The Bohemian Magician

by A. L. Sirois

  The pears were small and hard, but he devoured half a dozen of them nonetheless and sat back licking the juice off his fingers and lips, sighing with relief. After gathering as many of the pears as he could comfortably carry he set out again along the stream course.

  Now that he had rested and satisfied his hunger Guilhem, to distract himself from sorrowful thoughts of Henri, began pondering what Itha and Hugh and Welf would say when he returned to camp. He could see the sneer on the big Bavarian’s face at the news of Henri’s death and that Guilhem had fled into the forest like a frightened animal. Pushing and shoving his way through the foliage, heedless of scratches, he felt sour through and through.

  He could not stop his thoughts drifting back to Henri. So many hunts and tankards of ale shared... so many battles and skirmishes... curse the Saracens for taking him! Lost in reverie Guilhem detoured absently around a large streamside stone. A noisome odor snapped him out of his memories. Had something died in the vicinity?

  He lifted his head, sniffing. Yes; surely some wretched animal had met its end nearby: the unmistakable odor of corruption filled his nostrils and he all but gagged at the intensity of it. He looked around. The body had to be within scant paces of him, but he saw nothing.

  Puzzled, he turned his head from side to side—then back, as his glance took in an immense old oak a few steps away. There was a large crevice between the twisted roots at its bottom, from whence the stench seemed to emanate. With his hand over his nose he went over to investigate. If the creature was large enough, like a bustard or a goat, it might be worth Guilhem’s while to hunt around for others of its kind that might fall prey to his sword.

  So taken was he with thoughts of food that he stepped into the hole without seeing the screen of branches masking it. A burst of fetid odor hit him in the face and for an instant he was certain that he had blundered into a hunter’s trap and would end his days on Earth pierced through with sharpened wood stakes—but instead he tumbled down a short slope into a larger burrow in which several bizarre creatures stood with drawn knives.

  They seemed as astonished as he was. Here, without a doubt, was the source of the stench he’d smelled outside. Each one wore a pointed little red cap. Guilhem groaned. Gnomes! I might have known. Here in the close quarters of their squalid den the fetor made his eyes water.

  Shaking off their surprise the gnomes advanced snarling on him, knives at the ready. He drew his sword, prepared to slay as many as he could before he was overwhelmed by their numbers.

  Suddenly the largest gnome halted and jabbered at the others. They leaned forward, squinting at the intruder, and Guilhem tensed.

  “Fairy friend!” cried the big gnome, throwing his arms out. “Is goot!”

  “Oh, no,” Guilhem muttered. These creatures were pestiferous, no doubt, and stupid, but like all gnomes essentially harmless. If they didn’t regard him as a threat, he would not end up spitted and roasting over a fire after all. With relief, he slid his sword into its scabbard. All he had to do was to get away from these little heathen monstrosities.

  “What do you here, friend?” asked the leader, picking his nose.

  “I was... fleeing enemies,” said Guilhem, knowing that it would be useless to go into further detail. The gnomes wouldn’t understand or care, but they could grasp the idea of avoiding an enemy. It was, after all, how they led their lives: by hiding from human beings and other foes.

  The lead gnome nodded. “We halp you,” he said. He examined what he had pulled out of his nose, and then pushed it back in.

  “Oh—wait. No, I’m fine, really. All I need is for you to tell me how to find my people. You see, we have a camp around here somewhere, and I’m trying to—”

  The gnome nodded again. “Understand. People! Your people. We halp you, yes.”

  “Uh, no, really, there’s no need for you to trouble yourselves.”

  “Is not a trouble, fairy friend!” So saying, the leader barked a command to the other gnomes and before Guilhem could protest further they seized him and bore him out of the chamber into a side passage. The smell here was so strong that Guilhem passed out for a few moments. When he came to he was outside under the stars, surrounded by the goblin-like gnomes.

  The leader thrust his face close to Guilhem’s, giving the duke a splendid view of the creature’s brown, carious teeth. “We halp!” the gnome said again.

  “I wish you wouldn’t. All I need is to find my people. My men. The soldiers. Understand?”

