Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  However, the wound soon slipped the girl’s mind, and she was up and looking through the wardrobe for something to wear.

  Mila was fond of beautiful clothes, and could afford them, as her guardian Nikodemas Tvardauskis was not only exceptionally kind to his foster child but also very generous. Wherever she went, she would always stop by a konfektion[25], where dexterous seamstresses offered their semi-tailored creations and were happy to finish them swiftly fitted to the slender figure of the girl. Mila was a fan of French silk, batiste and wool, and could be easily charmed by frills, long wide skirts and tight blouses, their sleeves decorated with intricate seams. The abundance of clothes in her wardrobe nearly caused it to burst at its seams, and picking one single ensemble was not an easy task. The girl finally decided on a long navy skirt, gathered at the waist and flared at the bottom, a light red silk blouse, which beautifully complemented her black hair, and a dark pink jacket with clusters of tiny buttons adorning its sleeves.

  The girl laid the clothes on the bed and looked around the room. It was not large. Apart from the bed, it also contained a wardrobe which was now surrounded by the cases that had arrived yesterday, and a dainty table by the open window, which framed the branches of an abundant jasmine bush trying to grow its way into the room. One of the corners of the room was taken up by a substantial chest, brim-full with a multitude of cushions. On top of them, spread out in most irregular positions, lay Scaramuccia, Pierrot and Columbina.

  Mila walked over to the chest and hesitantly bit her lip, trying to decide which doll she felt like spending her day with. Scaramuccia’s behaviour in The Icarus had undoubtedly been heroic but she was feeling slightly fed up with his escapades. Since today she was planning a stroll around the city of her childhood, she picked her most suitable companion – Columbina. Holding the doll in her hands, Mila applied gentle but firm pressure to the spot over the heart. Her fingertips began to throb as if she was touching a Voltaic pile. Gradually her entire body was overtaken by throbbing, while the hand clutching the doll grew very hot.

  Mila adored this feeling. From the old yellow-paged books that she had secretly read during her teenage years she was familiar with the subject of orgasm, but it was something that she had never experienced herself. In Kraków, she had had an admirer – a son of a wealthy butcher shop owner, who would often take her out on secret nocturnal dates in Florien Gardens. And although, in the company of the moon and the canal frogs croaking around the embankment, her admirer would work up a sweat, what she felt then was nothing compared to this – this was like giving away a small part of yourself and getting the entire world in return.

  The heat made her palm hurt but it warmed Columbina up, and she soon opened her large blue eyes and fluttered her eyelashes.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” Mila greeted her softly.

  “Goood mooorning,” Columbina replied, elongating her vowels slightly.

  Mila smiled back and quickly slipped into her clothes. The smell of pancakes was making her mouth water, urging her to hurry even more.

  “Where are we?” asked Columbina.

  “In Vilnius,” replied Mila. Mila often told her darlings stories about her childhood city, so this explanation was all that the doll needed. But she felt curious about something else.

  “What will we do today?”

  “We will go out for a walk. I will show you the most enchanting places in Vilnius.”

  “Can I take pictures?” the doll wondered.

  “You must!” Mila laughed. Her mood was on the way to a speedy recovery. The morning pains seemed like a part of last night’s nightmare.

  “A walk without pictures isn’t a real walk, is it?”

  “And what about them?” the doll glanced sideways as she could not turn head. It was enough for Mila to know what she was talking about.

  “Unfortunately they can’t go, darling,” she shook her head apologetically. “I can only warm up one of you each day. But we have uncles Nikodemas and Jonas here and I am certain they will come up with something useful.”

  “And then all three of us can go on walks together?” Even though the doll’s slight voice expressed no emotion, Mila could feel it being filled with hope and joy.

  “Of course, darling. But let’s go and have breakfast now. There might be some strangers there, so be careful.”

  “I will,” Columbina promised obediently.

