Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 15

“Hmm, Strength,” Magdalena murmured. “Number eight. The eighth month is… August. August? Will I have to wait until August to see who these people are?” She had no doubt as to their reality. She quickly made a calculation. “August is… four months away!” she exclaimed.

  She stared at the card again. “Well, August is the eighth month. And the lion on the card might be Leo, the zodiac sign of August. So that all makes sense.” The image underlined the message of the card’s numerical identification. She drew the second card.

  “The Tower? That’s… number sixteen!” She had a little trouble making out the number in the dark. “There’s no sixteenth month. How can that work? Well… Oh! Sixteen is two times eight! Still ends up being August, though.” She was disappointed the card hadn’t indicated a briefer wait. She was also a little troubled by the meaning of the card, however. It implied radical, unexpected change. A disaster. Not as reassuring as the message of the card Strength, which implied wholeness and integrity. She drew the third card.

  It was number IV, the Emperor. It was reversed.

  “Number four. Half of eight. It still keeps coming back to August. And it’s four months to go, until August. And it’s reversed. I wonder if that changes the meaning of the number at all?” She knew it changed the message of the card. Reversed, the Emperor stood for a lack of self-control and an inability to see clearly.

  “August? Why August? What’s so important about August?!” It didn’t make any sense that after everything she had done tonight, she should have to wait so long to see the fruit of her work. For Fen’ka, who had waited so many centuries, another few months would probably mean nothing. But four months seemed like an eternity to Magdalena.

  She gathered the cards and put the deck back into her pocket. With a grunt, she pushed herself to her feet.

  Then it hit her. “Of course!” she slapped herself on the forehead. “How could I have been so stupid? The conferences! They’re in August! Those people are obviously not in Prague, not even in the Czech Republic. They need time to get here. And maybe some kind of cover to explain their presence here. They’re coming to be part of the conferences that Professor Hron’s friend in Oxford is organizing. That’s why he asked me to help organize them and work with his friend—what was his name? Theo? Theodore? Something like that. It all makes sense now!”

  Magdalena realized she was exhausted. She took the ritual dagger and sliced through the circle she had traced in the grass, creating a ritual “door” in the space. She walked through it and was about to go straight into the house and to bed when she paused and then slowly turned to look back at the yard.

  She could see the outline of the circle in the grass, faintly glowing in the blue moonlight. The marble platter was there, with the still-smoking brazier and the now-empty chalice; in the moonlight, the silver chalice seemed to shine with its own ethereal light. Her athame and staff she held in each hand. The fragrance of frankincense hung in the air, with a whiff of the scent of the other herbs she had burned when invoking Flauros and Halphas. What had she gotten herself into? Had she really seen visions in the smoke and commanded—not just requested, but commanded!—demons to do her bidding? She would clean up the ritual objects in the morning; the brazier with its coals would be safe until then on the marble base, she thought. No chance of a fire here tonight. But the way the moonlight played over the scene, the hazy remnants of the smoke, and the “Who? Who?” of an owl in the distance all combined to make her realize that a different danger had been set loose and nothing would ever be the same again.

  “Let them die suddenly but go down alive into the darkness!”

  (St. Nicholas’ Day, 1356)

  T

  his time of the year, just after All Saints’ Day and before the St. Martin’s Fast or Advent began, was always one of the archbishop’s favorite seasons. The early November air was chill outside. This morning it had smelled like snow would soon be drifting down from the skies. The stove in the corner of the room provided heat enough, as well as a pleasant, slightly smoky fragrance. Archbishop Arnošt smiled graciously at the old priest who stood before him. The older man looked only at his hands, both of which clasped the buckle of the belt that circled his cassock. He coughed nervously.

  “Father Matěj.” Arnošt needed to know the truth but was loath to frighten the old man, already so clearly uneasy in the bishop’s study. The prelate spoke softly, hoping that the old man could still hear his voice.

  Father Matěj looked up at the archbishop. This was the first time Matěj had met the bishop and he looked confused and frightened as if unsure why he had he been sent for.