  “Yes!” The gnome gestured at his fellows, and they all raised their arms. The air crackled with magic. Guilhem winced. All his hair stood on end. Whatever power they were summoning curdled the atmosphere like heat above a fire. Invisible hands seized him, none too gently, and yanked him aloft. He couldn’t prevent himself from crying out in alarm.

  “Not being afraid!” called the lead gnome. A huge grin split his idiotic face. “Is no harm!”

  “Then let me down!”

  “No, no! We halp. We halp you. Is?”

  “No, not is! Is not; I mean, you needn’t, thank you.”

  “No trouble, friend.” He yelled a series of garbled syllables. Without warning Guilhem flew up into the starry night. It happened so fast his breath was snatched from his lungs, and he was so busy sucking it back in that for long moments he could give no attention to his plight. He revolved slowly as he ascended until he was facing back the way he had come. Jaw agape, he stared at the receding world. Before his wondering eyes the forest spread out, and the Black Sea beyond; then, after a few more moments, a curve of land and sky and sea.

  The Earth, he realized, was round. Well, it is as Pythagoras insisted, after all. I would lift a flagon to you, honored sir, were I able.

  The world dwindled as Guilhem watched. He realized that he was flying away from it at incredible speed. What had those blasted gnomes done to him? Would he continue to fly off into space forever? Would he die out here? He wriggled and thrashed but succeed only in turning himself around once more, so that he now faced the direction in which he traveled.

  And there, ahead, glowing and spitting off sparks as it painted a ghostly veil of light across the firmament, was the comet.

  It had appeared a week or so ago as Guilhem and his men marched out of Constantinople toward the place on the shores of the Black Sea where his forces and those of his Austrian allies were to meet. While some of his soldiers were terrified at the sight of the celestial visitor, Guilhem, an educated man, knew that comets were probably a natural phenomenon and had no more inherent meaning than a lightning bolt. In fact, to his thinking, they were probably akin to lightning bolts, and he suspected that one day the astrologers would uncover their true nature.

  This one resolved into a craggy boulder, growing ever larger as he hurtled toward it through the blackness of space. Holes and pits dotted the comet’s surface, and jets of greenish gas burst from it, causing it to wobble as it rotated on its axis. The weird sight fascinated him until he realized—I’m going to hit the blasted thing! He scrambled around in the emptiness, trying to swim off to one side to avoid a collision, but to no avail.

  “Aaaah!” He could not help flinging up his hands to ward off the impact as he shot toward the comet, faster than a crossbow bolt. For an instant, the object filled his field of vision. He squeezed his eyes shut and breathed a prayer. Then he struck it—and rebounded! Opening his eyes a crack Guilhem saw the pitted surface receding. He had caromed off it like a ball bounces off a wall.

  He craned his neck over his shoulder and saw with sick relief that he was tumbling back toward Earth. Hope swelled in him as the planet expanded. Perhaps the gnomes had done him a favor after all. They were magical beings, no matter their foul living conditions, ungodly stench and rude speech. He had said he wanted to get back to his people, after all. Surely they understood that he had arrived with an army of men, and this admittedly eccentric method of travel was simply their way of insuring his return to them.

  As long as I do not end u
p splashing into the sea, he said to himself. At least it’s gotten me away from those cursed Saracens.

  And indeed, he wasn’t headed for a watery death, he soon saw; but was falling toward greenery and mountains. Though unused to seeing land from above, Guilhem had pored over many a map and chart in his day. His current aerial vantage gave him a uniquely map-like view of the world. As near as he could tell, he was descending toward a region to the north of the Calabrian boot and east of England. Without outlines to identify the political entities he couldn’t be sure where he would land. Looks like someplace between Austria and Poland, he thought, staring down at the rapidly expanding sphere below.

  Faster and faster he fell; or perhaps it merely seemed faster because he now had a more familiar frame of reference than the blank blackness of the aether. He prayed fervently that the gnomes had included some provisions in their magic to ensure his safe arrival back on the ground. Otherwise, there would be no poems or songs written about this adventure.

  Not by me, at least. He had no time for further thought: a wide green carpet of forest now spread out beneath him, a-twinkle here and there with ponds and rivers.