  After a quick wash, Mila slipped on her modest black shoes, with low and slightly curved heels, cast another fleeting glance at the mirror standing on the table, and delicately descended the stairs. The aroma drew her straight into the dining room, where the table was already laid, the kettle was whistling its usual tune, and housekeeper Morta was stacking steaming golden pancakes on a large platter. Mila sneaked up behind the housekeeper and placed her hands over her eyes.

  “Lord Jesus!” the pile of pancakes swayed, escaping by a split second a fate involving the floor and the stomach of the fat tabby cat who had been rubbing up against the housekeeper’s legs. Luckily, Mila removed her hands at the last minute, successfully saving the pancake tower of Babel. Deprived of his prey, the cat meowed angrily, while Mila was enveloped in Morta’s floury embrace.

  “Hello my darling beautiful girl, so many summers and winters since I saw you! Let me have a better look at you.” Morta gently clapped her hands to Mila’s cheeks, then took her hands in hers and leaned back to examine the girl from head to toe. “But you have changed, God is my witness! I wouldn’t recognise you on the street. Living abroad has obviously turned out well for you. All the young men in Vilnius are bound to lose their heads for you.”

  “What would I need their heads for, Morta?” Mila laughed in self-defence. “I am happy with my own head. But the years haven’t changed you one bit, and you look exactly the same as I remember you. And Rolmops is just as he was before – the only detectable change being his turn to the chubby side.”

  When Mila bent down to stroke the cat, it hissed fiercely and backed away. He must have forgotten his old playmate, or was perhaps simply angry about suffering defeat in the battle for pancakes.

  Another minute and the girl was munching on the flat treats, dipping them in thick soured cream and homemade blackcurrant jam and maple syrup. Nikodemas was a great fan of the latter and his foster daughter had come to like it as well.

  Women in Vilnius were becoming obsessed with the slimming trend that had travelled here from London and Paris. The Truth of Vilnius had its own regular dieting advice column, and slimming palaces run by charlatans of all descriptions were springing up in Antokolis like mushrooms after the rain.

  This made Head of Alchemy Department Jonas Basanavicius foam at the mouth and, having reached the end of his patience, he issued a public declaration: “Any Alchemist who concocts and start selling yet another potion for the ideal figure will be immediately excluded from the Guild, his Alliance Licence will be revoked and the selling of his brew will be limited to the Pivasiunai Church Festival.”

  Meanwhile, Mila was gobbling down pancakes to her heart’s content. She knew that obesity was not something that she would ever have to worry about. But it has to be said that she would have been glad to swap it for a few of her own problems.

  While housekeeper Morta was happily busy putting away crockery and Rolmops was nowhere to be seen, Mila, her hunger sated to her satisfaction, quietly wondered.

  “Where is uncle Nikodemas?”

  “Where could he be?” replied Morta. “Same place as usual. Nothing has changed. He gets up before the rooster, then has breakfast and goes to his cave. I keep telling him that I can come earlier and cook for him, but he is not interested.”

  With half an ear on the housekeeper’s narration, Mila gobbled up the remaining pancakes, washing them down with a glass of milk, then picked up Columbina, kissed Morta on the cheek and set out along a long corridor, which she knew like the back of her hand. The corridor took her into the depths of the old house. Mila turned left and down the sta
irs, then reached the most sacred and mystical place: the laboratory of Nikodemas Tvardauskis. Entry was forbidden for most, but Mila was an exception, as this room did not only guard her most precious childhood memories, but also her heart. Wherever she went – Prague, Varna or Kraków – she was always drawn back here.

  For every Alchemist, Hypnomant or Mystic, his laboratory was his fortress, where he rarely and reluctantly welcomed strangers. Tvardauskis was no exception to this rule. Since resigning from University Dominium, he had spent a fair amount of time here, but even Morta was strictly forbidden to come close to the room or even descend the stairs. He did not need to warn her twice, Tvardauskis’ housekeeper was terrified of him, and anyway, one glance at the mysterious hieroglyphics carved on the door, protected by a special code, was enough to make her start crossing herself. The only person to whom the code had been disclosed was Mila, and she could visit the laboratory whenever she felt like it. Tvardauskis had full confidence in his foster daughter.

