AHMM, March 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Miss Castava!” she said, using the Czech form of Kassy's name. “Thank God you're here. Mrs. Svoboda's baby doesn't want to come out and we need your help."

  Kassy leapt to her feet, took the simmering pot off the fire, and hung it from a branch. Then she gathered the ingredients for a groaning cake: dried woodruff, caraway seeds, and some flowering buds from the broad-leafed hemp plant.

  The sky was still glowing with the faint purple of twilight, but the darkness was stealing up on them fast and rain clouds were gathering on the horizon.

  No stargazing tonight, Kassy thought, as they hurried through the village square. A number of idlers watched Kassy's every move as she squeezed through the crowd gathered around a wagon watching a traveling company's Whitsunday pageant (though the holiday was still several weeks off) and stepped through the low doorway onto the dirt floor of the Svobodas’ cottage.

  Irina Svoboda lay on a birthing stool in the middle of the bare floor, sweating and straining and squeezing her husband's hand while Mrs. Lenka the midwife wiped her forehead with a damp rag.

  The husband didn't even look up when Kassy came in with her bundle of herbs and got a quick summary from the midwife: Irina was in her seventh hour of labor, with minimal widening of the birth canal, and was suffering from terrible cramps and a low-grade fever.

  Kassy sent Paulina out for a couple of fresh eggs, then kneeled by the hearth to prepare the cake. She mixed the flour with the woodruff and caraway, mashed the butter and a sprinkle of sugar together with the hemp in a separate bowl, then greased the pan with more butter—the butter was essential; it didn't work without the butter—and waited for the girl to come back with the eggs.

  Outside in the square, the grim drama reached its climax as the Antichrist was unmasked as a Jew, who admitted under pain of death that for fifteen hundred years his people had kidnapped and murdered Christian children, poisoned Christian patients, and robbed Christian customers, all because of a perverse, soul-consuming hatred for the good people whose only offense was their heartfelt belief in the Son of God.

  Paulina stoked the fire, and by the time Kassy put the cake in the pan, the performance had reached its satyrical conclusion, as the tragic death-of-winter scenario was transformed into a bawdy springtime celebration of fertility in all its forms. Purged of sinful feelings by collectively witnessing the downfall of a common enemy, the townfolk were free to vent their long-suppressed desires by joining the actors and prancing around the stage to the beat of drums and tambourines, singing, “The lawyer with his screed, The Jew with his greed, And what lies under a woman's dress; These three things make the world a mess!"

  The lewd songs swelled with voices high and low, bumping and pressing against the somber mood inside the cottage, until Kassy could barely hear Irina calling her husband's name: “Ludye, Ludye..."

  "Yes, my dear,” said Ludyek. “Don't worry. Everything's going to be fine now that the lady apothecary's here,” he said, giving Kassy a dark look that warned her not to make a liar out of him.

  Kassy ignored him. She had worked closely with midwives like Mrs. Lenka before, so she did her part without having to be told what to do, massaging the travailing woman's neck and shoulders and laying warm towels around her belly while the midwife handled the delivery. Ludyek sat there holding his wife's hand, whispering soft words and snatches of prayers, as the midwife enlarged the opening around the shiny whorl of hair on the baby's head, and encouraged Irina to be strong and push some more. The skin beneath the baby's hair was slowly changing from red to purple.

  Kassy brushed some loose hair out of her eyes, and was tucking the tiny gold cross on a silver chain back inside her blouse when Irina took Kassy's hand and said that she liked looking at the way the cross sparkled in the candlelight, so Kassy left it dangling there for her to fix her eyes on.

  Soon she was feeding Irina bits of the cake along with soothing sips of cold water, while repeating a Latin prayer asking for God's protection. Kassy didn't believe in the healing power of the strange old words themselves, but many of her charges felt better because they believed in such powers. The mind's influence over the bodily humors had always fascinated her, and the effect was certainly worthy of further study.

  The cake eventually brought Irina some relief, but by then Kassy was sweating under her clothes as she and the midwife worked against the dying light of the fire. Then without being asked, Paulina wiped the perspiration from Kassy's forehead and began rubbing the knot that had formed at the base of her neck with her free hand, and Kassy felt her shoulders relax a little. She thanked Paulina with her eyes.

