Posts Tagged ‘book-review’

Alraune: Chapter 13, pages 307- 312

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fiction, love, writing on November 29, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

She excused herself primly; it had only been a thought of her
mother’s. There was no need for the Fräulein to trouble herself over
it. She only hoped that the unpleasant incident hadn’t brought any
stormy clouds into their friendship–She chatted on without stopping
to think, senseless and pointless. She didn’t catch the severe glance of
her friend and crouched warmly under the green glowing eyes of
Fräulein ten Brinken, like a wild forest rabbit in a cabbage patch.
Frieda Gontram became restless. At first she was angered at the
immense stupidity of her friend, then found her manner tasteless and
laughable.
“No fly,” she thought, “ever flew so clumsily to the poisoned
sugar.”
But finally, the more Olga chatted under Alraune’s gaze, the
more quickly her own sulking feelings awoke under their normal
covering of snow and she tried very hard to repress them. Her gaze
wandered across, fastened itself passionately on the slender body of
Prince Orlowski.
Alraune noticed it.
“I thank you, dear Countess,” she said. “What you’ve told me
relieves me very much.”
She turned toward Frieda Gontram, “The Legal Councilor has
told me such horror stories about the certain ruin of the princess!”
Frieda searched for a last reserve and gave herself a violent
shake.
“My father is right,” she declared bluntly. “Naturally the collapse
is unavoidable–The princess will have to sell her little castle–”
“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” declared the countess. “We are never
there anyway!”
“Be quiet,” cried Frieda. Her eyes clouded, she felt that she was
entirely, without a doubt, fighting for a lost cause.
“The princess will have to rent out rooms in her household, will
have difficulty adjusting to her new life style. It is doubtful if she will
be able to keep her car, most likely not.”
“What a shame!” piped the black prince.
“She will also have to sell her horses and carriages,” Frieda
continued. “Most of the servants will have to be let go–”
Alraune interrupted her, “What will you do Fräulein Gontram?
Will you stay with the princess?”
She hesitated at the question, it was totally unexpected.
“I,” she stammered, “I–but most certainly–”
At that Fräulein ten Brinken piped up, “Of course it would make
me very happy if I were permitted to invite you to my house. I am so
alone. I need company–come to me.”
Frieda fought, wavered a moment.
“To you–Fräulein–?”
But Olga stepped between them, “No, no! She must stay with
us!–She is not allowed to leave my mother now.”
“I was never at your mother’s,” declared Frieda Gontram. “I was
with you.”
“That doesn’t matter!” cried the countess. “With me or with her–
I don’t want you to stay here!”
“Oh, pardon me,” mocked Alraune. “I believed the Fräulein had
a will of her own!”
Countess Olga stood up, all of the blood drained from her face.
“No,” she screamed. “No, no!”
“I take no one that doesn’t come of their own free will,” laughed
the prince. “That is my mark. I will not even urge–Stay with the
princess if you really want to Fräulein Gontram.”
She stepped up closer to her, grasped both of her hands.
“Your brother was my good friend,” she said slowly, “and my
playmate–I often kissed him–”
She saw how this woman, almost twice her age, dropped her
eyes under her gaze, felt how her hands became moist under the
lightest touch of her fingers. She drank in this victory. It was
priceless.
“Will you stay here?” she whispered.
Frieda Gontram breathed heavily. Without looking up she
stepped over to the countess.
“Forgive me Olga,” she said. “I must stay.”
At that her friend threw herself onto the sofa, buried her face in
the pillows. Her body was wracked with hysterical sobbing.
“No,” she lamented. “No, no!”
She stood up, raised her hand as if to strike her friend, then burst
out into shrill laughter. She ran down the stairs into the garden,
without a hat, without a parasol, across the courtyard and out into the
street.
“Olga,” her friend cried after her. “Olga!–Listen to me! Olga!”
But Fräulein ten Brinken said, “Let her be. She will calm down
soon enough.”
Her haughty voice rang–
Frank Braun breakfasted outside in the garden under the elder
tree. Frieda Gontram gave him his tea.
“It is certainly good for this house,” he said, “that you are here.
One never sees you doing anything, but everything runs like
clockwork. The servants have a strange dislike of my cousin and have
fallen into a passive resistance. The people have no idea of class
warfare, but they have already reached a point of sabotage. An open
revolution would have broken out long ago if they didn’t have a bit of
love for me. Now you are in the house–and suddenly everything runs
by itself–I give you my compliments Frieda!”
“Thank you,” she replied. “I am happy that I can do something
for Alraune.”
“Only,” he continued, “you are missed all the more over there.
Everything has gone topsy-turvy since the bank has stopped
payments. Here, read my mail!”
He pushed a few letters over to her. But Frieda Gontram shook
her head.
“No– excuse me–I don’t want to read, don’t want to know
anything about it.”
He insisted, “You must know, Frieda. If you don’t want to read
the letters, I will give you the short version. Your friend has been
found–”
“Is she alive,” whispered Frieda.
“Yes, she’s alive!” he declared. “When she ran away from here
she got lost and wandered around through the entire night and the
next day. At first she must have gone inland toward the mountains,
then curved back to the Rhine.
People on a ferryboat saw her not far from Remagen. They
watched her and stayed nearby. Her behavior seemed suspicious and
when she jumped from the cliff they steered over to her and fished her
out of the river after a few minutes. That was about noon, four days
ago. They brought her struggling and fighting to the local jail.”
Frieda Gontram held her head in both arms.
“To jail?” she asked softly.
“Certainly,” he answered. “Where else could they have taken
her? It was obvious that she would immediately try to commit suicide
again if they let her go free–So she was taken into custody.
She refused to give any information and remained stubbornly
silent. She had long since thrown away her watch, purse and even her
handkerchief–No one could make any sense out of the crown and the
initials in her linen undergarments. It was only when your father
reported her missing to the authorities that they were able to figure it
out and establish her identity for certain.”
“Where is she?” asked Frieda.
“In the city,” he replied. “The Legal Councilor picked her up
from Remagen and brought her to Professor Dalberg’s private insane
asylum. Here is his report–I fear that Countess Olga will need to stay
there for a very long time. The princess arrived yesterday evening–
Frieda, you should visit your poor friend soon. The professor says that
she is quiet and calm.”
Frieda Gontram stood up.
“No, no.” she cried. “I can’t.”
She went slowly down the gravel path under the fragrant lilacs.
Frank Braun watched her go. Her face was like a marble mask, like
fate had chiseled it out of hard stone. Then suddenly a smile fell on
that cold mask, like a ray of sunshine reaching deep into the shadows.
Her eyelids raised, her eyes searched through the red beech lined
avenue that led up to the mansion–Then he heard Alraune’s clear
laughter.
“Her power is strange,” he thought. “Uncle Jakob really had it
right in his leather bound volume of musings.”
He thought about it. Oh yes, it was difficult for Frieda to be away
from her. No one knew what is was, and yet they all still flew into her
hot burning flame–What about him? Him as well?
There was something that attracted him, that was certain. He
didn’t understand how it worked, on his senses, on his blood or
perhaps on his brain–But it did work, he knew that very well. It was
not true that he was still here because of the lawsuits and settlements
alone. Now that the case of the Mühlheim bank had been decided, he
could easily finish everything up with the help of the attorney–
without personally being here.
And yet he was here–still here. He was pretending, lying to
himself, skillfully creating new reasons, protracting the lengthy
negotiations as much as possible, in order to put off his departure.
And it seemed that his cousin noticed it as well. Yes, even as if her
quiet influence made him act that way.
“I will go back home tomorrow,” he thought.
Then the thought sprang out from the nape of his neck, “Why
should he? Was he afraid of something? Did he fear this delicate
child? Was he infected by the foolishness that his uncle had written
down in his leather bound volume? What could happen? In the worst
case a little adventure! Certainly not his first–and scarcely his last!
Was he not an equal opponent, perhaps even superior? Didn’t bodies
lie along the life’s path that his feet had trod as well? Why should he
flee?
He created her once, he, Frank Braun. It had been his idea and
his uncle had only been the instrument. She was his creation–much
more than she was that of his Excellency. He had been young at the
time, foaming like new wine, full of bizarre dreams, full of heaven
storming fantasies. He had played catch with the stars and from them
had captured this strange fruit from out of the dark, wild primeval
forest of the inscrutable where his steps had led him.
He had found a good gardener that he had given the fruit to. The
gardener had planted the seed into the earth, watered it, looked after
the seedling and tended the young little tree. Now he was back and
there shone his blossoming tree.
Certainly, it was poisonous; whoever rested under it encountered
its toxic breath. Many died of it–many that strolled in its sweet
fragrance–the clever gardener that cared for it as well.
But he was not the gardener that loved this strange blossoming
little tree more than anything else, not one of the unknowing people
that wandered into the garden by chance. He was the one that had first
plucked the fruit that contained the seed from which it grew.
Since then he had ridden many days through the savage forest of
the inscrutable, waded deeply through the sweltering, fever infested
swamp of the incomprehensible. His soul had breathed many hot
poisons there, been touched by pestilence and the smoke of many
cruel burning sins.
Oh yes, it had hurt a lot, tormented him and ripped open puss
filled ulcers–But it didn’t throw him. He always rode away healthy
under heaven’s protection–Now he was safe, as if wearing armor of
blue steel.
Oh, certainly he was immune–There would be no battle, now it
appeared to him more like a game. But then–if it was only a game–he
should go–wasn’t that true? If she was only a doll that was dangerous
for all the others, but a harmless plaything in his own strong hands–
Then the adventure would be too cheap. Only–if it really were a
battle, one with equally powerful weapons–only then would it be
worth the effort.
Fraud! He thought again. Who was he really kidding about his
heroic deeds? Hadn’t his victories often enough been easy and
certain?–More like episodes? No, this was not any different than it
always was. Could you ever know the real strength of your opponent?
Wasn’t the sting of the poisonous little wasp far more dangerous than
the crocodile like jaws of the caiman that goes up against the certainty
of his Winchester rifle?
He found no way out, ran around in circles, getting himself
confused as well. But he always came back to the same point, stay!
“Good morning, cousin,” laughed Alraune ten Brinken.
She stood right in front of him, next to Frieda Gontram.
“Good morning,” he answered curtly. “Read these letters here–It
won’t do you any harm to think about what you have been the cause
of–It’s time to stop this foolishness, do something sensible, something
worth the effort.”

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Alraune: Chapter 13, pages 301- 306