  Arnošt decided the best approach was a simple, direct statement and a simple, direct question. “Father, you have come into Prague recently after serving the parish in Nymburk for most of your life. Nymburk is a small place, Father. Very small. What brings you to the great city of Prague?”

  Matěj coughed again. “It is a small town, Archbishop. I served a parish not even in Nymburk itself. A hamlet, really. A few miles outside Nymburk. Poor. The villagers have little enough to sustain themselves. I hoped to say Mass here in Prague and earn enough to eat and save enough to return to Nymburk. I am too old to farm or even garden for myself and did not want to be a difficulty for my parish, Archbishop. I thought that if I were given alms here to offer the Holy Sacrifice, then I would be able to give alms back home.” He looked at the prelate again. “I never meant to steal alms from the priests of Prague, Reverend Father,” he added hastily.

  Arnošt shook his head. “No one has accused you of stealing alms, Father. I understand that you have been saying Mass at several churches in the four towns here and sleeping where you can find a bed.”

  Matěj nodded sheepishly.

  The archbishop stood and walked around his desk to the older man, taking him by the shoulders.

  “I have an idea you might find agreeable, Father Matěj. Perhaps you’ve heard that the church of Our Lady Before Tyn can no longer be used. The rectory attached to it is now empty. Although I cannot allow you to say Mass in Our Lady Before Tyn, I can permit you to sleep in the rectory and use it as your home while you are in Prague. I also regret that I cannot provide you with a housekeeper or cook, but perhaps you can manage without their assistance.”

  Matěj’s face brightened.

  Arnošt gently tipped the old man’s chin with one finger, bringing the elderly priest’s eyes to look into his. “I have also spoken to the priests at St. Nicholas’ parish on the Old Town Square, facing the Tyn church. I believe you’ve said Mass there once or twice, yes?”

  Matěj held his breath.

  “I have arranged for you to say Mass there whenever you wish, Father. I regret that I cannot lodge you with the clergy there, but there is simply no room. I may even need to place some of them with you in the Tyn rectory, but that would involve housekeepers and cooks and I fear there is not enough money for that. Not with the looming costs of the Tyn demolition and reconstruction. But for now, you may stay at Tyn and say Mass at St. Nicholas for as long as you remain in Prague. Whatever alms you are given will be yours to return to your parish with, though you will have to also support yourself here in Prague with them.” The archbishop smiled at Matěj, whose lip began to tremble as if on the verge of tears. “Is this agreeable to you?”

  Matěj clasped both hands of the prelate and kissed them graciously.

  “Thank you, Reverend Father!” Matěj exclaimed. “You have given me a greater gift than I had dared to hope for! This is truly a gift from God, a reward for my serving Him in a life of struggle and difficulty! Although I know no one in the four towns here, I know in my heart that God will care for me. Piety and good will never go unrewarded! Thank you, Archbishop!”

  Fr. Andrej, the most senior of the three priests that served St. Nicholas’ parish on the Old Town Square, had seemed happy to meet the elderly Matěj when he had introduced himself. The local priest had suggested that the newcomer start immediately to say a daily Mass at St. N
icholas, so as to become known to the townsfolk. Matěj leapt at the opportunity.

  Matěj was saying Mass this morning at one of the several side altars of the old church. Now that the Tyn parish was closed and no priest was available to say Mass there, attendance had surged at Fr. Andrej’s own St. Nicholas and the number of votive Masses requested by the townsfolk had become overwhelming, Fr. Andrej had explained to Matěj. “I am happy to share the alms given by the townsfolk with you,”he had told the elderly Matěj.

  “I am hoping to return to my hamlet and share some of those alms with its nearly destitute farmers,” Matěj had explained to Andrej.

  “I hope for your sake, Father Matěj, that you will be able to return home soon,” Andrej said. “But I hope for my sake that it will be a long time until you will save enough to warrant returning to your home!” Both priests had laughed.