  Then the midwife finally got a grip on the baby's head and neck and pulled down and out.

  A stream of new voices joined the whirlpool of passions rushing by the front window.

  But even as the chaos swirled around them on all sides, a cool stillness fell like a shroud over the Svobodas’ rooms.

  Irina clutched Kassy's arm as Paulina wrapped the blue mass of flesh in sackcloth.

  "At least wrap her in a clean towel,” the midwife said softly.

  Irina's face was as pale as wax. Her husband stared blankly ahead. Then he remembered where he was and tried to give Kassy a stone-cold stare, but all the hardness drained out of his face when his wife said, “Bless you all for trying to help,” in a faint dry croak.

  His eyes dropped to his hands, which were smeared with blood.

  "I'll prepare you something—” Kassy could barely get the words out. “Something to help build your strength back up."

  She stayed to wash the mixing bowls and the pan she had used to make the cake while Paulina wiped off the birthing stool and swept the floor, and the midwife burned twice-blessed herbs in the four corners of the house.

  Kassy carefully taught Paulina the Psalm for these occasions in plain Czech so that the simple folk would understand and take comfort from the words: If I say that the darkness shall cover me, and the light be night about me, I must remember that the darkness and the light are alike to Thee, for Thou hast formed my innards; Thou hast knit me together in my mother's womb. I will praise thee, for I am wondrously made. Thine eyes did see my unformed flesh, and all my days are written in Thy book.

  The girl wanted to learn more, but Kassy told her to think about it long and hard because there was precious little room in this world for women like herself.

  Eventually, Kassy had to trudge back toward her campfire through the drizzling rain, ignoring the eyes of men and the filthy barefoot boys fondling bits of wood and stone to hurl at the effigy of a Jew that was being raised in the town square. The villagers listened open-mouthed as the local priest condemned the straw man of okrucienstwo Zydowskie, Jewish bestiality, then set the hateful thing on fire.

  Kassy was fighting off the oppressive feeling that nothing would ever make the pain of this failure go away. But something else weighed heavily on her mind as well, the creeping sensation that the ways of the wise women were slowly disappearing, and she couldn't help wondering if she had been born in the wrong place at the wrong time, maybe even the wrong century altogether.

  She found a little gift from her feline friend waiting for her on the ground beside the dying embers. A small gray mouse lay on the dirt, its legs stiff and lifeless. She was grateful that the cat had made a clean kill of it because even mouse blood would have bothered her just then.

  "Good girl,” she said, kneeling to scratch behind the cat's ears and running her fingers through her thick orange-black fur. Then she picked up the mouse by the tail and tossed it into the woods.

  She rewarded the cat with another bite of meat. Then she fanned the coals until the fire came back to life, laid a piece of wood on the newly-glowing embers, and sat in front of the fire for a good long while, waiting for the dull flames to warm her up.

  She closed her eyes, but she still saw the clotted clumps of scarlet and the shiny blue skin of the stillborn child like scenes from a magic lantern. The images made her shudder. Because the wise wo
men who helped to coax difficult babies into this world labored under the constant suspicion that when no one was watching, they would go slinking off into the night with the blood-gorged remains of the afterbirth and umbilical cord to perform black magic with them, and God help you if they accused you of offering the child up to the Devil by killing it at the moment of delivery. She had watched helplessly as an old woman was stoned to death on the steps of the cathedral for just such a crime. She could still hear their voices:

  "What are the charges against me?” the woman had demanded.

  "You should be able to figure them out for yourself,” her accuser replied.

  Kassy squeezed the cross around her neck. She could just picture herself trying to explain to an examining magistrate who didn't know a birth canal from a carpenter's bit that sometimes it just happens that way—a child is stillborn, and you are left with empty hands. There's no evil involved, it's just nature's way.

  The cat brushed against her leg, looking for attention.

  "Now what?” she said. “Don't tell me I need to think up a name for you."

  She scratched the cat under the chin.