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fantasy, fiction, writing on November 28, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter Thirteen
Mentions how Princess Wolkonski told Alraune the truth.
LEGAL Councilor Gontram wrote the princess, who was in
Naulhiem undergoing medical treatment. He described the
situation to her. It took some time until she finally
understood what it was really all about.
Frieda Gontram, herself, took great pains to make sure the
princess comprehended everything. At first she only laughed, then she
became thoughtful, and toward the end she lamented and screamed.
When her daughter entered the room she threw her arms around her
neck wailing.
“Poor child,” she howled. “We are beggars. We will be living on
the streets!”
Then she poured heaps of caustic Eastern wrath over his dead
Excellency, sparing no obscene swear words.
“It’s not entirely that bad,” Frieda objected. “You will still have
your villa in Bonn and your little castle on the Rhine, also the
proceeds from your Hungarian vineyards. Then Olga will have her
Russian pension and–”
“One can’t live on that!” the old princess interrupted. “We will
starve to death!”
“We must try to change the Fräulein’s mind,” Frieda said, “like
father advises us!”
“He is an ass,” she cried. “An old scoundrel! He is in league with
the Privy Councilor, who has stolen from us! It was only through him
that I ever met that ugly swindler.”
She thought that all men were imposters, cheats and scoundrels.
She had still never met one that was any different. Take Olga’s
husband for example, that clean cut Count Abrantes–Hadn’t he
carried on the entire time with dirty music hall women, taking all of
her money that he could? Now he was living with a circus bareback
rider because the Privy Councilor had put his thumb down and
refused to give him any more–
“In that, his Excellency did do some good!” said the countess.
“Good!” screamed her mother–as if it didn’t matter who had
stolen the money!
“They are swine, the one just as much as the other.”
But she did see that they had to make an attempt. She wanted to
go herself, yet the other two talked her out of it. If she went there she
would certainly not achieve much more than the gentlemen from the
bank.
They had to proceed very diplomatically, declared Frieda, take
into consideration the moods and caprices of the Fräulein. She would
go by herself, that would be best. Olga thought it would be even better
if she went. The old princess objected, but Frieda declared it would
certainly not be very good if she interrupted her medical treatments
and got too excited. She could see that.
So both friends agreed and traveled together. The princess stayed
at the spa, but was not idle. She went to the priest, ordered a hundred
masses for the poor soul of the Privy Councilor.
“That is the Christian thing to do,” she thought and since her
deceased husband was Russian Orthodox, she went to the Russian
chapel and paid that priest for a hundred masses as well. That calmed
her very much.
At one point she thought it would scarcely be of any use because
his Excellency had been protestant and a free thinker as well. But then
it would count as an especially good work in her favor.
“Bless them that curse you.” “Love your enemies.” “Do unto
others as you would have them do unto you.”
Oh, they must surely recognize such things up there, and twice a
day in her prayers, she spoke a special plea for his Excellency–with
very intense fervor. In this way she bribed the love of God.
Frank Braun received the two ladies at Lendenich, led them up to
the terrace and chatted with them about old times.
“Try your luck, children,” he said. “My talking was of no use!”
“What did she say to you?” asked Frieda Gontram.
“Not much,” he laughed. “She didn’t even listen to all of it. She
made a deep curtsy and declared with a devilish grin that she
completely treasured the high honor of my guardianship and would
not even consider ending it for the sake of the princess. She added
that she did not wish to speak of it again. Then she curtsied again,
even more deeply, even more respectfully–and she disappeared!”
“Haven’t you made a second attempt?” asked the countess.
“No, Olga,” he said. “I must now leave that to you–her look as
she left was so determined that I am solidly convinced all my
persuasive skills would be just as unfruitful as that of the other
gentlemen.”
He stood up, rang for the servant to bring some tea.
“By the way, you ladies just might have a chance,” he continued.
“A half hour after the Legal Councilor called giving notice of your
arrival I told my cousin that you would be coming and why. I was
afraid she would not receive you at all and in any case wanted you to
have a chance.
But I was wrong. She declared that you were both very welcome,
that for months now she has been in very active correspondence with
both of you–that is why–”
Frieda Gontram interrupted him.
“You wrote to her?” she cried sharply.
Countess Olga stammered, “I–I–have written her a couple of
times–to offer my condolences–and–and–”
“You lie!” Frieda cried.
The countess sprang up at that, “What about you? Don’t you
write her? I knew that you were doing it, every two days you write to
her. That’s why you are always alone in your room for so long.”
“You’ve had the chambermaid spy on me!” Frieda accused.
The glares of the two friends crossed each other, throwing a
burning hate that was sharper than words. They understood each other
completely.
For the first time the countess felt that she was not going to do
what her friend requested and Frieda Gontram sensed this first
resistance against her authority.
But they were bound through long years of their lives, through so
many common memories–that it couldn’t be extinguished in an
instant.
Frank Braun noticed right away.
“I’m disturbing you,” he said. “By the way, Alraune will be
coming soon. She just wanted to get ready.”
He went to the garden stairs, then gave his regards.
“I will see you ladies again later.”
The friends said nothing. Olga sat in a cane easy chair. Frieda
paced up and down with large strides. Then she stopped and stood
right in front of her friend.
“Listen Olga,” she said softly. “I have always helped you, when
we were serious and when we were playing, through all of your
adventures and love affairs. Isn’t that true?”
The countess nodded, “Yes, but I have done exactly the same
thing for you, not any less.”
“As well as you could,” spoke Frieda Gontram. “I will gladly
admit it–we want to remain friends then?”
“Certainly!” cried Countess Olga. “Only–only–I’m not asking
that much!”
“What are you asking?” inquired the other.
She answered, “Don’t put any obstacles in my way!”
“Obstacles?” Frieda returned. “Obstacles to what? Each of us
should try our luck–like I already told you at the Candlemas ball!”
“No,” insisted the countess. “I don’t want to compete any more.
I’ve competed with you so often–and always drawn the short straw. It
is unequal–for that reason you will withdraw this time, if you love
me.”
“Why is it unequal?” cried Frieda Gontram. “It’s even in your
favor–you are more beautiful!”
“Yes,” her friend replied. “But that is nothing. You are more
clever and I have often learned through experience how that is worth
more–in these things.”
Frieda Gontram took her hand.
“Come Olga, she said, flattering her. “Be reasonable. We are not
here just because of our feelings–listen to me. If I can succeed in
getting the little Fräulein to change her mind, if I can save those
millions for you and your mother–will you then give me a free hand?–
Go into the garden, leave me alone with her.”
Large tears marched out of the eyes of the countess.
“I can’t,” she whispered. “Let me speak with her. I will gladly
give you the money–this is only a sudden whim of yours.”
Frieda sighed out loud, threw herself into the chaise lounge, sank
her slender fingers deeply into the silk cushions.
“A whim?–Do you believe I would make such a fuss over a
whim?–With me, I’m afraid, it appears to be not much different than
it is with you!”
Her features appeared rigid; her clear eyes stared out into
emptiness.
Olga looked at her, sprang up, knelt down in front of her friend,
who bowed her head down low over her. Their hands found each
other and they tightly pressed themselves against each other, their
tears quietly mingled together.
“What should we do?” asked the Countess.
“Withdraw!” said Frieda Gontram sharply. “Withdraw–both of
us–let what happens, happen!”
Countess Olga nodded, pressing herself tightly against her friend.
“Stand up,” whispered the other. “Here she comes. Quick, dry
your tears–here, take my handkerchief.”
Olga obeyed, went across to the other side.
But Alraune ten Brinken saw very clearly what had just
happened. She stood in the large doorway, in black tights like the
merry prince from “The Fledermaus”. She gave a short bow, greeted
them and kissed the hands of the ladies.
“Don’t cry, it makes your beautiful little eyes cloudy.”
She clapped her hands together, called for the servant to bring
some champagne. She, herself, filled the goblets, handed them to the
ladies and urged them to drink.
“It is the custom here,” she trilled. “Each to their own taste.”
She led Countess Olga to a chaise lounge and caressed her entire
arm. Then she sat down next to Frieda and gave her a slow, smiling
glance. She stayed in her role, offered cakes and petit fours, poured
drops of Peáu d’Espagne out of her golden vial onto the ladies
handkerchiefs.
Then she began, “Yes, it’s true. It is very sad that I can’t help
you. I’m so sorry.”
Frieda Gontram straightened up, opened her lips with great
difficulty.
“And why not?” she asked.
“I have no reason at all,” answered Alraune. “Really none at
all!–I simply don’t want to–that is all.”
She turned to the Countess, “Do you believe your Mama will
suffer very much because of that?”
She stressed the “very”–and in doing so, her voice twittered
sweet and cruel at the same time like a swallow on the hunt. The
countess trembled under her gaze.
“Oh, no!” she said. “Not that much.
And she repeated Frieda’s words–
“She will still have her villa in Bonn and the little castle on the
Rhine. Then there were the proceeds from the Hungarian vineyards. I
also have my Russian pension and–”
She stopped, didn’t know any more. She had no concept of her
financial standing, scarcely knew what money was, only that you
could go into beautiful shops and buy things with it, hats and other
pretty things. There would be more than enough to do that.

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Anarchist Knight Apprentice: Chapter 16 Samhain

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fiction, romance, writing on October 24, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 16 Samhain

Several hours later the sun was coming up. There was a fire blazing in the fireplace of one of the log buildings at the gathering spot and two Masters were standing guard outside the door as Ellen finished questioning Tobal. She absentmindedly pushed his parent’s things toward him and indicated that he should pick them up.

“I don’t know what to do,” she murmured softly. “There is no doubt in my mind that these things truly belong to you and that you should have them. If they had belonged to my parents I know I would want to have them. I am now also inclined to believe the rogues were somehow able to follow you. Perhaps they do have monitors. That would explain why we rarely see any of them. They would know when we are in the area and would hide.”

She turned a puzzled expression toward Tobal, “But that would also mean they are not from the village to the west of here. That village is totally primitive and has no technology. These rogues must be coming from somewhere else and they are interested in what you found at the lake. This might be very dangerous and your life might be in danger, all our lives might be in danger and we don’t know from whom. I suggest we keep this quiet for now and don’t talk to anyone else about it.”

“I need to talk with Rafe about it,” Tobal protested. “He already knows something is out there and so does Fiona. She was with me when we first found the gathering spot at the waterfall. I don’t want them to be in danger too!”

Ellen sighed, “Well, I will have to trust your judgement in this. Don’t talk to anyone unless you really trust them ok?”

Tobal nodded, “I wasn’t going to anyway” He chuckled. “I wasn’t even going to tell you until you cornered me about it.” He didn’t mention the slender silvery wand that was hidden safely in his pack.

Both Ellen and Tobal decided it would be a good idea for him to stay close to the gathering spot and around other people in case the rogues had specifically targeted him. So he spent most of the month helping Dirk and Rafe working up wood for circle.

Rafe asked him about his trip and was very interested but Dirk was always around and Tobal felt he needed to talk with Ellen first so he told Rafe to wait till circle. Rafe’s eyes narrowed a bit eyeing the amber and jade necklace. He didn’t ask anything more about the trip.

They were trying to get wood ahead so there would be an ample supply during a snowstorm or blizzard. There was already one foot of snow and travel was getting difficult. With Tobal’s help Rafe and Dirk got a lot of wood brought into camp. Rafe was becoming more confident and sure of himself. He was also growing taller and filling out. The constant backbreaking work of chopping wood with stone axes seemed to be putting muscle on him too. The Chevrons on his sleeve proclaimed he had won three fights and he was learning how to take care of himself.

The first week, exhaustion pulled Tobal into a restless sleep after a long day of chopping. A stormy dream gripped him—Rachel lunged through the mist, her chains clanking as she grabbed his arm, her tear-streaked face glowing faintly. “Harry’s searching for you—stay hidden!” she cried, the air thick with damp stone and rust. He thrashed awake, sweat soaking his furs, clutching the medallion as it pulsed with a warm, frantic beat.

By the second week, the medallion’s weight grew heavier as Tobal dozed under a ledge. Ron strode through a misty vision, his hands slamming against a shimmering force field, its blue light crackling as he pushed Tobal toward it. “The cave hides a secret—find it!” he roared, the ground trembling under Tobal’s feet. Tobal jolted up, heart pounding, gripping the medallion as its pulse quickened, the air heavy with ozone.

Late in the fourth week, after a grueling day, Tobal’s sleep turned dark. Ron and Rachel staggered toward him in a dim, echoing cave, their chains dragging with a metallic screech as they pulled him into the shadows. “The Nexus calls, their souls can’t rest!” they wailed, their ghostly hands brushing his face with a cold sting. He woke, gasping, the medallion pulsing rapidly, its heat searing his palm.

Tobal wore the jet and amber necklace around his neck and kept the ceremonial dagger in the sheath strapped to his ankle. Each day he took them out and looked at them. They were the only things he had that came from his parents. He wanted to go back to the cave but knew it was more dangerous than ever. He put the two plastic hospital bracelets in his medicine bag and carried it on a leather thong around his neck. He snuck away from Rafe and Dirk for a few hours to be alone, saying he wanted to go hunting for venison.

It was the wand that he didn’t know what to do with. It was about a foot long and one inch in diameter. He had examined it more completely and still didn’t know much about it. There were five buttons on the thing. He had tried the first and second buttons in the cave. Outdoors they worked much the same. The first button made the wand act as a light. When he activated the second button it melted a circle of snow about fifteen feet in front of where he was pointing. It seemed to have a range of about fifteen feet and the heat kept increasing as long as he held the button down. The third button caused a blade of light to extend out of the wand about two inches. This was some type of laser used for cutting. He tried it on a few rocks and cut deeply into them without melting the rock. The fourth button acted as a sighting device shining a point of red light on anything it was pointed at without apparent harm to the object. The fifth button however, would flash a pulse of light burning a hole through whatever it hit. The fifth button could only be pushed at the same time the fourth one was pushed and needed to be re-pushed for each new pulse of light.

It apparently acted as some type of safety device limiting the damage that could be done with the wand. He tried it once killing a deer at twice the normal bow range. The deer dropped without a sound. Close examination showed a hole that went completely through the deer.

As he butchered the deer and brought it back into camp he reflected on the nature of the wand itself. It was obviously a tool or a weapon using pulsed energy of some type he had never seen or heard about. That meant it was probably part of some secret military technology his parents had been involved in. In any case it was extremely dangerous and even more dangerous to be caught with. On the other hand he didn’t want to loose it or have it stolen. He guessed he might have to talk with Ellen about it sometime. In the meantime he made a sheath for it on his other leg and kept it on his person.

As the month waned, Samhain’s festivities began. Tobal was surprised at how many showed up for it. It started different from the other celebrations with Ellen saying, “This is a three-day celebration, Tobal—Samhain’s too big. We will have the meditation group day after tomorrow in the morning after everything is done and people are leaving.” Then she continued with proclaiming newbies ready to solo. Nikki and Char both proclaimed their newbies ready to solo. There were several initiations scheduled.

Wayne’s newbie wasn’t ready yet but was going to be initiated. The same thing happened with Zee’s newbie and Kevin’s newbie. They were going to be initiated into the clan but they needed another month of training. With the advent of cold weather the training was taken seriously by all clan members.

Most clansmen had already partnered up for the winter and would not be doing anymore training till next spring or they would partner up at this circle. He thought about Tara and Zee. They had both asked him about partnering up for the winter. Now they both had partners selected even if Zee and Kevin still had one more month of training till their newbies soloed.

Soon there would be no one to ask or partner up with unless it was a newbie. Was he really being so different in not partnering up with anyone? Rafe had trained newbies all winter long. He caught Char a bit later and talked with her about it.

“I notice your newbie is soloing this month,” he congratulated her. “What are you going to do now?”

