by Kage Baker
“And they will not sell the land?”
“No. It is their land. They are farmers, what else would they do? They are too stupid to learn even, even… shoemaking. You have no idea of their stubbornness. The pigs.” Herr Bayer tried to spit, and the blob so produced ended up in his own eye. He laughed uproariously at that. Lady Beatrice wiped his eye with more of the sheet.
“And where exactly is their land, my very dear Herr Bayer?”
“Behind Sinietsch,” he replied promptly. “Beyond the woods. They keep to themselves. Only the kobolds keep them company. Live like bears. Anyone in the village will agree with me. It’s because of the terrible, shameful curse…”
His voice gurgled away into silence. His stare was becoming steadily glassier.
“You have been an exceedingly good boy, Herr Bayer,” said Lady Beatrice. “You have earned a reward.”
She accelerated her movements, which sent Herr Bayer into a flailing ecstasy so extreme it quite extinguished the last spark of his consciousness. As he was sinking gratefully into a black velvet-lined void, Lady Beatrice climbed briskly from the bed and washed her face clean of its smeared paint at the washbasin. She put on her undergarments and spent a moment patiently turning her gown inside out, the gown being made in such a way that it was reversible: scarlet silk with watered gray silk lining or watered gray silk with scarlet silk lining. After dressing herself, she exited the room quietly, closed the door behind her, and descended the stairs, a shadowy and respectable ghost of her former self.
Herr Bayer slept like the dead until the chamber-attendant brought hot water next morning. He sat bolt upright in bed, looking around for Lady Beatrice; was briefly relieved not to find her, since he preferred whores to decamp before sunrise; was next panicked, and sought frantically through his clothing until he located his purse; next was astonished to discover, as he hurriedly counted his money, that this particular whore had apparently neglected to collect her fee on departing; next was elated, on re-counting his funds, to confirm this suspicion. Herr Bayer whistled as he dressed himself and went downstairs to order breakfast.
He had no memory whatsoever of anything he had told Lady Beatrice, after that last glass of champagne.
LUDBRIDGE UNROLLED A map and regarded it. “To be sure. Sinietsch. I expect the Reithoffers’ farm must be somewhere here…”
“I believe the phrase used was ‘beyond the woods’,” said Lady Beatrice. She was the only person other than Ludbridge himself who was actually looking at the map. Ressel kept his gaze fixed on his shoes, and Hirsch stared hungrily at Lady Beatrice.
“Indeed. Right, Hirsch—this is your meat. You’re to go to Sinietsch today and find out what you can. Pay a call on the Reithoffers, under some pretext. Report back this evening.”
“On one condition,” said Hirsch coyly. Ludbridge looked up at him, affronted.
“What the deuce do you mean?”
“I want a kiss to send me on my way.”
“Come here and I’ll give you a good one,” replied Ludbridge, with only a hint of thunder in his tone. Hirsch turned red.
“I meant from our beauty here. Surely she won’t mind a little merchandise given away free?”
Ludbridge stared at him, flint-eyed. Lady Beatrice cleared her throat.
“Mr. Hirsch, I think you misunderstand. I am not a commodity. I am a specialist, just as you are. My particular skills serve the same ends, but by different means.”
“Then you should kiss me,” said Hirsch. “Since that’s my price for the day’s work.”
Ressel groaned and put his head in his hands. Ludbridge rose slowly to his feet, but Lady Beatrice put up her hand.
“It’s a trivial enough request. Very well, Mr. Hirsch.” She rose to her feet. He jumped up at once and came to her, licking his lips. She kissed him. He grabbed her in his arms and attempted to wrestle with her, groping her bosom, laughing muffledly, but abruptly broke off and backed away from her. Lady Beatrice, who had produced a small pistol apparently from thin air and pressed it under his ear, returned to her seat.
“I don’t believe you should attempt to do that again, Mr. Hirsch,” she said composedly. “Please understand that the only pleasure I derive from my duty is the satisfaction of knowing what it will accomplish. We are all working toward the same great day, are we not?”
