“What about you, commander?”
“I know someone who will help us,” replied Sidabras, before rushing out of the inn with the child in his arms.
Sidabras’ metal steed cleared the considerable distance to the Troubles in a flash. In fact, the journey was so quick that it would have easily impressed the famous racer Léon Serpollet – the holder of the new Land Speed Record, only recently achieved by him on the Promenade des Anglais in Nice.
The carriage spat out clouds of steam as it raced alongside the ponds, then made a circle around the Blots and Town Hall Square, before dashing across Pohulianka and ending up in the Blots’ Wet Square, splashing puddle water over everything as it rolled along. Sidabras realised it would be sheer madness to continue like this into the narrow slushy streets, and so he jumped out. Although God rarely crossed Sidabras’ mind, today he felt it appropriate to say a sincere prayer, asking for that person of utmost importance to be there. Ordering the driver to wait, he carried the boy into the depths of the Troubles, wading through mud and puddles.
The mech rat leaped off the stagecoach ledge and followed them, carefully circumventing the larger puddles.
A few minutes later Sidabras’ heavy fist was already pounding on the iron-bound wooden door.
At first a tiny window opened, and then the door itself.
“Where is Margarita? Is she here?” Sidabras panted heavily. On this occasion he had no time for niceties.
“Yes, she is,” the nun at the door nodded, her dazed eyes moving over the unconscious boy in his arms. “And what happened to this little child...”
Sidabras squeezed past the lady and ran along the corridor.
“Margarita! Margarita!”
A moment later he saw her running towards him, a wave of her hand directing him in the direction she wished him to go. She had of course noticed the bundle in his arms.
“Over here!” ahead of him she rushed into a corridor that ended at the orphanage’s treatment rooms.
Despite being a frequent visitor to the almshouse, Sidabras had never been to the treatment rooms before. With the boy carefully laid on the bed, covered with a snow-white sheet, he looked around.
The large square room only had two beds (each of them with its own bedside table) and four cabinets. They all held orderly rows of bottles and laboratory flasks of various sizes, boxes with labels in Latin, and some large herb-filled jars. One of the cabinets contained various medical instruments and containers, their surfaces exuding a silver sheen. In one of the corners, a large table covered with a cotton sheet was concealed behind a three part screen. The room did not reek of chlorine, as was customary in places of such description, but smelled of heather instead.
“This is in no way inferior to what Dembovskis has,” Sidabras looked impressed.
“It is possibly even better. I don’t know,” Margarita replied. She was sitting on a stool, her eyes fixed on the child’s face. “I don’t go to private doctors. If you had to tend to a number of children each day, you would not think of these supplies as being that great. But now tell me what this is all about. I will need some help!” – the last sentence was intended for two grey-habited nuns, who had just stepped inside the room: one of them young, while the other was quite elderly. The nuns nodded and left.
“You are my only hope,” Sidabras uttered.
While listening to the Legate’s story, Margarita set to work: she lifted the boy’s eyelids and inspected the eyes; holding his limp hand in hers she checked the pulse; then carefully parted his lips to see the tongue; before finally taking a close look at the nails. Her head moved up and down, a shadow of great concern over her face.
Both nuns returned, each carrying a large copper bowl containing steaming hot water. Margarita beckoned them to place one bowl on the bedside table next to the boy and, aiding herself with scissors, began to free him from his dirty clothes, which were firmly stuck to his skin.
“What are these?” she pointed at the soiled bandages. With them carefully removed, she inspected long bloody scratches on both arms and legs.
Sidabras moved closer.
“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “They look like bites.”
Margarita got off her stool and walked away from the bed.
With fresh bandages soaking in hot water, the older nun began to wash the half naked child. He lay completely still, not even stirring when the bandages brushed over his still-raw wounds. Margarita and the nuns put their heads together and exchanged a few words, and a moment later the sisters were gone.
