Homo Sapiens: In the Maelstrom by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
In the Maelstrom
I.
Janina looked at Falk thoughtfully.
How he had changed in recent times. This restlessness! As if he expected some misfortune any moment. Then he could suddenly sink into a strange apathy for a whole hour and forget everything around him… What was wrong with him? No, he was not open with her. He made excuses. He calmed her with empty phrases… Now and then she saw his face twitch nervously, then he made a violent hand gesture and smiled. This smile—this ugly smile—he had brought from Paris.
Falk seemed to wake up. He straightened up on the sofa, took a few pieces of sugar and threw them into an empty glass.
“Do you have hot water?”
“You shouldn’t drink so much grog, Erik, it makes you even more restless.”
“No, no, on the contrary.” He seemed impatient. Janina hurried to bring the water.
Falk prepared the grog carefully. He looked at her: She was so eager, as if she wanted to make up for daring to contradict him. He became very friendly:
“No, on the contrary. That calms me. These are my calmest hours here with you… Sitting like this and drinking one glass after another… Yes, here with you…”
He suddenly fell silent. He seemed to be thinking of something entirely different.
“You have changed a lot since you came from Paris.” “Do you think so?”
“You weren’t like that before. You have become so restless and so nervous.” Falk looked at her without answering. He drank, looked at her again and leaned back on the sofa.
“It’s strange how good you are.” He spoke with a friendly smile. “I feel so well with you.”
“Is it true?”
“Yes, I always come back to you.”
“Yes, when you are tired… Oh, Erik, it was not good to leave me here in this terrible torment for three years. Not a word did you write to me.”
“I wanted you to forget me.” “Forget you! No, one cannot.”
He looked at her silently. A long pause ensued.
“Just tell me, Jania—” he suddenly became very lively—”tell me honestly: did nothing happen between you and Czerski? Be completely honest, you know how I think about it…”
“We were practically engaged… But why do you ask? I have already told you the same thing a hundred times.”
“Well, the whole thing interests me very much, and I am so forgetful. Your brother wanted it?”
“Yes, they were the best friends.” “And you?”
“I had nothing against it. I had completely given you up. He was very good to me. What should I wait for? I had great respect for him…”
“If he hadn’t been imprisoned, you would now be an honorable housewife… Hm, hm… I’m really curious how that would suit you…”
Janina did not answer. They were silent for a while. “Did you visit him in prison?”
“Yes, a few times at first.”
“And your brother successfully crossed the border?” “You know that.”
“Hm, hm…” Falk stood up restlessly and walked back and forth a few times. “Did they ever talk about me?”
“Who?”
“Well, your brother and Czerski.”
“Of course, very often. You sent money to Czerski. Have you forgotten?”
“And did they know anything about our relationship?”
“No! I always acted as if I had never known you. I was afraid of the two of them. They are so fanatical.”
“So they didn’t know at all that you knew me before?”
“No. But did you never talk to my brother in Paris about me? He was with you often.”
Falk rubbed his forehead.
“Yes, he came now and then; but we almost always talked about agitation… Yes, though: he once told me that he had a sister and that she would soon marry; besides, I left Paris soon after… Well, let’s leave it…”
Again he walked restlessly around.
“You, Erik, did you never long for me?” He smiled.
“Oh yes, sometimes.” “Only sometimes?” He smiled again.
“I came back after all.” “But you don’t love me.” Her voice trembled.
“I love no one, but I longed for you.”
He looked at her, her face twitched. She would probably burst into tears any moment.
Falk sat down beside her.
“Listen, Jania, I must not love. I must hate when I love.” “Have you ever loved?”
“Yes, once. And I hated the woman I had to love. No, let’s not talk about it.”
He became serious. The thought of his wife tormented him.
“No, no. One is not free when one loves. The woman pushes herself into everything. One must take a thousand considerations, one must take her, one must also have the same bedroom—well, that’s not absolutely necessary, but—well, yes, you understand me… I must be free, I hate every feeling that restricts my freedom, oh, I cannot tell you how I hate it.”
He took her hand and stroked it mechanically.
“It’s strange, Jania, that you love me so.”
“Why?”
“I am so cold here—here…” he pointed to his forehead. Janina swallowed her tears.
“You are enough for me like this. I don’t want you any other way. I demand nothing more from you.”
“That’s good. That’s why I feel so well with you.” He was silent for a long time, then suddenly straightened up.
“Do you believe I can love?” “Perhaps earlier.”
“But if I now, now, understand, loved someone, if I loved her so that this person—this woman became a kind of fate to me?”
Janina looked at him suspiciously.
“If I loved this woman so that I couldn’t live a day without her?”
She started.
Falk looked at her for a long time, suddenly recollected himself and laughed. “God, what a child you are! How you stare at me!”
Janina looked at him with growing unease. What was he saying? What did he want? “Erik, tell me openly what is wrong with you. Do you think I don’t see that you are suffering and want to hide it from me?” Her eyes filled with tears. Falk became very lively.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
“He’s still very young,” Helmina replied carelessly, brushing her lips with a tiny batiste handkerchief, “and very much in love.” Helmina and the children accompanied Ruprecht by carriage to the train, a two-hour journey to the next station. From the forested basin cradling Vorderschluder, the road wound between mountain spurs to the high plateau. Each loop, each turn seemed like the forest had thrown up barriers to hinder the road’s climb and block the world’s path to the secluded village. Ruprecht walked arm-in-arm with Helmina across the Gars platform. The stationmaster, in his red cap, passed by, saluted, and stole a glance. He leaned to the open window of the telegraphist’s office, whispering, prompting the young clerk to crane his neck and roll his eyes. The girls had found the stationmaster’s old dog in a corner, tugging its long black tufts, but darted to Ruprecht every moment. “You must come back soon, Papa!” “What will you bring me, Papa?” “Will you race down the castle hill with us, Papa?” “That’s him, then. Must be fabulously rich,” the stationmaster muttered, picturing a roasted peacock and an automobile—his symbols of vast wealth. The young telegraphist sighed. In dreams, he’d embraced this young widow, claiming her by the poet’s right, his desk drawer stuffed with a half-kilo of tender verses. Done! Finished! The world’s brutality had won. The train approached. The stationmaster scurried from one end of the platform to the other, as if restraining a frantic crowd. He was thrilled to wear his new trousers with crisp creases. If only his wife would leave her window post, he’d have seized the chance to offer Frau Dankwardt—still Frau Dankwardt—some respectful homage. One must make an impression. Perhaps an invite to the wedding feast… Ruprecht took his leave. Two children’s kisses, then a red, full, fragrant mouth. All aboard! Oh, it was only for a few days… A grating screech jolted the train, rattling teeth. Then, farewell! Two heron feathers nodded. A luxurious blue-gray fur glimmered softly around her lovely shoulders… the train rounded the castle hill… Ruprecht von Boschan dove into work. There was plenty to do. First, he gathered all papers needed for the wedding. He loathed bureaucracies—offices, waiting rooms, clerks, petitions, stamps. He’d lived as if such things didn’t exist. Now, he needed them all, a humbling crawl. Each errand required overcoming inner resistance. He also wanted to finish a project. With the clear, untheorized gaze of a traveler, he’d formed judgments on economic conditions. Many differed from common assumptions. It would benefit his homeland to learn where it lost or gained. He’d begun a book on these matters and now aimed to complete it, writing late into the night. Looking up from his manuscript, he saw two white heron feathers and a softly shimmering blue-gray fur. Finally, his financial affairs needed settling. He visited his bank, requesting a meeting with the director. Sunk in a gray leather club chair, he outlined his plan to Herr Siegl, who sat opposite. Siegl’s short, stout, bowed legs formed an O wide enough to roll a barrel through. A black-rimmed pince-nez quivered on his thick nose’s tip, dangling as if begging to fall, saved by its cord. His bulging belly rippled in his white vest. Above them, electric light burned in a milky tulip, iron tendrils hanging down. Outside was bright day, but here, year-round, this flame glowed. One might think it an underground vault. With iron shutters and padded doors, the room seemed built to guard secrets. A faint metallic clink hummed—gold coins rubbing together or stacked in rolls. “Well, Herr von Boschan,” Siegl said after Ruprecht explained his financial strategy, “I’d recommend a marriage contract stipulating complete separation of assets.” “Why? Doesn’t that seem mistrustful? Have you specific reasons for this suggestion?” “Why? What can I say, Herr von Boschan? Better safe than sorry! Frau von Dankwardt plays the stock market.” “Does she? And you think? With what success?” Siegl rocked his head, his pince-nez dancing, the ripple in his vest disrupted. “Well… as one does on the market. You win, you lose!” “You may be right, Director,” Ruprecht said thoughtfully. “Right? Of course I’m right!” Siegl leaned forward, placing a plump hand on Ruprecht’s knee. “And then—someone inquired about your finances here. Twice, Herr von Boschan!” “Who?” “I don’t know. Not the one who asked, at any rate.” “What did you say?” “What did we say? Are we an inquiry bureau for our clients? We said, ‘The man’s solid.’ What more needs knowing?” Ruprecht decided to follow Siegl’s advice. Every other day, a fragrant letter arrived from Vorderschluder. The one responding to his request for asset separation smelled less sweet. The beautiful writer was hurt, indignant. “Oh, that leaves a sting!” Helmina wrote. Ruprecht wanted no thorn in his bride’s soul. He replied that, while insisting on separation, he was open to mutual inheritance provisions. “Let’s not overvalue such things,” Helmina wrote back. “Have it your way. I agree. The date nears. We have more pressing matters.” The date arrived. Ruprecht reached Vorderschluder the evening before the wedding. Jana, the Malay, managed the luggage. Village youths gaped, awestruck. They’d never seen such a figure. “Well, there’s all sorts in the world,” said the Red Ox’s kindly landlady, and even the headmaster had to agree. The bachelor party was intimate—the estate manager, head forester, priest, factory director, and bookkeeper attended, along with the notary who’d witnessed the marriage contract’s signing. Baron Kestelli, invited, had excused himself but would attend the ceremony. That relatives of Helmina’s last husband stayed away was understandable. The next morning, Ruprecht’s witnesses arrived: Ernst Hugo, the court secretary, and another old friend, Wetzl, a quiet, dark chemist famed for radium experiments. Hugo flung his arms like windmill blades, enveloping Ruprecht. “Man,” he shouted, “all I’ll say is: when a man’s lucky, he’s lucky!” Turning to Frau Helmina, he placed a hand on his impeccable frock coat’s left flap. “If you knew, madam… I admired you in Abbazia. I was promised an introduction the next day. The next day, you were gone.” Helmina, in a simple gray dress, smiled and offered her hand. “My husband’s friends are mine.” God! Hugo thought. That look. I’m lost. I’ll dream of her. Carriages waited in the courtyard. They drove slowly, brakes grinding, between bare chestnut trees down the castle hill. The weather was unkind. A cold November wind raged in the forested basin, plunging from a gray sky, whipping rain showers. Castle weathervanes shrieked, naked branches clashed. The peasants stood before their houses, straining to peer into the closed carriages. No cheers, no greetings, nothing… they wore dark, hostile scowls. “Your honeymoon’s to the south, naturally,” Hugo said to Ruprecht. “We’re not taking a honeymoon. We’re staying home.” “Oh!” Hugo pictured warm, cozy rooms, crackling fires, shrieking weathervanes, humming teakettles, and soft, flowing silk-and-lace nightgowns. Good heavens! Ruprecht sensed his friend’s envy. He felt it like a cloud over the congregation in the church. The guests’ strained postures, their polite smiles, were mere grimaces, hiding nothing from him. Yet, from this, he drew strength to prevail. Calmly, confidently smiling, he led Helmina to the altar. She turned her face to him. Her eyes shimmered with iridescent brilliance. Oh, this danger—this wondrous, blissful, sweet danger of the love-battle he was entering! What is life without this danger? The priest delivered his words, binding them in an unbreakable union. Then they received congratulations. First, Baron Kestelli, Helmina’s witness, approached. His face was contorted. He could say nothing.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
But the overseer of the prison was not satisfied. “What! To the commander? But Herr Doctor, you have no leave of absence to go down to the city, and you still want to go to the commander?” Frank Braun laughed, “Yes indeed. Straight to him! Namely, I must go to the commander and pump some money out of him.” The Sergeant-major didn’t say another word. He stood there not moving with a wide-open mouth, completely petrified. “Give me ten pennies, boy,” Frank Braun cried to his valet, “for the toll bridge.” He took the coins and went with quick strides across the yard, into the officer’s garden and from there onto the slope leading up to the ramparts. He swung up onto the wall, grabbed the bough of a mighty ash tree on the other side and climbed down the trunk. Then he pushed through the thick underbrush and climbed down the rocks. In twenty minutes he was at the bottom. It was the route they always took for their nightly escapades. He went along the Rhine to the toll bridge and then across to Coblenz. He learned where the commander lived and hurried there. He showed the general the telegram and said that he came on very urgent matters. The general let him in and he put the telegram back in his pocket. “How can I help you with this?” Frank Braun said, “I need a leave of absence your Excellency. I am a prisoner at the fortress.” The old general stared at him unkindly, visibly annoyed at the intrusion. “What do you want? By the way, how did you get down into the city? Do you have a pass?” “Certainly, Your Excellency,” said Frank Braun. “I have church leave.” He lied, but knew very well the general only wanted an answer. “I came to Your Excellency to ask for a three day pass. My uncle is in Berlin and dying.” The commander blurted out, “What is your uncle to me? It’s entirely out of the question! You are not sitting up there at your convenience. It’s because you have broken the law, do you understand? Anyone could come to me with a dying uncle or aunt. If it’s not at least a parent I deny such a pass strictly on principle.” “I remain dutiful, your Excellency,” he replied. “I will inform my uncle, his Excellency, the Privy Councilor ten Brinken, immediately by telegraph that unfortunately his only nephew is not allowed to hasten to his deathbed for his weary eyes to look upon.” He bowed, turned toward the door, but the general held him back as he had expected. “Who is your uncle?” he asked in hesitation. Frank Braun repeated the name and the beautiful title. Then he took the telegram out of his pocket and handed it over. “My poor uncle has one last chance for deliverance in Berlin but unfortunately the operation is not successful very often.” “Hmm,” said the commander. “Go my young friend. Go immediately. Perhaps it will be helpful.” Frank Braun made a face, lamented and said, “Only God knows– Perhaps my prayers can do some good.” He interrupted himself with a beautiful sigh and continued, “I remain dutiful, your Excellency. There is just one other thing I have to ask.” The commander gave him the telegram back. “What?” he asked. Frank Braun burst out, “I have no travel money. May I ask your Excellency to loan me three hundred Marks.” The general looked suspiciously at him. “No money–Hmm–so no money either–But wasn’t yesterday the first? Didn’t your money come?” “My money came promptly, your Excellency,” he replied quickly. “But it was gone just as quickly that night!” The old commander laughed at that. “Yes, yes. That is how you atone for your crimes, your misdeeds! So you need three hundred Marks?” “Yes, your Excellency! My uncle will certainly be very happy to hear how you have helped me out of this predicament, if I am permitted.” The general turned, went to the writing desk, opened it and took out three little pieces of paper and a moneybox. He gave the prisoner quill and paper and told him what to write down on the receipt. Then he gave him the money. Frank Braun took it with a light easy bow. “I remain dutiful, your Excellency.” “Think nothing of it,” said the commander. “Go there and come back right away–Give my compliments to yours truly, his Excellency.” “Once again I remain dutiful, your Excellency.” One last bow and he was outside. He sprang over the six front steps in one leap and had to restrain himself not to shout out loud. That was great! He called a taxi to take him to the Ehrenbreitstein train station. There he leafed through the departure times and found he still had three hours to wait. He called to the valet that was waiting with his suitcase and commanded him to quickly run over to the “Red Cock” and bring back the ensign from Plessen. “But bring the right one boy!” he said sharply. “The young gentleman that just got here not to long ago, the one that wears No. six on his back. The one that–Wait, your pennies have earned interest.” He threw him a ten Mark piece. Then he went into the wine house, considered carefully, ordered a select supper and sat at the window looking out at the Sunday citizens as they wandered along the Rhine. Finally the ensign came. “What’s up now?” “Sit down,” said Frank Braun. “Shut up. Don’t ask. Eat, drink and be merry!” He gave him a hundred Mark bill. Pay my bill with this. You can keep the rest–and tell them up there that I’ve gone to Berlin–with a pass! I want the Sergeant-major to know that I will be back before the end of the week.” The blonde ensign stared at him in outright admiration, “Just tell me–how did you do it?” “My secret,” said Frank Braun. “But it wouldn’t do you any good if I did tell you. His Excellency will only be good-natured enough to fall for it once. Prosit!” The ensign brought him to the train and handed his suitcase up to him. Then he waved his hat and handkerchief. Frank Braun stepped back from the window and forgot in that same instant the little ensign, his co-prisoners and the fortress. He spoke with the conductor, stretched out comfortably in his sleeper, closed his eyes and went to sleep. The conductor had to shake him very hard to wake him up. “Where are we?” he asked drowsily. “Almost to Friedrichstrasse station.” He gathered his things together, climbed out and went to the hotel. He got a room, bathed, changed clothes and then went down for breakfast. He ran into Dr. Petersen at the door. “Oh there you are dear Doctor! His Excellency will be overjoyed!” His Excellency! Again his Excellency! It sounded wrong to his ears. “How is my uncle?” he asked. “Better?” “Better?” repeated the doctor. “What do you mean better? His Excellency has not been sick!” “Is that so,” said Frank Braun. “Not sick! That’s too bad. I thought uncle was on his deathbed.” Dr. Petersen looked at him very bewildered. “I don’t understand at all–” He interrupted him, “It’s not important. I am only sorry that the Privy Counselor is not on his deathbed. That would have been so nice! Then I would have inherited right? Unless he has disowned me. That is also very