“Bitch,” said Hirsch. He strode to the door, grabbed his coat, and turned back briefly to address Ludbridge. “You may not like me, but you will see what work I can do.”
He slammed the door behind him, and they heard him charging down the stairs.
“How juvenile,” said Lady Beatrice, at the same moment Ressel cried, “Fraulein, a thousand apologies—you mustn’t think we’re all beasts—” and Ludbridge gave a wordless growl.
“That is quite all right, Mr. Ressel,” said Lady Beatrice, smiling at him. “It’s of little consequence. I have dealt with far worse than Mr. Hirsch.”
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Ludbridge demanded of Ressel. “Go in there and steal your socks back.”
RESSEL HAD PLENTY of time to retrieve his socks and his comb too, for that matter, because Hirsch failed to return that evening. Ludbridge stalked the floor for hours before giving up and sleeping on the divan, having relinquished his bed to Lady Beatrice. Hirsch still had not put in an appearance by the time Ludbridge went down to order breakfast for three. As he was about to return to the rooms, the clerk turned to the back counter with a little cry.
“I nearly forgot! Herr Ludbridge, a letter has come for you. A courier delivered it this morning.” He drew it from its pigeonhole and held it out. Ludbridge took it.
“Thank you.” Ludbridge studied it as he climbed the stairs. He did not recognize the hand in which it was addressed, but as he opened it and read its contents he certainly recognized the tone.
My old Ludbridge,
I write to you from Sinietsch, which has, as it turns out, a splendid tavern and marvelously accommodating women. But you must not think I put pleasure before business. Here is what I have accomplished for you:
Having arrived here, I was able to locate directions to the Reithoffer farm immediately. As I was passing the tavern I chanced upon a peddler with a tray of the sorts of things such people sell, and luckily for me he set the tray down in an inattentive moment while washing his face at a fountain. So prepared, I set off for the farm.
You never saw such a countrified place in your life—a little cart-track off a mountain road, winding through the trees to a gate, and huge savage barking hounds who wanted to tear me limb from limb. I prudently remained on my side of the gate and before long a surly peasant came down to see why his hounds were making such a fuss. I tipped my hat and displayed my riches, at which he tied up the dogs and bid me enter.
I followed him through the cabbage fields to the house, and such a scene from the dark ages when we got inside! Absolutely old Bohemia, with a couple of ancients by the fire and a brat or two staggering about and a bevy of peasant women busy putting up sauerkraut in stone crocks. The shelves were positively lined with crocks of pickles and more sauerkraut. You may imagine that the maidens were frantic for something other than pickles with which to divert themselves, and so I and my wares were eagerly received.
Of course, I sold at bargain prices! Spools of thread, bits of lace, ribbons, pins, a pair of scissors, a songbook of tunes that were out of fashion thirty years since and a cheap chromolithograph of Our Lord Jesus Christ, all found favor in the sauerkraut girls’ eyes. So much so that I was invited to dine. The men of the house were less pleased to see me. Imagine hulking cousin-marrying peasants in boots fresh-caked with mud of the fields and less pleasant substances, all lined up at a long trestle, eyeing me suspiciously.
The fare was minuscule pork cutlets, massive flour dumplings, even bigger helpings of the eternal sauerkraut, and not even a good beer to wash any of this down, but thin sour cider! Pity poor me, Ludbridge, where you sit at your ease in civilized Budweis. Anyway I co
uld see there was no use trying to get any secrets out of these mountain trolls, so I waited until after they had gone to the fields and managed to get one of the younger girls alone for a little romance. She was eager enough until I asked her about a story I’d heard concerning witches in the forest. That closed up her lips so tight I could see there was no use pursuing it (or her) further, so I tipped my hat and took my leave.
But the good people of Sinietsch were willing to talk, I can tell you, when I got back into town (without my peddler’s tray, of course; that I disposed of in a convenient ditch). With a liberal largesse to the tavern patrons, this I learned:
The Reithoffer land is indeed cursed, or so I was solemnly assured. There is a Witch who haunts the place and every generation or so she takes one of the Reithoffer men for a lover, though this act has immediate consequences for the unfortunate male as he is always found dead and singed with hellfire following her embrace. Why the Witch is up there no one knows for certain, but the clearest story I heard was that there is cursed buried treasure somewhere on the Reithoffer farm, and there the Witch haunts. Some are of the opinion that her lovers came seeking the treasure and paid the price. The last time this happened was within living memory, in 1839.
