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!”
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
The way was not too long. I looked once more with the old eyes that had seen so much during my existence, and enjoyed the colorful multiplicity of the images that showed themselves to me. I saw the butcher with a steaming, scalded pig in a wooden trough, and the brass basins of a barber, which rattled in the wind and rain and hung full of little drops. I took the pitying look of two dark, beautiful girl’s eyes under a blue and white bonnet, noticed a black dog that reminded me of poor Diana, and smelled the strong, sour-tart smell of fresh tan, coming from a tanner’s workshop. A steel blue fly with little glass wings sat down on my knees and thus traveled quite a distance without effort of its own. A bunch of funny screaming spiders, uninvolved in humanity threw themselves like a brown cloud over the smoking mountain of horse manure, which came from one of the front wagons, and an ancient sycamore tree, all hung with water beads, morosely and indifferently let us pass by. And then, with a jerk, all the wagons stopped. We had arrived at the ugly square, where not long ago I had spoken with the young officer about the French nation, and my gaze fell on the gaunt reddish-brown scaffold that towered high above our heads, with ghastly simplicity. At that moment the wall of fog broke, and a pale ray of sunlight fell with dull glint on the slanting knife high up under the crossbeam. “How soon all this will be over!” I thought, and remembered so many moments of impatience and not being able to wait, which lay far behind me in the old days. We had to descend, and we were helped to do so. The people did not shout. There was only that quiet murmur of a thousand voices that betrayed the excitement of a great crowd. No one shouted swear words at us, and many eyes looked sympathetically. I had the feeling that with such a general mood, the great killings would soon subside and finally stop altogether. My knees were stiff from sitting and from the morning chill. The distress of the body cramps set in once again, and the right hip was very painful when walking. I saw people appear on the platform, appearing to move. The knife fell with a dull clang and was raised again. It was red. Something struck the boards of the bloody scaffold. The fear of the body almost gained the upper hand. A thought pushed forward, gained space: To do something to save myself, to scream, to beg, to break through the crowd, to break the cords… That’s when I saw him… Huddled like a bat. Fangerle. He was sitting on a lantern of the gallows, grimly distorting his wide mouth, the evil yellow eyes directed at me, a red, Phrygian cap on his skull instead of a big hat. His eyes were like two wasps that lived and crawled around in the cavities of his head. I closed my eyes. My will kept the upper hand. “Return to the depths!” I said to myself. When I looked again with all my strength, the apparition had disappeared, the pole was empty. A soldier grasped me almost timidly by the arm and pushed me forward with gentle force. I saw how clotted, thick blood flowed sluggishly down the boards of the scaffolding. Before me the Marquis de Carmignac climbed the slippery little stairs. Two men with naked arms grabbed him, strapped him to the board, and tipped it over. The upper part of the wood, which enclosed the neck, lowered. Whoosh… A whistling sound came from his headless neck. The feet with the buckled shoes, manly still in death, softly tapped the ground, his body moved in the straps, as if he wanted to make himself more comfortable. They loosened the damp leather, rolled him aside; the golden pear rolled over the boards, a little lid opened, brown snuff dusted out. Quickly a hand reached for the shiny thing. I was next, climbing the stairs. A hand supported me kindly, saved me from a fall in a moment of slipping. I looked into a serious, well-cut face. It was Samson. He made a polite inviting hand gesture. Behind him stood the red-bristled monster. Images circled in my brain in a flash. The arm with the executioner’s sword in the witch’s room of Krottenriede, the box with the singing little bird, burning candles in a black room, the glitter of Aglaja’s crown of death, the little dead man with the hourglass and the scythe, as it tilted out of the old clock, the Bavarian Haymon as an Amicist —Firm hands grabbed me by the arm. Faces slid past me. I stood at the board. The warm smell of blood rose to my nostrils, tickling and irritating in the nose. Thin straps snaked around my upper body, my legs. I fell forward — it creaked softly around me, – pain- my larynx hit a semicircle. I thought: Now the knife will cut through my throat, sawdust will fill my eyes, my mouth —. Wet wood descended on the back of my neck. Isa Bektschi! Isa Bektschi! With all my might I thought of the