possible–even more likely.” He saw the bewildered doctor standing before him and fed on his discomfort for a moment. Then he continued, “But tell me doctor, since when has my uncle been called his Excellency?” “It’s been four days, the opportunity–” He interrupted him, “Only four days! And how many years now have you been with him–as his right hand?” “Now that would be at least ten years now,” replied Dr. Petersen. “And for ten years you have called him Privy Councilor and he has replied back to you. But now in these four days he has become so completely his Excellency to you that you can’t even think of him any other way than in the third person?” “Permit me, Herr Doctor,” said the assistant doctor, intimidated and pleading. Permit me to–What do you mean anyway?” But Frank Braun took him under the arm and led him to the breakfast table. “Oh, I know that you are a man of the world doctor! One with form and manners–with an inborn instinct for proper behavior–I know that–and now doctor, let’s have breakfast and you can tell me what you have been up to in the meantime.” Doctor Petersen gratefully sat down, thoroughly reconciled and happy that was over with. This young attorney that he had known as a young schoolboy was quite a windbag and a true hothead–but he was the nephew–of his Excellency. The assistant doctor was about thirty-six. He was average and Frank Braun thought that everything about him was “average”. His nose was not large or small. His features were not ugly or handsome. He was not young anymore and yet he wasn’t old. The color of his hair was exactly in the middle between dark and light. He wasn’t stupid or brilliant either, not exactly boring and yet not entertaining. His clothes were not elegant and yet not ordinary either. He was a good “average” in all things and just the man the Privy Councilor needed. He was a competent worker, intelligent enough to grasp and do what was asked of him and yet not intelligent enough to know everything about this colorful game his master played. “By the way, how much does my uncle pay you?” Frank Braun asked. “Oh, not exactly splendid–but it is enough,” was the answer. “I’m happy with it. At New Years I was given a four hundred Mark raise.” The doctor looked hungrily as the nephew began his breakfast with fruit, eating an apple and a handful of cherries. “What kind of cigars do you smoke?” the attorney inquired. “What I smoke? Oh, an average kind–Not too strong–he interrupted himself. But why do you ask doctor?” “Only because,” said Frank Braun, “it interests me–But now tell me what you have already done in these things. Has the Privy Councilor shared his plans with you?” “Certainly,” the doctor nodded proudly. “I am the only one that knows–except for you of course. This effort is of the highest scientific importance.” The attorney cleared his throat, “Hmm–you think so?” “Entirely without a doubt,” confirmed the doctor. “And his Excellency is so extremely gifted to have thought it all out, taking care of every possible problem ahead of time. You know how careful you have to be these days. The foolish public is always attacking us doctors for so many of our absolutely important experiments. Take vivisection–God, the people become sick when they hear the word. What about our experiments with germs, vaccines and so on? They are all thorns in the eyes of the public even though we almost always only work with animals. And now, this question of artificial insemination of people– His Excellency has found the only possibility in an executed murderer and a paid prostitute. Even the people loving pastor would not have much against it.” “Yes, it is a splendid idea,” Frank Braun confirmed. “It is well that you can recognize the capacity of your superior.” Then Dr. Petersen reported how his Excellency had made several attempts in Cologne with his help. Unfortunately they had not had any success in finding an appropriate female. It turned out that these creatures in this class of the population had very different ideas about having to endure artificial insemination. It was nearly impossible to talk to them about it at all, much less persuade one to actually do it. It didn’t matter how eloquent his Excellency spoke or how hard he tried to make them understand that it would not be dangerous at all; that they would earn a nice piece of money and be doing the scientific community a great service. One had screamed loudly that she would rather service the entire scientific community–and made a very rude gesture. “Pfui!” Frank Braun said. “If only she could!” It was a very good thing that his Excellency had the opportunity to travel to Berlin for the Gynecological Conference. Here in the metropolis there would no doubt be a much wider selection to choose from. The women in question would not be as stupid as in the province, would have less superstitious fear of the new and be more open and practical regarding the money they could make and the important service they could provide to the advancement of science. “Especially the last!” Frank Braun emphasized. Dr. Petersen obliged him with: “It is unbelievable how old fashioned their ideas are in Cologne! Every Guinea pig, yes, even every monkey is infinitely more insightful and reasonable than those females. I almost lost my faith in the towering intellect of humanity. I hope that here I can regain that shaken belief and make it solid once more.” “There is no doubt about it,” the attorney encouraged him. “It would be a real shame indeed if Berlin’s prostitutes couldn’t do any better than Guinea-pigs and monkeys! By the way, when is my uncle coming? Is he up already?” “Oh, he’s been up for a long time now,” declared the assistant doctor zealously. “His Excellency left immediately. He had a ten o’clock audience at the Ministry.” “And after that?” Frank Braun asked. “I don’t know how long it will last,” reasoned Doctor Petersen. “In any case his Excellency requested I wait for him in the auditorium at two o’clock. Then at five o’clock his Excellency has another important meeting with a Berlin colleague here in the hotel and around seven his Excellency is invited to eat with the university president. Herr Doctor, perhaps you could meet in between–” Frank Braun considered. Basically he was in favor of his uncle being occupied the entire day. Then his uncle wouldn’t be around to interfere with his day. I want you to deliver a message to my uncle,” he said. “Tell him we will meet up downstairs in the hotel around eleven o’clock.”
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
XII.
Falk woke around noon. He couldn’t lift his head from the pillows; it was heavy like a lead ball, and sparkling sparks danced before his eyes.
With difficulty he adjusted the pillows, finally sat up, and tried to fix an object in his gaze.
It worked.
But a terrible compulsion laid itself on his organism. He was as if hypnotized: he had to say something to Marit.
What?
He didn’t know.
But it was something; he had to go to her at any price, he had to say something to her.
With superhuman effort he crawled out of bed. Yes, he had to say something.
He checked himself.
That was certainly a compulsion. Yes. But still: he had to go to Marit.
He stood up, but had to sit again.
The soles touched the floorboards. A soothing, almost painful cold prickled through his body.
Oh, how good that was!
He needed a little more air, a little morning air. Yes, what time was it actually?
“So late, so late; but it will probably be cool outside. Was there really a storm? or did he only dream it?”
His clothes lay in a puddle of water on the floor. A great fear seized him.
“No, no: Mother can’t have seen it, otherwise the things wouldn’t be lying here.”
He felt stronger, went to the wardrobe and changed the suit.
God, God, how his head hurt. With difficulty he dressed.
Like a thief he crept to the door of the room his mother occupied.
She wasn’t there!
Falk breathed a sigh of relief. It hurt him.
“Only say that one thing… say to Marit… then I’ll crawl back into bed… then I can be sick. But only say it.”
He went out.
When Marit saw him, she jumped up in alarm. Falk smiled forcedly.
“No; it’s nothing; I only caught a little cold in the night. I have a little fever. By the way, I should have stayed home. But I absolutely had to come to you. I don’t know why. Just quickly give me some cognac…”
He hastily drank a large glass of cognac.
“You see; I got up; it was so terribly hard. But if I lay on my deathbed, I would have had to come to you. Oh: The cognac did very well. It lowers the temperature. That’s namely my standing phrase. I just don’t understand: why not lying?”
Falk began to babble, but controlled himself again. Marit looked at him in horror.
“No, no, leave me; you see, it’s so terribly uncanny what an animal such an overman is. For I am an overman. You understand that? There I suddenly get, probably in sleep, such inspirations. I wake: I know nothing of the whole story; I remember only the final result. No; I don’t remember; for I don’t know if I dreamed something similar; but I know that I had to come to you. I am sick; very sick. But I had to come to you.”
Again his strength left him.
He saw a fire-garland before his eyes, a reddish-green fire-garland; it split into seven lightnings and tore a willow apart.
Marit stared at him, in growing despair.
“Erik my God, what is it with you? You are sick—you must go home—oh God, God, why do you stare at me so horribly?”
“No, just leave it. On the way stands a willow; it is split in two parts; when I went—to you—yes, to you—wasn’t I with you? Yes right: when I went to you, there I examined the willow and searched in the trunk for the thunderbolt. I always did that as a child.”
A lightning, a thousand lightnings killed the little dove.
“But what I wanted to say to you. For I must say something to you. Pour me more cognac.”
“Erik, for heaven’s sake, you must go home! I will immediately have the carriage hitched. I will bring you home.”
Marit ran out…
“What he had to say… had to?!”
Little dove and lightnings… then house, dream… life… destruction… Yes! Destruction! He—a hurricane—an overman—who strides over corpses—and begets life.
Yes, yes: destroy… Destroy!