“Well, I was going to see if Wayne wanted to partner back up for the winter,” she said bitterly. “But he is not speaking to me and in the middle of training his newbie. If he is training her like he trained me, she will probably be spending the winter with him. I hate that man!” She started crying and Tobal put an arm around her shoulder to comfort her. He felt her shoulders shaking against him.

“He’s just training newbies like you are Char, what are you mad at him for?”

“He’s not talking to me or looking at me, that’s why,” she snapped at him. “All he does is spend time with her.”

Tobal sighed and wished he were anywhere else. “You sound just like he did last month when I was talking to him. Don’t you remember how jealous he was? You were afraid he was going to pick a fight with Rory. Look, this will make one chevron for you and two for him. What are you going to do now? Try training another newbie or wait out the winter? You can’t control what he does. You can only control what you do. What is it that you really want to do?”

“Become a citizen and get a real life.”

“Ok, so what do you need to do?”

“I guess I’m going to train one more newbie this winter. Thanks Tobal,” she told him. “I know that I need to move ahead but it’s hard sometimes. These old habits are so hard to break. It’s easy to get depressed about things.”

“Let me know if you need any help,” he told her. “I’m planning on training newbies all winter myself. It’s kind of strange but I’m a little afraid of partnering up with anyone for the entire winter.”

“Why would you feel that way Tobal?” She asked curiously.

“Well partnering up with a girl for the winter kind of implies a sexual relationship,” he flustered.

“What’s wrong with a sexual relationship?” She asked. “You do want sex with girls don’t you?”

Now he was red and embarrassed, “Wanting sex and having sex are two different things Char. At least for me they are. I don’t want to hurt anyone and what if it doesn’t work out between us. What if she gets pregnant or something.”

Char laughed. “You are taking this much too seriously Tobal. For one thing, no one is going to get pregnant out here. Once a year we get birth control shots that last the entire year. In fact, we get them during Samhain, which is this month. The medics will make sure we get our shots if we want to continue in the Apprentice program. I thought you knew that.”

Tobal looked confused.

She continued, “It might not be a good idea for two Apprentices to get together like Wayne and I did. It is really hard having a permanent love relationship with someone when you need to train and live with other people like Wayne and I need to do. But it is normal to be sexual with others. Having sex is a form of sharing and a way of deepening a relationship. It is no big deal really. None of us are experts at love. We all need to have experiences and learn from those experiences. Our love partners help us and we teach each other about what pleases us.”

“Tobal,” she looked at him intently and unfastened her robe. “Do you want to have sex with me?”

He found himself staring at her body. Her soft breasts and the mound of blonde pubic hair stirred something inside him. Tobal found himself uncomfortable with the subject and with his own feelings. She had a good-looking body.

“I think I will wait until I get to Journeyman before I worry about it too much,” he said awkwardly.

She laughed. “Well at least give me a hug and a kiss then.” She moved closer so her bare body was against him as they hugged. It was a long hug and a long kiss.

It took a while to recover and Tobal wandered around the gathering spot trying to collect his wits together. He thought about what Char had said and wondered if she was right. Maybe he was making too big of a thing about it. Maybe sex could be as casual as shaking hands for some people but he knew it was not that way for him. For one thing there were a lot of attractive girls around the camp and only one or two had ever really drawn his eye.

He thought of Fiona, yes, he was sexually attracted to Fiona. Then Becca came unbidden into his mind and he hastily pushed her back out. He didn’t know what was going on between him and Becca but it was more like electric shock therapy than sexual attraction.

Sarah, Mike and Butch had all completed their solos and were talking together when he came up to them. They were going to take this month off and work on their own base camps, getting prepared for winter. It seemed most clansmen were either doing that or had already done that. None of them were talking about partnering up for the winter but they were thinking about working together setting up winter camps. Once their winter camps were set up they would decide if they were going to do any training or not.

Fiona, Becca, Nikki and he were the only ones interested in newbies this month. They each received a new chevron except Nikki. Her first newbie was going to solo that month. That made three for him, and one each for Becca and Fiona.

“You’re going to travel with us to sanctuary after the meditation group aren’t you?” Nikki asked. “It will be a blast.”

“I might,” he said evasively. “I need to talk with Ellen first though and I might be running later than usual. If I’m not around just take off without me and I’ll catch up with you.”

“What do you need to talk with Ellen about?” Nikki asked.

“She wants to know more about when my base camp got burned by rogues.” He evaded by giving a simple answer.

“I remember that,” Fiona exclaimed. “That’s when we found the waterfall by the lake and that weird abandoned gathering spot. Tell her she can talk to me too if she wants. Say, have you ever gone back there like you said you were going to?”

“That’s one of the things I’m going to talk with Ellen about,” Tobal said. It’s pretty bad weather to go there now though. Too easy to get snowed in.”

“Maybe we can all go there this spring some time,” Becca said. “I love swimming and there isn’t a really good swimming spot around here.”

“That’s a great idea!” Nikki said enthusiastically.

“Well just let me know so I can go with you,” Tobal said. “It might be dangerous and there should be enough of us going so no one will attack us.”

“Why would anyone want to attack us?” Nikki laughed. “You have something in mind handsome?”

The other two laughed and Tobal turned away with a dark shadow on his face. He couldn’t tell them the entire story or it would be all over camp and Ellen would have his head. It was better just to leave things the way they were for now. Misty was again High Priestess and did a nice job. Ellen was there and said she needed to talk with him later after circle. Angel was also helping out in the circle. There was a new High Priest too but Tobal didn’t remember his name.

Dirk was there along with Rafe on wood patrol keeping the fires going. There were several Journeymen Tobal recognized and many more he didn’t. This was the largest circle he had ever been too. Ox had even shown up for the party strutting three chevrons on his black tunic.

It was the end of the harvest cycle and the last time many of them would see each other until next spring so they were determined to have a good time. After the initiations the party really began. At drum circle the drumming and dancing went long into the night as people laughed leaping among the flames individually and together. The festivities lasted three days with the last two days reminding Tobal of a flea market and county fair. People brought items to sell or trade especially beautiful handcrafted garments and tools. The most interesting were winter garments that made Tobal’s efforts seem crude in comparison. He examined them carefully and took mental notes so he could duplicate the work later. He did the same with other tools and items that caught his interest.

This was the time clan members would show off their creativity and individual talents. There was music, hand made stringed instruments and wooden flutes. There were of course the drums that beat out a steady rhythm deep into the night for all the dancers.

The second day was reserved for games and competitions. During a break Tobal approached Rafe near the wood pile. “Watch this,” he said, drawing the silver wand from its sheath and pointing it at a patch of snow. A red light flashed, and with the fifth button, a pulse melted a fifteen-foot circle, steam rising. Rafe’s eyes widened. “Holy shit! Put that away—do you want us killed?” Tobal sheathed it quickly. “I found a secret cave—my parents’ things, this wand. Air sleds tracked me, Ellen was furious but checked my camp. It’s forbidden—rogues are after it.” Rafe nodded, stunned. “Does Ellen know?” Tobal shook his head. “Not yet—I’m figuring it out.”

He was not surprised when Fiona won a knife-throwing contest but he gaped in envy at the prize. It was a hand-forged axe one of the third degree members had somehow created. With an axe like that work would go much more quickly than with stone axes and knives. It would help not only with firewood but also in the creation of bigger and more permanent shelters like log cabins.

It was also on the second day when female clan members got their annual birth control shot to prevent pregnancies. There were lots of sexual jokes going round the camp and open invitations. Tobal wondered more about this and asked one of the medics. The medic told him the city felt it was too dangerous to have children or raise children under these harsh survival conditions. People were free to have children once they became citizens but not before.

This was a rule that was strictly enforced and medics would fly their air sleds out to those females that had not attended this gathering. If they refused the shot, they were disqualified. This did happen, the medic told him. There were always 2nd degree couples content living as they were and wanting to raise families out here in the wilderness. In fact, there were enough of them that they had formed their own family type gathering spot two hundred miles to the West.

When Tobal tried asking more questions the medic shut up like he had already said too much and that he needed to be going. There was certainly a lot Tobal didn’t understand. He wondered if the dead camp at the lake had been a family one. He hoped not because the thought of dead children lying in that cairn made him feel sick. Still, in his heart he knew it had been a family camp because his own hospital bracelet proved he had been there just as Adam Gardner had said. The old man had talked about other children that had been murdered too. There were secrets out there, secrets he intended to find out.

It was on the last day the medics handed out special supplies and medicines like salt, wine, vitamins and medical gear scavenged from old med-kits. Needles, hair brushes, combs, string and things like that were very welcome. So were scissors and razors, not to mention toothbrushes and other items that could be gotten at sanctuary.

The next morning, after the three-day celebration, the meditation group gathered in the clearing as people began to leave. Fiona approached Ellen, her voice trembling. “I can’t get it out of my mind… Tobal and I found that lake, the burned village. I’ve dreamed of ghosts, blood—we need to go there in our meditation.” Her eyes glistened, her fear swaying the group. Becca gripped her arm. “I’ve heard those tales—let’s face it!” Nikki nodded, “If Fiona’s in, I’m curious—what if it’s real?” Rafe added, “I’ve felt something odd—count me in.” Others murmured agreement, pressure mounting.

Ellen frowned, crossing her arms. “This could draw danger—rogues, worse. But with so many… fine, 20 minutes, and we stay cautious.”

They settled, the medallion pulsing against Tobal’s chest. Closing their eyes, they linked and visualized, a rift pulling them through. They materialized above the lake, the waterfall ahead. A shimmering force field blocked their path, unseen by Fiona and Tobal before when they passed through. A glowing light—Arthur—challenged, “Who seeks this truth? Prove your hearts!” Tobal thought, “Arthur? It’s OK, they’re with me,” and the light softened. “Follow me—see the truth,” Arthur telepathed to all, his voice warm yet urgent.

They drifted to the village—burned huts, ghosts wailing, blood pooling as massacre replays flashed: a mother shielding a child, screams piercing the smoky air, figures fleeing. Tobal froze, heart racing, the medallion’s pulse quickening. Fiona sobbed, “I saw the fire again—those children!” Becca trembled, “The screams—too real!” Nikki gasped, “A child called my name!” Rafe clenched his fists, “This isn’t just history.” Ellen’s face paled, “This isn’t natural—someone’s meddling.”

Arthur’s light pulsed. “The force field protects—Reptilians hunt beyond. Beware the Federation.”

Ellen snapped, “Enough! We need to leave. This isn’t safe—keep it quiet, or we’re targets.” The group returned, shaken, whispers spreading about Tobal’s lake secret.

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OD: Chapter 18, pages 235- 243

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, christianity, fiction, jesus on October 7, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Despite all this recognition, Schrötter argues, one must confront Reichenbach where he has strayed into a realm governed by imagination and whim.

Reichenbach can hardly believe his ears; he wants to interrupt the speaker immediately, point to his meticulously kept protocols, but he restrains himself.

On what evidence, Schrötter continues, is this entire Od hypothesis based? On the testimony of nervous, weak, or sick individuals—whom the Freiherr calls sensitives.

Frowns and disapproving looks ripple through the assembly. Schrötter has conjured a shadow—the shadow of Hofrätin Reißnagel. Reichenbach feels it distinctly, as this shadow swirls out of the hall and passes over him.

Such people, Schrötter suggests, are easily excitable in their imagination, especially when, as Reichenbach does, one deals primarily with women, and one need only tell them what to feel or see for them to believe they truly do.

“Can you say,” Reichenbach cries indignantly, “that I influence my sensitives?”

Schrötter dismisses this with a shake of his head. “Have you ever been able to confirm odic phenomena from your own perception?”

“I’m not sensitive myself,” Reichenbach shouts. “Must a doctor who describes the symptoms of a disease have experienced it himself?”

“Childbed fever!” says a voice from the back rows—the same voice that interrupted earlier. It gains some success again; heads turn, and a smirk spreads across the enlightened listeners’ faces. Yes, Semmelweis—that’s a similar case; it’s an excellent interjection, highlighting the intellectual kinship of these two men who have entangled themselves in untenable claims. But then the amused faces force themselves back into the seriousness and dignity of the assembly.

“What Baron Reichenbach calls Od,” says Schrötter, jabbing his index fingers into the air, “is entirely subjective in origin. And even if that weren’t the case, the assumption of a previously unknown natural force is entirely superfluous; these so-called odic phenomena can be explained partly by magnetism, partly by electricity…”

Reichenbach can no longer hold back: “Magnetism is something different,” he shouts, “electricity is something different, and Od is something else entirely.”

Professor Schrötter shakes his head again, gently and admonishingly. This kind of outburst, like a tavern brawl, is entirely against the customs and traditions of this distinguished assembly. Here, people are accustomed to letting each other finish, weighing arguments and counterarguments with care and deliberation—a basic tenet of scientific decorum.

“Certain phenomena can also be explained by the known animal magnetism,” Schrötter begins again. “Even Mesmer…”

But in Reichenbach, all regard for the distinguished assembly has collapsed. He feels himself in a state of self-defense. “Mesmerism is merely a special case of Od,” he thunders angrily.

