights dimmed and flared as they twisted and swam in the air just above the dough figures, along with a small cloud of steam rising and hissing from them.

  Dmitri reached up and gently placed his palms on his temples. He had thought he felt water splashing his face, but no, his face was only wet from the sweat that had accumulated there in the sweltering humidity of their room. It must have been a dream.

  Sophia, kneeling before the toilet, made a strange noise that caught his attention. He had not noticed her running to the bathroom again. Had he drifted into a half-sleep?

  Dream or not, he still felt water splashing his face and running over his shoulders onto the bed beneath him. He was then aware that his headache was draining away with the water.

  “Sophia? Are you there?” he dared to call out, hesitant to move his facial muscles that much and provoke another reaction from the migraine. But there was no reaction. The incapacitating pain seemed a more and more distant memory.

  Sophia stood in the doorway of the bathroom, leaning against the wall but not dependent on it for support.

  “Yes, I am here, Dmitri,” she answered weakly, but he could hear the strength returning to her even in those few words.

  “Are you feeling better?” he asked, and took the risk of propping himself up on one elbow.

  Sophia brushed her hair away from her face. “Better? Yes. I am feeling better. But my stomach feels like it is being flushed with a firehose.”

  The dog barked sharply at the display, unsure of what to do.

  Sparks popped from the dough. The wavering crown of lights blazed bright and then winked out. A last wisp of steam curled up from the figures, followed by a lone spark and a last crackle of energy.

  The dog paused and tilted his head, waiting to see if the sodden figures produced any further display. Nothing happened. Sniffing and pawing at the dough, he determined no trace of the hex-scent remained.

  Turning back to the earth under the bushes, he filled the hole he had dug and then, a few steps away, dug a fresh hole. Scooping the figures into the new hole, he buried them again to protect them and prevent any further abuse by someone finding them lying there.

  Done at last, he took one final look at his evening’s work under the bushes. He surveyed the plaza behind him too, remembering when there had been a chasm that opened into Hell at the far side of the plaza. But the plaza was empty.

  The clock above began to chime midnight. Time to end his patrol. He trotted off into the shadows across the plaza.

  Throughout his drug-induced stupor, Sean was dimly aware of Victoria, of their surroundings, of their predicament. He would occasionally struggle towards consciousness, but as he neared wakefulness, the pain in his eyes increased sharply, driving him back into the embrace of the medication.

  Now, though, another sensation startled him. Drops that felt like tears caressed his forehead and fell into his eyes, pooling under his eyelids and mingling with his own tears. Accumulating until there was no more space, the mixture of his own and the other tears slid down his cheeks.

  He gasped involuntarily. The pain that had gripped him seemed to be sliding away as the tears slid down his face. He opened his eyes slightly.

  Victoria was sitting up, rubbing her forehead. She saw Sean looking at her and a broad smile flashed across her face.

  “The water…” she whispered. “I was swimming in it and I could feel the seizures floating away.”

  Sean glanced at the front desk. It was unoccupied. The clerk must have stepped away.

  “I think it will be difficult to explain our sudden recovery,” he said softly to Victoria. “Can you move? Let’s go back to my hotel now, while we can.”

  Victoria bit her lip, then nodded. Quietly standing up and making their way to the entrance of the hotel, supporting each other, they stepped into the night.

  Theo gestured to the bellboy on duty in the lobby.

  “I am feeling much better now,” he explained to the teen. “I would like to return to my room for the night. Would you help me, please? Just in case?”

  “Of course, sir! Of course!” The uniformed boy responded eagerly. Assisting Theo to his feet, the boy swung Theo’s left arm across his back and allowed the older man to sag into him. Theo allowed himself to rest much of his weight across the boy’s shoulders, hesitant to stand on his own. Together, they made their way up to Theo’s room and the boy helped Theo sit on the edge of the bed, beneath the ornately carved beams stretching across the ceiling.

  “Do you need any more help to prepare for bed, sir?”

  “No, thank you.” Theo reached down and, grasping his shins, swung first one leg and then the other onto the coverlet. “No, I’ll just lie back against the pillows. Thank you again, young man.”

  “Not at all, sir. My pleasure.” He turned to leave and left Theo alone in the dark. Moments later, Theo was sleeping soundly.

  Dmitri and Sophia held each other in the bed, in the dark, the priest’s gentle snoring reverberating through the otherwise quiet room. Theirs was the sleep known to those who are healthy but exhausted, the sleep that heals weary bodies and souls and spirits.

  Sean and Victoria stumbled through the streets, dimly aware of the bright lights and rumbling trucks and frantic activity of the sandbaggers working valiantly to save their city. Reaching Sean’s hotel room and throwing propriety to the winds, they collapsed together on the bed
and were nearly instantaneously embraced by natural—not drug-induced—and dreamless sleep.

  Dawn came. Tuesday morning. Water surged along the riverbanks in the city, pounding against the bridges, struggling to burst free of the banks and walls that confined it. Like a living thing, a hungry animal, it writhed and twisted, eating away at that which constrained it. It found a crevice, a depression in the banks of the Kampa district and stealthily crept into the lowlying district.

  A tank rumbled into position on the Charles Bridge, facing the Little Town in support of the security and police officers who stood guard along the barricades against the threat of the frightened crowds.

  Magdalena woke to the sound of large numbers of people trudging along the street outside her apartment. Dressing quickly so as not to miss her rendezvous with George, she listened to the radio announcer report that the flood had filled Kampa. With difficulty, she hurried through the streets to George’s hotel. She found him in the lobby, sitting in an overstuffed chair and sipping coffee.

  “The streets are full of people going to see the river!” she exclaimed. “Everyone wants to say, ‘I saw the flood!’ it seems.”

  George laughed quietly. “Yes, disasters will always have their fans. People love nothing better than to see a car crash or building burn. A whole town drowning is irresistible!”

  “A whole town drowning?” she exclaimed. “What about the potion I smeared on the curbs all day yesterday? Won’t that keep the flood away? You promised it would help protect the city!”

  “I also said it would take time,” George reminded her. “We may need to reinforce the charm so it has time to do its work and keep the river back.”

  “How?” Magdalena demanded. “We must not let those…” She struggled to find words. “We must not let Professor Theo and the others destroy the city!”

  “No,” George agreed with her, setting his cup down. “Indeed, we must not. The charm will, of course, be better able to constrain the water if it is applied to streets on both sides of the river, in the Old Town as well as the New Town. I will give you another charm to apply on this side of the river and I will find a taxi or some means of getting outside town and around the flooded areas to apply the toad-and-Eucharist extract in the Old Town. The subways are too unreliable at this point, are they not? So it is impossible to know how long it might take to accomplish this. We will plan meet back at your apartment sometime this evening, yes? You will wait for me there?”