Ewli. I forced him to me. Close to mine I saw his face – his mouth, as if he wanted to kiss me – kind, dark eyes, like two black suns. His gaze enclosed me with infinite love and promise. I thought nothing more. I saw only him – drank his looks, absorbed his essence into me. Then dazzling, golden rays shot out from his eyes, piercing me, consuming me in fiery embers – in golden fire. But still I saw that face, clearly, sharply, saw it growing smaller and smaller – small as a dot and yet recognizable -. I opened my mouth, felt woody, dry splinters, moist chunks—. Then night — hissing — sound — a painful tearing – a thread cut in two — I found myself outside my body. My body lay in its brown, rumpled suit, without coat, with blood-soaked shirt edge on the board of the guillotine. Despite the tight straps, my upper body reared up a few times violently. Fountains of blood rushed out of the two large neck veins. The head lay pale, with wide-open eyes in the basket. Its face smiled. All the people who were standing around the scaffold looked on in silence. The board became empty. The man who had called Astaroth and the fiery dragons was dragged up the steps. He struggled with all his might, kicking with his feet, snapping his teeth. He did not want to – – All this was so indifferent for me. I rose and floated away over the many heads, glided effortlessly, and without finding any resistance, through the house walls and window panes, driven by a force. I had no eyes and saw everything. I heard. But I felt nothing. I thought nothing either. I was consciousness itself. Everything came to me, was immediately recognized. Vibrations of many kinds trembled through me, without me feeling pleasure or suffering. It was coldness, warmth, a sound, light, phenomena for which there are no words in human language, sensations when encountering beings, that remain invisible and unknown to people. I was of a shape, if this is possible to say, like those glassy-transparent bodies that glide past human eyes when they look for a long time into the distant pure blue heavens. Nevertheless I was not a body. I was also not nothing. I was a soul, like many of those who floated in the world space. But I had consciousness, I was mindful of my ego and I had a goal. I was looking for a new house with those instruments of the senses, which received from outside and could reflect from the inner back to the outer: Could express thoughts as words. I was looking for a human body. Inside me I carried the tiny image of a noble, godlike face, the reflection of which I had taken with me into infinity when I left the destroyed body. From this image my consciousness extended along with the ability to remember. The will for re-embodiment was the only drive that dominated me. According to inscrutable laws born of the eternity of becoming and passing, I strove towards my goal, devoid of all those feelings that can be called impatience, expectation or hope. There was no time; there was no distance and no obstacles. Forces to which I surrendered of my own accord willingly lifted me up, made me sink down, and made me to fade away, to wander and to rest. I was unmoved in my consciousness. Everything was offered to me, nothing was hidden from me, and nothing was veiled, neither in depths nor in heights. The wind blew through me, the rain fell through me. I had nothing of the properties that things in space possess. I was big and small, inside and outside, far and near. I saw sunsets in ocean wastelands, mountain hikers crashed in crevasses of ice, blue flowers that slowly withered, ghosts in waterfalls, beings that lived in crystals, red and yellow sandstorms, and fermenting garbage, out of which new creatures of the strangest kind sprang, dwarfs, who would have appeared as stones to human eyes, winged creatures that rode and roared, sleeping in beds, seeded with tiny goblins as with vermin, people, from whom evil flowed like a poisonous breath. I passed by all this. There were animals in herds on vast steppes, animals in the air, in holes in the ground, in the water. Small, crawling, flying, running animals, animals of all kinds, covered with hair, feathers, scales, bristles and plates, living animals. They attracted me because they were alive. They begat young, hatched them, reproduced thousands of times. They attracted me strongly, because they had living bodies, warm bodies. But I carried in me a human face and did not follow those souls, that lurked waiting to enter into the egg cell at the moment of conception. I was only attracted to people. I was attracted to them by a tremendous force. It was good to be with people. I attached myself to them, was with them, in them, slid through them and was a guest with others. I lived with them. I saw them as one sees a region that resembles the abandoned homeland. I have to use such comparisons, although the truth is quite different.