A wild, jubilant cruelty grew up in him; a joyful, mad lust for torment. He had to see that! yes: that, how the frog writhed under his scalpel, how it slid up the four nails to the nail heads. Then cut out the heart… How it twitches on the table, how it jumps!
Before Falk’s eyes the objects began to dance. Marit stood before him, ready for travel, in helpless fear.
“Come, Erik; come! my only one, come!” She kissed his eyes.
“Still… still once…” He begged like a small child. “Come now! Come, my sweet, only man you.”
“No—still—let! I must say something to you. There sit down—opposite me—on the chair.”
So, Marit, listen: I am not your husband at all, I am married. Yes, really: married. My wife is in Paris. Yes right: Fräulein Perier is my wife. She really is. Don’t you believe it? No, wait, my marriage contract…
He began nervously searching in his pockets. Suddenly he came to his senses.
He smiled idiotically.
“No you, what black holes do you have in your head? You look like a skull. No, don’t look at me like that—don’t look at me—no, let—let—I go—I go.”
Falk ducked in growing fear.
“I go, I go already…” He whimpered like an animal, “I go—yes—yes…”
He ran out.
“No, get in here!” called the coachman. “I’ll drive you!”
“Get in? Yes, get in…” Falk climbed into the carriage that was waiting.
“Where is my hat? No, the hat isn’t there…” Falk held it in his hands… “But that’s strange! – –”
Marit sat in the room with the hat on her head; she was completely paralyzed.
There he drove, yes. Really? No. Yes; yes. Yes.
Not a single thought! So she was dead. No, she dreamed. No, she didn’t dream.
And again she saw clearly, as once before, Falk’s face: it bit her with sucking vampire eyes, it gnawed at her soul with grinning scorn… Liar…
She knew, she saw it: now finally he had told the truth. So she sat probably an hour long.
So he was married!
“Married—” she repeated coldly and harshly.
She felt how her interior froze to ice; everything crawled in her together to one point; the warmth ebbed and ebbed. Everything shrank to the one, small, tiny point: Married…
She saw his uncannily glowing eyes. Her head grew confused.
She jumped up.
No, how could she have forgotten that! She quickly undressed; her gaze fell into the mirror.
No, with the hat on her head she couldn’t possibly go to the kitchen; that would be droll.
She smiled dully to herself.
She went to the kitchen; bread was to be baked. She ordered it.
She was active with feverish unrest. Then she came back to the room.
Above the sofa hung a picture that consisted only of letters; there in such strange flourishes and with glaring Byzantine initials the Lord’s Prayer was printed.
She examined it attentively.
“How hideous this dragon around the U…” She read: And forgive us our sins…
“No, wait, Marit…” She sat on the chair.
“Yes, there sat Falk. Now he said…”
Married! it sounded steel-hard in her ears. “Yes really: married to Fräulein Perier.” She went to the window and looked out.
“How the day drags. Yes! until June 21 the days get longer.”
She looked at the clock. It was five in the afternoon.
Now the brother would soon come from gymnastics: she had to get him coffee.
A carriage rolled into the yard…
“You, Marit, Falk is terribly sick…”
The brother told hastily, tumbling over himself… When Hans brought him home, he had to be lifted from the carriage; he couldn’t recognize any person. His mother cried terribly, and then came the district physician…
“So, Falk is sick…”
Marit wanted to tell the brother that Falk was married, but she controlled herself.
Now his wife will come, and will nurse the poor, nicotine-poisoned man, and bear his moods like an angel… yes…
She went up to her room.
One should not disturb her; she would lie down a little to sleep… Falk is terribly sick… he had to be carried… his mother
cried…
Marit walked restlessly back and forth… I must go to him… immediately… he will die.
Her head was bursting; she grasped high with both hands. Married! Married! it droned continuously.
“I will make you so happy, so happy, and will never leave you!”
A weeping rage rose choking in her throat: God! God! How he had lied!
And a shame and foaming indignation.
Good Lord: had it really happened? Yes… oh yes… happiness.
She felt how he gently rocked her body; back and forth. She felt his hot, greedy lips; on her whole body. She saw herself undressed; he embraced her… And from all corners hideous ghosts emerged, wild, laughing, distorted mask-faces that grinned at her and spat at her.
She crawled into herself; she threw herself on the bed, buried herself in the pillows.
With her own nails dig herself a grave! Oh shame… shame… On the misery of the human child the Madonna stared with stupid smile…
It grew dusk…
Beyond the lake the sun disappeared behind the peaks of the forest and poured blood-red lights over the treetops.
Marit listened.
She heard the clatter of the stork and the laughter of the maids who below in front of the house peeled potatoes for supper.
Then she heard singing. It was her brother. Then she fell asleep…
When she woke, it was night.
She sat on the edge of the bed; thought. But the thoughts kept scattering. She stared thoughtlessly into the room.
She was damned; cast out by God. Now everything was indifferent. Everything.
She thought what might not be indifferent? No, there was nothing.
“Falk is sick; but Falk betrayed her. He promised her happiness, endless happiness, and he was married. Now his wife comes and will nurse him; his Marit is damned. If she goes to him, she will be driven away. And then she will stand outside like a dog in the rain, crouched before the door. No, she had no right to him—nothing, nothing at all in the world.
Now everything is gone. Father gone, mother gone; God doesn’t exist. Yes, Falk said that. Falk is right. Otherwise God couldn’t torment his child so terribly. Everything gone…”
Finally she stood up. She made light; she wanted to arrange her hair. She stepped before the mirror.
Oh God, how she looked… No, how thin; how thin… oh, it’s indifferent…
The whole house slept.
“The happiness… the endless happiness… Yes: he gave it to me…” She took hat and coat and went to the lake.
She sat on the stone: “Cape of Good Hope” she had called it when she waited here day in, day out for Erik.
In the forest opposite stood the little fisherman’s cottage. A light, a tiny dot, crawled out the window and sank strangely torn in the trembling waves of the lake… torn…
She stared at the light and at the black water… How it pulled… how the water pulled at her…
Everything, everything is indifferent.
She was alone; no person her own. She was driven out into wind and weather like a dog before the door…
Yes, now the wife comes; she takes him away; and I remain alone! Almighty, merciful God: alone… No, no, no! Enough! Finished!
He drives away. No father. No mother. No God…
Her fear grew and grew. She feverishly fumbled at her dress. Suddenly a terrible thought rose in her:
The world is going under! Everything, everything will go under! The flood!
She jumped up abruptly:
There was a whirlpool… there it is deep… a farmhand drowned there last year… with both horses.
She ran there. In her head it droned and roared. She saw nothing; she heard nothing.
Something was in her that drove her. She only needed to run. She ran. “Yes, here!”
“No, still the little bend there… there!”
She screamed shrilly in the water… wildly… she struggled. Life! The whirlpool… Bliss…
XIII.
After a week Falk regained consciousness. At his bedside sat his wife, asleep.
He was not at all astonished. He looked at her.
It was her.
He sank back into the pillows and closed his eyes. Now everything was good. A reddish fire-garland he suddenly saw, which split into seven lightnings; then he saw a willow by the road fall apart. Marit was probably dead.
