Anarchistbanjo's World

The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

I walked around the building. No, it had no second exit.
Nowhere. I looked once more at the flat, red bricks of the
entrance, hollowed out by feet, over which Sennon had stepped
for the last time.
In the afternoon I took an interpreter with me, a young
and clever Spaniard, and went to see the Sheikh of the Halveti,
Achmed. I was immediately admitted and had a drink of coffee
with him and a young serious-looking dervish, on a colorful
tray in a bright room. The Spaniard told the Sheikh what I said
to him.
No, the Sotnie (Herr) had come for nothing. It was well
known that a soldier of Austria entered the Tekkeh and never
came out again. However, this must be a mistake, because the
Tekkeh has only one door.
Yes, fine. But how to explain the thing? Who was the
dervish in the brown robe, with the turban of the Halveti and
the amber necklace?
Oh, if only I had known the life of Melchior Dronte! If I
had known about Isa Bektschi! But at that time the sheets with
Vorauf’s transcription were lying in my house thousands and
thousands of miles away from Schipnie, on the country road
with the poplar trees, sealed and wrapped, not even visible to
the moon when it looked through the window of my room at
night.
Yes, the dervish? It had been none of them. Moreover,
the door of the Tekkeh was always locked- with three old locks,
each of which weighed close to two pounds; very old locks
from the days of the Sultans.
But some explanation – must there be some explanation?
How did Vorauf and the monk get through the locked door?
The sheikh with the white beard and the young dervish
looked at each other, glanced at me and the interpreter with a
look of polite disdain; yes – I was used to such looks, since I
had gotten to know Mohammedans, and then they spoke
quickly and quietly with each other. I understood only the
words “syrr” and “Dejishtirme!”
The old man bowed to me. He was very sorry that he was
not able to help me. Unfortunately nothing more was known.
No, unfortunately, nothing is known, agreed the dervish.
The interpreter translated. We were looked at amiably and
inquiringly. The eyes said, “May we now ask to be alone again,
my curious Herrn?”
I stood up. There was nothing more to be learned. I could
see that. The dervishes were very polite. The sheikh touched
the carpet with his hand before he brought it to his forehead
and mouth.
“What were they talking about?”
I asked the Spaniard as we stood in the blinding sunlight
under the cypress trees and listened to the laughter and
gurgling of the wild pigeons above us. The interpreter shrugged
sheepishly.
“They not talk like Shiptar, Albanian, Sotnie,” he said.
“They speak very softly. I did not understand. It was Osmanli,
turc, mon capitaine, you understand – -.”
“What do the words ‘syrr’ and ‘Dejischtirme,’ mean?” I
asked.
I had remembered them well from memory.
The interpreter shook his head, then he said:
” ‘Syrr!’ It is secret, yes, and ‘Dejischtirme’, says in
German: an exchange.”
“Yes, and what does it mean?”
“Le mystere – the secret of the transformation–a
transformation in a living body -. vous comprenez?”
“Fairy tale! Fairy tale!”
Yes, here time had stopped. In the coffeehouses, and
when it got dark, the Turks only went out in twos and threes, so
afraid were they of the jinns, the Afrits and the Gulen.
But I, Doctor Kaspar Hedrich – —
Transformation. So the good Sennon Vorauf. What had
he said? What did it say in Riemei’s letter?
“I am called!”
Then, in my distress, I went once again to the
Headquarters.
“Cheeky swindle!” shouted Herr Lt. Switschko. “The
fellow deserted. The Turks were in on it with him. I have seen
it myself, how they bowed down to the ground before him, and
the women came to him with sick children. I should not have
tolerated the story from the beginning. Would you like to come
with me to the Menashe, Herr Regimental Surgeon?”
No, I did not go. I also didn’t want to see Riemeis and
Corporal Maierl. I was very sad. Oh, these precious leaves in
front of me! Why did these leaves have to fall into my hand so
late? But he had wanted it that way, Sennon, the – yes, the Ewli.
I am sitting here all alone, and it is midnight. All that is
long gone, life is short, and what I have missed will not return.
What wanderings are in store for me, what paths?
“Syrr,” sighs the wind in the poplars. “Syrr!”