Holding Sidabras by the elbow, Margarita took him to the window.
“It does not look good,” she said quietly, as if worried that the child might hear. “Of course, I am not a doctor, but life in the Troubles has taught me a lot. They need me here in a variety of shapes and forms – as surgeon, Alchemist, dentist and psychiatrist. I think the boy has suffered a shock. Someone or something scared him. Terribly. His pulse is barely palpable.
“Is it possible to help him in any way?”
“If you had taken him to Pilypas and Jokubas, they would have most likely told you no. They would have taken the boy over to the Bonifrati monks and waited for his own body to decide. Whether to live or die. He could come back to life in a month or in a year. No one is too concerned about children like this one. He does not look like some rich merchant’s son. And you don’t even know his name.” Margarita went quiet, then looked Sidabras in the eye before continuing, “Sister Liucia says that we could try to revive the child. But ... erm... how should I say it... in a rather unusual way.”
“Sister Liucia?” Sidabras knitted his brows. The name rang a bell. And then he remembered. A few years back, Pilypas and Jokubas’ hospital had been consumed by a scandal. People had turned against someone called Liucia who was said to have been making her critical patients drink some obscure elixir. The Truth of Vilnius got very carried away with the story, accusing the nun of making the potion out of deceased people’s body parts and practising black magic. The Health Councillor knew better than to believe such accusations, but the readers had demanded action. That was when Liucia vanished, everyone taking it as clear proof that she was a...
“Witch,” Sidabras said out loud.
“And so what?” – with her hands on her hips and her head lowered, Margarita was looking back up at Sidabras. “You want the boy dead? Stop paying too much attention to rumours!”
Sidabras touched her shoulder gently.
“Calm yourself. I’ve told you you are my only hope. Help the child.”
“Liucia is as much a witch as I am a juggler,” Margarita blurted out. Then she looked Sidabras in the eye. “By the way, it would be better if you kept your mouth shut.”
“I know,” Sidabras’ reply was curt.
The old nun – sister Liucia – appeared in the doorway again. She looked different. Dark bags had appeared under her eyes, while her forehead was covered with tiny drops of sweat, which Liucia kept wiping off with the sleeve of her habit. Sidabras’ eye caught a glimpse of a bandage over the woman’s wrist. In one hand she held a laboratory flask containing garnet-coloured liquid sloshing about; in the other, thick silver stick.
“Bring me the camphor spirit! The most potent one,” she said, and Margarita obediently responded by removing a metal bottle with a stopper off the shelf. “Hold his arms and legs. Hold them firmly,” she ordered Sidabras, and he obeyed her command without question.
Once again the nun wiped the sweat from her forehead, grabbed the boy’s chin and, with a swift movement of her both hands, opened the boy’s mouth. She rammed the silver stick between his upper and lower teeth in order to keep them separated. Margarita, a bottle of camphor spirit in her hands, positioned herself by the boy’s head, while Sidabras pressed down on the child’s legs and arms, as thin as reeds. He was worried throughout that he might press too hard and break the child’s fragile bones.
Sister Liucia pulled out the flask’s stopper. Contact with the air made
the garnet coloured liquid bubble and fizz.
“Camphor spirit, please,” Liucia ordered again.
Margarita removed the stopper.
The strong smell that coiled around the room made Sidabras’ eyes water.
The woman put the bottle to the boy’s nose.
At first all their efforts appeared futile; but after a while the child’s nostrils flared. Margarita pushed the bottle even closer.
Suddenly the child’s eyes opened wide. They were bleary and the pupils were dilated. The child strained to sit up, but Sidabras kept a firm grip on his arms and legs. The boy muttered something before trying to push the silver stick out of his mouth; failing to do so, he bit it in half. His eyes began to dart around, while his entire body was taken over by shaking – that’s how fast his heart was beating.
“Quick!” yelled Margarita.