Alraune by Hanns Heinz Ewers and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Four Gives the particulars of how they found Alraune’s mother FRANK Braun sat above on the ramparts of Festung Ehrenbreitstein, a fortified castle overlooking Koblentz. He had sat there for two months already and still had three more to sit, through the entire summer. Just because he had shot a hole through the air, and through his opponent as well. He was bored. He sat up high on the parapet of the tower, legs dangling over the edge looking at the wide broad view of the Rhine from the steep cliffs. He looked into the blue expanse and yawned, exactly like his three comrades that sat next to him. No one spoke a word. They wore yellow canvas jackets that the soldiers had given them. Their attendants had painted large black numbers on the backs of their jackets to signify their cells. No.’s two, fourteen and six sat there; Frank Braun wore the number seven. Then a troop of foreigners came up into the tower, Englishmen and Englishwomen led by the sergeant of the watch. He showed them the poor prisoners with the large numbers sitting there so forlorn. They were moved with sympathy and with “oohs” and “ahs” asked the sergeant if they could give the miserable wretches anything. “That is expressly forbidden,” he said. “I better not see any of you doing it.” But he had a big heart and turned his back as he explained the region around them to the gentlemen. “There is Koblenz,” he said, “and over there behind it is Neuwied. Down there is the Rhine–” Meanwhile the ladies had come up. The poor prisoner stretched out his hands behind him, held them open right under his number. Gold pieces, cigarettes and tobacco were dropped into them, sometimes even a business card with an address. That was the game Frank Braun had contrived and introduced up here. “That is a real disgrace,” said No. fourteen. It was the cavalry captain, Baron Flechtheim. “You are an idiot,” said Frank Braun. “What is disgraceful is that we fancy ourselves so refined that we give everything to the petty officers and don’t keep anything for ourselves. If only the damned English cigarettes weren’t so perfumed.” He inspected the loot. “There! Another pound piece! The Sergeant will be very happy– God, I made out well today!” “How much did you lose yesterday?” asked No. two. Frank Braun laughed, “Pah, everything I made the day before plus a couple of blue notes. Fetch the executioner his block!” No. six was a very young ensign, a young pasty faced boy that looked like milk and blood. He sighed deeply. “I too have lost everything.” “So, do you think we did any better?” No. fourteen snarled at him, “And to think those three scoundrels are now in Paris amusing themselves with our money! How long do you think they will stay?” Dr. Klaverjahn, marine doctor, fortress prisoner No. two said, “I estimate three days. They can’t stay away any longer than that without someone noticing. Besides, their money won’t last that long!” They were speaking of No.’s four, five and twelve who had heartily won last night, had early this morning climbed down the hill and caught the early train to Paris–“R and R”–a little rest and relaxation, is what they called it in the fortress. “What will we do this afternoon?” No. fourteen asked. “Will you just once think for yourself!” Frank Braun cried to the cavalry captain. He sprang down from the wall, went through the barracks into the officer’s garden. He felt grumpy, whistled to get inside. Not grumpy because he had lost the game, that happened to him often and didn’t bother him at all. It was this deplorable sojourn up here, this unbearable monotony. Certainly the fortress confinement was light enough and none of the gentlemen prisoners were ever injured or tormented. They even had their own casino up here with a piano and a harmonium. There were two dozen newspapers. Everyone had their own attendant and all the cells were large rooms, almost halls, for which they paid the government rent of a penny a day. They had meals sent up from the best guesthouses in the city and their wine cellar was in excellent condition. If there was anything to find fault with, it was that you couldn’t lock your room from the inside. That was the single point the commander was very serious about. Once a suicide had occurred and ever since any attempt to bring a bolt in brought severe punishment. “It was idiotic thought,” Frank Braun, “as if you couldn’t commit suicide without bolts on your door!” The missing bolt pained him every day and ruined all the joy in it by making it impossible to be alone in the fortress. He had shut his door with rope and chain, put his bed and all the other furniture in front of it. But it had been useless. After a war that lasted for hours everything in his room was demolished and battered to pieces. The entire company stood triumphant in the middle of his room. Oh what a company! Every single one of them was a harmless, kind and good-natured fellow. Every single one–to a man, could chat by themselves for half an hour–But together, together they were insufferable. Mostly, it was their comments, that they were all depressed. This wild mixture of officers and students forgot their high stations and always talked of the foolish happenings at the fortress. They sang, they drank, they played. One day, one night, like all the rest. In between were a few girls that they dragged up here and a few outings down to the town below. Those were their heroic deeds and they didn’t talk about anything else! The ones that had been here the longest were the worst, entirely depraved and caught up in this perpetual cycle. Dr. Burmüller had shot his brother-in-law dead and had sat up here for two years now. His neighbor, the Dragoon lieutenant, Baron von Vallendar had been enjoying the good air up here for a half year longer than that. And the new ones that came in, scarcely a week went by without them trying to prove who was the crudest and wildest–They were held in highest regard. Frank Braun was held in high regard. He had locked up the piano on the second day because he didn’t want to listen any more to the horrible “Song of Spring” the cavalry captain kept playing. He put the key in his pocket, went outside and then threw it over the fortress wall. He had also brought his dueling pistols with him and shot them all day long. He could guzzle and escape as well as anyone up here. Really, he had enjoyed these summer months at the fortress. He had dragged in a pile of books, a new writing quill and sheets of writing paper, believing he could work here, looking forward to the constraint of the solitude. But he hadn’t been able to open a book, had not written one letter. Instead he had been pulled into this wild childish whirlpool that he loathed and went along with it day after day. He hated his comrades–every single one of them– His attendant came into the garden, saluted: “Herr Doctor, A letter for you.” A letter? On Sunday afternoon? He took it out of the soldier’s hand. It was a special express letter that had been forwarded to him up here. He recognized the thin scrawl of his uncle’s handwriting. From him? What did his uncle suddenly want of him? He weighed the letter in his hand. Oh, he was tempted to send the letter back, “delivery refused”. What was going on with the old professor anyway? Yes, the last time he had seen him was when he had traveled back to Lendenich with him after the celebration at the Gontrams. That was when he had tried to persuade his uncle to create an alraune creature. That was two years ago. Ah, now it was all coming back to him! He had gone to a different university, had passed his exams. Then he had sat in a hole in Lorraine–busy as a junior attorney–Busy? Bah, he had set out in life thinking he would travel when he got out of college. He was popular with the women, and with those that loved a loose life and wild ways. His superior viewed him very unfavorably. Oh yes, he worked, a bit here and there–for himself. But it was always what his superior called public nuisance cases. He sneaked away when he could, traveled to Paris. It was better at the house on Butte Sacrée than in court. He didn’t know for sure where it would all lead. It was certain that he would never be a jurist, attorney, judge or other public servant. But then, what should he do? He lived there, got into more debt every day– Now he held this letter in his hand and felt torn between ripping it open and sending it back like it was as a late answer to a different letter his uncle had written him two years ago. It had been shortly after that night. He had ridden through the village at midnight with five other students, back from an outing into the seven mountains. On a sudden impulse he had invited them all to a late midnight meal at the ten Brinken house. They tore at the bell, yelled loudly and hammered against the wrought iron door making such a noise that the entire village came running out to see what was happening. The Privy Councilor was away on a journey but the servant let them in on the nephew’s command. The horses were taken to the stable and Frank Braun woke the household, ordered them to prepare a great feast. Frank Braun went into his uncle’s cellar and brought out the finest wines. They feasted, drank and sang, roared through the house and garden, made noises, howled and smashed things with their fists. Early the next morning they rode home, bawling and screaming, hanging on to their nags like wild cowboys, one or two flopping like old meal sacks. “The young gentlemen behaved like pigs,” reported Aloys to the Privy Councilor. Yet, that wasn’t it. That wasn’t what had made his uncle so angry. He didn’t say anything about it. On the buffet there had been some rare apples, dew fresh nectarines, pears and peaches out of his greenhouse. These precious fruits had been picked with unspeakable care, wrapped in cotton and laid on golden plates to ripen. But the students had no reverence at all for the professor’s loves, were not respectful of anything that had been there. They had bitten into these fruits, then because they were not ripe, had put them back down on the plates. That was what he was angry about. He wrote his nephew an embittered letter requesting him to never again set foot in his house. Frank Braun was just as deeply hurt over the reason for the letter, which he perceived as pathetically petty. Ah yes, if he had gotten this letter, the one he was now holding, while living in Metz or even in Montmartre–he wouldn’t have hesitated a second before giving it back to the messenger. But he was here–here in this horrible boredom of the fortress. He decided. “It will be a diversion in any case,” he murmured as he opened the letter. His uncle shared with him that after careful consideration he was willing to follow the suggestions his nephew had given him to the last letter. He already had a suitable candidate for the father. The stay of execution for the murderer Raul Noerrissen had been denied and he had no further appeals possible. Now his uncle was looking for a mother. He had already made an attempt without success. Unfortunately it was not easy to find just the right one but time pressed and he was now asking for assistance in this matter from his nephew. Frank Braun looked at his valet, “Is the letter courier still here?” he asked. “At your command Herr Doctor, ” the soldier informed him. “Tell him to wait. Here give him some drink money.” He searched in his pockets and found a Mark piece. Then he hurried back to the prisoner’s quarters letter in hand. He had scarcely arrived at the barracks courtyard when the wife of the Sergeant-major came towards him with a dispatch. “A telegram for you!” she cried. It was from Dr. Petersen, the Privy Councilor’s assistant. It read: “His Excellency has been at the Hotel de Rome in Berlin since the day before yesterday. Await reply if you can meet. With heartfelt greetings.” His Excellency? So his uncle was now “ His Excellency” and that was why he was in Berlin–In Berlin–that was too bad. He would have much rather traveled to Paris. It would have been much easier to find someone there and someone better as well. All the same, Berlin it was. At least it would be an interruption of this wilderness. He considered for a moment. He needed to leave this evening but didn’t have a penny to his name and his comrades didn’t either. He looked at the woman. “Frau Sergeant-major–” he began. But no, that wouldn’t work. He finished, “Buy the man a drink and put it on my tab.” He went to his room, packed his suitcase and commanded the boy to take it straight to the train station and wait for him there. Then he went down. The Sergeant-major, the overseer of the prison house, was standing in the door wringing his hands and almost broken up. “You are about to leave, Herr Doctor,” he lamented, “and the other three gentlemen are already gone to Paris, not even in this country! Dear God, no good can come out of this. It will fall on me alone–I carry all the responsibility.” “It’s not that bad,” answered Frank Braun. “I’m only going to be gone for a few days and the other gentlemen will be back soon.” The Sergeant-major continued to complain, “It’s not my fault, most certainly not! But the others are so jealous of me and today Sergeant Bekker has the watch. He–” “He will keep his mouth shut,” Frank Braun replied. “He just got over thirty Marks from us–charitable donations from the English–By the way, I’m going to the commander in Coblenz to ask for a leave of absence–Are you satisfied now?”