  The girl was now inspecting the imposing metal door with a smile, surveying its six bloodshot eyes, surrounded by mystical symbols, shimmering as if they were alive, and six magic, coloured squares flickering underneath them. Without a doubt, Tvardauskis would have been accused of conspiring with Satan and executed by burning at the stake a few hundred years ago, but nowadays only superstitious old ladies were still wary of such signs. And who knew – maybe in a few years they would become regular protection for any city dwellers’ home. Nevertheless, in certain respects the scientist did go too far.

  “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder[26],” Mila smiled and, holding Columbina in her hands, punched in a certain colour combination.

  The eyes on the door closed, the light in the coloured squares extinguished, a hissing sound followed, then the clunk of bolts being pushed into the open position.

  With the door open, Mila stepped into the world of her childhood dreams. She looked around. Nothing seemed to have changed. Just like before, there was a large desk, a drawing board and shelves full of multi-coloured laboratory flasks. Miscellaneous tools were scattered over every unoccupied inch of surface, while the floor was strewn with drawings and documents, aged by time or careless handling. A massive chandelier from which dangled rubber bulbs cast light on this creative mess. One squeeze on a bulb and the laboratory was illuminated with blood red or pale blue ghostly light.

  A second, closer look at her surroundings, however, revealed something new. A machine containing bubbling water and emitting strange sounds had found its way into the corner between the impressive goggle collection and the Jacob’s Ladder, connected to the Voltaic Pile, a genuine ray of bright sun, its origin a total mystery, flooded the desk, while the difference engine – the latest invention of mathematician Charles Babbage – occupied the best position of all. Punched cards scattered around bore testament to the fact that it had not been placed there as a mere adornment. The only thing missing from the lab was its owner.

  “Can I take a picture?” Recovering from the silence that had been forced on her, Columbina asked the question, rolling her eyes.

  “You’d better not,” replied Mila, still examining the room around her. “Uncle Nikodemas might not like the idea of someone taking pictures in his office.”

  Mila lingered, and memories flooded her mind: tinted glass baby goggles, adjusted especially for her by her uncle, the insatiable desire to construct something, and the first little automaton – a clumsy creature resembling a rabbit, which she created all by herself. With its spring wound to its tightest, it could manage one jump before falling down on its head. Then more serious projects followed.

  After The Day that Changed Everything, she created her first real automaton – Moonface, who could be wound up to play the violin. Unfortunately, as Mila was leaving Constantinople, Moonface had become lost. But then one especially lonely and sad day she created three little automatons – her current friends Pierrot, Columbina and Scaramuccia. When warmed up, these toys could think and talk, which completely flabbergasted Tvardauskis. He knew very well what had happened on The Day that Changed Everything, and so he had spent a long time locked up in the laboratory with her, trying to throw some light upon the risks she could be facing as creator of these extraordinary toys if someone found out about them. Mila was no mooncalf and clearly understood his message, promising to be careful, but the task of resisting an urge to warm up one of these toys and take it along with her for fun was too much for her. Disaster ensued when she had drawn the omnipresent eyes of the Vitamancers at the New Year’s ball in Prague.

  Suddenly there was a flapping sound, and a winged creature blasted out of the other room. It flew frantically around the perimeter of the room, barely avoiding getting tangled in Mila’s hair, and disappeared behind the door again.

  “Aah!” screamed Mila and Columbina, suddenly thrown into fright.

  The sound of someone clearing their throat announced Nikodemas Tvardauskis’ appearance in the doorway. He wore a fine silk dressing gown and had pushed thick-lensed goggles to the top of his forehead. The flying creature that had startled them was perched on his shoulder. A closer look at the bird made Mila realise that it was made of metal. The weird creature let out a chirp, turned its head to the side and gawped at Columbina, causing her eyes to pop out.

  “My darling Mila,” Tvardauskis was obviously happy to see her. “Are you up already? I thought yesterday’s adventure would have tired you out and you would be sleeping until noon.”