  Although he had not said anything of it to either the archbishop or the senior priest at St. Nicholas, it was always difficult for Matěj to say any Mass other than that called “Requiem,” the Mass for the dead. He had never gone to any school and had been trained by the elderly priest in his home parish, more or less as an apprentice. The older priest had taken the then-young Matěj under his wing and shown him the basics of how to serve at the altar, how to perform the most necessary services for the rural parish flock, had taught him enough reading to be able to struggle through the missal that sat on the side of the altar during the services. Matěj had, over the years, nearly memorized the fixed—the “ordinary”—portions of the Mass but the variable texts—the “Proper”—were difficult for him to sound out, even under his breath. But he had said the Requiem Mass (so called from the first word of the first proper text of the service, “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine”) so often for his deceased parishioners and their deceased relatives that he had come to nearly memorize these texts, glancing at them only occasionally. Whenever he was asked to say a votive Mass—a Mass for a particular purpose or blessing—he was always glad when it was a Requiem.

  Anxious to make a good impression on the townsfolk and not wanting to look like a newly ordained priest stumbling through the Mass, Matěj had chosen to say the Requiem that morning. As he felt the words glide over his tongue and into the ear of God, as well as the ears of the altar boy and the faithful gathered behind the altar rail, Matěj could sense the presence of the angels and archangels, with all the company of Heaven. He had a clear image in his mind, as he always did when he recited the age-old prayers, of the deceased being granted at least a temporary reprieve from the darkness, pain and suffering of the afterlife.

  Memento etiam, Domine, famulorum famularumque tuarum quis nos praecesserunt… partem aliquam et societatem donare digneris, cum tuis sanctis apostolis et martyribus: cum Johanne, Stephano, Matthia, Barnaba, Ignatio, Aleksandro, Marcellino, Petro…

  Remember also, Lord, thy servants and handmaids who are gone before us… grant them—and us—a place and fellowship with thy holy apostles and martyrs: with John, Stephen, Matthias, Barnabas, Ignatius, Alexander, Marcellinus, Peter…

  It occurred to him to make mention of that unfortunate murdered priest—Conrad, was that his name?—who was said to be haunting the alleyway behind the Tyn parish.

  Following the Mass, after he had replaced the vestments in the sacristy, he stepped back out into the nave proper. “I hope someone comes up to ask for a Mass,” he thought as he looked across the worship space at the people moving about, lighting candles at the shrines and statues of the saints, pausing to say their prayers on their way out the doors. The fragrance of incense from the High Mass on Sunday still lingered in the air.

  He saw a woman bustling in his direction; his first request for a votive Mass here at St. Nicholas’ parish. Given how worried most people were about the salvation of their predeceased relatives, it was a good guess that when someone approached him to say a votive Mass, it would be for a Requiem. He smiled and reached out his hands to welcome his petitioner.

  “Excuse me, Father.” The woman was old, even older than Matěj. She was bent double, with long, fly-away white hair that stood out far from her face, which was etched deep with struggle and hard experience. She was wrapped in two or three short coats over her multicolored skirts. A lumpy knapsack—filled with all her worldly goods?—nestled between her shoulders. One hand grasped a gnarled and knotted stick that she tapped as if it were a cane, though she put none of her weight on it. She peered at him, squinting one eye, a coin clutched tightly in her fingers.

  “Father, excuse me, Father,’ she repeated. Her voice was raspy, a high-pitched croak. “I understand that that you are new here in Prague?”

  “Yes, why yes, I am,” Matěj responded, prepared to explain where he was from and why he was here. But the woman cut him off.

  “Good. Well, good then.” She glanced about her, as if afraid to be seen talking with the priest. “Father, my grandfather died tomorrow. That is, tomorrow is the anniversary of his death. I would like you to say a Mass for him.”

  A request! A Requiem, no less!

  “I would be happy to say a Mass tomorrow for your grandfather, my dear,” Matěj responded. “What was his name?”

  “His name? Oh, his name.” The old woman glanced about again. “His name is—or rather, his name was Aleksandr.”

  “I will be happy to say a Mass for Aleksandr tomorrow.” Matěj waited for the old woman to make the next step in the negotiation.