  Were I not about to die I would think this lovely beyond compare. A lonely, fantastic death such as no man before me has ever experienced, with none to mark it. He sighed at the injustice of it.

  A moment later, however, he found himself sprawling on thick greenery near the marge of a pond with nary a cut or bruise to show for his ordeal.

  He stood and brushed himself off. Upon reaching up to adjust his hat, he found it missing. So be it, he thought, looking around. If that’s the worst damage I have sustained at the hands of those blasted gnomes, I will consider myself blessed.

  And now… where the devil am I?

  CHAPTER THREE

  IN WHICH GUILHEM QUARRELS WITH AN OBSTREPOROUS OGRE

  Somewhere in the forest on the far side of the pond a bird called. Aside from that, all was silence. Guilhem, still a bit dizzy from his passage through the aether, pondered his predicament. He had no clear idea where he was, other than an impression that he had landed somewhere in the bowels of the Roman Empire, north and west of Rome, near or perhaps in Hungary. If that were true, he was a long way from the Holy Land and his men. A worthy commander would set out at once for the encampment by the Black Sea where he had left them, and Welf and Lady Itha as well.

  First I must determine my location. Past the pond, the land sloped away somewhat to the east. Indeed, a small overflow stream ran in that direction. After washing in the pond to remove the ashes he’d smeared over his face and in his hair—had it been mere hours ago? He felt a pang of loss for Henri—Guilhem set out to follow the rivulet. Fed by others, it gradually grew larger. Heartened, Guilhem strode along through the forest. He assuaged his hunger with some wild berries he found growing in a thicket. It was thin fare but far better than none. With his stomach partly filled his mood improved and he cast off some of his sorrow.

  Around noon he came to a place where the stream emptied into a river flowing through a valley. Guilhem judged that the river was flowing to the north.

  There was still no sign of human habitation, but Guilhem felt confident that if he continued among the river he’d eventually come to some sort of settlement. He therefore kept to his course, whistling a tune that had lately occurred to him. Somewhere along the way—he wasn’t sure where or when—he decided to find his way back to the Aquitaine, if he could. He was sure that by the time he got there he would have thought of a convincing story to tell Phillipa explaining his abrupt, empty-handed return.

  The truth, that he had been flung up into the air by gnomes only to land in the trackless forests of—wherever he was—wouldn’t convince her.

  “It certainly wouldn’t convince me,” he said aloud as he marched along. But that was the problem with the truth, he mused. It often sounded so fraudulent.

  The land continued to drop away and open out by degrees until Guilhem was walking in a broad, forested valley. It had been afternoon when he had been ejected from the Holy Land, and the time seemed to be roughly the same here, for the sun was setting. He made himself as comfortable as he could under a sheltering pine and settled in for the night.

  * * *

  He woke at dawn, stretched, and set out at once, continuing along the river. Before he had walked for more than half an hour he saw a thread of smoke above the trees not far ahead.

  Coming to a boulder, he mounted it and scanned the countryside. The trees continued to all sides, but now another smoky thread had joined the first. Guilhem, certain that he was nearing a village and not a lone cottage, tidied himself as best he could. Though uncomfortably aware that he was travel-stained and unshaven, he proceeded with confidence, knowing his courtly manners were in place. He was sure he’d be able to charm anyone he met.

  A useful skill for a fighting man, he thought, whistling his new tune. Let there be a tavern there and I will perform for my supper.

  Sure enough, before long he made out thatched roofs and even a small church steeple amid the trees. Now he began to hear chopping, the lowing of cows, and children calling to one another in play. The language was Germanic, a tongue with which he had some familiarity. The path along the riverside became more pronounced. Ahead he saw a peasant leading a horse hauling a load of cut timber on a sledge. Over his shoulder the man carried twigs and trimmed branches in a sling. Guilhem hurried to catch up with him.

  “Good day,” Guilhem said. “What village is this?”

  The peasant eyed him suspiciously. Guilhem took no offense: it was wise, in these times, to be sure that one wasn’t being accosted by a brigand or worse.