Now Professor Schrötter can go no further. No civilized debate is possible with this shouter, who lacks all sense of good manners. Schrötter withdraws his arm from his coat tails and sits down.

But another rises in his place—a gaunt clerical figure with a sallow face and a hawk-like nose. He gobbles like a lean turkey and drags invisible wings behind him on the floor. “I would like,” he says, “to emphasize from the Church’s standpoint, with all due rigor, that we strictly condemn the superstitious notions of spiritualists, and that we are averse to all mysticism. The Od doctrine of Herr von Reichenbach is mysticism of the darkest origin and stands in opposition to the teachings of the Church. And when Herr von Reichenbach speaks of spirit appearances…”

Reichenbach shows no reverence even for the Church’s vote; he dares not let even a cleric finish. The battle is as good as lost; he no longer fights for victory but only for an honorable retreat. “I am a physicist, Eminence,” he interjects, “and as a physicist, I tell you that all corpses of dead animals emit Od light. —And perhaps,” a new idea strikes him, “one can even derive the word ‘corpse’ from the term ‘light.’”

It’s a blunder that linguists and Germanists, present today, immediately catch. This is their domain, where they’re at home, and something unheard of happens in these sacred halls—a burst of laughter erupts, an unrestrained, gleeful laughter at this misstep.

Then the voice from the back rows speaks again. It shouts, louder and more defiantly than before, a single word into the hall: “Swindle!”

A whip crack stuns Reichenbach; he flinches. Now he has finally spotted the interrupter, crouching behind the backs of those in front, who has been spitting venom at him. It’s Doctor Eisenstein—Doctor Eisenstein, that nobody, that sycophant he dismissed for overstepping his bounds. A base, pitiful revenge has claimed Reichenbach as its victim. “Gentlemen!” he says, wiping the sweat from his brow, “this is a word has been cast that attacks my honor and sullies my name. I stand too high above such accusations to settle publicly with their author. Let his own conscience pronounce judgment. I have by no means worked only with women; I see men in this assembly whom I have involved in my experiments and whom I call as witnesses to testify to how it was conducted—men from your own ranks, whose word you will find beyond reproach…”

His gaze sweeps over the rows of seats, picking out individuals—the physicist Natterer, the botanist Unger, the anatomist Ritter von Perger. They were present, are somewhat sensitive themselves, and can vouch that Reichenbach stands with clean hands, that his experiments were conducted with utmost care. Now one of them must rise and honor the truth.

Silence. They remain seated, shrinking awkwardly, squirming under his gaze, but they dare not confess. They don’t want to be exposed as gullible followers of a man already half-outcast before the Areopagus of science.

Sweat pours in streams from Reichenbach’s forehead. It’s over; they have abandoned him. “Gentlemen,” he says, and his pride rears up even in collapse, “I remind you only of a word from Schopenhauer. The solution to every problem passes through three stages until its acceptance: in the first, it seems ridiculous; in the second, it is fought; and in the third, it is taken as self-evident. You, gentlemen, have not yet spoken the final word; you haven’t even reached the second stage because your capacity for understanding doesn’t extend that far. I confidently leave the decision to the future.”

It’s outrageous, the audacity this arrogant man displays. He dares to criticize the comprehension of this highly esteemed assembly, questioning the jurisdiction of this scientific tribunal over his own matters. Now order breaks down; it’s no longer possible to hold back. A murmur of voices surges against the pale, sweating man at the lectern.

“Oh ho!”

“That’s an insolent overreach!”

“You can’t expect our clear-sighted century to take such fantasies seriously.”

“Yes, yes, leave it to the future.”

In these sacred halls, where the spirit of tolerance and consideration usually prevails, never has it been so chaotic as today. And it scarcely needs the heckler to remove the last inhibitions.

He shouts: “‘Speak of the devil, and he appears!’”

The reference to earlier events isn’t entirely clear, but the word doesn’t miss its mark. Reichenbach himself used it before; they remember, they don’t pause to consider if it fits or not—it allows all interpretations and triggers laughter. Laughter slaps Reichenbach in the face; laughter buries him and his Od.

Amid the tumult, Reichenbach gathers his papers together and leaves. He walks through the rows of seats with his head held high. He scorns the idea of slipping out through the small exit behind the lectern; he departs through the front, straight through the hall, exiting via the main entrance.

Schrötter hurries after him; he doesn’t want to be misunderstood. He wants to make clear to the Freiherr that it was no personal attack but a deliberate defense of scientific objectivity that compelled him to contradict. But the Freiherr is already down the stairs; it’s evident that attempting to appease him now would be risky. With a touch of regret and thoughtfulness, Schrötter remains upstairs and lets the Freiherr go.

It’s strange how, amid inner darkness, the feet seem to find their way on their own. One walks and walks without accounting for it, and suddenly one stands before a destination, realizing they sought it without knowing.

Suddenly, Reichenbach also stands before the stage door of the Burgtheater, facing the poster and reading behind the wire mesh: “First Reappearance of the Heroine Therese Dommeyer as The Maid of Orleans.” And that, indeed, is the answer to the question Reichenbach meant to ask when his feet carried him here unbidden.

So she’s back; she has completed her guest performance tour and resumed her activities in Vienna.

That was the question he came to ask, and here stands the answer behind the wire mesh of the poster board.

Groups of actors and actresses mill about the stage door, chatting and smoking. He threads through them, holding his breath, and knocks on the sliding window of the stage porter.

Where might Madame Dommeyer be found?

The stately guardian of the Muses’ temple looks down at the stranger. Madame Dommeyer is in the house, occupied with rehearsal.

So! Good! Thanking him, Reichenbach steps back; the carriage has followed slowly and stops before the Burgtheater. Reichenbach signals Severin to wait and settles into a small inn, from whose window he can keep the stage door in view.

What would the Herr Baron like—perhaps a glass of young wine and a goulash or some beef?

It doesn’t take long; the wine and beef sit untouched before him when Therese Dommeyer glides out of the stage door. Someone inquired about her, the stage porter reports; the carriage over there seems to belong to him.

Therese Dommeyer nods indifferently; since her return to Vienna, many older gentlemen have been pressing themselves on her. It’s as if these old men have a keen sense, knowing the moment Therese steps back onto Viennese soil that the path is clear. Yes, even the strongest feelings of joy fade; the exuberant dearest joy of passion dulls with habit. As long as there are obstacles, as long as the struggle persists, all that is desired is crowned with heavenly roses; one feels they might perish if the longing endures, but unrestricted fulfillment breaks the spell. Who truly knows their own heart? Such is life.

Freiherr von Reichenbach hurries out of the small inn. Ah, so the Freiherr von Reichenbach is the old gentleman—truly, he has become an old man; just a few months ago, he was better preserved.

He requests the honor of driving Therese home in his carriage.

Why not? She sweeps into the carriage, spreads her skirts, nods to her colleagues—well, hardly has she arrived, and she’s already being picked up in a carriage.

Only a meager spot remains for the Freiherr beside her. He makes himself small, presses into the corner, inquires about her destination, her successes.

Oh God, Therese remembers she promised to send him greetings from her journey. Naturally, she didn’t; she completely forgot there was a Freiherr von Reichenbach. He shouldn’t remind her of it—she’ll give him an answer anyway.

Therese is sullen and mistrustful, reporting her successes only sparingly—perhaps they weren’t even up to par, falling short of what she believes she’s entitled to claim.

“I have a request for you!” says the Freiherr.

Oh, is that it again—this same story? Well, Reichenbach will be astonished by what he’s about to hear. She leans back in the carriage, bracing herself for defense.

“Go ahead, speak,” she says, not exactly encouragingly.

“It’s like this… it concerns the Od, my scientific reputation. You must know that my research has been questioned. I must muster everything to crush my opponents. I’m preparing for the final battle.”

My God, the Od—this tedious Od—hasn’t the Freiherr tired of this harebrained nonsense yet?

“My witnesses have abandoned me; my sensitives have withdrawn, especially now. If you were to step forward—you, who stand at a widely visible height and are known throughout the city… if you were to vouch for me and say, ‘This is how it is,’ then people would listen. They would take the matter seriously again. You are highly sensitive, though even with you, some things remain unclear and contradict other findings…”

“I believe it,” Therese laughs outright.

“I mean,” the Freiherr continues, somewhat embarrassed, “they are only minor deviations that, upon closer examination, can be reconciled with the other facts. Why shouldn’t you…”

Therese is in no mood to be gentle: “Why? Because your whole Od is utter nonsense!”

A glowing corkscrew bores into Reichenbach’s chest, ripping his heart out with a jerk.

His lips tremble with age; the clatter of the carriage window shatters like the blare of trumpets.

“Yes… and because I’ve never seen or heard the slightest thing of what you’ve asked of me. So, now you know, and leave me out of your damned Od!”

A tear in the curtain from top to bottom, a temple collapse, a tempest of the Last Judgment. Who is this strange woman sitting beside Reichenbach in the carriage?

“Well, no hard feelings… I can’t be part of something like this. And thanks for the ride. I’m home.” She taps on the window; Severin turns, nods into the carriage, and leaps from the box to open the door for Therese. Therese has no idea what a devoted admirer she has in Severin; when the Baron is in the city, he misses none of her performances. He’d gladly lay Persian carpets under her delicate feet. Now, knowing she’s in the carriage behind him, he feels as if he’s transporting the Austrian crown jewels. He’s overjoyed she’s back from her tour and gazes at her, utterly enchanted.

When he turns back to his master, he’s startled by the gray, haggard face resting on the red velvet backrest.

“Are you unwell, gracious sir?” he asks with concern.

“No… no… take me home,” says the Freiherr, his tongue slightly heavy.

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Anarchist Knight Apprentice: Chapter 13 Winter’s Forge

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fantasy, romance, writing on October 3, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 13: Winter’s Forge

As Tobal mingled after the chevron ceremony, the night air still buzzing with the circle’s energy, Ellen approached with a thoughtful smile. She rested a hand on his shoulder, her voice warm. “Tobal, you’ve shown real growth with your trainees. You’ve been a steady presence in our meditation group these past two times—will you join us again tomorrow morning? It’s a good chance to reflect and strengthen.” He nodded, grateful for the continuity. “I’ll be there.” Later, as he moved through the crowd, Fiona and Becca caught up, their faces lit with energy. “Tobal,” Fiona said with a grin, “we’re heading to Sanctuary soon—want to travel with us? It’d be a good chance to get to know each other better.” Becca added softly, “It might help us clear the air.” Tobal hesitated, the tension with Becca still raw, but their enthusiasm tugged at him. “I’d like to,” he said slowly, “but I’m committed to the meditation group in the morning. What do you think about joining me there first?” Fiona’s eyes widened. “What meditation group?” Becca tilted her head, curious. “Yeah, what’s that?” Ellen, overhearing, stepped back in with a chuckle. “It’s a small gathering where we explore the Lord and Lady’s teachings, seeking deeper connections. Tobal’s been with us before—his insights have been a gift. You’re both welcome; it could guide your paths too.” Fiona clapped his shoulder. “Alright, we’re in!” Becca nodded, a shy smile breaking through. “Let’s do it, then travel together after.” Tobal felt a tentative bridge forming, agreeing, “Sounds good—let’s make it work.”

Circle that month was eventful; Tobal had never seen eight people get initiated at the same time. The initiations started early and continued late into the night. Everyone was tired, and the party didn’t get going until well after midnight. After the initiations, the drum circle began, and it was party time. In all, it was a good time, and the night went by very fast. It was early August, and the sight of naked bodies dancing wildly around the central fire was as intoxicating as the home-brewed beer.

One of the wilder dancers was Zee. She beckoned him to join in the dance, and on impulse, he threw his robe to the ground and leapt into the circle of cavorting bodies, giving himself away to the driving rhythm. The energy in the circle was intense, and the drummers never seemed to tire or stop.

Later, during a break, she was leaning on him with her arm around his shoulder, and he felt her breast against him. “I’m sitting out the winter and wondering if you’d like to partner up with me,” she said with a playful smile. He was flattered, and she was an inviting partner. Regretfully, he squeezed one of her cheeks. “I’m sorry, Zee, I’m going to be training newbies all winter. Otherwise, I would, really.” “Fine then,” she pouted and abruptly turned back to the dance.

Kevin had been watching and came over casually, asking, “How are things going?” “She’s really something, isn’t she?” he added, watching her retreating rear move in time to the drums as her braided raven hair flew about like a whip. “I think she’s looking for a winter partner,” Tobal volunteered. Kevin shot a quick look at him. “Are you interested?” “No, I’m training newbies this winter,” Tobal replied. “That’s really hard, they say,” Kevin glanced once more at Zee. “I’m not even thinking about it myself. I might have to go over and introduce myself.” Kevin chuckled and drained his mug of beer. He set it down beside his robe and disappeared into the dance, slowly working his way over to Zee and cavorting his lanky muscular body in front of her.

Tobal avoided Ox, who was drunk, belligerent, and telling stories about training his last newbie. Ox was complaining how no one could get newbies anymore because some people were taking them all and not training them properly. Everyone knew that newbies needed more than a month to train before they could solo. He didn’t think the elders should have let Nick solo and was letting everyone in camp know about it too.