Mystery!
End.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

“I wanted to protect the defenseless woman,” I said,
looking him in the eye. He shook his head reluctantly.
There was a murmur.
“Are you a friend of freedom?”
I thought for a moment and then answered the question
with a “yes.”
“Was it known to you that citizen Lamballe had fled to
England and returned from there to Paris?”
“Yes.”
“In that case, it was reasonable to assume that there was
valuable information about her co-conspirators located here
that could be obtained. Not so?”
I was silent.
He looked at me again with a quiet, disapproving head
movement and with a tongue-lashing spoke slowly and clearly,
emphasizing each word:
“I know what you are trying to say, Citizen Dronte. In
your zeal to serve the republic and prevent a premature and
early end of the traitor, you have sought to use violence to
prevent the execution of the sentence. However, you fared
badly enough. Is that so? Give me answer!”
He nodded an almost imperceptible “yes” and waited.
I felt briefly and strongly the lure to return to freedom
from the horror of this justice. But a powerful, insurmountable
feeling inside me made the friendly images of imminent
freedom quickly fade away. I realized, like a holy necessity,
that I had to be hard and merciless against myself, otherwise I
should be thrown back into levels from which I had ascended
and not allowed to higher ones whose aura I had attained.
“I have tried to save the princess on the basis of feelings
of a personal nature!”
The chairman heaved a sigh of annoyance, swayed his
head, drummed on the table and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
The committee members looked at me bored, and in the
auditorium a yawning voice said:
“These are quibbles, Jeannot – Do you understand any of
it?”
“In a nutshell: you had no intention of protecting the
woman as such, but rather to render a service to the Republic.
We have no time, Citizen Dronte, and I hope that your sincere
admission of this fact will settle the case!”
A cold breath passed over my face. The scales stood: a lie
had to sink the bowl —
“I did not think of the Republic in my deed!”
Now it was spoken.
Great unrest arose. Even the drowsiest among the
listeners understood, awakened to irritated attention. The face
of the chairman turned red with anger. He threw his head back
so that his hair flew and hissed at me:
“You dare tell me that?”
“It is the truth,” I replied.
It was clear to me that the grateful magister must have
had his hand in this, and it saddened me that his not without
danger effort had now been in vain. But I had to follow the
path that my innermost feeling was the right one, to go to the
end, regardless of the feelings that arise from the body’s
instinct for self-preservation.
The behavior of the chairman changed immediately. A
deep vertical wrinkle appeared between his eyebrows, and he
bit his lips angrily before continuing the interrogation.
“You are a stranger. For what purpose did you come to
Paris?”
“To become acquainted with the Revolution and its aims-
.”
“With friendly or hostile intent?”
“I did not come with hostile intentions.”
“You are a baron. – How can an aristocrat’s opinion of the
Revolution be otherwise than hostile?” suddenly the bilious
committee member intervened.
“Does such a person love the poor people -?” growled the
one with the stained red cap. “How?” he turned to me.
“I love all the people.”
“These are sayings such as every priest has in his pocket
who stands before the tribunal,” the judge snapped at me and
assumed a frowning pose with a lurking look at me. “You have
thus joined the brave ones who have gone the Lamballe way,
not in the interest of the state, but in order to protect the queen’s
intimate for some other dark motive.”
“Don’t make such long stories!” grumbled someone
behind me.
“He’s one of the whore’s lovers, nothing else!”
Shrill whistles sounded.
Wild stomping of feet revealed that the people wanted an
end.
The skinny man talked to the chairman. The latter
shrugged and turned to the other committee member, who
nodded his head vigorously, raised his right hand and dropped
it with the edge on the table. It was clearly understandable what
he meant by this.
The chairman stood up, stretched out his right hand
toward me like a king of the theater, while the left hand rested
on his heart, and spoke with his voice low and rolling the R’s:
“Citizen Dronte is guilty of treason against the
Republic!”
Thunderous clapping of hands resounded. I sat down,
completely calm and certain of the end.
Then the man in the dark blue, gold-embroidered jacket
slowly turned his stern and stony face toward me, smiled and
said very loudly and audibly:
“Allow me, Baron, to express to you my sincere esteem!”
Laughter and jeering followed his words. An apple case
flew past my head and remained in front of the judge’s table.
The theatrical chairman slammed his fist on the table and
shouted, “Quiet!”
Gradually, the scolding, laughing and whistling ceased.
“Citizen Carmignac!” rang out the complacent voice.
The man in the blue jacket stood up.
“I am Philipp Anton Maria Marquis of Carmignac, Pair
of France, Privy Councillor of His Majesty the King, Chairman
of the Breton Chamber of Nobility, Commander of the Order of
Louis —“
The hall cheered. This tall man and his proud manner
promised a spectacle. The emphasis on his rank even evoked a
certain respect.
“He looks well, the marquis,” someone said.
“But his neck is as thin as that of Lamballe’s lover,”
laughed in response.
“Curses! And the thing is settled.”
The marquis took a pinch from his little gold pear and
carefully patted his brocade vest with a small lace cloth to
clean off the tobacco dust.
“You are accused of -,” began the presiding chairman.
“Above all,” said the nobleman with inimitable
haughtiness, “I wish to make the declaration that the privileges
to which I am entitled have been violated with unlawful
violence and I was brought here by unlawfully armed persons.
Now, as to this court I note that it is not made up of royal
courtiers, but of a bad actor, a master carpenter and a runaway
servant of the church, “and therefore offers no cause for further
consideration.”
After these words the marquis sat down, contemptuously
staring into the air.
For a few seconds there remained silence. The
stupefaction was general. But then arose such a thunderous
noise, such a roar of anger that the soldiers present were hardly
able to hold back the frenzied crowd. Meanwhile, the presiding
judge stood up. One saw him waving his hands urgently to call
for silence. It took long enough for him to make himself
understood. He directed an angry, scornful look at the count,
who looked past him equanimously.
“Citizen Carmignac, I demand that you stand up before I
have to use violence and give the tribunal of the people the
homage it deserves.”
The marquis shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly
stood up on his feet.
“I do not wish to get dirt stains on my jacket,” he said.
“For this I rise.”
The actor sat down and pushed his chin forward.
“If I understand you correctly, Citizen Carmignac, you
fell asleep before the revolution and still haven’t awakened,
eh?”
The mocked man made no reply. Some people in the hall
laughed.
“You have made an attempt to bribe the turnkey of the
Temple to give Citizen Capet, who is kept there, information
on the successes of the emigrants at the Austrian and the
Prussian court, by means of a small piece of paper concealed in
a gold case, which was hidden in one of six lemons. Is it this
case?”
The hand of the judge was holding a tiny gold case of
elongated shape. The marquis measured it under half-closed
lids.
“Since you are playing court here, you will have to go to
the trouble of proving your accusations.”
The displeasure in the room grew noticeably.
“He shall be embraced by Samson’s coquette!” roared the
voice of one of the angriest screamers.
The courtiers bowed their heads to each other, whispered,
nodded, the chairman stood up and without any movement
pronounced his “guilty”.
The court rose. Four soldiers stepped in to us and told us
to stand up. It was fairly quiet as we were led out of the hall.
The people were satisfied.
When we stepped out of the door, where a new troop of
anxious, well-guarded people of both sexes were waiting to be
interrogated, I felt something angular in my right palm, like a
piece of folded paper, and closed my fingers tightly around it.
We were going a different way than the one that had
brought us here from the prison, under an open portcullis, and
finally found ourselves in a spacious, dry and bright cellar. It
was full of people.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