I did not go back to search for the mine because, what was I to do about the dogs? And, really, I have worked hard enough for one day. I am going to take a little holiday now for a few days, until the expense money runs out. I close now because the post rider waits, but perhaps I will tell you where I am later.
Cheerfully,
Hirsch.
Crumpling the letter in his fists, Ludbridge swore quietly.
SINIETSCH WAS EASILY reached in a rented gig. Ressel drove. Ludbridge sat beside him, mulling over what he felt he could trust of Hirsch’s report. Lady Beatrice, dressed in respectable gray once more, sat quietly in the back and enjoyed viewing the passing countryside. At last Ludbridge turned to her.
“Do you reckon you could portray an hysteric?”
“How hysterical do you require me to be, Mr. Ludbridge?”
Ludbridge thought about it. “Not excessively. Not weeping-and-wringing-your-hands hysterical.”
“More of a fainting-fit-for-unspecified-female-disorders hysterical? I believe I can manage that, yes, Mr. Ludbridge.”
When they drove at last up the main street of Sinietsch, Ludbridge looked for village taverns. There was only one, as it happened, and he bid Ressel pull up before it.
“Go in and ask whether Hirsch is staying here. You might find out if there’s a doctor about, as well.”
Ressel went in, and returned a few minutes later, looking rather harried.
“Hirsch is no longer there. He left suddenly and owing money. The proprietors were very angry, so I told them I was a debt collector trying to trace him. They were much more helpful after that. Dr. Schildkraut’s house is at the end of that lane.” Ressel pointed.
Ludbridge chewed his cigar. “What the devil does Hirsch think he’s playing at? Still in school and scoring off the headmaster? Well, on to the Doctor’s.”
They pulled up in front of a modest half-timbered house. “Any objection to feigning illness for a good twenty minutes or so?” Ludbridge asked Lady Beatrice.
“None whatsoever, Mr. Ludbridge.” Lady Beatrice put the back of her hand to her head and sprawled back on her seat, fluttering her eyelids.
“I’m obliged to you, Ma’am.”
Dr. Schildkraut was an elderly man who opened his own door. He gaped rather at the sight on his doorstep: an Englishman supporting a swooning Englishwoman, and a smaller man, very agitated, asking whether the doctor was available to examine the fraulein, who had suffered an attack of the vapors. He ushered them into his parlor, and after a series of hastily translated questions determined that he ought to see the fraulein in his examining room. Thither she was led, drooping on the arm of the Englishman—Dr. Schildkraut assumed he was her father—who, upon seeing her safely disposed in a chair, tipped his hat and departed to wait in the parlor.
Once the door had closed, Ludbridge strode to a bookcase on the wall, wherein sat a number of bound leather volumes. Years were painted on their spines, in a small precise hand.
“Here’s the one,” said Ludbridge, pulling out the journal for the year 1839. Ressel came and peered over his shoulder as he leafed through it. “We’re looking for the name Reithoffer.”
They flipped the pages, passing births, illnesses, recoveries and death in Sinietsch. Near the end of the book Ressel grabbed Ludbridge’s arm and pointed. “Here!”
“What’s it say?” Ludbridge peered at the page.
“Says, er… ‘Last night Frau Kohl came to me in fear. She was attending one of the Reithoffer girls who has gone into early labor and the baby will not turn. We went together to the Reithoffer farm and arrived at daybreak. Just as we were driving up we saw that one of the men was out by the house digging what looked like a grave. I asked if the girl had already died but Frau Kohl told me the grave was for another member of the family who had been found dead the day before, which she thought had sent the young mother into her pangs.’