The month went by quickly, and all too soon it was time to go to the gathering spot. He didn’t think Sarah was quite ready to solo and wanted to work with the others in preparing them for the coming winter months.

The days were getting shorter by early September, and there was a chill in the air at night and frost in the mornings. The first major snowstorm could come any time, and they could be snowed in for weeks. He talked with Sarah, and she thought spending another month on winter preparation was a good idea. She needed more winter training, and he thought the others did too.

The morning of circle, Zee, Nikki, Kevin, and Ox all proclaimed their newbies ready to solo. They were all interviewed and questioned by the elders and approved for soloing. Each of them had winter gear they had to show the elders. It was very clear the elders were concerned about the training newbies were getting now that a sudden storm could snow a person in for weeks at a time. Tobal made a point of congratulating the two girls and Kevin. He didn’t care about Ox and avoided him as much as possible.

With the approvals settled, Zee was a little cool toward him but returned his congratulatory hug and started talking a little. “I was mad at you for a while,” she said. “I didn’t really think you meant it about training all winter. I thought you were just rejecting me, and no woman likes that.” She put her hands on her hips and wiggled them a little with a grin. “Then I remembered Rafe and how last year he trained at least two newbies, and I wasn’t so sure anymore.” “Zee,” I really am training newbies this winter. If I weren’t, you would be a good partner. We’ve always gotten along pretty good. Have you found anyone to partner up with yet?” She sighed, “You are serious, aren’t you? I have a few people in mind, but I haven’t really made a decision yet. I want to take this month off and work on my winter base camp first.”

He noticed she hadn’t specifically mentioned Kevin and decided to ask him, but first, he wanted to congratulate Nikki on training her first newbie and wandered off to find her after wishing Zee well on her base camp project.

Nikki was getting her robe from Angel as he got his. They went to the teepee where they had left their packs and were changing into the robes. “How did you like training your first newbie?” He asked casually. “It was great! I’m training another this month,” she looked at him. “I really want to train another one before winter sets in. Do you think I can?” “I don’t know,” he told her. “I’ve already decided I need to go back and help Fiona and Sarah get better prepared for winter. Their newbies could use a little extra training too.” She thought about that a bit. “Zee did a really good job of getting me prepared for winter weather, and my newbie is well prepared too. I don’t think we will have any trouble. I know it’s a sore spot, but perhaps two months of training is needed. Have you ever thought about it?” He bit back an angry retort and instead simply said, “I do think training newbies during the winter should take two months. There is too much to learn about winter gear like snowshoes and working with furs for winter clothing. Anyone that I train this winter will get two months of training.” Nikki beamed, “I’m so glad to hear that, Tobal. We all worry about the newbies and how hard it must be for them in the winter. I haven’t spent a winter here yet, but I’m pretty confident things will go well. That’s why I want one more newbie. I will probably end up spending the winter with them unless they decide to solo and go out on their own.” Nikki’s plan sounded uncomfortably like his own. He still planned to train through the winter but didn’t really have any idea if it would work out or not. What if his newbie didn’t want to solo or move out and build a base camp on their own in the middle of the winter?

He was still thinking about these things as he wandered over to see how Kevin was doing. Kevin was helping set up some of the teepee shelters for the night. Tobal joined in until all the teepees were set up and fires laid in them. “I’m still hoping Zee will partner up with me for the winter,” Kevin told Tobal with a blush. “She hasn’t said yes, and she hasn’t said no. It’s driving me crazy because I really need some sort of plan. I don’t want to work on my own base camp if I’m not going to be living there.” “Say, that’s an idea,” Tobal reflected. “Zee says she wants to spend this month getting her camp ready for winter. Perhaps you can offer to help, and it will allow each of you to see how you get along together. That way, she won’t need to commit to anything until she gets to know you better.” Kevin brightened, “I’m going to try,” he said. “I’ll talk to her about it later tonight.” “Good Luck!”

During circle, he noticed Ellen was training Misty to be High Priestess. He had forgotten that Misty was a Master now. He was going to miss Ellen and wondered what she would be doing next. It was strange to see people he knew advance on to different positions. He noticed earlier that Rafe had been put on wood crew along with Dirk. That meant they were responsible for there being enough firewood at the gathering spot for circle. Everyone was encouraged to help, but only a few Journeymen were actually tasked to ensure there was enough wood. Angel would be given new duties next month as well. He noticed this morning that she now had four chevrons and seemed to be moving up the ranks more quickly than Rafe was.

Since Journeymen didn’t spend all of their time training newbies, they were each assigned duties that normally lasted two or at the most three months before being assigned to the next duty. The wood supply for the Circle was usually gathered well in advance with little work to be done during circle itself except tending fires as needed. That’s what Rafe was doing when Tobal spied him between initiations. “Hey stranger,” he teased. “Who did you kill to get that?” Rafe grinned as he turned in surprise. He postured and showed off his first chevron. “One of the girls challenged me. She thought she could beat me. Bad mistake! She almost did too.” He admitted ruefully but then brightened. His mischievous smile was still the same. “Now I’ve got all the girls fighting over me. I must be the most popular Journeyman ever.” Tobal looked at his friend. Rafe was filling out, getting taller and stronger. “I think you will be winning quite a few fights soon,” he said. “You’re not so little anymore. Pretty soon you might have to start picking on the girls instead of having them pick on you.” “You really think so?” Rafe laughed. “Guess I can give up on the idea of fighting babies then. So what have you been up to? Is Sarah ready to solo yet? I’ve been hearing some good things about how you taught Nick and Fiona.” “Well, I’ve run into a bit of a snag,” he confessed. Sarah isn’t ready to solo yet, and I’m thinking about having Fiona, Nick, Becca, and Sarah all over to my place this month. We can all make our winter gear together. None of us is really that good at it, and maybe helping each other out will work.” “That’s a terrific idea,” Rafe said. “I wish I had thought of it when I was training newbies. I guess we really didn’t do that much training for winter, did we? There was only about one week of snow in your training before it melted away. Is there anything I can help with that you don’t remember?” “I remember how to do most of it,” he replied. “But I’ll need to go back to your base camp for my things, especially since snow travel will be tough without snowshoes. Now’s the time to make them—steaming green wood to bend into shapes, lashing it together for drying, and lacing it later.” Rafe nodded. “Sure, take what you need. I won’t be there much this winter, hanging around the Journeyman area or gathering wood. Being a Journeyman is nothing at all like being an Apprentice.”

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OD: Chapter 15, pages 198- 205

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fantasy, fiction, writing on September 30, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Think it over,” the Freiherr pleaded humbly. “The advantages for you are obvious.”

“There’s nothing to think over,” said Therese without hesitation. “Every word is pointless. Let’s stick to friendship, Baron!” She interrupted again, calling into the bedroom: “Come on, Rosa, hurry up with it?”

The hammer blow of disappointment pushed Reichenbach back a step; he leaned against something, and a tower of boxes crashed noisily behind him. Then Rosa returned with the blue hat in hand, and an eager consultation began about fitting this airy fairy-tale creation of straw and ribbons.

Reichenbach stood silently in the way for a while, gradually realizing he was entirely superfluous here and that his reproachful silence made no impression on the busy artist. He composed himself, masking his inner turmoil, but he couldn’t entirely hide a faint trembling in his voice, which he couldn’t prevent as he now explained that he wouldn’t disturb her any longer and wished her a happy journey and tremendous success.

“Yes, yes,” Therese thanked him offhandedly, “and if I ever have time, I’ll write to you.”

It was an awkward farewell. Reichenbach carried his shattered heart to the carriage waiting in the street—no, he felt it, there was nothing more to hope for, and he could bury his aspirations. He had to give up on Therese; she had slipped from him, despite seeming so close, with a sudden turn he couldn’t explain.

He drove home, sat at his desk, and tried to force himself to resume work on his great book. The proven remedy failed; his mind had revoked its obedience. He sat there, pen in hand, but he didn’t write; he only saw Therese’s violet petticoat before him and heard her say: it’s all pointless.

When Doctor Eisenstein was announced that afternoon, he still hadn’t fully subdued his emotions. A more perceptive soul-reader than the doctor would surely have noticed the ominously threatening tension and postponed his fateful question to a more opportune moment.

But the doctor isn’t one of those who see into others—a highly skilled physician, certainly, a popular one, always advancing with the latest, but not particularly insightful when it comes to his own affairs. He believes he can’t delay any longer; Schuh is now coming and going in the house again, and Hermine has suddenly found an unusual amount of time for music.

No, it can’t be postponed further; the doctor has resolved to approach it from another angle this time—through the father, to whom he is indebted. Eisenstein is inwardly prepared with solemn resolve and won’t be deterred from posing his fateful question.

And he is utterly baffled when Reichenbach’s only response is laughter. It’s a bitter, mocking laugh, a laugh with hail and whirlwind, mowing down all the green seeds of the soul in an instant. Isn’t it also absurd, outrageously comic, that the suitor rejected just a few hours ago now faces another suitor?

Doctor Eisenstein dares to point out that it was he who set the Freiherr on the path to Od. But Reichenbach remembers nothing of that; it’s the height of impudence for this man to make such a claim on top of everything else.

And then Doctor Eisenstein exits in a grand arc, with a magnificent bow of unusual force and clean execution.

The Freiherr, however, calls it quits for today on his futile attempts to work on his book. He sets the manuscript aside, grabs a walking stick, and heads into the forest. He can do nothing better than go to his woods; it’s been God knows how long since he was last there. A frosty winter fog has cloaked the trees and shrubs are adorned with hoarfrost, so that the tiniest twigs bear a heavy white fur trim. From the still, moisture-laden air, the down grows, turning the forest into an adventure. As Reichenbach pushes through the underbrush, he brushes off the fragile decoration, and with a soft, rustling sound, it rains down around him in snow crystals.

He has left the paths and walks straight through the forest, between the trunks on crackling leaves, stepping into clearings he doesn’t recognize. The Freiherr grows attentive; an alarming amount of his forest has been felled—entire slopes have been logged. He marvels, his wonder increasing; someone has cut down half his forest.

Then he hears the crunch of saws and the dull thud of axes somewhere. This gives direction and purpose to his steps in the fog, and soon he sees ghostly shadows moving in the thick white vapor. Unexpectedly, he stands among the lumberjacks.

He doesn’t know these men; they aren’t Reichenbach’s forest workers, but perhaps they seem unfamiliar only because they’re newly hired—he hasn’t paid attention to such matters for a long time.

“Who are you working for?” he asks one of the lumberjacks.

The man spits, then grabs one end of a dirty, blood-stained bandage wrapped around his left thumb with his teeth and tightens the knot. Only then does he reply. He says they work for Moritz Hirschel.

“So, for Moritz Hirschel!” the Freiherr retorts. “And who owns this forest?” The man doesn’t know; it’s none of his concern.

“And who pays you?”

Who pays? Moritz Hirschel, of course. Then the man spits into his hands and resumes sawing, where his partner had paused.

Reichenbach watches thoughtfully for a while longer and then heads home.

In the manor house belonging to Kobenzl, there’s a small room where a frail young man sits beside a glowing iron stove, poring over the account books. At the Freiherr’s entrance, he looks up shyly and awkwardly; he knows the landowner, of course, but Reichenbach is a stranger to the man who keeps his books.

“Since when have you been here?” asks Reichenbach.

“Since half a year,” answers the young man in a hoarse voice. He’s always hoarse and always cold, even beside the glowing stove; he comes from poverty, and death rattles in his lungs. He’s grateful to have found this refuge; he doesn’t ask questions—he does what the steward Ruf orders.

The Freiherr sees this at first glance. “You can leave now; I want to look at the books… and send Ruf to me.”

“I don’t know where the steward is…” the young man hesitates.

“Then find him,” thunders Reichenbach. He already knows the steward isn’t home; he searched for him on his rounds through the stables and barns, finding him nowhere.

Now the Freiherr dives into the books; he compares, he checks, he pulls out invoices, calculates, sweats beside the glowing stove, peels back layer after layer, and his anger swells ever higher. Only after hours, quite late at night, there’s a stomp at the door. It has begun to snow; the steward Ruf shakes the snow off his soles before opening the door.

Ruf has been down in Grinzing at the wine taverns, coming straight from heuriger music and revelry, but the news that the Freiherr has been poring over the books is enough to blow all the merry vapors from his brain.

“Why did you dismiss Dreikurs?” asks the Freiherr after a while, without looking up from the books.

Ruf considers his response; one must be cautious and weigh every word carefully: “Dreikurs was an old man; his eyes had grown weak, and he kept making mistakes with the calculations…”

“And why wasn’t I informed?”

“I didn’t want to trouble the Herr Baron with such matters. The Herr Baron always has so much else to do.” Yes, Ruf had relied on the Freiherr being absorbed in his experiments and thinking of nothing else, but he had relied on it too much—that’s clear now. And now Ruf stands there, a noose around his neck, and it’s eerie how calm the Baron is; it’s downright terrifying.