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter Four After dinner, Ruprecht wandered into the castle garden. Frau Helmina, weary, had asked to retire early. But Ruprecht wasn’t sleepy. Everything in him was alert, poised, expectant. The autumn evening was cool, dry leaves rustling on the paths. This old castle had its romance. It must once have been vast, for the garden was laid over a field of ruins. Crumbling walls enclosed it; fragments of ramparts stood among trees and shrubs. Ruprecht passed pointed door arches or windows framed by massive stones, upright amid rubble heaps. Near one wing, linked by a covered wooden passage, stood a stout tower, less decayed than the rest. Squat and solid, it rose in a small birch grove, their white trunks like shivering skeletons. Ruprecht pushed to the round tower wall, spotting high above a black opening—one of those inaccessible tower doors reachable only by ladder. It wasn’t exactly cozy here. The waning moon’s light was pale and mournful, shrinking shyly from darker shadows. Squinting, leaving only a narrow slit, it seemed as if everything—ruined walls, trees, shrubs—swam in a phosphorescent haze, the air of a distant, alien star. Ruprecht thrust his hands into his pockets, puffed his cigar, and turned back toward the castle. Yellow- red lights glowed in a few windows. Perhaps one was Helmina’s bedroom. Yes—it was time to clarify everything. Ruprecht wasn’t one for lingering indecision. He knew Helmina drew him like no woman since… since that one—oh, enough! He pushed back old, painful memories. What use were they now? A decision was needed. Let’s be honest, dear fellow, he told himself. We’ve already decided. Helmina retired to give you time to think. It’s superfluous. Tomorrow, I’ll ask her to be my wife. Oh—how beautiful she is, how dangerous. I readily believe she killed her three husbands—the mountaineer, the stroke candidate, the bookworm. Cripples of life, poor devils, no match for this splendid beast. But we, Frau Helmina, we have fists and teeth. I’m eager to show you, lovely lady. She’s cruel as a tigress. How she dismissed that poor baron today—one, two, three, a stab to the heart. No sentimentality to fear from her. I doubt she has tear ducts. At dinner tonight, for instance. I ask, “Baron Kestelli’s your neighbor, isn’t he?” She replies, “Oh, he passes my time now and then.” Her teeth flashed like a toothpaste ad, her words dripping venomous scorn, a ruthless slaughter. Oh… I believe her soul has regions like… like this garden—dark, filled with secrets, whispering shadows, perhaps ruins of the past. Let’s enter this garden… something new awaits.* His cigar had gone out. Striking a match, he saw his cupped hands, shielding the flame, glow red briefly, then darkness returned. Only the cigar’s ember pulsed near his mouth. He walked slowly to the castle, climbed the narrow, winding stair to his room, and began undressing. Both windows stood open. As he was about to lie down, a strange howling began—starting low, rising to a high, thin quiver, like vocal cords stretched to their limit. It was followed by empty jabbering, clearly a prayer, words hopping like peas on tin. Ruprecht peered out. In the servants’ wing below, a lit room glowed. Leaning forward, he glimpsed part of it. A woman with gray, tangled hair knelt at a table, head pressed to its edge. The jabbering and clattering gave way to howling, now weaving through varied modulations. Ruprecht found it intriguing but unsettling. It didn’t last. Footsteps crossed the courtyard. A broad back blocked the window. “This whining again?” growled a muffled bear’s voice. It was Lorenz, the robust valet, a mix of sailor and masseur. A window slammed, glass rattling. Ruprecht withdrew. The castle fell silent, and sleep drifted from the ceiling’s beams and the thick Persian prayer rugs on the walls. In the morning, Ruprecht met the castle’s mistress in the breakfast room. The balcony door was open, a crisp breeze wafting from the steaming meadows around the castle. Mist prickled damply on the skin. From the balcony, one looked down on the courtyard, the ancient linden, and beyond the castle wall, the chestnut treetops lining the path in double rows. Helmina wore a wide kimono of green silk, adorned not lavishly but tastefully with gold embroidery. Ruprecht loved such loose, comfortable garments. He smiled. As if she knew, he thought. “How did you sleep?” Helmina asked. “So well, I wish I could always sleep somewhere not too far from you.” Ruprecht looked straight at her. She lowered her eyes, but not fast enough to hide a glint of triumph. No doubt—she reveled in her victory. “I hear,” Helmina said after a brief pause, preserving the weight of his words, “our old Marianne had another fit last night. I hope it didn’t disturb you too long. I can’t turn the old woman out. She’s served me for years. Some religious mania grips her. She must atone for our sins, so she prays and sings in the night.” “Nothing could spoil my stay with you.” Helmina raised her head. Morning sunlight, soft and golden, slid across her brow. “Thank you for your kindness, Herr von Boschan. But please, no such talk before others. Young widows are too easily slandered.” “Listen, madam, I’m independent. My wealth lets me live as I please. I’ve no relatives, no one with claims on me.” With soft steps, Helmina moved to the balcony. Ruprecht followed. They sat in low, deeply curved wicker chairs, facing each other. Helmina leaned back, hands clasped behind her head. “Why tell me this, Herr von Boschan?” she asked. Her mouth twitched with lively muscle play, shifting its expression constantly. “Can’t you guess?” “Let me tell you something: I’ve been married three times.” “I hope that won’t stop you from trying a fourth.” “I know you’re restless. You’ve traveled far. Soon, that urge will return. You’ll want to leave, unhappy if you can’t. I’m quite comfortable, disinclined to great exertions.” “That’s your guarantee. I’m done with it. I want to take root somewhere. Have a purpose. The land calls to hold me fast. I regret selling my estates when I set out to see the world—a castle in Styria, a farm in Upper Austria. Now my wealth sits in a bank. I’d be happy to become a farmer again.” “Oh! You’d have to forgo living on your estates. I can’t leave this old nest.” Ruprecht took her hand. “That’s half a yes, Helmina,” he said. “Take it as a full one, Ruprecht,” she replied. She rose, and he stood too. They faced each other, chest to chest. “I’m young. I’m tired of widowhood.” Her eyes burned. He raised his arms, embraced her, and kissed her. They trembled with fierce desire. Two children’s voices squealed in the courtyard. “Mama!” Lissy called. Helmina leaned over the balcony railing. “Come up,” she said. “You’ll find the Papa you wished for.” Ruprecht settled into his new role with happy ease, noting without regret that he was engaged. Sometimes he smiled, imagining his friends’ reactions. They’d soon be surprised. In a month, Helmina’s mourning year would end, and the wedding would proceed without delay. Helmina allowed Ruprecht only eight more days at the castle. Propriety demanded the groom be kept from the bride. Jana, his Malay servant, was summoned from Vienna with suitcases. During those days, Ruprecht rode with Helmina across the fields. He found them poorly managed—much work needed here. He resolved to oversee it himself. “What do you expect?” Helmina laughed. “My stewards are useless. I know it. They’re all too in love with me to run my estate properly.” She was right. Her stewards fumed seeing her with Ruprecht, even before learning he was her fiancé. The paper factory clerks glared too. Ruprecht was the intruder, shattering a host of rapturous hopes. Despite Helmina’s ban, news of her engagement leaked from the castle, turning anger into silent, envious hatred. The day before his departure, returning from a morning forest walk, Ruprecht found Baron Kestelli with Helmina. His entrance cut their talk short. The baron rose, bowed to Ruprecht, and left. His face showed he couldn’t bear the groom’s presence. “He must be deeply in love,” Ruprecht said, unable to suppress the victor’s thrill, despite a twinge of pity for the young man. “He looks tortured, unable to control himself.”
Homo Sapiens: Under Way by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Doesn’t she have a lampshade? He couldn’t stand the brutal light.”
Marit brought the shade.
The conversation kept stalling.
“You mustn’t mind, Marit, if I stay longer with you today. I can’t sleep anyway; and then, you know, when I am so alone… hm… I don’t disturb you?”
Marit’s face colored with hectic red. She couldn’t speak; she only nodded to him.
They sat silently for a while. The whole village slept. The big house was as if extinct. The servants had already gone to rest. The sultriness was almost unbearable. A stuffy calm weighed on both, the dull air outside pressed into the room, and the regular ticking of the clock caused almost physical pain.
“It’s strange how lonely one is here; it’s uncanny. Don’t you sometimes have fear when you are so completely alone in this big house?”
“Oh yes, I feel it terribly strongly. Sometimes I feel so lonely and abandoned here, as if I were completely alone in the world. Then I get such a horrible fear that I want to bury myself in the earth.”
“But today you don’t feel abandoned?” “No!”
Again a pause occurred; a long, heavy-breathing pause.