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.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“At the risk of disturbing your meditations, I would like to ask you, with your kind permission, a few more serious questions, the answers to which I am very anxious to hear.” With a quiet unwillingness I tried to recognize the facial features of the interrupter. But I could only determine that he was no longer young and that his white and very narrow hands were folded around his knee. “I am glad to be at your service,” I said quietly, so as not to disturb the deepening silence. The unknown man moved with his stool close to me and whispered, as it seemed to me, in some agitation: “All of us, who are here, so far as human calculation is correct, will be sentenced to death in a few days. In the certainty that our life, which would lead anyway to annihilation will now be completed more quickly than nature demands, there is nothing frightening for me. Another question worries me, my lord. What happens, when the path of life, which leads from the brain to the most distant and smallest parts of the body, is cut by the axe?” “Any doctor can tell you,” I answered. “What happens is what we call death.” “What we call it!” hissed the stranger close to me. “But have you never heard that the severed heads are still alive? Do you know that they move the eyes, the hairs stand up straight against the walls of the basket? That they look in the direction of the caller, when their name is called, and form clearly recognizable words with their lips when they are asked? How? Come to me, esteemed one, but not with Doctor Galvani’s frog. Here we are talking about the ability to think, to be conscious– “ “The problem is idle in a higher sense,” I said, “even if we assume that the cut-off head still thinks and tries to act, this lasts only a few seconds as a result of the lack of blood supply. Then the standstill is there.” The man slid his stool even closer. “Good, good,” he said excitedly. “Let’s not bother with that. It is indeed of little importance. What however, is death? Is it the death of the body and the freedom of the soul, or are the body and the soul so much together that one dies with the other? Can you give me a comforting answer?” The last words sounded like a plea. It had become completely quiet in our dungeon, and nothing could be heard but the stomping of the guards in front of the windows and a soft whistling, the breath of the sleepers. “Since you seem to be interested in the opinion of a stranger, I will answer you. Now then, my dear Herr, I believe that after death, the soul is separated from the body and enters the eternal life from which it comes,” I said in a muffled voice. He shook his head vigorously. “The priests of all creeds say such things. But no one can imagine what they are really saying. What do you mean: Return to eternity? Without the artful apparatus of the brain, the soul is incapable of expressing itself. What becomes of it? A vortex of air, a cloud of smoke, transparent ether? Where does it go?” “It goes into a new vessel.” I felt as if someone else was speaking out of me. I had never thought this thought, and yet now it was there as if I had always carried it within me. The other laughed unwillingly. “Into a new vessel, that is, a new body! Here is already the absurdity. The number of departed are so great that not even a thousand of them can find a new home.” I listened to the inner voice. “Whoever can preserve the consciousness of his earthly existence beyond death will be reborn in a human body. That is my belief.” “And if it succeeds – how often would such a return have to take place?” “As often as needed until the soul is purified,” I replied, moved. “And then?” “Then the soul rests consciously in God.” The man struck his knees with his fist. “Always the same old stories! Purified! Pure! And the hatred? The burning greed for revenge, the rage beyond the end, the hope to retaliate a thousand fold?” “These are all impurities that must fall off,” I repeated what my inner voice said. “In the purification of purgatory -“ “Purgatory?” he cried out. “You talk like a Catholic priest.
