The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
In the prison they must have long since heard the howls of the insane crowd, because several times, inquiring and peering faces appeared at the windows of the first floor. But soon the obstinate shouting of the crowd was followed by action; axe blows thundered against the small, heavy door, a dusty pane of glass shattered under the thrown stones. Then a window opened upstairs, a sleepy face with half-closed eyes and sagging cheeks appeared, smiled and nodded to the people, whereupon the shouting intensified to the point of madness. Only for a moment my eyes were on a gray relief on the wall, when a hurricane-like howling of many thousand voices passed over men, the windows of La Force were shaking. The small door opened- In the stone frame stood pale as a corpse, a distorted smile of fear in the beautiful face, her small hands raised as if pleading, a young woman – “Aglaja!” I cried out. It was her. Aglaja. My beloved, slipped into the realm of shadows,
awakened from a deep sleep by the roaring of irritated animals.
There she stood, threatened by madmen, murderers, by rusty weapons, stones, shaking -. I screamed, screamed -. Her blinding forehead opened in a red, gaping crack, her eyes opened wide – from the light brocade of the bodice suddenly rose a greasy, wooden lance shaft – Silk tore with a high-pitched hiss — a small, plaintive cry – – like a bird call. Flames fell from the sky, flared up from the earth, and enveloped me. I pushed and hurled people at people, smashed my cane into a face, slammed my fist into a screaming mouth, sobbed, screamed, kicked, grabbed the handle of a saber, struck so that it sprayed, spitting and roaring louder than the thousands – – My gaze was drawn tightly to a twitching, white body adorned with blood roses, rough red laughter – I saw a dark hand tugging at something long and pale pink, a naked black foot kicked at a trembling woman’s breast — A booming blow struck my head. I fell. I tried to get up on my knees. Devilish faces neighed all around me; in a wide mouth were greenish stumps. In the hollow of two large hands, close to my face, moved twitching a bloody piece of meat, shining red, terrible to look at – a throbbing heart – I fell down on my face. In an unearthly roar the world passed away. The prison in which I found myself was an old coal cellar and received only a faint light through the small windows, which had never been cleaned. The bars in front of the windows were thickly covered with street excrement, and the yellowish glow left the background in complete dimness. It took quite some time before the dull pain in my head subsided to such an extent that I could look around in this subterranean room. Again and again I felt the painful lump on the back of my head, which a terrible blow had left behind, and repeatedly I tried to remove my torn, bloody and covered with street excrement suit in order to clean it. I was not indifferent to my appearance because several ladies were present. They had been given the largest part of the dirty wooden enclosure, and some of the gentlemen who were also in the prison, who, at the moment of their arrest, had an overcoat at the time of their arrest, had disposed of this garment in order to be used as blankets and bedding. “May I ask your name, Herr?” a tall, impeccably dressed gentleman in a poppy red jacket addressed me. “So that I can introduce you to the others if that is alright with you.” I named myself and was thereupon formally introduced by the Vicomte de la Tour d’Aury to the other prisoners. I was spoken to in an amiable manner with regrets that my so desirable acquaintance had to be made on such a sad occasion. I had unfortunately arrived in Paris several years too late, said a very pretty lady with a little beauty spot on her white and rosy face, and it was more than deplorable that under the present circumstances, one must get a completely wrong impression of the French way of life. With a bow, I replied that the setting in which people are found is not as important as the fact that people find each other, and that I had already experienced in just a few moments so many pleasant acquaintances, I had been abundantly showered with chivalrous attentions on the part of my accidental comrades in destiny. Asked about the cause of my arrest, I could not avoid mentioning the murder of the poor Princess Lamballe in the gentlest form. The ladies immediately burst into tears, and several gentlemen, with clenched fists, expressed the ardent desire for unprecedented revenge. To all, however, the sudden death of the beautiful woman on whose energy they had placed great hopes was a heavy blow, which destroyed a large part of their secretly cherished expectations. Now all their wishes were directed to a terrible and bloody retribution, while two floors above, it was surely decided to send the heads in which such plans flourished, into Samson’s wicker basket. The tremendous mental shock into which the resemblance between the slain princess and my beloved one, who was always fleeing into the shadows of eternity, had given way in this prison to a feeling of desolate emptiness. And secretly blossomed in me, like a pale Asphodelos, the longing for the beloved image, which approached me in all kinds of forms, leaving me to follow into the unexplored realm, where her eternal home was. Without any excitement I thought of the probability of my end. The hand on my pocket watch, which I found in my vest with the glass broken, measured the last hours of my life in the circle of numbers. For a long time I watched the Arabic numerals on the white disc, adorned with a wreath of cheerful roses, and thought that by one of the sixty strokes, or between two of them, a sharp, short pain would fly through my throat and extinguish my thoughts. With unheard-of clarity I saw my headless torso in this badly battered brown suit lying and twitching on the board, with two intermittently leaping fountains of blood in place of the head, and this roll into the basket of the Executioner. I looked at this shuddering self- image so calmly, as if the thing didn’t concern me at all. The addiction of the ladies for entertainment also in the present place of stay soon snatched me from this sinking, and I was compelled to answer all sorts of questions about my early life, my adult life, my family and any adventures I might have had in Paris. With graceful ease things were touched upon of which I had not been accustomed to speak of for a long time and whose description was embarrassing to me. But I soon saw that the interest of the women was not as insistent as one would have expected from the graceful eagerness of the questioning. Everything that was done and talked about here had only one purpose, to fill the gloomy and hopeless days that lay before the sad end in the most distracting and entertaining way possible. Some gentlemen dressed in the office of the maitre de