“I’ll tell you why you dismissed Dreikurs, Ruf. He didn’t suit you because he was an honest man who wouldn’t have tolerated your dirty dealings. That’s why you brought in this starving wretch who doesn’t dare contradict you and does whatever you want.”

“Herr Baron…” Ruf tries to protest.

But a swift glance from the Freiherr warns him, and Reichenbach’s hand falls like a stone onto the columns of the open book, teeming with false figures. “I could hand you over to the police on the spot, Ruf, and that would be no more than you deserve. You’re a vile, treacherous fraud! But you stood by me at Salm’s, and then—I won’t do it to your daughter. But by noon tomorrow, you’re gone, understood!”

Now something happens that the Freiherr never would have expected from Ruf. The large, heavy man falls to his knees, stretches out his arms, clasps his hands, and whimpers: “Herr Baron! Herr Baron! Jesus in heaven! … Jesus in heaven!” It’s true, he’s a scoundrel, a cheat; the money slipped through his fingers—he got nothing out of it, a few drunks, that’s all—those beastly women took everything. But are those excuses? They’re not excuses; he can only beg the Herr Baron for forgiveness.

He crawls on his knees after the Freiherr, who steps back from him; he weeps, beats his head against the ground, pounds his chest with his fists. But today there is no mercy or leniency in Reichenbach; today is a day of unrelenting severity—today, everyone must bear the fate allotted to them. Today, someone told him: It’s all pointless! And it’s only fitting that he repeats it with unyielding hardness: “Don’t bother, Ruf, it’s all pointless.”

Broken, with dragging feet, Ruf slinks out.

The Freiherr stares at the fateful book for a while longer, wipes his forehead, feeling the hot dampness. He opens the window to the night’s breath, but a gust of wind yanks the sash from his hand, for at that same moment, the door opens, and Friederike stands there.

He needs only to look at the girl to know why she has come.

“No,” says the Freiherr, “it’s too much. He has abused my trust too greatly. I couldn’t even uncover everything at once; it’s likely far worse than I can determine now. Everything has gone into his pockets; he’s squandered the entire estate, ravaged my forests… this Hirschel! has stripped everything bare…”

Friederike finds no words of defense; she lowers her head and remains silent, but her entire demeanor radiates unspeakable sorrow—a mute despair that spreads before Reichenbach like a dark lake. Suddenly, he feels very uneasy; he clears his throat, embarrassed by this misery. A sudden realization shakes his angry self-righteousness—that he has taken revenge. Revenge on a guilty man, yes, but still, he has sought revenge rather than justice.

“Must we leave tomorrow?” says Friederike at last, looking at the Freiherr. The eyes he meets are like a sad fairy tale of outcast children wandering hopelessly through the world. My God, how beautiful this girl has become—it has escaped the Freiherr’s notice lately; she hasn’t pressed herself on him, has stood quietly aside and waited, surely she has waited and, in the meantime, matured into a gentle sweetness. She has quietly awaited a word of recognition, and now the first word is a judgment that shatters her life. A melancholic familiarity stirs Reichenbach from these features; he doesn’t know what to do with it, but all this plunges the Freiherr into a heart-wrenching distress.

He must free himself from this distress; there’s no other way. “For your sake…,” he murmurs, “for your sake! I’ll try once more with him.”

A light illuminates the troubled eyes from within. Friederike becomes almost transparent with joy, as Od light might glow for those gifted to see it.

She takes Reichenbach’s hand and showers it with a torrent of kisses.

“Now, now,” smiles the Freiherr, withdrawing his hand to caress her soft cheeks, “now, now, girl, what kind of business is this, what kind of business?”

He speaks Swabian with her again; he speaks Swabian—she may stay—and now everything is good again.

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OD: Chapter 14, pages 182- 190

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fiction, short-story, writing on September 28, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“It’s like this,” explains Reichenbach, not the least bit offended, “that every emotion—sorrow, anger, laughter, all things of the soul—produces changes in human Od light and intensifies the glow. Can you also see what I’m doing?”

“You have something curved in your hands,” says Frau Pfeinreich, “from whose free end a luminous smoke rises.”

“It must be the horseshoe magnet,” adds Frau Kowats.

“Correct, I have the horseshoe magnet, and you see the Od streams from its poles.”

Schuh’s laughter has faded since he no longer feels protected by the darkness. How can the women have seen that he laughed, and how can they see what Reichenbach holds in this hellish blackness?

“And what do I have now?” Reichenbach continues.

“Something round, in which the Od light from your left hand converges into a red glow.”

Important—it’s the large lens that collects the Od light. “And now?”

The two women fall silent; they have no answer.

“Do you see it, Frau Hofrätin?” Reichenbach asks again.

The Hofrätin’s dull voice, which had not been heard until now, emerges slowly from the depths of the darkness. “You have dipped your right hand into the water basin; the goldfish are swimming excitedly around your fingers.”

“The odic forces are not the same in all people,” the Freiherr explains, “Frau Hofrätin is my strongest sensitive.”

It’s strange, more than strange, what’s happening here. How can Schuh explain that these women see things in the dark that remain hidden from him? If it’s not an outrageous fraud, then It seems we are evidently standing before a hitherto undiscovered mystery of nature. But can Reichenbach be trusted to confirm the statements of his sensitives if they aren’t truly as they describe? Schuh notes to himself that he feels excited.

The experiments continue. Schuh learns that human fingertips emit Od light; when two hands approach each other, the Od beams first lengthen and narrow. As they come even closer, the flames retreat from each other, widen, and are pushed back around the fingertips by mutual repulsion. When Reichenbach rubs one piece of wood against another, Od light flashes. Schuh learns what the Heliod is—it’s the Od light of the sun, conducted into the darkroom via a wire from outside, making its end in the darkness so transparently clear, as if it were made of glowing glass.

“And do you see any of this yourself?” Schuh can’t help but ask.

Reichenbach hesitates with his answer for a while. “No,” he finally says, distressed, “I’m unfortunately not the least bit sensitive.”

He wants to resume the experiments, but the Hofrätin has begun to moan and requests the session’s end; she is too overwhelmed, already suffering from stomach cramps and chest tightness.

“Very well,” says Reichenbach, “that may be enough for the first time to form a judgment.”

And then a miracle occurs, a true miracle. Suddenly, Schuh sees too—he perceives a glimmer, a fine, bluish glow above his head, a pure ray of light, calm, blissful, refreshing, fragrant. The darkness brightens; the room fills with silver dust. Schuh glimpses the outlines of the Freiherr, the three ladies, the room, the equipment present. He sees the potted plants in the corner, the aquarium with the goldfish—everything merely suggested and blurred, yet bathed in this inexplicable, magical sheen.

“What is that?” he asks, baffled. “I can see now.”

“Oh,” replies the Freiherr with a hint of mockery, “that’s not Od light you’re seeing now. I’ve opened the ventilation flap in the ceiling.”

It’s the return of daylight that has caused the miracle that has enchanted Schuh.

They leave the darkness, and Schuh stands utterly dazed in the jubilant roar of the cascading light masses, which almost painfully overwhelm him.

“Well, what do you say?” asks Reichenbach, his gaze anxiously and eagerly probing Schuh’s eyes.

Schuh examines himself carefully. He checks whether, in what he feels compelled to say, he might be speaking to please Reichenbach. Whether, perhaps because Reichenbach is offering him money, he feels obliged to be dishonest. But no, setting all that aside, complete honesty of conviction forces him to a confession.

“I don’t know if one can accept your explanations,” he says, “but there do seem to be real facts at hand.”

“Seem?” the Freiherr rears up abruptly. “No, they are facts, dear Schuh. You will have to admit that. And one more thing… do you think this… these phenomena could be daguerreotyped?”

“Let’s at least try the experiment,” Schuh agrees.

The conversion isn’t complete, but one thing is certain: Saul is on the path to becoming Paul.

And then something entirely unforeseen happens. It happens that Hermine suddenly stands before Schuh.

The Freiherr has withdrawn with his three sensitives to the study to record the protocol of today’s session in his diary.

Schuh has settled into the golden evening sunlight on the terrace in front of the garden hall, on the bench beside the cast-iron dog, trying to make sense of his impressions from the darkroom.

And now Hermine suddenly stands before him.

Something has driven her home. She has suddenly become restless and abandoned her work at the Schönbrunn Palm House. Upon arriving home, she has only thrown off her coat and hat; she hasn’t even taken the time to change her dress. She moves through the house like in a dream, stepping out onto the garden terrace—

“Good day, Hermine!” says Schuh, rising. He extends his hand and then pulls it back. Then he says something utterly foolish: “Are you back already?”

“I finished my work earlier than I expected,” Hermine claims.

“Oh… oh! Still botany. Still so diligent?”

“I, I have worked hard,” says Hermine casually, “my treatise on the thylli is nearly complete.”

Schuh keeps looking at Hermine. She seems less burdened and timid than before; it strikes Schuh that she appears stronger, as if her nature has hardened—perhaps she has endured something internally that has burned away her softness.

Schuh glances toward the house. “I’d like to suggest,” he says hesitantly, “that we take a walk. The evening is so beautiful.”

Hermine understands immediately. The father could come out of the house, and then it would be over; then they couldn’t speak freely—assuming there can be any talk of ease with the inner pressure each of them feels. Hermine grasps this very well, and she agrees without hesitation—yes, it’s necessary for them to be alone for a while now.

They walk the forest paths toward the Agnesbrünnl. The setting sun lies on the forest clearings; it looked different here not long ago—much has been logged recently. But that has its advantages; they walk in the sun, and it flows like wine into their blood.

“Your father showed me his experiments in the darkroom today,” says Schuh.

He feels the need to justify his presence, Hermine thinks. And she asks: “And what do you think of it?”

“I’m not yet sure what to think. There are certainly astonishing things. The consistency of the statements is remarkable. Perhaps they really are natural forces we’ve known nothing about until now.” Hermine shrugs. That’s all she offers for her father’s Od research—a doubtful shrug. Yes, something must have happened to Hermine; her unconditional devotion to her father’s superiority seems shaken. They fall silent for a while. Then Schuh asks, “Where is Ottane?” “Don’t you know? Ottane has left the house. There were certain… well, she disagreed with some things the father intends to do. And she has taken up a profession. She’s become a nurse. At Doctor Semmelweis’s clinic, whom you likely know. He’s making quite a name for himself.” She adds with a slight mockery, “Almost as much as the father.” “And your father?” Schuh marvels. “You can imagine: he raged.” Yes, Hermine said her father raged—she said it explicitly, and Schuh couldn’t have misheard. “He was furious; he finds Ottane has disgraced the house, that she has dishonored his name. He thinks it shameless for a girl from a good family to stoop to the level of the common folk, utterly improper to take on work suited only for lowly women. But Ottane wants to stand on her own feet; she says there’s nothing shameful, but rather honorable, in helping poor, sick women, and it would be good if all girls thought that way. She believes women have been kept like slaves or harem ladies long enough and have a right to shape their own lives, and a time will come that recognizes this right. Yes, Ottane has courage.” Admiration shines through these words, mixed with a faint sigh. They have reached a height from which a straight path leads down the slope, and at the end of this path, framed like a picture, lies the valley and a few houses of the village Weidling. They stop before this pleasant sight; Hermine gazes down into the valley and speaks, not to Schuh but beside him, into the landscape, into the evening: “Why have you been away so long?” Schuh takes his time with his reply. “How could I have come? I’ve always waited for your answer to my letter.” “Your letter?” “Didn’t I explain everything? You must have understood me.” Now Hermine slowly turns to Schuh, looking straight into his face; she is completely pale: “I never received a letter from you.” “Never received a letter? But I gave Ottane a letter for you!” “Ottane had a letter for me? Ah… yes, now I understand…” Hermine’s face hardens and stiffens; Schuh never imagined he could see such an expression of cold anger on Hermine. It always seemed as if Ottane carried a secret, as if she wanted Hermine wants to say something, and now she understands what it might have been.

Schuh also begins to suspect: “Do you think your father…?” he stammers, alarmed.

“Yes,” says Hermine firmly, “he probably took the letter from Ottane. He suppressed your letter to me.”

“Is that… is that…?” stammers Schuh, “but surely he must have realized something like this would come out eventually. And he invited me himself… a question to you would have brought it to light.”

“My father overlooks that. He considers his power so great that no one would dare confront him, and that everything must simply be accepted. Surely he also forbade Ottane to mention a word about the letter, and you see she didn’t dare defy him. He’s grown accustomed to despising and belittling people.”

“And he wrote to me that you are so entirely intellect, that your heart has become a secondary matter. That you are wholly masculine in nature, that I shouldn’t bring confusion into your life—I had to assume all this was your opinion…”

A small, sobbing sound interrupts Schuh, but it’s a sound that crashes over him like thunder. Hermine has turned her head away, and her shoulders shake. Something terrible, world-shaking is happening—something unbearable and yet immensely blissful. And Schuh can’t help himself; he puts his arm around her trembling shoulders, and his lips feel that Hermine’s face is wet, and the twilight aids all these overwhelming emotions.

“Didn’t you know it?” sobs Hermine. “Didn’t you know it?”