  She glanced about, so nervously that Matěj guessed she must rarely—if ever—set foot in a church. Then she reached out to him and pressed the coin into his hand.

  “Aleksandr. His name was Aleksandr.”

  “Yes, of course. Aleksandr.” The priest slipped the coin into his cassock. He felt sorry for the little woman in front of him. She was clearly poor, possibly without a home and more in need of the coin than he was. But he had come to Prague to collect alms and if the woman had alms to give, it was alms he would receive. Although he had not looked closely at the coin, he assumed that it was one of small value and that the old woman must have one or two others to support herself with. Besides, hadn’t Christ himself commended the woman in the Gospel who had given her last two coins as alms for the Temple? Who was he, the priest Matěj, to refuse alms that the Lord had blessed a woman for giving?

  “And your name, my daughter? So that I may make mention of you as well in the offering of the Mass?”

  “My name? My name is Božena, named for my grandmother.” As she turned away, the old woman caught herself. “But… no! You must not mention my name in the Mass. Please, Father, do not mention me in the Mass. I need no prayers for myself. Just for my grandfather. Aleksandr. Make sure that the Mass is a Requiem.” She snapped her last instruction, her voice suddenly harsh and bitter. Then she was gone, out the door, before Matěj could catch his breath.

  “Make sure it is a Requiem? Why, of course I will say the Requiem for him,” the priest replied to the air where the hunchbacked old woman had stood an instant before. “What other Mass would I say for a man on the anniversary of his death?”

  Božena stood outside the church door, the November breeze brisk. Clouds scurried across the sky as she peered up. She headed across the square, pausing and looking over the roofs of the Jewish Quarter, towards the bluff across the river, near where Fen’ka had lived. Humanity flowed around her as merchants sold and customers bought at the myriad stands that filled the market square. Voices filled the air. Busy people. Happy people. Comfortable, well-fed people. People who, despite their faults, were mostly decent people. Should she go back and retract her request of the priest? Ask for the return of her coin? Ask him to not say the Requiem she had just paid him to offer?

  But, no. These happy, busy, decent, well-fed people were some of the same people who had burned Fen’ka that day nearly two months ago. She had seen Fen’ka dunked in the river and then had stood in one of the side streets off the Old Town Square and heard the screaming, saw the flames, smelled the fire an
d burned flesh. “I will not take back my request of the priest. I will let him keep the coin I paid him. He will say the Requiem for Aleksandr tomorrow,” the hunchbacked old woman growled.

  The next morning, Matěj hastened across the square to the church as the sun was peeking over the horizon and the market stalls were being erected in the square. A handful of the faithful were milling about the doors of the church as he approached and, as he entered, he saw more moving about in the shadows of the stonework. Candles glittered and sputtered at the feet of the saints. The altar at which he would say the Mass was already prepared: candles lit, crystal cruets of wine and water available on the nearby shelf called a credence, as well as the small silver bowl called a lavabo and the linen towel that covered it. Matěj entered the sacristy, donned the sumptuous black vestments set out for him, and nodded to the young man who would serve as his altar boy.

  The vestments were so much richer than any at his home parish, and these were not even the best of the black vestments the parish here owned. The chasuble was black damask, with embroidery of gold and silver depicting phoenixes and pomegranates—emblems of the resurrection. The stole, maniple, chalice veils, and other vestments were of the same fabric, adorned with the same embroidery.

  He kissed the stole as he placed it on the back of his neck, glad to have a place to say the Mass and glad there were parishes—even if his own humble one was not among them—able to give the worship of God the splendor it deserved. Even the poorest folk, such as no doubt included the old woman who had asked him to say this Mass on her grandfather’s behalf, deserved to see such beauty up close and experience at least momentary relief from the struggle of their lives outside the church doors.

  He and the altar server prayed before the great crucifix in the sacristy as other priests entered and prepared to say other Masses at other altars along the sides of the church. Picking up the chalice and missal, Matěj and the server exited the sacristy and walked in procession to the altar the young man had prepared earlier that morning.