  “Thanks to this brute, I was a split second away from losing my head,” Mila complained, regarding the bird’s wings, made of shiny steel.

  “Yes yes, that could have been a possibility,” the scientist nodded absent-mindedly. “The Iron Nightingale has not yet learned to deal with unexpected obstacles. But I am not much smarter than he. How could I forget that you know the password?”

  “What else can he do? What do you use him for?” the girl enquired, examining the bird.

  Tvardauskis extended his arm and the bird clambered over to his palm. A gentle shake of his hand made the Iron Nightingale fly and perch on Mila’s shoulder, from where he angled his head and redirected his glistening button-like eyes to his new owner.

  “This is a joint creation,” Tvardauskis explained. “The Alchemists wanted to try out a new, strikingly light metal alloy. The Mechanics are struggling to design parts that could move like the wings of a bird for use in biplanes. And the Dominium is consumed by the idea of moving pictures, i.e. whether or not cameras obscuras could be installed in a flying object. It could prove useful in many respects; in reconnaissance, in investigative actions as well, as in the protection of the city.”

  “And I have been told that you have forsaken your University matters,” the tip of Mila’s index finger stroked the Iron Nightingale’s beak. The automaton’s eyes opened wide, their colour changing from green to blue. “Hey, he likes it!” she added happily.

  “He reacts to touch,” Nikodemas explained and nodded. “Yes, it is true I have left the Dominium but its members can never find any common ground, so they still come to me for help. Only quietly, without their superiors knowing about it. You think I can refuse my old friends’ requests?”

  Mila looked around the laboratory.

  “I can see some new things in here, uncle, and some of them look quite enchanting. What is that?” she inquired, pointing at the sunrays streaming over the desk.

  “Oh it’s nothing special,” Tvardauskis replied. “As my neighbours in Zverynas say, it’s only a hobby.” But little sparks in the eyes of the scientist spoke of this hobby meaning quite a lot to him. Tvardauskis took Mila over to the desk. “I am playing games with the sun,” he continued. “If I could succeed in harnessing its energy, our famous promethelium would suddenly be no more than child’s play. Labourers have made openings in the roof and the walls, into which I have placed little mirrors. Now I have the sunshine streaming right down into my cellar.”

  “You are planning to har
ness the sun, uncle?”

  The scientist laughed.

  “I admit it is no simple task. I even had the Babbage machine sent over to me from Kraków. I must admit, though, it is rather impressive. Just thinking of the endless possibilities of applying it makes my head spin – factories, airships, universities. That is a future worth dreaming about...”

  “Uncle, we need to talk,” Mila interrupted. She knew that the deeper the scientist went into his subject, the harder it would be to stop him. So she cut him short before his story started gathering momentum.

  In a wink of an eye Tvardauskis turned into a different person – the self-absorbed scientist became a concerned guardian.

  “Of course, my darling. Let’s go to my room and sit down. We can have some hot tea. But you must have had your breakfast already.”

  As far back as Mila could remember, amidst the abundant books in this tiny room, there was always a steaming teapot on a little table, squashed between two soft arm chairs. All the rare guests of the scientist knew that a cup of aromatic tea, which he would occasionally order from faraway Darjeeling in India, was the actual fuel of his life. Mila sank into the armchair, put Columbina beside her, and watched her uncle potter around the teapot, a blue flame slowly dancing underneath. She extended her arm and the Iron Nightingale lifted off from her shoulder and touched down on the back of the armchair.

  Pouring the tea, Tvardauskis glanced at Columbina from the corner of his eye.

  “How are you, little one?” he asked.

  “I am fine, thank you,” the doll replied politely, which made Nikodemas giggle under his breath.

  With her lips on the brim of the cup and her eyes closed, Mila took a sip of her tea and, as if riding the waves of the magical ether, she was taken back to her childhood. She opened her eyes to find Nikodemas staring at her. The scientist nodded knowingly.