Despite the smallness of his body, there lay in his whole
posture something respectful and compelling, which was
difficult to escape from. Thus, his appearance captivated me in
the highest degree. He wore a very simple uniform unknown to
me, and had his arms crossed over his chest.
“You’re a stranger?” he addressed me, smiling barely
perceptibly.
“I am a German,” I answered him.
“Ah, a German!”
He nodded his head.
“A fine people, clever, warlike and obedient at the same
time. Excellent soldiers. You witnessed these executions, mein
Herr?”
In spite of the danger that such frankness could bring me,
I did not hide my disgust from him.
“Yes, yes,” he smiled gloomily, “By the actions of these
beasts you must have formed an excellent opinion of the
French nation. But that doesn’t do anything. These people are
good. Only they have a fever at this moment. They will cure it;
let it bleed a little -“
I hesitated to answer him, even though there were no
listeners nearby. For I was well aware of the fact that the so-
called Well-being Committee maintained numerous agents,
whose task it was to listen to the speeches of the people and to
induce the discontented to make statements, the reproduction
of which provided the means to render them harmless. But
immediately afterwards I was ashamed of a suspicion over
which this man was certainly above. As far as my knowledge
of man, I read in this face ruthlessness, indomitable will, and
the power to remove unpleasant obstacles by force. Perhaps the
little man with the hard mouth was capable of a gigantic
despicability when his certainly unusual plans required it, but
hardly of a petty action against someone whose path did not
cross his. All this I read in the dark abyss of his eyes, from
which shone the spark of a genius.
“I deplore it,” I said to him, “that bloodlust and
vindictiveness sully the garb of the goddess of liberty, and that
it is precisely the ugliest drives that are the shoots that appear
most conspicuously in the disintegration of a fixed order. Thus
it happens to me that what seems great and sublime to me from
a distance, appears frightening and devoid of all greatness up
close. The freedom of a people –“
“Oh, freedom!” he interrupted me. “Those are silly
phrases. The people do not need Freedom, but the firm hand of
a leader. Centuries will pass before the people will be ready for
the ideals for which the unfounded enthusiasts believe the time
has already come. It does not do much harm, however. The
heads that are now falling are not worth much, except for a few
whose loss is deplorable, and the riffraff are in their own way
for the time being. Nevertheless, mein Herr German, I say to
you that with this very valuable, fiery and easily treated
material the world can be conquered, if it comes into the right
hands. Out of these lousy, jeering, broken lads an army of
heroes can be created like no other that has ever stomped the
ground. The monstrous body, unconscious of its strength lacks
only the head to make it insurmountable.”
“Surely this head also sits on mortal shoulders,” I replied.
“And it is, as you know, a bad time for heads.”
Again the man’s lips twisted into an almost perceptible
smile.
“I have good reason to hope that the head I mean will not
fall into Samson’s basket,” he said.
Slowly we walked in the direction of a side alley. Wild,
long-drawn out screaming and the wailing of a woman’s voice,
coming from an old house, made me stop. As we came closer,
we saw in the dark hallway a young woman in the labor of
childbirth lying on the brick pavement. Under her pain, new
life pressed towards the light. Neighboring women took care of
the woman in labor, and an old woman told us to unwillingly
go on.
“Fat Margot is having another baby! Every year she gives
birth to a piglet!” shouted an alley boy and danced on one foot,
delighted to be present at this event.
The officer grabbed the boy by the arm, turned him
towards him, looked him in the face with a terrible look and
said:
“Why are you pleased, cretin? Is it because your
replacement is born? He will take your place in the regiment
when you are buried in the clay after the battle!”
I saw the lad turn pale under the icy gaze of my
companion, as if he had seen the Medusa’s head. Shrieking and
flailing his arms, he ran down the alley.
I watched him go. When I turned around, the officer had
disappeared.
After that day, I did not go out much on the street.
Several times at night I heard the pounding of rifle butts at the
front doors, the wild weeping of women and the horrified
objections of those suddenly arrested who had been dragged
out of their beds.
My reclusive behavior noticeably increased the distrust
of the house inhabitants. Nevertheless, it was the hardest thing
for me to overcome, to enter the streets, where one could see
almost only drunken rabble and meddlesome women. One was
begged for, harassed in every way, insulted and suspected for
no reason.
But on this early autumn day there was such an
oppressive sultriness that the stay in my upper level room
became quite unpleasant. I chose my most inconspicuous
garment, the brown, already damaged travel suit, a simple rain-
soaked hat and a crude stick, to distinguish myself as little as
possible from those who spoke the big words in the streets. I no
longer wore my hair coiffed and powdered, but, according to
the new fashion, falling on the shoulders.
Today, too, the streets were full of shouting and partly
armed mobs. Recruits, adorned with bows and ribbons, were
marching off to the threatened frontiers, and the excitement of
the first days of September had increased still further.
Especially near the prison of La Force, all the scum of
Saint Antoine and other suburbs seemed to have gathered. The
closer I came to the small gate of the prison, the wilder the
raving, singing and shouting swelled. Ragged sansculottes-
radicals stood here, armed with pikes and rusty sabers, in dense
mobs and apparently waiting for something special. A
disgustingly overgrown man, who had a cockscomb like violet
growth hanging down over his left eye, as I could clearly
observe, sneaked around from one group of people to another
and everywhere spoke a few words, which were taken up with
ear-tearing howls. I deliberately placed myself in the vicinity of
such a confluence, in the midst of which a fury with flying
strands of hair wielded a butcher’s axe, and struggled to hear
what the people were so excited about. As soon as I arrived the
crooked monster started on the group and whispered:
“Citizens, do you want to see the aristocrat who will soon
come out of this prison door, escape to England once more?
She will help the fat Capet and the Austrian woman escape
from under your noses. Down therefore with the Intendant of
the Austrian whore! Down with Lamballe!” Unanimous
shouting announced that they were of one mind with him and
not one was willing to let the princess Lamballe go, who was
the subject of much talk at the time.
“Enough of this gossip, you with your violet growth on
your eye!” shouted a person thin as a skeleton. “We want to
make cocards out of her guts if she gets into our hands.”
“Let me, me!” hoarsely cried a wolf face with enormous
jaws and low forehead. “You are all worthless, overcome with
pity, when she puts on her little mask -“
“Hey, is your heart made of stone and do you have iron
veins, Ruder-Mathieu?” a sloppy woman laughed and pushed
the man to the side.
“Do you want to see Louis Capet’s souvenir, you
pavement kicker?” barked the guy, stretching out a hand
surrounded by blue-red rings of scars. “I wore his bracelet for
six years, here and on the back of my foot -do you think that
makes sugar daddies out of people?”
The smell of liquor, old clothes, and the smoke of bad
tobacco wafted around me along with the roar of laughter that
rose.
“Murderers of women. By the grace of the king,” a voice
said softly at my ear. “Look at the cattle, the forehead, the thick
eyebrows, the bit -“
“What are you whispering about, old fish-head?”
The galley convict shook his fist at the human beside me.
A small, stooped man quickly ducked into the crowd.
“Out with Lamballe! We want the intendant! Break down
the door! We want to have a close look at her, back and front,
just like her lovers!”
“The judges in there are asleep,” crowed the abomination
with the facial outgrowth. “We will wake them up!”
“Out with her! Make it snappy, you donkey heads in
there! Give her to us!”
In the roaring and pushing of the supremely heated
masses, in the midst of brandished sabers, knives, and lances, I
stood and gazed at the door as if paralyzed. I was afraid; a
devouring fear seized me, literally crushed me. It was an
indescribably horrible feeling, a feeling in which dark
knowledge was hidden. I knew what had to come unstoppably,
as if I had already experienced it all. A beardless, cheeky face
emerged inside me, a receding forehead sown with ulcers,
beneath sand-colored stubble hair. I looked around and
immediately looked into the middle of the face, which already
existed in my imagination. But I resisted, again and again and I
succeeded in pushing back the certainty coming from within
my inner being, without this effort of the will, I could have said
at any moment, blow by blow, what was going to happen now.
All this was like a dream within a dream yet of shuddering
physicality.

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Chapter 28 Becca’s Initiation

He had left her in the darkness to meditate. Now he was coming back with her torch and her black clothing. Gruffly he told her to put the 2nd degree clothing on. She turned her back and stripped. He was watching her naked body. The bruises were healing, and he wanted her. Slowly she turned around and faced him. Her long red hair framed her breasts. She looked beautiful to him. He reached toward her, and they clung together, kissing as her body pressed against his. His lips sought hers desperately as hers sought his. His hands felt her body, and her scent was wonderful. They stopped and looked at each other.

“This isn’t in the script!” Tobal quipped.

She smiled and began putting on her 2nd degree clothing. They steadied themselves, stepping into the ritual’s next phase. Then they went together toward the main circle for the initiation. Things went well until Becca found herself surrounded by the six menacing, darkly hooded figures she was told she needed to fight. Tobal thought he went crazy at times during battle, but Becca was scary. With a scream of rage that shook him to his core, he watched as she mowed the six figures down like so much grass. She was obviously an advanced martial artist with an axe to grind, and she wasn’t holding anything back.

The first two got broken ribs before they knew what hit them. The first fell from a savage front kick that broke through his guard. In a smooth, fluid motion, a spinning sidekick disabled the second. The third was reaching for her and got a dislocated shoulder as he was thrown into a fourth that wisely stayed on the ground. A spinning backfist was already on its way to number five, and number six had his jaw broken with a deadly kick square to the face. It was all over in less than two minutes, and the only sounds in the cavern were the moans of the injured. For a moment, the cavern held its breath, her rage echoing.

Slowly, sanity came back, and Becca dropped on her knees to the floor, sobbing hysterically. Tobal dropped down beside her and put his arms around her, trying to comfort her. Then he gently helped her up and led her out of the circle and into a quiet corner where they just sat together in silence. He squeezed her hand as the medics took five of the six out of the cave to get medical attention. She started crying again, and he didn’t know what else to do except hold her tightly against his chest. Gradually she relaxed and fell asleep in his arms.

The circle had been disrupted, and several members milled around arguing with each other. Several red-cloaked figures appeared, and one approached them in the darkened corner. As the figure drew closer, Tobal saw that it was Rafe. He put his finger to his lips for silence and indicated that Becca was sleeping. Rafe looked at her thoughtfully, nodded, and turned back to the clustered group of medics. There was some kind of heated discussion in which Rafe was obviously taking part. Then several black-hooded Journeymen were called into the group, and preparations were made to recast the circle and begin Fiona’s initiation.