“Listen, Marit, do you still have the poems I wrote for you last spring? I would so like to read them again.”
“Yes, I have them in my room; I will fetch them immediately.”
“No, Marit; I will go up with you. It is much cozier in your room; so wonderfully cozy. Here it is so uncanny, and I, you see, am very, very nervous.”
“Yes, but someone could hear that you go with me; that would be terrible for me.”
“Oh, he would go quite quietly, quite softly; no person should hear him. Besides, the whole house is asleep.”
She still resisted.
“Sweet little dove, you really need have no fear. I will do nothing to you—nothing, nothing at all. I will sit quietly beside you and read the poems.”
It thundered.
“Yes, quite quietly; and when the storm is over, I will go home calmly…”
They entered Marit’s room; they felt as if rooted to the spot. There was an atmosphere between them that seemed to live.
Suddenly Marit felt herself embraced by him. Before her eyes fiery bubbles swirled, again she saw the hot jubilation dancing over the abyss, she wove her arms around him and plunged headlong into the gruesome happiness.
Suddenly she started up.
“No, Erik! only not that… Erik, no! No!” She gasped.
Falk let her go.
He mastered himself with difficulty. A long pause.
“Listen, Marit—” his voice sounded rough and hard—”now we must part. You see, you are cowardly. You are a little dove, a rabbit; and I am a good man. I am the good, dear Erik. Well, Marit, you don’t have the courage to say to me: Go, leave me my pure conscience, leave me the idiotic virginity. You don’t have this courage. Well, I am a man; and so I go; let come what will.”
“Yes, I go. I leave you your morality, I leave you your religious conscience, I leave you your virginity, and spare you the so-called sin. Now be happy; very, very happy…”
The storm grew louder; in the window green furrows of lightning were seen.
Falk turned to the door.
“Erik, Erik, how can you be so cruel, so bestially cruel?!”
The whole laboriously suppressed misery of her soul broke forth. She writhed in pain.
“Erik! Erik!” she whimpered.
Falk got a mad fear.
He ran to her, took the twitching girl’s body in his arms.
“No, Marit, no; it’s madness. I stay with you. I will never leave you. I can’t go away from you. You see, I thought I could. But I can’t. I must be with you; I must. I will never leave you. No, Marit; you my only happiness.”
The thunder rolled ever closer.
“I stay always with you. Always. Eternally. You are my wife, my bride, everything, everything.”
A wild passion began to whirl in his head.
And he rocked her in his arms back and forth and spoke incessantly of the great happiness, and forgot everything.
“Yes, I will make you happy… so happy… so happy…” A cloudburst wave splashed against the windowpanes.
Now they were really alone in the world. The rain, the lightning fenced them in.
Marit embraced him.
“Erik, how good, how good you are! Yes: not away! We stay always together. We will be so happy.”
“We stay always together!” repeated Falk, as if absent. Suddenly he came to his senses. Again he felt the hard, cruel
in himself, the stone that falls into abysses. He pressed her tighter and tighter.
They heard not the thundering, saw not the fire of heaven. Everything spun, everything melted into a great, dancing fireball.
Falk took her…
The storm seemed to want to move away. It was three in the morning.
“Now you must go!” “Yes.”
“But not on the country road. You must go along the lake and then climb over the monastery fence. Otherwise someone could see you, and tomorrow the whole town would talk about it.”
When Falk came to the lake, a new storm drew up.
He should actually take shelter somewhere. But he had no energy for it. Besides, it was indifferent whether he got a little wet.
The sky covered itself with thick clouds; the clouds balled together visibly into black, hanging masses.
A long, crashing thunder followed a lightning that tore the whole sky apart like a glowing trench.
Again a lightning and thunder, and then a downpour like a cloudburst.
In a moment Falk felt streams of water shooting over his body. But it was no particularly unpleasant feeling.
Suddenly he saw an enormous fire-garland spray from the cloud heap; he saw it split into seven lightnings and in the same moment a willow stand in flames from top to bottom. It was torn from top to bottom and fell apart.
“Life and destruction!”
The shock had roused his logic; he also had to calm the fear-feeling that wanted to rise in him again.
“Yes, of course, hm: destruction must be. Marit… Yes… destroyed…”
Falk suddenly had this clear, lightning-bright, visionary consciousness that he had destroyed Marit.
“Why not? I am nature and destroy and give life. I stride over a thousand corpses: because I must! And I beget life upon life: because I must!
I am not I. I am You—God, world, nature—or what you are, you eternal idiocy, eternal mockery.
I am no human. I am the overman: conscienceless, cruel, splendid and kind. I am nature: I have no conscience, she has none… I have no mercy, she has none…”
“Yes: the overman am I.” Falk screamed the words.
And he saw himself as the deadly fire-garland that had sprayed from the black vault: into seven lightnings he had split and torn a little dove by the wayside. Into a thousand lightnings he must still split and tear a thousand little doves, a thousand rabbits, and thus he would go eternally and beget and kill.
Because it is necessary. Because I must.
Because my instincts want it.
Because I am a non-I, an overman. Does one need to torment oneself for that? Ridiculous!
Does the lightning know why it kills? And has it reason, can it direct its lust?
No! Only constate that it struck there and there. Yes: constate, protocol—like you want, Herr X.
And I constate and protocol that today I killed a little dove…
The atmosphere was so overloaded with electricity that around him a sea of fire seemed to sway.
And he walked, enveloped in the wild storm; he walked and brooded.
And in the middle of this wrath of heaven he himself walked as a wrathful, uncanny power, a Satan sent to earth with a hell of torments to sow new creative destruction over it.
Suddenly he stopped before the ravine.
It was completely filled with water. A torrent seemed to have sprung up and streamed rushing to the lake.
He couldn’t go around it; there he would come to the cursed country road.
Besides, it’s indifferent: a bit more water, a bit more chills and fever: no, that does nothing.
That does nothing at all. Everything is indifferent; quite, quite indifferent.
And he waded through the torrent.
The water reached above his knees.
When Falk came home and lay down in bed, he fell into a violent delirium; all night he lay and tossed back and forth in the wildest fever phantasies.
Madame Bluebeard by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Not a single false tooth, Ruprecht thought. How graceful she is, younger than I, her cheeks smooth and soft, the dimple in her chin like a flower’s calyx. Resolute, he said, “No, no, I want to discuss this. Will you grant me the pleasure of calling on you tomorrow?” “Does it matter so much to you?” “Yes!” “Daytime’s packed—every hour’s booked. But… evening, around eight, when it’s dark, come to the small park behind the Nordstern Hotel.” Evening, when it’s dark, Ruprecht thought. She smiled once more and left. How slender she is, how she moves, echoed in him. It’s the music of motion, harmony of the outer self. If she walked over a gravestone, the dead below would feel their heart beat. The door clicked shut. Ruprecht stared at the garish patterns a well-meaning painter had added to the walls. Only with her gone did he realize how much she’d swayed him. She’d truly unsettled his composure. That perfume still roiled his senses. By Saint Pachomius! It hit him—what that elusive note in her scent recalled. It was—God, what a thought— the smell of dried blood, mixed with rotting fruit and steaming hay. Such fancies people have. Yet it was a strange perfume, sparking such thoughts. So, tomorrow evening… in the park behind the Nordstern… Ah, this woman was a danger! Now, with her gone, it was clear. A danger… all the better. Let a battle replace a flirtation. Ruprecht relished testing his strength. God—a danger, coursing through veins, washing over muscles. Let’s see, little lady, what comes of this… I’ve never fled danger, little lady! He’d missed the table d’hôte. Dining in his room, he drank a whole bottle of white Bordeaux. Then, needing action, he went to the hotel garden, stood before a thick plane tree, gripped his walking stick like a saber, and slashed at the groaning trunk with thirds, fourths, and thrusts until little remained but the handle. The next morning, Ruprecht received an anonymous letter. In scrawled script, it read: “Well, you’ve fallen for it, dear sir! You’ve chosen the worthiest of your suitors. Frau Dankwardt was seen visiting you yesterday. So, Frau Dankwardt is the favored one! You’re too new here to know what’s said of Frau Hermina Dankwardt. She’s been married three times, and it’s rumored she killed all three husbands. We call her nothing but Madame Bluebeard. She’s the greatest coquette for twenty miles around, juggling twenty men at once, all fools like you, stringing them along with her wiles. We wish you fine entertainment. Dance well on her string. Three friends who mean you well.” Three friends, Ruprecht thought, tossing the letter into the wastebasket. Three of those Jana told I wouldn’t come. So, they know she visited. All the better; if she’s compromised herself, it binds her to me more. Today, Ruprecht swam farther into the sea than usual, letting waves carry him, lying on his back, watching white clouds, then hiked the hills, returning refreshed and limber. At dusk, he entered the small park behind the Nordstern Hotel and sat on a bench. He thought of nothing, waiting patiently, time passing like a gentle wing’s brush. Children’s voices came through the dark… a small laugh. Ruprecht looked up. Stars gleamed above the palms, large and bright, and streetlamp light broke through the rough, hairy trunks, casting jagged yellow patches on the shadowed paths. He rose. Frau Dankwardt rounded the corner, two little girls and a young lady trailing her. The children held hands; the governess carried their cloaks. Frau Dankwardt greeted Ruprecht with an unselfconscious handshake. “These are my two little misses… Miss Nelson! They were at Arbe, only arriving tonight.” No—this wasn’t the meeting Ruprecht had imagined. They walked side by side, the children chattering freely about their myriad adventures. Now one, now the other clung to their beautiful mother’s arm, and more incessant than the children’s prattle was the governess’s measured silence. Had Ruprecht not loved children, he might’ve been furious. But soon the girls ensnared him, weaving him into their secrets. After an hour, they parted as fast friends. Frau Hermina offered her hand, gazing at him with the same expression as her daughters. Ruprecht poured a swarm of feelings into his handshake. She didn’t return the pressure, her eyes widening in surprise, withdrawing her fingers. It had been a disappointment, Ruprecht thought, if not an outright defeat. He paced his bedroom. Where’s your composure? something within him chided. Silence! he snapped at himself. I expected a wrestling match, and it turned into an idyll. What kind of woman is this? Her perfume carries the scent of blood, yet she’s the mother of two charming little girls. I’ll visit her tomorrow—I must understand her. Very well—tomorrow, then. The next afternoon, Ruprecht went to the Hotel Royal, where Frau Dankwardt was staying. The porter, in a tone of polite regret, informed him that the lady and her two girls had departed at noon.