No, Schuh didn’t know it, but now he does; he holds Hermine in his arms and knows it as an indescribable bliss, and his longing has been so great that he can’t be satisfied immediately.

It’s almost completely dark when they near the castle again. They’ve discussed what to do next and agreed not to reveal everything at once.

The deception perpetrated against them empowers them—indeed, it almost demands caution and cunning. Schuh wants to stand on solid ground with his own affairs first; he wants to show successes, life securities—I ask, that’s how it is, and besides, we are of one mind.

But as they see the lights from the garden hall through the trees, Schuh suddenly stops. “But now I can’t accept the money from him,” he says sadly.

“He offered you money?”

“Yes… to complete my work. I’ll have to give that up. With the money, I could have expanded my device…”

Hermine notices how hard it is for him to abandon this hope; she thinks intently. “You can take it!” she says. “Take it!”

“That we don’t immediately confront him with our love after what’s happened is only natural. But my pride forbids me…”

“What does your pride have to do with our love? Should love have any pride other than fulfilling itself? And does the father give money to Karl Schuh, who loves his daughter against his will? No—he gives it to his work, from which he expects something for science.”

It’s truly strange how Hermine has transformed; she’s become quite a sharp-witted sophist, but her arguments are convincing, and one can accept them—especially when one’s own desires and needs become advocates, and God knows, Schuh doesn’t want the money for himself.

The Freiherr von Reichenbach has been working on his protocol with the ladies until now; he has just escorted them to the carriage and now intends to present his report to Schuh for signature. In the garden hall, he encounters Hermine, who is coming in from outside.

“Have you spoken with Schuh?” he asks.

“Yes, he couldn’t stay longer. He’s gone home. And he asks you to send him the money tomorrow.”

The Freiherr looks at Hermine suspiciously, but her upright, calm gaze makes him look away again, perhaps even with some embarrassment.

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OD: Chapters 7&8, pages 88-93

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, faith, fiction, writing on September 12, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

And I myself,” Semmelweis clutched both hands around Reichenbach’s right arm, his face contorted in pain, “I myself, imagine it, I myself for years as an assistant dissected corpses every morning before visiting the clinic. For years. How many women might I have brought death to? Unknowingly! Isn’t that terrible? One washes one’s hands before the examination, of course, with soap and water one washes. But one can’t get rid of the corpse smell. One must wash the hands with chlorinated water to kill the germs.”

He fell silent, exhausted, and the Freiherr said: “That is truly a great matter.”

Semmelweis laughed: “A great matter! You say that. But our wise gentlemen think otherwise.”

Severin brings the coffee in, and since there’s no other place, he pushes a stack of books and notebooks aside on the desk and sets down the tray. Reichenbach pours the steaming black and white into a light brown mixture and makes an inviting gesture. But Semmelweis doesn’t sit; standing, he takes a cup and brings it to his mouth; the coffee is scalding hot, he spurts it out again over the books and notebooks. And while he pulls out his handkerchief and dabs at the coffee stains, he says grimly: “Yes, our noble professors, these old fogeys… There’s Professor Klein. His predecessor was the great Boer. Emperor Joseph II knew what kind of man he was. But precisely for that reason, he was a thorn in the side of his successors, the priests, and Metternich. They deposed him and gave Klein the position as his successor. Why? Because Boer expressly said that Klein was the dumbest among his students. Just to annoy Boer one last time. We are in Austria, understood! Skoda wrote a textbook on percussion and auscultation. They got upset that he was only burdening the patients with all that tapping and listening, and they sent him to the insane asylum. Yes, we are in Austria.”

He pauses and stirs his coffee cup angrily with the spoon.

“One would think,” says Reichenbach, “such a simple matter…”

“Exactly, simple matters,” nods Semmelweis eagerly, “one just washes one’s hands with chlorinated water, that’s it! And the result is immediate—the mortality rate almost drops to zero. But the gentlemen have their theories. They insist that childbed fever is an epidemic; they believe in a genius epidemicus, they talk of an accumulation of impure humors in the blood and of erysipelas-like inflammation of the intestines… they close their eyes to avoid seeing what admits no doubt. Are those criminals or not?”

“You should write about it in detail,” says Reichenbach, “publish your discovery for the whole world.”

Semmelweis starts, like a sleepwalker who has heard the cry that brings a fall. One notices that it was a soliloquy he had been conducting, perhaps he wouldn’t have spoken so openly about Austria and Metternich and the professors otherwise. Now he stands dazed and intimidated. “Write,” he sighs, “oh, if only I could write. I went to a school in Pest, German and Hungarian, and now I can’t write either German or Hungarian properly. But don’t you believe that the truth must prevail even so?”

“One must also help the most obvious truths to their feet,” Reichenbach remarks, “few can walk on their own.” Reichenbach is quite stirred by what he has heard, but he still doesn’t know what to do with it. “I am unfortunately not a physician—”

Semmelweis wipes his damp forehead with the back of his hand, sinks back into the chair at the desk, and draws the coffee cup toward himself with a trembling hand. Yes, now one can finally drink; he sips the coffee in small gulps. “Forgive me,” he says. “You still don’t know why I’ve come to you! It’s not for my sake, but the many women I may have killed in my ignorance demand it of me… I’d rather leave Vienna, but I must try; I’d like to apply for a privatdozent position. Skoda, Hebra, even Klein’s own son-in-law Chiari are for me, but Klein and the other fogeys and the ministry… You have connections with the ministry…”

“Do not overestimate my influence,” says Reichenbach, nonetheless flattered by a trust that seeks to make him an ally in an important matter, “in Liebig’s case, I couldn’t enforce anything either.”

A sincere look pleads for his assent: “If you believe in me, then you must at least try.”

“Very well,” says Reichenbach, won over by the complete devotion of this man to his one radiant thought, “I will see what I can do.”

Chapter 8

The days have grown short; rain and autumn wind sweep the forests around Kobenzl bare. It is time to move back to the city; the crates stand around in the garden hall and are being loaded onto the wagon by Severin and the old servants.

The Freiherr goes through the castle once more to check if anything has been left behind that might be needed in the city. He also casts a glance into the silkworm room, though there is nothing to see there. But there is something to see; someone stands at the window and is crying.

“Must you cry again, Friederike?” asks Reichenbach. It is unmistakable that her eyes are moist, but she pulls herself together, for she knows the Freiherr does not like such letting go.

“It will be so sad in the castle now,” she says, “when everyone is gone.”

The care for the silkworms has come to an end since the last animals perished and Reichenbach has for the time being given up dealing with the ungrateful creatures. Friederike is a good child; she always wants to make herself useful somehow and bring the Freiherr some joy.

“You must take good care of the father,” Reichenbach says soothingly. Oh God, certainly that would be the next thing, to take care of the father, but Friederike would much rather be truly useful to the Freiherr. She pities him, quite indescribably so, and yet she couldn’t say why. The father goes to the tavern, is grumpy because there’s never enough money in the house, and when he’s really drunk, he sometimes even strikes Friederike!—but she says nothing of this to Reichenbach, or he would surely give the father a stern talking-to. The Freiherr, however, has always been good to her; her entire childhood was one of looking up to him, and it seems to her as if things aren’t quite going for him as he deserves.

“So keep a good watch on the little castle,” Reichenbach jokes, “and if robbers come, you shoot them dead for me.”

Then he goes out in front of the castle; the carriage is already ready, the Freiherr climbs in, and Friederike waves with her handkerchief, and then she can cry to her heart’s content, since no one sees her anymore.

Friederike, yes, Friederike, thought Reichenbach as his carriage drove toward the city, she had something so loving and attractive in her nature that she was never overlooked when she happened to cross a guest’s path at Kobenzl. Everyone turned to look at her and asked: “Who is she, then?” She looked so delicate and refined that, dressed in fine clothes, she could quite well have denied her origins from the Blansko forest lodge. From her father, she had certainly inherited nothing—not the somewhat bulbous nose, nor the receding chin, nor the watery-blue eyes. She must owe most of it to her mother, but Reichenbach could no longer quite recall her; he only remembered that people had said she was an exceptionally beautiful woman, despite the many children. That was probably also the reason why the Altgräfin later no longer allowed her to come to the castle, after she had been called in as a helper for several years.

Things might also have turned out somewhat differently for the girl if her mother had remained alive. But she had to die because back then no one had any inkling of the causes of childbed fever, because every doctor was a murderer, unwittingly and guiltlessly, yet still an assistant to the strangling angel of mothers.

There the Freiherr was again with the thoughts that had occupied him incessantly in these last weeks. Chemistry and geology and metallurgy and astronomy and all the rest—those were certainly respectable sciences! Ironworks and sugar factories and—if only those treacherous silkworms hadn’t been so sensitive—silk mills, all very fine, profitable, and incidentally honorable. One could even become a Freiherr that way. But what was all that compared to the science of man? There were hours when Reichenbach wrestled with the fact that it had not destined him for the career of a physician. To heal sick people! To prevent diseases! Jenner had invented the cowpox vaccination; this German-Hungarian Semmelweis, who couldn’t even write properly, would undoubtedly become the savior of countless mothers. How would it have turned out if, say, a Reichenbach had mastered cholera? Was there a more enticing riddle, a more alluring mystery than the still-unrevealed nature of man?

Stoked by these thoughts, Reichenbach’s discontent grew, and even the move to the city did nothing to change it. It was hard to please him. Hermine neglected her scientific work, and why? She suddenly developed such a zeal for singing and music that everything else fell short.

“You do value it,” Hermine objected, “you yourself invited Schuh.”

“But it’s not necessary for him to come daily.”

“He doesn’t come daily,” Hermine resisted with gentleness, “he comes once or twice a week.” “So not daily, but still too often. He’s drawing you away from science.” Still, Reichenbach didn’t want to issue an outright ban; this Schuh was a useful fellow, one could talk with him about all sorts of things; now he was occupied with Daguerre’s process.

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OD: Chapter 4, pages 51-56

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fantasy, reading, writing on September 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Reichenbach grabs his coat and goes. The chief accountant thinks, thank God he’s leaving—I’d have had to get harsh otherwise; that damned know-it-all attitude can go to the devil, thinking he knows everything better.

Outside, the carriage waits. Reichenbach climbs in, and Johann tries to mount the coachbox, a pitiful struggle for his brittle bones. One leg barely makes the step, but lifting the second won’t do. Stiff, stiff joints, trembling knees—Johann pushes off the ground, hopping, hopping, but it’s a wretched, futile effort.

“Wait,” Reichenbach says, jumping from the carriage. “Get in! I’ll drive.”

The old man’s bright eyes widen in disbelief, his weary head shaking—how could this be? Get in? Then old Johann would sit on the blue cloth cushions, and the Herr General Director would take the coachbox. You can’t upend the order of the world—no, that won’t do.

“Shut up!” Reichenbach growls. “No arguing! Get in, and that’s that!”

No one defies the Herr General Director. The unthinkable happens: old Johann must sit in the carriage like a lord, while Reichenbach climbs onto the coachbox, taking reins and whip as if he were the driver.

Johann feels uneasy, but Reichenbach revels in wild inner joy, chuckling like a gleeful child. Yes, now old Johann rides like a lord, and let them at the castle see it and stew in their green and blue annoyance.

Sure enough, as he swings the carriage into the castle courtyard, someone at the prince’s study window starts back, stung by the odd spectacle.

Reichenbach carries his mocking, delighted grin into the study, flashing it at the two young men awaiting him.

First, Reichenbach learns that the stranger young man is Herr Lawyer Dr. Josef Promintzer, Dr. Promintzer from Vienna, successor to the old, somewhat complacent princely syndic Dr. Gradwohl, now retired.

“I’ve summoned you,” the prince says after the men take seats around the large diplomatic desk, “to discuss the balance sheet.”

“In the presence of the syndic?” Reichenbach asks.

“Indeed,” the young prince replies measuredly, recovering from the jab. He understands what Reichenbach means—that this used to be a matter of trust between his late father and Reichenbach, needing no lawyer’s involvement.

The men sit around the diplomatic desk, where the balance sheet and books, fetched by the prince yesterday, lie. The prince is a young, well-built man, slightly gaunt and stooped, with a stern, guarded, haughty face, almost entirely his mother’s. The new lawyer, by contrast, is a plump man with a short neck and a piggish snout. He wears owl-like glasses, like those Frau Paleczek, God rest her soul, used for reading. His breathing whistles through his nose, and a thick watch chain across his blue vest sways with his belly’s rise and fall.

A judicial air fills the prince’s study, the books and papers on the desk like evidence of a crime.

“It’s about this matter,” Dr. Promintzer begins namely, that certain things aren’t clear to His Princely Grace.”

Aha, Reichenbach thinks, those dubious entries I fought the chief accountant over, and instantly he’s ready to defend the accountant tooth and nail to the bitter end.

“Namely…” the prince continues, “the sugar factory. There’s a contract with my late father, the deceased old count—”

“Unfortunately, one might say!” Dr. Promintzer interjects.

“Stating the sugar factory must source its beets exclusively from the princely estate office at a fixed price.”