Becca slept through most of Fiona’s initiation but roused herself as six black-hooded figures surrounded Fiona in the center of the circle. Tobal felt her stiffen, and he gripped her in support. Glancing at him, she relaxed a bit but was still focused intently on what was happening to Fiona. She watched as each figure stood impassively until Fiona tried attacking them. Fiona was fast and dodged several attacks and landed a few of her own but did no real damage. She was also taking a slow beating as one of the hooded figures landed a blow that knocked her to the ground.

Gradually Fiona realized that no one attacked her unless she attacked first. She also realized that only one figure would fight at a time. When she realized this, she stopped fighting and just stood silently in the ring with her arms folded and her eyes glaring defiance.

As one, the circle began to move, and the drums sounded within the cavern, and Fiona’s initiation was completed to the sound of cheers and welcome. Then the High Priest raised his hands for silence.

“There is unfinished business in this circle tonight,” he said. “There are two initiates, and the second initiation must also be completed, and the new initiate welcomed into our group.”

He motioned for Tobal and Becca to come forward.

Becca was hesitant and resisted but continued at Tobal’s reassurance. He took her hand and gently led her into the circle and stopped in front of the High Priest.

The High Priest continued, “Becca, you were charged with the duty of defeating in combat six other Journeymen before you would be able to advance to the Master degree. The six that you fought tonight were supposed to be symbolic in nature, meant to test her spirit, not break her body, but your victories have been real. You have completed the Journeyman degree, but you cannot advance into the Master degree until one year and a day has passed. This is the minimum time requirement. All that remains is to give you the blessings of the God and Goddess of this degree.”

Then raising his hands, he turned to the circle and asked loudly, “Does anyone here dispute the claim that Becca has won her six victories and completed the work of this degree?”

There was stunned silence around the circle, and then some members started moving widdershins, dragging others with them, and soon the entire circle was spinning. The drums were beating, and people were leaping and laughing, yelling and clapping in approval as the initiation concluded, and the wildest party in Tobal’s memory began.

Later he moved over to where Becca and Fiona were talking together. Becca was smiling, and he hoped she felt like she was among friends. He gave her a hug and a smile, and she hugged him back and kissed him lightly on the lips.

“Thanks for helping me through the initiation,” she said.

His eyes twinkled, “Any time, it’s my duty.”

When Tobal woke the next morning, both Fiona and Becca were gone. He had no idea where they had run off to and was slightly disappointed. If they wanted to go off by themselves, it was completely up to them. Mumbling a bit to himself, he left to go find Jake for some sparring practice. After watching Becca take out those six guys last night, he felt he really had a few things to learn.

The End of Book One of the Anarchist Knight Trilogy.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

They had known how to prevent it, if one took them as
symbols of a caste, prevented people from reaching the heights
of a decent life. Again and again shoved the unfortunates into
their doghouses and holes, pressed them into the fronts, and in
shallow dalliance mocked the muffled cry from the depths. At
last, when even the excessively rich resources that had been
withdrawn from the others, ran out, they heaped up the grain of
the fields into locked barns, in order to sell sparingly and with
usurious profits to the starving, during the coming famine.
They had forced a painful bridle between the teeth of the
desperate and tightened the reins, while their whip tore bloody
weals. Thus the masses had now finally burst their bonds in
insane rage and torment, and the dull masses had acquired a
flaming will: the will to destroy, to slaughter, to tear to pieces
the wanton, the tormentors and to wipe them off this earth
forever. Who but knew how to read the people’s faces, in those
faces, in their ignorant and still astonished expressions, he
knew in retrospect that the power that had been shattered, if it
had been used with a little kindness, with wise prudence
humanity, would have endured for a long time and could have
achieved a bloodless, peaceful transition to a more just
distribution of goods. But so it was, as if these kings, dukes,
counts and rulers of all kinds had undertaken the ludicrous
attempt to see how long and to what extent they could torture
patient people, until they would finally rise up against the
burden of tortures. And yet I also felt sorry for them.
I was soon awakened from my thoughts by the senseless
and agitated pushing after me of those who also wanted to be
part of the sad procession.
I was startled when, with a jerk, everything stopped and
the people flowed apart. We had arrived at a not too large
square surrounded by old, steeply gabled houses with
blackened walls; my feet almost sank in a sticky, dark mud that
covered the ground, and I had to find a somewhat elevated spot
on the pavement to escape the vile swamp, whose foul-sweet
haze enlightened me about its nature. Around me was a wild
roar and murmur of voices. All the windows were crowded,
and from there cloths were waving to acquaintances on the
street.
Just in front of me, in the middle of an irregular square,
towering over all the heads, hoods and hats, stood a slim,
reddish-brown, two-footed gallows, on which at the top under
the crossbeam, the drop knife hung slanting and flashing. The
posts, between which it ran, shone dark and greasy in the
daylight, so much was the wood smeared with blood and
human grease. The condemned men rose stiffly and with great
effort from the seat boards of the cart. A horse neighed,
scenting the haze of the square. The poor condemned who had
arrived at their final destination now helped each other politely
and courteously to dismount, the old clergyman made an effort
to help the crippled Doctor Postremo, who was making terrible
faces and chattering with his teeth. I saw the white-powdered
hair of the other and the hunchback’s fuzzy head walking the
narrow alley between the soldiers. The doomed men quietly
and slowly climbed the small staircase up to the blood scaffold.
Abusive words flew at them, fists were shaken, ugly, fat market
women, who stood in the front row, sitting on benches knitting,
were even telling dirty jokes.
I saw exactly every single face and except for Postremo,
who grimaced, they all looked with a stony attitude in face and
gesture towards what was coming. The ring of people around
Guillotine’s machine found itself in grinding motion, and I was
gradually pushed very close, so that the victims stood with
their faces turned toward me. I wished myself far away, to get
rid of the terrible pressure under my heart, with which the sight
of such sad preparations tormented me. But I could not move,
as I was wedged so tightly, I could not even turn my head away
from the tangled hair of an unclean woman who smelled of
garlic, and I had to be sneezed on from behind by a man who
had caught the sniffles. But these small adversities quickly
faded before a nameless horror.
Now a giant swung onto the scaffolding, whose sight
surpassed in meanness everything I had ever seen in my varied
life. On tremendously broad shoulders, over a naked, red-
haired chest and muscular arms rose the face of a devilish
monkey with bared teeth, maliciously glowing eyes and a fiery
comb of red-yellow bristles. Samson, whose portrait I had seen
in a bookstore, it was not. I knew that he was indisposed and
that his first assistant was standing in for him. Horror seized
me at the sight of this guy.
This man-beast, who was followed by two crude-looking
figures grinned, licked his blue lips and then pointed with a flat
thumb at Postremo. The two guys behind him pounced on the
hunchback in an instant, who kicked with his feet, hissed
incomprehensible words and pulled his misshapen head even
deeper into his shoulders. They tied him with lightning speed to
a vertical board, and tipped him over, so that the helpless man
was lying with his chin on a double board, cut out in the shape
of a semicircle, the upper half of which was now pulled down
between the posts and pressed down. A shiver ran through me,
as the red-haired, blood-black hand of the executioner pushed a
protruding knob in the post. The guillotine whistled down.
Something jumped into a basket, the hunched body twisted,
writhing, and flapping its feet, just as poor Bavarian Haymon
did under the murderous ring, and from a huge dark- red
wound, from which a flashing semicircle seemed to hang,
blood gushed out in thick streams, which then gurgled and ran
heavily down the side wall. The executioner’s hand reached
into the basket, lifted the head up high by the stained, white
hair. The axe had not reached the neck, and so the lower jaw
was severed and hung separated with the semicircle of the teeth
on the body, so that I once more saw the mutilated grimace of
the doctor. And this hideous head slowly drew the eyelid over
the right eye, as if he wanted to wink at me.
“It’s not pretty, citizen – but how could he have dressed
up the hunchback angel maker any other way?” said a
craftsman next to me, pulling out a flask from the upper,
opened part of his burn-stained apron smock. “Here, drink once