  “I am, as you see,” said Guilhem, indicating the sword hanging at his side, “a knight.” He smiled as winningly as he could. “Of the Aquitaine, in France. I have lost my way in the forest and know not where I am.”

  The peasant, a squat fellow with greasy grey hair, seemed to mull this over for a few moments. “Ahead lies the village of Budejovice,” he said at last, with apparent reluctance.

  “And the river?”

  “It is called the Vltava. Around the next bend it meets the River Malse, and they become the Moldau.” The peasant squinted at him. “A knight, are ye?”

  “Yes, and a duke of my realm,” Guilhem said impatiently. “Your tone annoys me, fellow. Show some civility.”

  The man tugged at his forelock. “Arr, craving y’r pardon, please, lord. We sees few such as ye hereabouts.”

  Somewhat mollified, Guilhem decided that there was nothing to be gained by being overbearing. This clodhopper was not one of his estate’s villeins, after all. “And what country is this? What nation?”

  The peasant gave him a look that showed plainly that in his opinion Guilhem must be a great fool not to know where he was. But he kept his tone respectful as he said, “You are in the southern reaches of Bohemia, sire.”

  “Bohemia!” Guilhem all but shouted in surprise. He was far from home and the Holy Land both. A gust of irritation blew through him. What in the name of the Blessed Virgin had those gnomes been thinking? He blew out his breath. Of course, they had not been “thinking” at all. Not in the way that I understand the word, he told himself with resignation. Well, things were as they were. There was no help for it but to accept the circumstances and make the best of them.

  Guilhem made a slight bow to the man. “Thank you, grandfather,” he said. Striding forward he left the peasant behind to struggle with his horse and his burden.

  So here he was, at the confluence of the Vltava and Malse rivers, waterways of which he had never heard, somewhere in southern Bohemia, of which he had heard but knew very little. What is to be done? he wondered as he approached Budejovice.

  Ahead the path led across a small bridge over a stream, and beyond that to the village itself. Standing at the bridge was a rather fat man armed with a sword. Guilhem heard his idle humming. Doubtless this was someone charged with challenging strangers and turning away
those of dubious character.

  Guilhem strode up to him and explained his situation without going into detail. He couldn’t after all claim that he had been in the Holy Land scant hours before, and had been catapulted into Bohemia by “helpful” gnomes.

  Instead, he made up a story about having gotten separated from his company during a battle with robbers. The fat man eyed him suspiciously, but Guilhem was obviously educated and of means, and well-spoken into the bargain. With an admonition to behave in a civilized manner, the man stepped aside and allowed Guilhem entry into the village of Budejovice.

  It was an unprepossessing place, with a few modest dwellings, a tavern, and small chapel at the far end of the little settlement’s single street.

  Beyond that was the river, and a wharf at which a few small boats and rafts were tied. As Guilhem stood scanning the scene the peasant he had spoken to on the path passed on his way to the landing. Guilhem followed, curious as to the man’s purpose.

  The peasant reined in his horse, a tired-looking mare, and spoke to a wall-eyed, almost chinless man standing there clutching a sheet of foolscap. Clearly, despite his looks the fellow could read, a rare enough skill outside the church. It bespoke an education of some quality, a rather surprising thing in a village so remote. Two boys appeared and began unloading the sledge, piling the wood on one of the rafts.

  Guilhem walked over to the wall-eyed fellow holding the foolscap sheet. “I bid you a good day,” he said. “May I ask where this cargo is bound?”

  “Downstream to Prague,” said Wall-Eye without looking up. “About 75 miles from here.”

  “Prague? I see. And can I secure passage there aboard one of these rafts?”

  Wall-Eye looked at him now, frowning as he took in Guilhem’s garb: typical of a warrior, with a leather tunic over stout leggings, boots and a long sword in its scabbard at his side. When Wall-Eye spoke, his tone was a bit more respectful. “They don’t take passengers. But mayhap you could hire on as a guard,” he said. “There’s been a deal of trouble with thieves waylaying shipments of wood like this along the river.” He looked meaningfully at Guilhem’s sword with at least one of his eyes. “If you can acquit yourself well with thy weapon, you might ride along.”