Chapter Three Informs how Frank Braun persuaded the Privy Councilor to create Alraune
THEY sat in the carriage, Professor Ten Brinken and his nephew. They didn’t speak. Frank Braun leaned back staring straight ahead, sunk deeply into his thoughts. The Privy Councilor was observing, squinting over at him watchfully. The trip lasted scarcely half an hour. They rolled along the open road, turned to the right, went downhill over the rough road to Lendenich. There in the middle of the village lay the birthplace of the Brinken family. It was a large, almost square complex with gardens and a park. Back from the street stood a row of insignificant old buildings. They turned around a corner past a shrine of the patron Saint of the village, the Holy Saint John of Nepomuk. His statue was decorated with flowers and lit with two eternal lamps that were placed in niches by the corners. The horses stopped in front of a large mansion. A servant shut the fenced gate behind them and opened the carriage door. “Bring us some wine Aloys,” commanded the Privy Councilor. “We will be in the library.” He turned to his nephew. “Will you be sleeping here Frank? Or should the carriage wait?” The student shook his head, “Neither, I will go back to the city on foot.” They walked across the courtyard, entered the lower level of the house at a door on the right hand side. It was literally a great hall with a tiny antechamber and a couple of other small rooms nearby. The walls were lined with long immense shelves containing thousands of books. Low glass cases stood here and there full of Roman artifacts. Many graves had been emptied, robbed of their cherished and carefully preserved treasures. The floor was covered in thick carpet. There were a couple of desks, armchairs and sofas that stood scattered around the room. They entered. The Privy Councilor threw his alraune on a divan. They lit candles, pulled a couple of chairs together and sat down. The servant uncorked a dusty bottle. “You can go,” said his master. “But don’t go too far. The young gentleman will be leaving and you will need to let him out.” “Well?” he turned to his nephew. Frank Braun drank. He picked the root manikin up and toyed with it. It was still a little moist and appeared to be almost flexible. “It is clear enough,” he murmured. “There are the eyes–both of them. The nose pokes up there and that opening is the mouth. Look here Uncle Jakob. Doesn’t it look as if it is smiling? The arms are somewhat diminutive and the legs have grown together at the knees. It is a strange thing.” He held it high, turned it around in all directions. “Look around Alraune!” he cried. “This is your new home. You will be much happier here with Herr Jakob ten Brinken than you were in the house of the Gontrams.” “You are old,” he continued. “four hundred, perhaps six hundred years old or even more. Your father was hung because he was a murderer or a horse thief, or else because he made fun of some great knight in armor or in priestly robes. The important thing is that he was a criminal in his time and they hanged him. At the last moment of his life his seed fell to the earth and created you, you strange creature. Then your mother earth took the seed of this criminal into her fertile womb, secretly fashioned and gave birth to you. You the great, the all-powerful–Yes you, you miserable ugly creature!–Then they dug you up at the midnight hour, at the crossroads, shaking in terror at your howling, shrieking screams. The first thing you saw as you looked around in the moonlight was your father hanging there on the gallows with a broken neck and his rotting flesh hanging in tatters. They took you with them, these people that had tied the noose around your father. They held you, carried you home. You were supposed to bring money into their house. Blood money and young love. They knew well that you would bring pain, misery, despair and in the end a horrible death. They knew it and still they wanted you, still they dug you up, still they took you home, selling their souls for love and money.” The Privy Councilor said, “You have a beautiful way of seeing things my boy. You are a dreamer.” “Yes,” said the student. “That’s what I am–just like you.” “Like me?” the professor laughed. “Now I think that part of my life is long gone.” But his nephew shook his head, “No Uncle Jakob. It isn’t. Only you can make real what other people call fantastic. Just think of all your experiments! For you it is more like child’s play that may or may not lead to some purpose. But never, never would a normal person come up with your ideas. Only a dreamer could do it–and only a savage, a wildman, that has the hot blood of the Brinkens flowing through his veins. Only he would dare attempt what you should now do Uncle Jakob.” The old man interrupted him, indignant and yet at the same time flattered. “You crazy boy!–You don’t even know yet if I will have any desire to do this mysterious thing you keep talking about and I still don’t have the slightest idea what it is!” The student didn’t pause, his voice rang lightly, confidently and every syllable was convincing. “Oh, you will do it Uncle Jakob. I know that you will do it, will do it because no one else can, because you are the only person in the world that can make it happen. There are certainly a few other professors that are attempting some of the same things you have already done, perhaps even gone further. But they are normal people, dry, wooden–men of science. They would laugh in my face if I came to them with my idea, would chide me for being a fool. Or else they would throw me completely out the door, because I would dare come to them with such things, such thoughts, thoughts that they would call immoral and objectionable. Such ideas that dare trespass on the craft of the Great Creator and play a trick on all of nature. You will not laugh at me Uncle Jakob, not you! You will not laugh at me or throw me out the door. It will fascinate you the same way it fascinates me. That’s why you are the only person that can do it!” “But what then, by all the gods,” cried the Privy Councilor, “what is it?” The student stood up, filled both glasses to the rims. “A toast, old sorcerer,” he cried. “A toast! To a newer, younger wine that will flow out of your glass tubes. Toast, Uncle Jakob to your new living alraune–your new child!” He clinked his glass against his uncle’s, emptied it in a gulp and threw it high against the ceiling where it shattered. The shards fell soundlessly on the heavy carpet. He pulled his chair closer. “Now listen uncle and I will tell you what I mean. I know you are really impatient with my long introduction–Don’t think ill of me. It has helped me put my thoughts in order, to stir them up, to make them comprehensible and tangible. Here it is: You should create a living alraune, Uncle Jakob, turn this old legend into reality. Who cares if it is superstition, a ghostly delusion of the Middle Ages or mystic flim-flam from ancient times? You, you can make the old lies come true. You can create it. It can stand there in the light of day tangible for all the world to see–No stupid professor would be able to deny it. Now pay attention, this is what needs to be done! The criminal, uncle, you can find easily enough. I don’t think it matters if he dies on a gallows at a crossroads. We are a progressive people. Our prisons and guillotine are convenient, convenient for you as well. Thanks to your connections it will be easy to obtain and save the rare seed of the dead that will bring forth new life. And Mother Earth?–What is her symbol? What does she represent? She is fertility, uncle. The earth is the feminine, the woman. She takes the semen, takes it into her womb, nourishes it, lets it germinate, grow, bloom and bear fruit. So you take what is fertile like the earth herself–take a woman. But Mother Earth is the eternal prostitute, she serves all. She is the eternal mother, is always for sale, the prostitute of billions. She refuses her lascivious love to none, offers herself gladly to anyone that will take her. Everything that lives has been fertilized in her glorious womb and she has given birth to it. It has always been this way throughout the ages. That is why you must use a prostitute Uncle Jakob. Take the most shameless, the cheekiest one of them all. Take one that is born to be a whore, not one that is driven to her profession or one that is seduced into it for money. Oh no, not one of those. Take one that is already wanton, that learns as she goes, one whose shame is her greatest pleasure and reason for living. You must choose her. Only her womb would be like the mother earth’s. You know how to find her. You are rich–You are no school boy in these things. You can pay her a lot of money, purchase her services for your research. If she is the right one she will reel with laughter, will press her greasy bosom against you and kiss you passionately–She will do this because you have offered her something that no other man has offered her before.
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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