this will keep the food down if it wants to rise from the
stomach!”
I took a sip of the pungent and burning juniper brandy,
and the trickling warmth inside gave me strength. Once again I
looked around me to see if I could not escape from what was
coming, but it was impossible to squeeze through this wall of
human bodies. A wall was around me that no one could have
penetrated.
So I had to witness the execution of all six condemned,
and each time the leathery clap of the falling knife sounded, I
trembled from my head to my feet. The cold sweat broke out
and my legs trembled violently. The last of the crowd, after the
old lady, who died quietly and without any movement, came
the officer of the Flanders Regiment, who had remained loyal
to the king the longest. He placed himself at the board. While
the executioners nimbly fastened the blood-soaked straps
around his body, he looked at the blood man’s face with eyes
flashing with anger and said loud and clear:
“Do not dare to hold up my head with your paws, red-
bristled pig!”
But the executioner just pursed his bulging lips, waited
for the overturning of the board and the clasping of the neck in
the hole formed by the two semicircles of the double boards,
dropped the axe that the two blood fountains sprang from the
stump of the neck, and reached into the basket.
But immediately, with a grunt of pain, he pulled his hand
out of the basket and flung his index finger rapidly back and
forth in the air, as if he had touched red-hot iron. In a senseless
rage, he kicked the basket several times with his foot, so that
the severed head bounced and jumped in it. Then he hid the
finger of his right hand in his clenched left hand and uttered a
blasphemous curse.
“The aristocrat bit his finger!” The man with the apron
smock shouted. “They are not so easily killed, these haughty
ones!”
Then, as if a bright light shone on me from heaven, I
thought of Isa Bektschi and the parable of the beheaded
evildoer, who used the last of his last strong will with a similar
thought of revenge.
Meanwhile, one of the servants, a jaunty black man,
jumped up to the basket, looked inside, at which the bystanders
had to laugh, and, grasping his hair with two fingers, lifted his
head out. The eyes of the dead man looked half-closed,
contemptuously staring at the gawking crowd, and a thin red
stripe ran down his chin.
Cursing, the redhead climbed down from the scaffold.
In the depths of my soul, I understood the effort of the
priest, perhaps not entirely comprehensible to himself,
although he eagerly displayed it, with which he exhorted the
dying to focus all their thoughts only on eternal bliss,
repentance of sins, and the continuation of life in God, and to
do away with all thoughts of revenge and earthly desires. What
immeasurable wisdom lay hidden in this need, what promise
and what consolation! An indescribably joyful knowledge
glowed through me when I thought of such things and I almost
regretted that my own path had not ended here.
Now that there was nothing more to see, the crowd
loosened and flowed away, getting lost in the side streets. The
windows closed, and the two helpers appeared with water and a
cart on which they loaded the dead remains of the executed in a
crude manner.
I still stood spellbound in my thoughts of Isa Bektschi’s
words, which he spoke to me, when I lay ill in the haunted
room at Krottenriede, when I felt that someone was looking at
me.
When I turned quickly, my eyes met those of a still
young man with a brownish face of regular cut and dark eyes,
from which an extraordinary willpower flashed at me. A great
power emanated from this gaze, with the strange, austere
beauty of the face and the harsh mouth that harmonized.

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The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel

“Maybe so, maybe so,” growled a fat, frowning man with
a coarse face and a high collar. “Nevertheless, it would be a
mistake to consider the not yet confirmed fraud from the outset
as a premise. We are man enough to get to the bottom of the
thing, and I’m not concerned with light phenomena or
nonsensical tapping.”
Just then, a small wallpaper door opened, and a
somewhat crooked, elderly girl with an unattractive and yellow
face entered. She was dressed in a gray silk robe and sat down
in the arm chair after a curtsy to those present, spreading and
smoothing her skirt.
Behind her stepped a darkly dressed man with an
unpleasant facial expression and piercing eyes, whose age was
between thirty and forty, not far from that of the woman. In his
face, strangely enough, the facial expressions changed
constantly, so that one could believe, his mood swung between
laughing and crying. He bowed, collected the required douceur
on a silver plate, put the plate in front of one of the candelabras,
bowed again and then said with a hard accent, as it is peculiar
to German-speaking Russians:
“This Demoiselle Maria Theresia Köckering, from Reval,
38 years old, is capable of answering all the questions
addressed to her, whether they concern the past, the present or
future of the esteemed personalities present here, once she has
gone into magnetic sleep.”
He approached the table, extinguished some of the
brightly burning wax candles, then went to the motionless girl,
stretched out his fingers toward her face and softly stroked her
forehead, eyes and temples several times. Then he turned
around.
“She’s asleep now,” he said.
We looked at her and had the impression of a seated
person deeply lost in sleep.
“I beg your pardon, my highly respectable gentlemen!”
continued the man in a subdued voice. “There is a certain
amount of silence required for the experiment. If the questions
asked are answered well I ask you to confirm half aloud that
the answer was correct. If it is not, I ask you to point out
without agitation, whereupon I will renew the question. For it
happens that the sensitive mind of the demoiselle can
experience confusion caused by scary images from other
regions. Any fair examination and investigation is permitted.
Strictly forbidden is disturbing noise, rough calling, abrupt
touching, since physical fright endangers the life of the
demoiselle in the highest, because in such a state the soul is
only very loosely connected with the body.”
A short, disapproving clearing of the throat came from
the row of listeners. But the presenter did not pay attention to it,
but continued speaking:
“For the time being, I will ask some questions myself. So
that the learned audience will understand the simplicity of the
process and the impossibility of fraud.
“Demoiselle Maria Theresial” he addressed the sleeping
woman in a raised tone.
In a moment, the face of the sleeper began to twitch, and
her hands moved restlessly back and forth, grasping at the air
and in turn fingering the armrests of the chair.
“Do you hear me, demoiselle?”
“I hear,” she said with a strangely altered and deeper
sounding rough voice.
“The names of the distinguished and learned gentlemen
present here in their seating order from right to left?”
To us he said behind his held out hand.
“She sees everything as it were in a mirror, and that’s
how she calculates.”
The trembling and grimacing became more severe, then a
kind of smile appeared flippantly on her face, and she spoke
inexorably, rapidly and without any pause in between:
“Doctor Achaz Moll, Professor Gisbertus van der Meulen,
Doctor Johannes Baptista Schlurich, Baron Melchior von
Dronte, Magister Benedikt Fleck, Spectabilitas Doctor Imanuel
Balaenarius, Doctor Veit Pfefferich.”
A murmur and nod of approval followed. But Magister
Fleck said half aloud, such knowledge can be obtained from
such highly famous men.
The man with the sleeping woman shook his head with
an angry expression and asked a second question:
“Tell me, demoiselle, on what important work that
gentleman is currently working on, who is raising his hand?”
He gave us a sign, and Spectabilis raised his hand,
silently invited by all.
Köckering became lively again, moved her lips, put her
hand up several times and then out:
“About the healing effect of pure water in case of
Obstipatio and about the harm of too frequent purging.”
“Bene,” said the dean, “Admirable!”
“This, too, can be brought to light – “, whispered the
suspicious red haired magister.
“I now ask the honored gentlemen, to ask your own
questions as you see fit.”
The magnetizer looked with a sharp glance at the
magister and with a wave of his hand motioned him to speak.
“How — how much money do I have in my pocket?” the
latter stammered, visibly surprised.
The woman answered without reflection:
“One Laubtaler, but it’s fake, and five silver groschen.”
The questioner pulled out his little pouch and counted the
small amount of cash. It was true.
“Quite nice,” grumbled Doctor Moll, and his double chin
rested gloomily on his high tie.
“When he asks for his pennies, is it as well to inquire
who stole my reddish-brown rooster from my house six days
ago?”
“Leberecht Piepmal,” came back immediately.
“That thunder may smite you!” the coarse voice started
up. “That must be true! I immediately said to my beloved, that
Piepmal and no other –“
“Piano, my lord,” the organizer admonished unwillingly.
“Just not too loud! Another of the gentlemen, if you please”
“On which day of the week, month and year did the
woman I loved the most pass away?” one of the gentlemen said
softly.
The face of the sleeping woman distorted painfully, her
mouth closed tightly, and after a while she understood:
“Wednesday, the 12th of Hornung 1754.”
“My mother!” A heavy sigh said, that the question had
been answered correctly.
I took heart and raised my voice:
“Who visited me there, from where I came to this city?”
The sleeping woman stroked with her hand the back of
the chair, shook her head softly, and then let out a sound like a
soft laugh and spoke:
“You yourself -” she said.
A murmur rose.
“Attention, Demoiselle!” sounded the commanding voice.
“The gentleman himself could not have done it. Once more!”
“Isa Bektschi – yourself — your brother in you-.-” she
whispered, barely audible, “Ewli -“
“I ask, my lord, whether this answer is understandable to
you?”
I nodded mutely.
“But we don’t understand it,” the magister blurted out.
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do you mean demoiselle?” the man repeated
readily.
“The coming back,” she breathed.
“She babbles,” grumbled Doctor Pepperich.
“Still, some things have been amazing so far. May I do
one more question?”
“Please.”
“What is it? It’s on my desk at home, once alive and very
clever and is now useless and dead.”
The magnetized one breathed heavily, thought
strenuously and reached out with her hand to her throat,
catching her breath with difficulty, as if a choking attack was
coming over her. Then she said heavily:
“The hand – of the – hanged Janitschek from Prague.”
The doctor passed a blue cloth over his sweating
forehead.
“Guessed,” he gasped. “The hand of the Bohemian thief
lies withered on my table.”
“It is astonishing, after all,” Dean Balaenarius cleared his
throat. “The phenomenon is not so easy to grasp -.”
The man in the dark habit stepped forward.
“My esteemed ones,” he said. “The Demoiselle is greatly
fatigued and in need of early rest. May I ask for a few more
questions about the future?”
But no one moved. No one seemed to have the desire to
look behind the dark veil.
Then Doctor Schlurich half rose from his seat, opened his
mouth, wanted to speak, but changed his mind and sat down
again.
“Right now he is with her,” said Köckering tonelessly.
The doctor made a defensive gesture, as if he didn’t want
to hear anything, and leaned back, deathly pale, with quivering
lips, in his chair.
“That was her oath-!” I heard him say softly.
“May I do one more question?”
I stood up. So far I had remained so dazed by what the
clairvoyant had told me that everything around me was as if in
a dream, but only at the surface, as I had been lost in my own
thoughts.
A silent, somewhat impatient movement of the hand
invited me.
“When will I see Isa Bektschi again?”
I asked.
The demoiselle raised her head, shuddered inward and
groaned.

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Chapter 27 Disaster

Llana looked at everyone in the firelight. “Are there any more questions?”

“So I meet you here next month at the same time?” Tobal asked.

“Right,” she said. “And I will give you the training you need to train Becca and Fiona.”

That was the end of the meeting, and they chatted the rest of the evening, sharing what had been going on in each other’s lives. Llana was very concerned about the medics being kicked off the mountain and the decision to build a permanent base at the old original gathering spot. She urged everyone to be careful.

The lake was beautiful, and they spent a lot of time skinny-dipping in the cold waters and lying on the beach in the sun, watching air transports bring workers and supplies to the gathering spot. With so much activity, it seemed hard to believe there was any danger in the area. Fiona seemed like a sister to him, and he was deeply in love with Becca. Their love was passionate. The days passed, and before he knew it, he had to head back to the cavern for the new moon tournaments. He urged the girls to leave the lake and warned them not to get too close to the waterfall—two were more vulnerable than three, and it might not be safe to stay.

The girls didn’t seem to take his concerns too seriously but suggested they might look up Nikki and see how she was doing with her last newbie. As Tobal left, they told him they were planning to leave the next day.

He was looking forward to his first regular meeting as a Journeyman. He found himself in the area a day early and thought he would check the camp out a little more. He was surprised to find several Journeymen already there. They welcomed him warmly.

Unlike circle, which was abandoned each month, there was always someone at this camp guarding it, hanging around in the caverns, socializing, sparring, or doing some type of assigned duty. They had a lot of time on their hands.

Staying in the camp was a way to socialize, work out, and practice. There was also a hot spring to soak in, and that was a luxury for sore and aching muscles. The tournaments were always scheduled early in the day and the initiations were scheduled closer to midnight. That was why Tobal had seen no tournaments on the day of his initiation. One of the caverns had been set aside as a fighting arena. It had soft powdered sand on the floor like beach sand.

There were a few medics wearing red tunics acting as judges or referees as well as emergency medics in case something went wrong. They took care of the many minor injuries that were common during these fights.

As the newbie of the group it didn’t take long for Tobal to realize how it worked. The referee laid out the ground rules, of which there were basically none. Anyone could challenge anyone to a fight. A person could not be challenged any more than one time in a day. However, a person could challenge as many people as they wanted to. It was set up in this way so if a person got beaten badly they would not have to fight again that night. But if they won and felt like it they could challenge someone else.

The oldest members by seniority got the first challenge and the youngest ones got the last challenges if they hadn’t already been challenged. Generally the older members took advantage of the inexperienced members by challenging them.

The first challenge was an old veteran that was burly and bearded. He was not well liked it seemed. He challenged Joy. It was easy to see why the grizzly had chosen Joy. He was almost twice Joy’s size. He clearly expected the match to be over quickly. Joy surprised him by being a lot faster, more elusive and more aggressive than Tobal had realized.

The brute simply couldn’t make contact with Joy and three times went sprawling as Joy tripped him during a rush but he always managed to fall within the rope circle and got back to his feet quickly. Every now and then a wild swing would connect and Joy would stagger. She simply was too light to do much damage to him. Tobal could see she was tiring and wasn’t surprised when a wild arm knocked her to the floor. The brute then sat on her and held her motionless until the referee called time and declared the brute to be the winner.

Joy really had trouble with this degree because of her small size and young age. So far she had only won three fights. The good news was that she was getting much better at fighting and she was also getting larger and stronger as she grew older. She was learning about fighting the hard way, by losing. Most of the older Journeymen had already challenged Joy and won. They couldn’t challenge her again. That meant gradually Joy was being more evenly matched as she grew in skill. The burly veteran she had just fought was undoubtedly one of the few older ones that hadn’t yet been able to challenge her. The entire thing made Tobal feel slightly sick.