  "But you must have one already. What is it? Calixta? Pyewacket? Nibbles?"

  Then she heard it. She looked to the west. At first it looked like a cluster of stars gliding toward her through the forest. But the flickering shadows were all too human.

  Villagers with torches.

  They came after her with ropes to tie her hands and chains to weigh her down, for the rivers were deep and swift in this part of the wilderness.

  Kassy grabbed her bundle and ran to the northeast, leaving the gamecock and all else behind.

  The shadows grew longer, and a thick darkness spread over the land.

  Copyright © 2010 Kenneth Wishnia

  * * * *

  Editor's Note: Look for Kenneth Wishnia's story “Between Minkhe and Mayrev,” a sequel to “Burning Twilight,” next month. These two stories tie into his upcoming novel The Fifth Servant.

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  Fiction: BOUNDARY BRIDGE by Stephen Ross

  The Waikato River flowed through Hamilton like a dark freeway. I spent afternoons sitting at the table in the living room staring down at its cool, shady water. Any day, damn it, I was going to jump in and hitch a ride out of town.

  It was summer. I was staying in a small bungalow on the edge of the city, and the weather was killing me. It was hot and humid, and no better in the shade. The atmosphere was suffocating and damp. It was like being slow cooked in an oven bag with a hunk of beef and a dozen potatoes.

  The weather was in Celsius, which was a language I didn't speak. Hamilton was in New Zealand—several thousand miles and the Pacific Ocean away from the dry air of El Segundo, near LAX, which was my ever-loving home. Waikato is a Maori word, it means “flowing water.” River is an English word, it also means “flowing water.” Go figure.

  The buzzer on the front door chirped. I'd been expecting it. I'd put in a phone call to the local police. I'd seen someone jump into that flowing water, and I thought they should know about it.

  * * * *

  "Would you mind not smoking?” Detective Shannon asked. He was in his thirties, smart suit, stocky frame, hair shaved down to a shadow. His tone suggested there wasn't a question mark at the end of the sentence.

  I stubbed out my cigarette.

  Detective Shannon was seated on the purple sofa. He had nowhere to go in a hurry. He was leaning back, an ankle resting on a knee, and slowly rotating a black mobile phone about in the grip of his left hand. “What did you see?"

  "I saw a kid jump into the river."

  "Where did he jump into the river?"

  I pointed out the window. “He jumped from the bridge."

  Shannon leaned to one side. He looked past me. A large, wide window afforded the living room a view of the river—there was a bridge over it, about a hundred yards downstream.

  "The Boundary Road Bridge?"

  "I was sitting here, at the table, like I am now, and something caught my eye. I looked over to the bridge, and I saw a kid jump. He hit the water head first."

  Shannon sat back. He noted the computer laptop on the table in front of me. Next to it was a Kiwi-English dictionary and a copy of the New Zealand Police Manual. He recognized the manual. Well, he would.

  "I'm a television writer,” I explained. “I'm writing episodes for Humphrey Kemp."

  Shannon nodded. He knew the show. Well, he would. Humphrey Kemp was a local-made police procedural that had been on air for a decade. “How long have you been in New Zealand?"

  "Three months."

  He noticed the Band-Aid on my thumb.

  "I hit it with a hammer."

  "You're American?"

  "Yeah.” Did I sound like I was from Gdansk? “Did the kid die?"

  "He was a university student. His student ID and a library card are all we have to work with at the moment."

  "Did he die?"

  "We've only just taken his body out of the water. He was found two kilometers downstream."

  "Did he die?” I was taking a dislike to this fellow.

  "His neck was broken."

  I frowned a forehead of creases. “Why do you think he killed himself?"

  "Did you see anyone else on the bridge?"

  "I only saw the kid. He jumped."

  * * * *

  There was nothing distinguishing about the Boundary Bridge. It was a high, flat, narrow band of concrete held aloft by three slim support columns. It wasn't even the only bridge over the river. It was possible an architect or an engineer would find something of merit in the thing, but I wouldn't lay money on it.

  The kid hadn't jumped. I'd pushed him.