Liucia tilted the flask and slowly poured the fizzy and gooey liquid, like tree sap, into the child’s mouth. She took great care not to lose a single drop.
The change was instantaneous. Sidabras could feel the child’s tense body relax, his eyes stopped darting around and began to clear, the dilated pupils returning to their normal size.
With the last drops of camphor in the boy’s mouth, the nun straightened up. Margarita put the stopper back in the bottle. Sidabras slowly released his grip.
With his breathing evening out, the boy closed his eyes but only to open them again in a short while. He turned his head from side to side and then propped himself up on his elbows and looked about the room, before scrutinising each of the three other persons in the treatment room one by one. Surprise was pouring out of his bright blue eyes.
“Where... where...” he rasped and then licked his chapped lips. Margarita rushed to his side with a glass of water. The boy emptied the glass thirstily and sighed. “Where am I?” he asked slightly louder this time.
“You are in safe hands,” Margarita was quick to reassure him.
Sidabras cleared his throat but, noticing the head of the orphanage looking daggers at him, decided to keep quiet.
“What is your name?” Margarita asked.
The boy looked puzzled.
“So...” he rubbed his forehead with his fingers. “Solomon. Solomon Klein.”
The Legate’s eyes narrowed. Here we go! Yet another piece of the puzzle falls into place. The same boy the Legionnaires had chased outside the Town Hall. The boy’s accomplices had revealed that he had burrowed himself out of trouble in the labyrinth of the sewers.
“How old are you?” Margarita continued.
Solomon shrugged.
“Where do you live?”
The child was quiet but his shoulders went up and down.
Sidabras beckoned to Margarita to move away from the bed.
“What is wrong with him?” he asked when the boy could no longer hear them. “I would like to ask him a few questions. Would his condition allow him to answer me?”
Margarita gave Liucia a sideways look. She walked over. The nun was no longer sweating, but her hands were still shaking badly.
“This elix... erm... this drink helped to bring the child back to life,” Liucia uttered softly. “Besides, it acts as a sedative. You can question him, but don’t push it. He might go back to where he was before. He had lost his sanity. Whether he has completely recovered and will tell you the truth – I don’t know,” she added quietly.
Sidabras nodded, went back to the boy and sat on the stool.
The kid looked up at him. There was an air about his eyes – that of naivete, openness, without a hint of understanding what the world was about. The boy had baby’s eyes.
Sidabras felt a tight squeeze on his heart.
“Listen to me, Solomon,” he began. “You are at an orphanage in the Troubles. No one is going to do you any harm while you are here. It is safe,” Sidabras was trying very hard to speak slowly and clearly. “And I need your help. You are the only person who could help me. This is very very important, Solomon. Will you help me?”
Silence.
Silence.
Silence.
Sidabras sighed, turning his despondent gaze to the floor.
He then got up and walked to the window. Margarita joined him there with her hand on his shoulder.
“He has recovered, and that’s great news,” she whispered.
Suddenly Solomon turned his head to the window.
“Yes,” he said clearly. “I will help you.”
Sidabras was overcome with the desire to throw himself at the boy, but managed to compose himself. He walked unhurriedly back to the bed and plopped down on the stool.
“Were you in a group of boys daubing the Town Hall walls?” his voice was very soft.
Solomon quickly nodded – he was obviously proud of it.
“And you concealed yourself in the sewer?”
“Yes,” the boy admitted. “They did not catch... they did not catch me.”
“Can you tell me what happened then?”
For a moment Solomon sat there, his eyes fixed to the floor.
“I ran... I was terribly scared as I was attacked by rats. Strange ones. I hit my forehead badly. Then... I woke up on a bench in a dark room. It had an iron-barred door. I wanted to escape but my fear was holding me up. And then I heard two people speaking in the other room.”
“What did they talk about?” Sidabras leaned forward for this answer.
“I didn’t really understand. About a hospital, about a labu... labo... laburatory.”
“Did they mention any names?”