Where is it supposed to be, this fabulous purgatory?” “Here, it is life. Life in human form or -“ “Or?” “Or in the body of an animal,” I said, and saw in my mind’s eye how tears were streaming from the parrot’s ugly spherical eyes. “But these are theories. I want certainty -“, my late companion insistently demanded. “There is only one certainty: that of feeling.” “Faith, then, my lord.” It was I who spoke thus. “Fairy tales, my lord, fairy tales. I will tell you what is after death: nothing is. And that’s the terrible thing, this extinction of being. To have never been! It is horrible. And I don’t need to believe in it. I know it.” “I’m sorry I couldn’t bring you more comfort,” I said, and was seized with intense pity. “It is my fault,” he defended me politely. “A few days ago I spoke to ‘Abbe Gautier before he was executed. An old man with white hair, a worthy priest. He was struggling to find a hunchbacked quack- who had been convicted of common crimes, and pointed him to the infinite, eternal goodness of God. But the Italian with the hump would have nothing of it and kept shouting: “Niente! – Finito -nulla. Nix immortalita – o Dio, Dio!” “Then why did God call upon him?” I asked. “Out of habit, I guess. That good Abbe Gautier said about the same thing as you. I envy him and you. Sleep well!” He slipped into a dark corner with his stool. I heard him sigh deeply. A bunch of keys jingled. The iron door creaked open. The sleepers groaned unwillingly, turned around, and muttered unintelligible words. A turnkey, carrying a large, dimly burning lantern, entered, and followed by a commissar with a tricolor sash. Carefully he examined the paper that the official had handed to him, and then called out half aloud: “Citizen Dronte!” I stood up and saw the commissar make a violent movement of surprise or of joy. He took the lantern from the overseer’s hand, motioned for him to stop at the door, and came quickly towards me. “I am Commissar Cordeau!,” he said hastily and quietly. It was Magister Hemmetschnur whom I had taken from Krottenriede. “I can only stay for a minute,” he repeated in a monotonous, indifferent voice, while the lantern in his hand clinked and trembled. “I went to all the prisons when I found your name on the list. This is the last one. I know everything. As many of the cursed Aristocrats I have sent to the Orkus. I would go back to being the poor miserable Hemmetschnur on Krottenriede if I could save your noble life, which is so dear to me. Do not move, do not speak. There are spies in every dungeon, even here. I’ve spoken to the chairman of your tribunal. The charge is false. It was not your intention to free Lamballe, but rather as a loyal supporter of the Republic, you wanted to prevent the ignorant people from a rash act through which the discovery and exploration of the dangerous plans in which the princess was involved are now forever impossible to determine. They will believe you. You were providing an important function that will protect you forever. Do not move your head. You must accept. Otherwise, you will be lost. If you have not understood me, clasp your hands together as if pleading. You don’t? So you have understood everything. Now a necessary comedy begins. Do not be frightened of me, who would like to kiss your hand.” And with a loud voice he continued, “So you refuse? You want to know the whereabouts of the escaped traitor? Good. You will stand in front of your judges tomorrow. Don’t forget that the lictors’ bundle also contains a hatchet.” Seemingly angrily, he stomped up and waved at the turnkey. “Citizen Gaspard! You’re liable to me for this dangerous person!” The turnkey shone his light in my face and grinned: “This head is loose! I’m getting the hang of this thing, Citizen Commissar!” Laughing, the magister slapped him on the shoulder, and they both left the dungeon. The door slammed shut with a thud, the key rattled. “Francois!” scolded one in his sleep. “See, which of the cursed peasants drives over the inner yard.” Then there was silence. The darkness dripped down like pitch. Before me in the darkness I saw the face of Isa Bektshi. The kind gaze was directed at me. The narrow scar between the eyebrows shone like the dawn. “I will not lie,” I said to myself. I saw nothing but the black night and I stretched out on the thin straw of the floor to rest a little. After breakfast, which the turnkey brought in on his board, a commissar appeared with several soldiers and brought three of us, including me, to the court session. A young, pretty woman, who had mostly been sitting on a cot, crying, and had received little notice by the ladies in my prison, was brought in with me and a tall, very haughty looking man in a dark blue, gold-embroidered jacket and white stockings was led away. The name of my fated companion I had not understood when I was introduced yesterday. The only thing that struck me was the deference with which the aristocratic prisoners had treated him, and his careless, condescending manner with which he had spoken a few words to this one, then to that one, while he hardly noticed me. I was walking behind these two, the woman and the haughty man; I was walking alone between two soldiers who had been specially commanded to guard me. We were led through a narrow, terribly dirty alley, in which all kinds of garbage rotted, to an old building, over the archway of which fluttered the three-color flag. Then we reached a corridor into a low, very large room, and had to pass behind a freshly painted cabinet, smelling of fresh oil paint and then stopped. The inner elevation, in which I had spent yesterday evening, was gone from me. The thought that this day was to be one of my last lay heavy as lead on me and filled me with a dull ache. Even the inanimate objects around me took on a strange and unfamiliar ghostly form, and even the early morning light that shone through the dirty windows had a mysterious reddish glow. When a soldier motioned for us to sit down, I was given the seat between the young woman, who from time to time sobbed violently, and the gentleman in the blue jacket, who looked before him with a stern and unapproachable face, without paying any attention to anyone. Now and then he would pull out of his pocket a gold can in the shape of a pear and sniffed it with an extremely affected movement. In front of us stood a heavy table with carved legs, on which everything necessary for writing was piled up. On the walls lolled pale, long-haired soldiers, some of them wearing wooden shoes on their bare feet, and blowing foul-smelling tobacco smoke from their lime pipes. They only changed their comfortable position, when a rumbling drum roll outside the door announced the entrance of the revolution tribunal. We were compelled to stand and wait until the judges were seated at the large table. I looked at the men who presumed to decide on the duration of the lives of others. The first at the table on the left was a craftsman with badly cleaned, hands, whose imprint was visible on the rim of his red cap. In the middle between him and a constantly coughing, obviously sickly person with pointed, gray-yellow face, was enthroned a black-haired young man of peculiarly impudent, but not unhandsome appearance. His restless, dark eyes sparkled under strong brows, and his long, carefully stranded hair under the two-cornered hat hung down to his shoulders. He stretched his legs, clad in white pants and boots with cuffs, far under the table, waved to an acquaintance in the densely packed area in the back of the room, and then rummaged with a pile of files that lay in front of him. Then he spoke a few half-loud words to the sitters and to the skinny clerk at the narrow end of the table, propped his elbows on the tabletop, rested his chin on his clasped hands and looked at us in turn with a look that seemed to command the highest respect.