Next up was Ox. Ox smiled maliciously as he challenged Tobal.

“You don’t have a knife to save you this time,” he sneered.

Tobal felt a weak sick feeling in his stomach and realized he was probably in for quite a beating. Ox still held a grudge against Tobal from that time in sanctuary when they had argued over Fiona. Tobal had only saved himself from a beating by instinctively pulling a knife and threatening Ox with it. This time though no weapons were allowed. It was simply hand to hand warfare with no rules.

Tobal assumed a boxer’s stance and tried a few jabs to no effect. Cautiously they circled the ring looking for an opening. Then Ox put down his head and charged straight at Tobal. He tried moving out of the way but was caught by a huge hairy arm that turned him around. Next a hammer exploded in the pit of his stomach and solar plexus doubling him up. He felt the bile rise in his throat as all the fight ran out of him. He lay in agony on the cave floor gasping for breath curled up in the fetal position trying to protect his stomach from further damage. Dimly he heard the referee call out time. Tobal had just lost his first match in less than two minutes. His eyes were stinging with tears.

Tobal was surprised when Joy re-challenged the brute from the first fight. It was easy to see there was no such thing as fairness in these matches. Anybody was fair game and the smaller and weaker got picked on more often than the bigger and stronger ones. If you were big and powerful things generally went your way. It didn’t seem right but life was unfair at times and the strong often did win. It was brutal survival of the fittest in it’s most primitive form and wasn’t very pretty.

Tobal tasted blood in his mouth as he sat watching Joy. She handled herself remarkably well this time and it was easy to see she had more stamina than the brute. She found an opening and finished the match by landing a kick solidly in the groin of the brute to the applause of the watching crowd. It was then that Tobal realized he had to be really careful. He had to learn a heck of a lot more about fighting than he knew right now. He also realized Joy was right in fighting after her first defeat. It was the only chance she really had to move ahead and it didn’t cost her anything.

He looked over the unchallenged members of the group carefully. Being a loser he had the opportunity to challenge and in a spark of anger challenged one of the remaining members that hadn’t fought yet. In a burst of fury and lightning movements he had tripped and thrown the person out of the ring over the rope. The referee called the match and Tobal was the winner. In a flash of sportsmanship he went over and helped the other person back to his feet and they started talking together.

“Man, what got into you?” The other person said. “You were like a demon or something. I never even had a chance. It was all over before I knew what was happening.”

“That’s how my fight with Ox went,” He laughed. “I never saw it coming either.”

His name was Jake and soon he and Tobal were hanging out together sparring and learning everything they could from any of the others that were willing to spend time training with them. Tobal really sucked at fighting and it was good to team up with someone willing to work hard with him. They spent most of the next two weeks sparring every day for hours. They mercilessly drove themselves to the point of exhaustion. It seemed to Tobal that he was always stiff and bruised but when circle finally came he was ready for it and felt that he needed a little break.

While the tournaments were brutal, the initiations were beautiful in their own way. Tobal watched in fascination as the circle was cast widdershins and the pentagram was drawn upside down. The power was raised, but it felt different and had a harder edge to it.

The primal earth energy of the Journeyman degree was much different than the spiritual light energy of the Apprentice degree. It was more visceral and seemed more magickal. The images of the Lord and Lady seemed more real and it was as if they were really there in the circle. He heard their voices urging him to get up and fight after Ox had slammed him to the ground but had not been able to get back up.

Watching the initiations he saw them beside the candidates after they had given up fighting the six dark hooded figures. His parents kneeled beside the candidate as the circle began to move widdershins and the High Priest and High Priestess bestowed their blessings upon the initiate. Then it seemed as if they merged and flowed into the candidate and disappeared.

Later he asked Ellen about these things and she was interested in what he saw. Apparently he was able to see things even the High Priest and High Priestess had trouble seeing or feeling. More correctly he was seeing and hearing what a High Priest or High Priestess was supposed to be able to see and hear. She was excited about his natural talent and he spoke about some of the exercises and meditations that Crow and Llana had taught him. He didn’t mention his belief that the Lord and Lady were his parents.

There was no requirement for him to go to circle except during guard duty, but he always felt it was very important to show up and see how his Apprentice friends were doing and celebrate with them as they trained and soloed their own trainees. Fiona and Becca would be getting their sixth chevrons and he wouldn’t miss that. He was also looking forward to some quiet time with Becca.

He arrived just in time to change into his black robe and take part in the initiation ceremony as a guard. He didn’t have time to look for Becca or talk with any of his friends and none of them showed up during the day to chat. It was mid July and hot.

Becca and Fiona usually looked him up at least once during the day and he had a nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach that something was wrong.

He tried not to worry as he and Joy made sure the candidates were properly welcomed into the clan and later prepared for their initiation. This time he was the one that cut the gray robe and shortened it to become a tunic. He remembered his own Clansman initiation and felt satisfaction as he cut away the fabric of the tunic. It was the first time he had cut a tunic and it was kind of ragged in spots and high. He might have cut the tunic a little short but she was good looking and had nice legs. The shortened tunic looked good on her.

There were eight candidates and later the new clansmen were taken to the sweat lodge for purification and left to meditate. It was a long day and the eight initiations seemed to drag on forever.

After the last initiate was gone he headed toward the circle and noticed that both Fiona’s and Becca’s students had returned from their solos. They were hanging out by the beer barrel but he still didn’t see Fiona or Becca. He walked over to congratulate both of them on their solos and asked where the girls were. The look on both of their faces told him immediately that something was wrong. They were surprised he hadn’t heard. Yesterday rogues had attacked both Fiona and Becca. Becca had been raped and badly beaten. Medics had taken her to sanctuary. Fiona had gone with her to make sure she was all right. The kids had stayed behind.

There was a hollow sick feeling in his stomach and he felt like he was going to throw up. He was shaken to his very core by the news and his face turned a pasty gray. He looked for one of the medics to ask for more information and made a beeline in the dark to the nearest red cloaked figure he saw. The medic was busy putting some things in his pack. His back was to Tobal as he walked up.

“Excuse me,” He began. “I need some information.”

“ Rafe!” He shouted.

“Rafe, what about Becca?” He asked urgently. “Is she all right?”

Rafe turned a troubled gaze on him.

“Becca’s pretty bad. Near as we can figure four rogues jumped the two of them with clubs while they were climbing half way up the cliff on a ledge by the waterfall. Becca got taken by surprise at the top. They grabbed her and were holding her down and tearing her clothes off. She was fighting back when she was knocked unconscious. Fiona managed to slice one of them pretty bad with a blade before being pushed over the ledge. Becca was already unconscious when Fiona fell over the ledge. She wasn’t able to help Becca and prevent the beating. She’s lucky she wasn’t hurt in the fall.”

“Alarms went off on our air sleds and we responded immediately. The rogues left Becca with a couple cracked ribs and took off running when three medics came flying in on air sleds. Tobal, she was raped. ” He looked at Tobal before continuing.

“We felt she might have internal injuries and took her to the city for specialized medical attention. Fiona went along as a witness and to fill out the reports.”

That was all Rafe knew except they were both at sanctuary now and Becca was in stable condition.

“I don’t know who the rogues were. They don’t seem to be anyone that is a part of our camp. But they know about us, that’s for sure. They didn’t wear med-bracelets, so they didn’t show up on our screens.”