“Yes. One of them said, “Soon, it will be really soon, Pranciskus.”
A loud sigh emerged from Sidabras’ mouth.
“And then?”
“Then they left. The barred door was opened and I heard...” the child exhaled but didn’t pause. His voice became more alert. “It came up to me. But it can’t breathe, it only clanks.”
“Who is it, Solomon?” Sidabras felt bewildered.
The boy tilted the head sideways, his eyes staring at one spot before him.
“A monster. Enormous, it was. Clanking all over, like. It didn’t touch me. It walked out through the metal-bound door and I followed it. I also saw...” he scratched his cheek. “I also saw a large room with some machines and a man in bed.”
“And where did you go?”
The child shrugged.
“Down the tunnels. I saw it. But not all the time. It would sometimes disappear.”
“But why did you follow behind the monster, Solomon?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you not scared?”
The boy looked at Sidabras.
“No... I was scared... I don’t know... But it led me out of the tunnel. I came out into the street...” He went quiet.
The old nun walked up to the child and stroked his head. She then tucked him in and left the room.
“What happened next, Solomon?” Sidabras enquired cautiously.
The boy pulled the blanket up to his face.
“The street was dark. In the agreed place I found a bucket with paint. I was supposed to write words on the walls... Copy them from a piece of paper. I took the paint and was about to write... But the paper wasn’t there... Then I...”
“You drew a monster,” Sidabras reminded him.
He noded.
“Yes... no... I don’t know. I wrote... and I drew it. Then I saw it again. It attacked a man. And then vanished. It must have gone back underground. But it will come again. It always comes back.”
The door opened, and in came sister Liucia with a cup in her hand.
With a meaningful glance at Sidabras, she extended the cup to the boy.
“Here is some tea,” she explained. “Drink it, it will warm you up. You must be tired,” she stroked the boy’s head again. “You should have a nap. When you wake up, everything will be fine.”
Solomon nodded in agreement and put the cup to his lips. With his eye lids becoming heavier and hea
vier, he soon drifted off to sleep.
Sidabras cupped his face between his hands. It was obvious – the monster was a bionic. A union between a mechanical machine and a living organism, according to the head of the Mechanics, Petras Vileisis. The object of the dreams of so many creators throughout the centuries, it had never came to life. Until now. The author of the monster: scientist Pranciskus Baltrus.
The same one who produced the mysterious drawings that ended up in the hands of Vanechka Skorik, who was later killed in the Cholera Cemetery. What happened next? It seemed that for some unknown reason the Vitamancers had decided to pause in their efforts and hide their genius in Novovileysk Psychiatric Hospital, away from prying eyes, where he was of no interest to anyone. However, they were not the only party to the game anymore. Someone else had pulled Pranciskus out of hospital and hid him underground. It is quite possible that he had a laboratory set up for him there, where his bionic masterpiece was completed and released into the streets of night-time Vilnius.
Many questions in this story still remained unanswered though: who was the secret player who helped Baltrus to construct a bionic in the short space of two weeks? What were the player’s goals? There was one thing, however, that Sidabras was absolutely confident about – the killings had to be stopped.
He breathed in and out and then looked at Margarita.
“Thank you,” he said lightly squeezing her hand. “But I have one more request. I would like the boy to take me underground.”
“What?” Margarita’s hand flew to her mouth. “Are you mad?” – she placed herself so that she screened Solomon away from him, as if Sidabras had decided to grab the sleeping child by his collar and drag him outside.
“He is the only one to know the way!” Sidabras sounded adamant. “Forever and a day – that’s how long I will wander around the underground tunnels without his help.”
“This is impossible!” Margarita shook her head. “Do you have any idea what might happen to the child if he goes back to this horrific hole?”
“Do you have any idea what might happen if I do not put an end to the killings? That creature could slaughter the better half of the city!” Sidabras growled.
Hour of the Wolf Page 43