“Then he says… er… a lot about bringing the baby into the world. They saved the mother and child. And then, he goes into the kitchen and he sees… well, there is a body the old people are washing for burial. He asks to examine it because he has heard of this curse, you see. Dead man is the girl’s uncle, ‘Peter Reithoffer, forty years of age, well-nourished, appearance of a corpse struck by lightning. Fernlike burn patterns on the skin.’ Doctor asks if he was struck by lightning, family is looking, er, shamefaced. They say he is marked with the Witch’s mark and was taken in accordance with his sin. Doctor asks, what sin? Family elder replies, he died in the embrace of the Witch. So that is why he can’t be buried in consecrated ground. They won’t tell him more. He leaves… he gives Frau Kohl a ride back to her house and she tells him, when they brought in the dead man his trousers were down around his thighs, like all the others killed by the curse.”
“Bloody hell,” murmured Ludbridge. “Fern patterns. Anything more?”
“He just says he is sorry people can believe in such nonsense in this age and he thinks it was lightning all the same.”
“Didn’t ask what the man was doing when he died?”
“No, apparently.” Ressel, a little red-faced, closed the book and put it back in its place. They sat down on a bench clearly provided for anxious relatives. Ressel twiddled his thumbs while Ludbridge smoked and thought.
“Fernlike patterns,” he muttered at last. “Yes, I’ve seen that. Seaman on the Tiger struck by lightning whilst aloft. Extraordinary coincidence…” He was silent another moment and then slapped his knee.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Ressel. Why’s a man take his prick out of his trousers, eh? What’s the most common reason?”
Ressel blushed once more. “To, er, make water, I suppose.”
“Precisely. And let’s say a man feels the call of nature when he’s down in a mine. Is he going to walk all the way out and water the nearest tree, or is he just going to make water right there in the mine?”
“I… suppose he would make water in the mine.”
“So.” Ludbridge took his cigar out of his mouth. “Just exactly how much acetic acid’s in the urine of a man who lives on sauerkraut, pickles and cider?”
Ressel considered that a moment. His eyes widened in horror.
“That’s how the damned fools have been killing themselves,” said Ludbridge, chuckling. He broke his laughter off abruptly when the examining room door opened and Lady Beatrice emerged, leaning on the doctor’s arm. Ludbridge escorted Lady Beatrice out to the gig, while Ressel paid the doctor.
“A mild case of hysteria,” Dr. Schildkraut told him in a low voice. “Give her fresh air and a few novels and she will be perfectly well. You know what these women are.”
IT WAS A simple enough matter, thereafter, to field-test Enderley’s Improved Canine Stupefaction Compound on
the Reithoffers’ immense snarling hounds. The Compound proved to work a treat, enabling Ludbridge and Ressel to don night-vision goggles and explore the Reithoffers’ considerable acreage without fear of detection. The mine was easily located at the distant edge of the farm, though the track leading to it was overgrown and its entrance masked with tall weeds. Once entered and inspected, it proved to bear rich veins of the red tektite.
Somewhat more complicated was stage-managing the business of the thunder-machine and lightning flashes. Lady Beatrice’s appearance as the Witch necessitated recourse to her scarlet gown and moreover to her cosmetics case, in order to provide the fernlike facial markings. It was particularly felicitous that she happened to own, among a number of colored glass lenses designed to give her eyes a striking appearance, a scarlet pair; for, as she pointed out, one never knew what sort of peculiar fantasies (being seduced by a vampyre, for example) members of Parliament might request.
The Reithoffers, suitably frightened by the spectacle of their family’s ancient persecutor appearing in the front garden, readily obeyed her demand that they venture into town and sell that corner of their property containing the tektite mine to a certain Englishman they would find in the tavern. Ludbridge gave them a good price. They congratulated themselves on making a tidy profit on the deal and incidentally unloading their family curse on somebody else.
THAT MINE WAS one of the most disturbing places I have ever had the occasion to have seen,” said Ressel, as they climbed down from the gig. “Didn’t you think? Like, er, the throat of a whale, with all that redness.”
“Well, you won’t be obliged to go back in, I shouldn’t think,” said Ludbridge, handing Lady Beatrice and her cosmetics case down. “All that’s left for us to do is get the title deed back to London and file a report.”