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.
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.
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.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
Among the otherwise light-hearted and good-natured people were mingled at that time riffraff and tavern scavengers, who were only interested to fill their coffers, to drink, to fornicate, to whore, to splurge and to murder. Also even among the leaders, many of whom meant well, they were swamped by those who would use any means and who stirred up the common instincts of the crowd in order to make himself popular with the plebs. A gentleman of my standing would be better in the safety of home, instead of traveling in a country where there is neither discipline nor justice nor security. I would soon see that a limited measure of freedom is like a fortifying drink of good wine, but a mad exuberance like the exuberance, however, as it reigns here, is like senseless intoxication and insanity. This kind of expression in a mail coach driver surprised me; however, his expression and posture told me that he belonged to the educated classes. And so I addressed the question to him, how it comes that a man of such politesse could not find any other position than that of a stagecoach driver. The coach driver smiled and said: “Don’t bother addressing me as a gentleman! During this time I am quite modest and observe as a philosopher that which I cannot prevent. Who in such times holds his head too high can easily lose it, and since I only have this one, I am worried about it and on my guard. – Forgive me, mein Herr, but the road is getting so bad that I must turn my attention to it.” With these words he turned and seemed to pay attention only to his reins and the trotting of the horses. But already the nonchalant posture of the reins, indicating great practice and the noble certainty of his movements told me, from which social class my coach driver came from. In front of a town, which we were approaching, we were stopped by a strong group of armed peasants, who, they claimed, had been assigned to guard the road. One of them grabbed the reins of the horses, which were walking at a walk, while two of them, with their muskets extended, stepped up to the coach. But the coach driver, about whose fine and educated nature, I had just voiced my thoughts to, spat in a vulgar manner into his hands and shouted in the lowest dialect of the area: “You dung-scratchers and filthy beetles, you lice-pack want to dare to stop a citizen commissar? Death over my life, if I don’t bring you under Doctor Guillotine’s machine, you thieves and skunks! Away, by the fiery claws of the devil, or I shall ask the citizen commissar in the coach to write your names in his pocket-book!” Immediately they drew back, pulled off their greasy hats and shouted: “Long live freedom!” Our coach rolled on. The driver laughed to himself. “What did you say about the machine of Doctor Guillotine?” I asked him. “Ah – have you heard nothing of it? Imagine that they put you on a board between two beams. High above hangs a knife with a slanting edge, which falls and separates the head so neatly from the trunk as if it were only a head of cabbage on a thin stalk. It travels around the country, the machine of Father Guillotine.” In my mouth was suddenly a tepid, sweetish taste, which almost made me sick. It was the air in this country that I had in my mouth. It tasted like blood. And with a second-long freeze I thought of the words of Demoiselle Köckering, her shrill cry– “A knife hangs – falls -‘” In the city, whose gate lay before us, a bell began to ring low and menacingly: Death-Death-Death-Death. My fear vanished as quickly as it had come. “Non omnis moriar,” I said to myself. “I will not die completely!” I was standing under the archway of the Paris house where I lived and looked down the street. Muffled sounds came closer. Whistles, shrill laughter. A bunch of soldiers in various uniforms, red and white striped, dirty trousers on their legs, crushed hats with the new cockades on the long hair, came down the street with shouldered rifles. Two barefoot ragamuffin boys ran forward as drummers. On one of the two drums I recognized the scratched, colorful coat of arms of the Esterhäzy regiment. Behind the soldiers ran a large crowd of people, girls, men, women and children. Among the people one saw ragged prostitutes, fellows with murderous clubs, tramps, and lowly rabble. In