  I had started going for afternoon walks. I was not in my prime anymore, and my doctor back in California had recommended I get outside each day and get some exercise. He had also recommended my quitting smoking.

  Walking afforded a good opportunity to think about what I was writing and to work through any story problems on a purely mental level. No paper or pens to distract me. No phone. No computer cursor blinking with expectation.

  Every other day, I'd walk along Boundary Road and cross over the river. I'd follow the road for a couple of miles, and then I'd buy a packet of cigarettes from a convenience store. They called these “dairies” here—so named because they used to be the only place you could buy milk. Go figure.

  Earlier in the day, on my walk back from the dairy, I had followed a scruffy kid with his hair tied into pigtails. He had probably been walking into the city to buy drugs or start a fight. He had been wearing a black T-shirt, baggy black shorts, and red high-top sneakers. On his head had sat a pair of fat black headphones that looked like they'd fallen out of the 1970s—he had been listening to something that had sounded like a wood chipper grinding its way through a bucket of nails. I overtook him with brisk steps. The sidewalk was narrow, and he had been hogging the middle of it. Our shoulders had brushed.

  I glanced at him.

  He looked at me. It was a face of contempt—unshaven and crooked teeth. He said: “Fuck you."

  * * * *

  You could see my bungalow from up there on the Boundary Bridge. The bungalow had been built in the 1950s. It had a stucco exterior painted in navy blue and a tin roof painted in rust red. It sat up on the riverbank, surrounded by trees and a scattering of houses. It belonged to the man who was producing Humphrey Kemp. He had suggested I live in it while working. According to him—a pleasant fellow—it was a quiet spot and the currents of the river could be meditative. It was homey enough, I guess. Two days ago, I found a hammer in the closet, and I hung up a picture of my daughter. I hurt my thumb putting in the nail.

  I'd phoned the police after I'd returned to the bungalow. I'd wanted to immediately frame the bridge incident as a suicide. As it happened, I hadn't needed an alibi, but by phoning the police and reporting what I'd seen, I'd certainly created one. And anyhow, for my researc
h purposes, having a walking, talking example of local law enforcement come and sit on the purple sofa was an irresistible opportunity.

  I wrote a Columbo once. I had writing credits on shows as diverse as Ironside, Hawaii Five-O, Room 222, McCloud, and The Mod Squad. I had credits for nearly two dozen movies of the week, and I'd been nominated for an Emmy.

  In 1979, I punched a director. I'd been hired to write the pilot for Madeleine—a show about a retired beautician who solved murders using tea leaves and tarot cards. An elderly and respected actress had signed for the lead. I met with her at her home in Brentwood to discuss her character arc. In an expletive-filled gust of cigarette and whiskey fumes, she informed me she had taken the part solely to finance the extension of her patio, and she didn't give a blind rat's ass what her character did. I could Arc de Triomphe, for all she cared. The next day, the show's director and I argued over Madeleine's sidekick—a cat that could read minds and spoke with the voice of Jim Backus. I took out one of the director's front teeth. I still have a copy of my mug shot. The pilot was shot, and to this day the footage rots in a vault somewhere in Burbank.

  In late 1980, I returned to writing short stories and I started on a book. You do things like that when your phone has turned to stone. It was a lean time, a mayonnaise on bread and coffee without milk kind of time. And then, in 1984, my wife and daughter left me and I moved into a one-room in El Segundo, near LAX. My daughter's parting words were: “When are you going to get a real job, Daddy?"

  For the rest of the twentieth century, I carved out a pay-the-bills career as a crime writer. I wrote my Thackeray mysteries, I had two screenplays optioned by a British production company, and I had a short story make the short list for an Edgar.

  And then my publisher dropped me. In all, I wrote nineteen books featuring Will Thackeray, a down-at-heel P.I. who lived in El Segundo, near LAX, with a dog named Dobbin. Thackeray was me—a bespectacled old man, out of time and out of place, grumpily flicking cigarettes off the end of the pier at Manhattan Beach. The only difference between us was that he did something useful with his time, and my dog, Sedley, left after a month and moved in with the neighbors.