“We’ve talked about this several times, I believe,” Reichenbach grumbles. “Why throw money elsewhere?”

“Well,” the prince says haltingly, brow furrowed as if recalling a poorly learned lesson, “in bad years, with a poor beet harvest, the estate office can’t supply enough…”

“I find that irrational,” Promintzer cuts in quickly. “In good years, the factory could get beets cheaper elsewhere, but the estate office sticks to its price.”

“So what?” Reichenbach retorts. “We’ve gone over this ten times. It all ends up in the same pocket. Factory or estate office—it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

“The contract with my late father, the deceased old count—” the prince says.

“Hm,” Dr. Promintzer interrupts, his eyes vanishing behind the glint of his glasses. “You shouldn’t defend this irrational operation, Herr General Director, when you’re profiting forty percent from the estate office—a remarkably high share, one must say.”

Reichenbach turns dark red. The urge flashes through him to grab Dr. Promintzer by his watch chain and knock the glasses off his piggish snout with two slaps. But then he tells himself slaps are poor arguments, and you only strike a man so swiftly and directly if he’s meant to fall—or has already fallen.

“Well, well,” he says slowly, leaning back until his chair creaks. “So you think my share’s too high, do you?”

Promintzer shrugs, and the prince says, “In general…” laying his hand on a document, “the last contract with my late father, the deceased old count… before, you had twenty-five percent generally… in the last contract, your share rose to thirty-three percent… my late father, in his final days…” The prince tilts his head to his shoulder, his face deeply mournful.

“His Princely Grace,” the lawyer chimes in, “His Princely Grace believes the contract must be revised, and the general power of attorney needs amending as well.”

Business is business, and matters of honor shouldn’t mix with it. It’s wise to hear where this is going. They talk around it for a while, and it becomes ever clearer to Reichenbach that there’s a point where pride demands no further haggling over petty details. They want cuts, even now, to last year’s profits.

“You forget,” Reichenbach says, his chair creaking again as he leans back, “that this is largely my work.” He gestures at the papers on the desk, but his motion sweeps wider, encompassing forests and smoking chimneys, blast furnaces and ore mines, offices and laboratories.

Promintzer snorts sharply through his nose, seeing he has the man where he wants him. “All due respect,” he says deliberately, “your inventions and discoveries, Herr General Director! But, hand on heart, creosote, paraffin, and so forth—everyone knows it was really the chemist Mader—”

Reichenbach slams the armrests of his chair and half-rises. He keeps hold of the armrests—it’s better not to let go. “That, Herr Doctor,” he says, “is despicable, a low blow…”

He doesn’t look at the lawyer or the prince but at the suit of armor by the desk. It’s better to fix on the armor, where one of their warlike ancestors stood, perhaps that Niklas Salm who saved Vienna from the Turks.

“Strong words!” Promintzer smirks. “Strong words!”

Reichenbach could make a grand exit now. He could say, “I request my dismissal,” or “I’ll find my justice,” or “We’ll meet again at Philippi,” or something like that. But he says none of it. It’s enough that he made that grand gesture over the desk, sweeping toward the forests and smokestacks. He regrets it—enough is enough. So he simply says, “Good day!” and walks out.

“You’ll see, he’ll slap us with a lawsuit,” Promintzer smirks.

“Do you think so?” the prince asks, surprised and a bit unsatisfied with the outcome.

“I’m certain,” Promintzer says, his thick watch chain swaying on his gleefully heaving belly. Dr. Josef Promintzer is a lawyer, and lawyers, after all, thrive on people suing each other.

Reichenbach descends the stairs, thinking, the last time. Oddly, he doesn’t think of Dr. Promintzer or the young prince, but of the prince’s mother, that stiff-backed, angular, bony former convent lady who her son so resembles.

In the courtyard, Forester Ruf stands, also summoned for an audience. His hat’s sweep catches Reichenbach’s eye, slowing his step. “Do you know what just happened, Ruf?” he asks.

“What, Herr General Director?”

Reichenbach kicks the air. “No more General Director. I’ve fallen from grace.”

“Good heavens, Herr General Director!”

“No dramatic scenes, Ruf! I saw this coming a long time ago. Now I’m in otium cum dignitate—to put it so you understand, Ruf, I’m my own master now. At Reisenberg near Vienna. And if you ever get fed up here, Ruf, you know—I can always use capable people.”

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OD: Chapter 3, pages 27-32

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fiction, history, writing on September 2, 2025| Leave a Comment »

by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 3

Three days after the christening feast, Frau Paleczek was back in the forester’s small cottage, but in a different role than before.

She had a corpse to wash—the body of Frau Ruf, who had died of childbed fever. Despite all brave resistance, death had won out, and Dr. Roskoschny’s hope of pulling her through was dashed. Medicine could name the thing raging in the new mother’s veins, straining her body and twisting her face in agony—childbed fever—but it couldn’t say where it came from or offer a real cure. In the end, it had to leave the outcome to God.

And now Frau Paleczek bent her face, black as the Virgin of Częstochowa or Kiritein, over the ashen one on the red-checkered pillow, dressing the deceased in a clean gown.

And then she said, “Jesus, Mary… seven children… such a pretty young woman… and seven little children … such misery… such misfortune. What’ll you do now, Herr Ruf?”

The forester sits in the corner, head in his hands, silent. What should he do? What can he do? He doesn’t know—seven little children, one a tiny infant, and their mother dead.

“For a few days, I can help out,” Paleczek grumbles in her deepest bass, full of pity, “but I can’t stay long, of course—I’ve got my own business to tend to.” Then, after folding the deceased’s hands over her chest, an idea strikes her. “Maybe your wife’s sister could come, your sister-in-law in Lettowitz. Right?”

The sister-in-law in Lettowitz. Maybe, perhaps the sister-in-law. But the forester is paralyzed, unable to stir. Just three days ago, he was a happy man, a man of importance, sitting between Frau Director and the pastor, bringing home a slight buzz—not from beer or schnapps, but from wine, fine wine like the gentry drink at the castle. And now look at him: seven children, and his wife dead!

Everyone feels great pity for him, all of them. They all come to the funeral, even Frau Director Reichenbach, and many weep as the coffin is lowered into the grave and the six orphans begin to sob. The old count is visibly moved, subdued and distracted in a way wholly unlike him—one might almost say timid. He speaks to no one and leaves after the funeral, heading straight home without looking at anyone. It clearly hits him hard that the woman has died—she used to help out at the castle often. Then Frau Director Reichenbach pulls Ruf aside and says, “You’ve got it tough now, Herr Ruf, but you must keep your head up and trust in God.”

Oh, keep his head up—if only it were that easy, if his head weren’t so heavy, sinking to his chest again and again. Worries weigh like lead.

“I’ll send Susi to you,” says Frau Director. “She’s good with children—she was the eldest of nine at home and had to look after the others. And I’ll come check on you every day.”

That lightens his head a good bit, enough for the forester to lift it and look into Frau Director’s eyes. His hand, no longer so limp, meets hers as she reaches out.

For a few days, Ernsttal and Blansko buzz with talk of Frau Ruf’s death—how young she looked, despite all those children, and how cheerful she always was. They speak of the tragedy of seven motherless children, of Frau Director Reichenbach’s kindness in taking them under her wing, and of the old count sending Ruf a heap of money—a saint of a man, that old count! The talk might have gone on longer, but then comes the news that the machinist Schnuparek, on Sunday, leaving the factory tavern walking out, is struck by sudden illness. A searing pain grips his gut, as if he’d drunk sulfuric acid, tearing his insides apart, turning him inside out. He clutches his stomach, groans, roars, and finally, everything goes black before his eyes.

They find Schnuparek in the roadside ditch, thinking at first he’s drunk, but Schnuparek isn’t drunk—he’s sick. They lift him and carry him to bed. Then Dr. Roskoschny is fetched. He puts on his gravest face, orders vinegar sprayed and juniper burned, and declares it’s cholera that’s struck Schnuparek.

It can no longer be hidden: cholera has come to the land. Now everyone knows what the falling stone from the sky meant. It foretold cholera, the great dying with no escape. There it is—laughing off such things and mocking the fear as foolishness does no good. The great lords don’t know any better than the common folk, and it might’ve been wiser to leave those ill-fated stones where they fell in the forest instead of picking them up and hauling them to the laboratory, as Reichenbach did. Surely they were poisonous, surely they carried the disease.

But what good is the whispering and grumbling now? The specter is here, its first shadow cast over the christening feast, standing among the people, reaching into houses and huts, snatching the farmer from the field, the worker from the lathe, the mold, the furnace, the miner from the pit, the clerk from his books.

Forester Ruf decides it’s time to fetch his sister-in-law from Lettowitz. Two of Frau Director Reichenbach’s maids have fled home to their village, where it might be safer, so Susi is hard to spare, and Frau Director can’t spend all day with the children.

But when Ruf arrives in Lettowitz, he finds his sister-in-law in bed. A few hours ago, she had to lie down, gripped by searing pain in her gut, moaning and groaning, her face burning with fever, blue spots visible on her chest.

Ruf sits with the sick woman for half an hour, giving her drops of Jerusalem miracle balm, good for everything—frostbite, toothache, gout, headaches—then leaves, deeply troubled and at a loss, heading home.

Plenty of fresh air, preaches Dr. Roskoschny, plenty of fresh air and movement.

Work grinds to a halt; people are sick or hiding. This gives Reichenbach time to explore the strange land fate has brought him to. He believes one must know how to gain something from every situation, even making misfortune serve a purpose.

Years ago, when he was at the chemical laboratory of the Polytechnic Institute in Vienna, the old count Hugo met Salm-Reifferscheidt, this region was as foreign to the Swabian as some stretch of the Congo or Niger. Even then, the two men took a liking to each other, bonding over their scientific pursuits. When the old prince handed over the estates and factories to his son to retire, the old count promptly summoned Reichenbach. That was many years ago, and the ironworks and laboratory have consumed so much time and energy that little else could take hold.

Now, though, there’s a chance to look around. It’s a remarkable landscape, these forests in the heart of Moravia—a stretch of limestone with strange sinkholes, caves, and karst rivers. There’s the Macocha, or “Stepmother” in German, a chasm so deep you could set Vienna’s St. Stephen’s Tower in it; caves with bones of prehistoric animals and ancient firepits; underground domes and passages with stalactites. And the rivers! They surge from a rocky maw, dark and unfathomable, only to vanish again into mysterious depths after a brief run above ground.

Reichenbach roams with a geologist’s hammer, tapping cave walls, digging in clay-filled crevices. Then a desire grips him to uncover the secrets of the Punkva River. Others have tried and failed before him, but he will succeed; what others botch only spurs him to push to the utmost.

It’s settled: Reichenbach and the chemist Mader are to venture together, each on a light raft, to probe the Punkva River’s secrets. It must be done discreetly—Friederike Luise shouldn’t know yet; no, it’s better not to tell her, as she’s no fan of such risky undertakings. Reichenbach waits for Mader, then realizes he should say goodbye to Friederike Luise. There’s no real danger, but still, one doesn’t just slip away without a word.

“Where’s your mother?” he asks Reinhold.

Reinhold stands at attention. “She just left for Forester Ruf’s—one of the children is sick, and she’s going to check on them.”

Reichenbach paces impatiently in the garden, plucks a green caterpillar from a rosebush and crushes it, then cuts an unruly vine from the arbor with his knife. Mader’s taking his time—always taking his time. Someone needs to give him a good shake.

Someone passes by the bushes outside. But it’s not Mader—it’s the old count. “Mader sent me,” he smiles. “I’ve switched places with him.”

“What? Mader? Switched?”

“It’s not very nice of you,” the old count says good-naturedly, feigning offense, “keeping secrets from me. Why not take me along, Reichenbach? You know I’m keenly interested in such things. I tried it once long ago with a canoe, but it didn’t work out.”

“So Mader couldn’t keep his mouth shut?”

“Thank God, or I’d have missed out on the fun.”

“But—you know a fellow from Vienna nearly drowned trying to swim it. If his wife hadn’t pulled him out…”

“Does your wife know?”

“No,” Reichenbach says, “she mustn’t find out.”

Then the old count asks, as Reichenbach did earlier, “Where’s your wife?” Perhaps he asks because he thinks it wise to shake her hand before embarking on something rather unusual. He seems uneasy to hear Friederike Luise isn’t home.

“Well, then, let’s go in God’s name,” he says finally.

They walk on foot to avoid drawing attention or involving too many people. But as they pass near the forester’s cottage, they spot Friederike Luise on the meadow path. The old count stops, his face lighting up with joy. “I haven’t had the chance to see you in ages, gracious lady.”

“You were at Ruf’s?” Reichenbach asks.

“Yes, Lada’s very sick—the third eldest. The doctor just arrived and sent me home at once. He was almost rude, told me not to dare come back.”

“Does he think—?” Reichenbach hesitates, reluctant to say the word, as if speaking it aloud carries danger.

“Please be careful,” the old count urges, concerned. “What good does it do? You can’t help, and you have children at home.”

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OD: Chapter 4, pages 51-56

OD: Chapter 3, pages 27-32

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