“They don’t wear med-bracelets?” Tobal said grimly. “That means they are General Grant’s men.”

“The air sleds showed up suddenly?” Tobal asked violently. “How did the rogues get away?”

“We don’t know yet. That’s our new camp remember.” Rafe continued. “As soon as Becca was knocked unconscious alarms went off on our air sleds. What I can’t believe is that rogues would be so close to our camp.”

“I know where they were climbing,” Tobal said suddenly. “If they were on the ledge they would have been trapped. The only way down was hand and foot holes and the only way up was through a rock chimney. They didn’t run away. The medics let them get away!”

Rafe turned white as understanding dawned. “It wasn’t our Medics. The rogues were teleported there and out again. They must have a teleporting station set up right there on that ledge. We’ve got to find it and destroy it.”

“What did these rogues look like? What kind of tunics did they wear?” Tobal asked savagely already knowing the answer. “They knew the girls were going to climb the cliff and waited for them on the ledge. The girls were deliberately ambushed!”

“’They were dressed as Journeymen in black tunics.” Rafe told him. “That’s all we know at this time. Ellen’s looking into it further and making a complaint to the City Council.”

There was a lump in his throat and a heavy feeling in his heart. He had left the girls at the lake alone and unprotected. Part of what happened to them was his fault. He had even suggested they go there in the first place. Tobal took up his pack and asked Rafe to give him a ride to sanctuary. The trip was a little over an hour with the air sled. The full moon made night travel fairly easy anyway. It was his first air sled ride but he was too emotional to enjoy it.

As they traveled he wondered about the rogues. Were they really acting under orders from General Grant or his Uncle Harry and did they have the ability to teleport in and out at will?

What was so important about the cave under the waterfall? They needed to really check it out before the enemy broke through the shield and took everything. He told Rafe that they needed to check the cave out thoroughly and see what they could find. Rafe agreed and said he and Ellen would look into it immediately on his return. He dropped Tobal off at sanctuary and sped back toward the lake.

Tobal went inside and stopped at the door to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. Fiona saw him and came running with a glad cry.

“Tobal!” She threw her arms around him in a big hug. “I’m so glad you’re here.”

She led him over to the cot where Becca lay and he sank down on his knees by her bed. He reached out for her hands. She smiled weakly at him. Her face was horribly bruised and there was a look in her eyes he didn’t recognize. He didn’t know for sure if she really knew who he was. It was like she was looking through him. As he reached to move a strand of hair away from her eyes she flinched away from him.

“Becca, it’s me Tobal!” He implored but her uncomprehending eyes remained the same. She was in shock. Part of her soul was gone somewhere else and he didn’t know how to get it back. He stayed with her and Fiona stayed with her but she remained unreachable. In anguish he grabbed her hand and placed it over the scars on his face.

“Becca, it’s me, remember me! My face. Feel the scars, it’s me, remember!”

She slowly looked at him and tears began to form in her eyes.

“Tobal.”

She softly traced the scars with her fingers. “I’m sorry.” She whispered and her arm dropped back on the cot.

He pulled her hand toward him gripping it hard and trying to bring her nearer. Something broke inside his heart and he cried, violent spasms shaking his body.

“Becca, I love you, I love you. Come back to me.”

Her fingers tightened in his. “I love you too,” she whispered.

Two days passed and Becca seemed to improve but something was still wrong. The rape and beating was still fresh and her experience made her both fearful and angry. She wanted to withdraw at times into her own space and be alone and at times she pushed both Fiona and Tobal away. Other times she needed them close to her.

It was the afternoon on the third day that Llana showed up at sanctuary concerned about what had happened. When Tobal hadn’t showed up for their meeting she had gotten worried and gone looking for him. She checked at the new medic’s base and was told that he was here.

“You’ve got to get Crow,” Tobal told her. “Crow told me that he would be needing to do another soul retrieval. He is the one that is meant to help her.”

“Both Crow and I will help her together,” She told him softly.

A few hours later both Crow and Llana had finished the soul retrieval and done spiritual healing work on Becca. She was sleeping peacefully. Crow, Llana, Fiona and he could not talk openly about things at sanctuary because newbies were there and clansmen were also showing up to get the newbies. Crow and Llana left and said they would talk with him later. Before they left Tobal warned them that the General’s men were teleporting into areas without warning and attacking clansmen.

They stayed at Sanctuary as Becca gradually improved. Both Becca and Fiona were looking forward to their Journeyman initiation and joked about it. The bad food at sanctuary was finally too much and they decided to make a leisurely journey to the caverns.

It had been two weeks and was just before the new moon. Physically Becca was pretty much healed but there were still deep emotional scars that were raw. He could feel the scars keeping them apart. Becca and Fiona were to be initiated into the Journeyman degree. They both felt it would help them to turn their minds away from what had happened. They traveled together and reached the caverns late in the afternoon. As the girls were being prepared for the initiations he joined the tail end of the tournaments.

Since he was late he hadn’t been challenged and was given the opportunity to challenge someone. He didn’t care whether he won or lost, he just needed an outlet for the rage and energy that had been trapped inside him since Becca’s accident. It was making him crazy and he knew he had to get rid of it.

In a burst of anger he challenged Ox. Ox had been having it entirely too easy because of his natural strength and size. Nobody ever challenged him and he only challenged weaker and easier victims. He never really had to fight. Tobal needed to fight.

Ox was surprised and incredulous but also had a wide grin on his face as he contemplated the beating he was going to give Tobal. Lumbering to his feet he swaggered into the circle and nodded at the referee. Tobal was on fire and there was no strategy. He was just going to pound Ox until the fight was over. It was going to be brutal but he was in much better shape and had learned a few tricks the past months. He had also been practicing daily. He had never seen Ox bother with any type of training or exercise. The brute seemed to rely exclusively on his own natural ability and strength.

Ox lunged and Tobal narrowly missed getting caught by those massive arms. As Ox passed Tobal swung a viscous blow with an elbow that caught Ox on the side of the head and dazed him. Tobal was not quick enough to take advantage and Ox turned with a bellow of anger. It turned into a slug fest in which neither one tried to get away but simply stood braced and pounded on each other, trading blows without regard for the punishment they were taking.

Tobal had learned how to brace himself for blows and took several blows to the midsection without buckling. Llana’s training had given him vast endurance and it was Ox who began to weaken under sustained blows to the head and midsection. He was used to fights that ended quickly and was getting tired. A wicked knee to the groin finally dropped Ox to his knees and the fight was over. Tobal was battered and bloody but victorious and happy. He had won his second fight.

There was something especially sweet about this fight he thought as he limped out of the circle. He watched as Jake fought his match. There was no doubt about Jake getting better too. But it was not enough for him to win.

As he left the ring and sat down at the edge of the circle his mind again returned to the conversation with Becca that had left his head spinning. He had asked Becca for a better description of her attackers. They had been bearded and hard to describe but she had torn the leader’s tunic off in the struggle. She had seen clearly a tattoo on his chest above his heart. It was a round circle with a male and female holding hands inside the circle. It was the same tattoo he had seen on his uncle as a child.

After the tournaments he washed up and got prepared for Becca’s and Fiona’s initiations. Having two initiations made things go much longer since they each had to be done separately. Becca’s initiation was first and it was almost the last. Tobal was Becca’s guide. He had requested to be her guide and Ellen had approved. He wanted to be close by in case something happened.

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