the middle of this throng swayed and bumped a high- wheeled cart on which six people were sitting. The first one my eyes fell on– Merciful God! The cart stopped because the procession was stalled, and I looked closely. The first one I caught sight of was Doctor Postremo. A shiver of fever shook me. He was sitting in front, with his hands tied behind his back. His now snow-white ugly ape-head with coal-black thick brows and whiskers sat deep in his shoulders. His eyes were filled with mortal fear, and his broad mouth stood wide open. Doctor Postremo! “Samson won’t be able to cope with that hunchback!” The crowd shrieked with laughter. “They will have to pull out the pumpkin for that one!” answered a second. “Hey, old man? Don’t you think so, turtle?” Postremo made a ghastly face, closed his mouth, gratingly moved his jaws, and then spat in the face of the man who had addressed him. A burst of laughter flew up. “Bravo! Good aim, hump!” Two soldiers pushed back the angry man, who, with his disgusting face covered in spit, wanted to get on the cart. Next to the Italian sat an old, venerable cleric in a torn cassock, behind him was a stern-looking man in a blue silk jacket embroidered with dull silver, and a gaunt lady who moved her lips in prayer. The last seat on the cart was taken by a former officer from the Flanders regiment and a young man, smiling indifferently and contemptuously in a morning suit. The officer bit his lips angrily and said something to his neighbor, who answered with a shrug of the shoulders. Immediately the cart started to move, rumbling and skidding into motion, and the crowd sang a wild song unknown to me, that roared down the alley. The soldiers put their short pipe stubs on their big hats and sang along enthusiastically. Without will, driven forward by an irresistible force, I stepped into the middle of the crowd behind the executioner’s cart on which sat the wretch who had robbed me of the happiness of my poor miserable life with his satanic arts. Nevertheless, I felt no resentment against him, as much as his look reminded me of the greatest pain that I had ever suffered. But now I felt as if he had only been the tool of an inscrutable power which had directed everything as it had come. It also seemed to me that the terrible end to which he was now rolling toward on the shaking seat of the cart was not in the light of a punishment that had been executed on him, but as a redemption for this poor, wicked spirit, bound in a misshapen body. Between these more foreboding than clear thoughts, was the inexplicable feeling that moved all the people here, the terrible and unfathomable desire to witness a terrible operation on others, which in this time of great death and uncertainty of all fate, excited great interest because without a doubt many of those who today walked along freely and safely might in the very near future experience the same. In these minutes, the revolution, which I had longed to see close up, was seen as something unspeakably horrible and terrible. It was as if one had unleashed vicious animals against sentient human beings, creatures of the lowest kind, which cannot get enough pleasure in the suffering of their fellow beings, as if demons from the depths had united, to eradicate their former tamers and rulers and with them to exterminate every order. What I saw in the reddened, eye-twinkling, distorted faces around me was not humanity. Then I saw the young nobleman and the officer on the rearmost seat, but also from these victims a cold wave flowed toward me. They were evil in their hearts to the last. It was obvious that to them the people in the street were the same as the cobblestones, the dirt that stuck to the high wheels of the cart, or the half-starved dog that yelped and jumped around the harnessed mares. In my desolate misery and in the burning pity that almost burst my heart; I nevertheless knew clearly that in the last feelings of these two on the cart lay all their guilt. They had despised all people, God’s creatures as well as they, all their lives and still despised them in their own bitter hour of death, because they were unclean, uneducated, sweaty and lousy. These nobles did not consider that their own insensitivity had made of them what they were: a horde of half-animals, who had to defend themselves against the cruel scourge of poverty and being outcasts.
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.
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.