plaisir immediately offered, if someone covered himself in a thoughtful silence, everything they had to dispel the contagious gloom. They danced minuets and gavotte, practiced the almost lost pavane, sang, arranged games of forfeits and blind man’s bluff, played a little music and excelled in piquant anecdotes and joking questions. This way of getting through the slowly creeping time, I did not like much in my serious mood, but I also accepted it. Even more unpleasant were the pleasures of longing of a young count, who, with many sighs of regret for the time when one of his distinguished relatives in Normandy to pass the time had shot a rooftop worker from the castle tower. Another gentleman who seemed to be of the same mind as him praised the glory of the days when a member of his family had been invited by Louis the thirteenth to a feast, and when, after the hunt, his feet were frozen the bodies of two peasants were cut open on the spot so that he could warm his cold feet in them. With such speeches, I did not know what I should marvel at more: the blindness of people who even thought of such conditions of existence, or the unspeakable patience of the people, who had remained subject to such extremes, the taking away of the last piece of bread. Despite my disgust against the beasts of the street it became obvious to me once again that in this country under horrible convulsions and according to laws, which only God knew, a necessity was taking place, which was nothing other than the consequences of the causes for which these two thoughtless ones still mourned. The tender women in this dungeon, the old men, among whom was the Count Merigno, who was known for his charity, I felt sorry for most of them with all my heart. But among them were also those people who had nothing but a conceited disdain and insolent contempt for those who were not noble born, who had no knowledge of neither the sciences nor the arts and didn’t think of anything at all, unless in the service of their indulgent and gallant needs; their fate could not be called unjust. And I felt strangely solemn and peculiar, when I discovered on the wall, written in red chalk, the words: “Counted, weighed and found too light. In the late afternoon hours, when the room became more and more relaxed, the outlines of all things blurred and only a small candle stump burned in one corner, laughter and speech gradually lowered. Several who seemed to be familiar with each other, whispered all sorts of things that were not meant for the general public. The wretched food in the unclean bowls, which two turnkeys carried in on a board was, as far as it was noticed, quickly gulped down, and the empty vessels were taken away as they had come. After this many stretched out with sighs on the plank beds or on the brick floor to escape into the freedom of dreams and others, whispering prayers, moved their lips and let the beads of the rosaries they had brought with them slide through their fingers. I had sat down, tired and with my head still aching, and by stroking with my finger tips, tried to reduce the lump that had been left by the blow, the force of which had caused me to fall. Then, out of the groups, unrecognizable in the twilight, a man emerged, carrying a stool in his hand and sat down on it with me.
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
“A knife hangs – falls -. -Ah!” A shriek came from her mouth. She squirmed in her chair, half opened her eyes, so that one could see the whiteness, jumped up briefly in the chair and fell back heavily. Everybody had jumped up. “A hysteric,” someone said loudly. “For today the demonstration is finished,” sounded the voice of the man standing next to her. “I hope that the gentleman has not been left unsatisfied, namely the gentleman who has had his rooster stolen.” Someone gave a forced laugh. Everyone was pushing towards the exit, pursued by the sneering looks of the pale man. I looked around once again. The girl was awake, looking around confused and astonished. A shiver ran down my spine, as if death were standing behind me. We hastily descended the stairs. “It’s a pity I didn’t ask to know the day of my death,” crowed Magister Fleck. “Could have made my dispositions in good time.” “You did well to omit that question.” It was Doctor Schlurich who spoke these words. No one made any reply. In the thick, gray river fog that rolled through the streets, we parted. Silently I walked next to Doctor Schlurich. “I suspected that she was deceiving me. But it hurts when you know for sure,” he said softly. He shook my hand and disappeared around the next street corner. Far and near sounded the calls of the patrols and watchmen. “A knife hangs – then falls -“, The Pythia had shouted. Icy cold crept under my coat and shook me. The handle of the bell pull at the inn was a small, brassy hand, a small, cold hand of death. When my extra mail coach had crossed the French border, and the horses had to be fed and watered in a respectable spot, I went to the inn and had an egg dish prepared for me. The tables around me were full of people. Carters, peasants, merchants, burghers and craftsmen were discussing with all the liveliness of their nature the latest incidents, the increasing frequency of executions. Recently, very close to this place the castle of a very haughty and extremely hard-hearted Viscount against lowly people, was stormed by the peasants and after a thorough plundering was set on fire. Some of those who drank the thick red wine openly boasted of the deeds they had committed. When I heard how beastly the people had been in the priceless library and in the picture gallery of the castle, how they had used the porcelain as chamber pots before smashing it as night crockery, I had to think of the words of Doctor Schlurich, who warned me against observing revolutions at close range. Then, when a very ugly, badly scarred fellow started to boast, bawling, how he had speared “Bijou”, the favorite dog of the lady of the castle, on a pike and carried it around squirming alive for an hour whimpering, until it finally died in pain and fear, I was seized by a furious anger against this two-legged beast. But immediately, like a black cloud, the memory of a dog fell on me, whose faithful love I had destroyed in a senseless fit of rage with a deadly stone throw. No, I had no right to be a judge, even though I had only acted in a violent fit of temper, but this man, however had acted in diabolic malice. Tormentingly the thought rose in me that there were people who were evil by nature -. What should happen to them? “Melchior Dronte!” fluted a repulsive voice. “Melchior! Beautiful Melchior!” I was so frightened that I almost knocked my wine glass off the table. I looked to where the voice had come from, and saw an old woman, covered with dirt and rags, sitting at a table. She had a box of multicolored slips of paper sitting next to her, from which a short pole with a crossbar was sticking up. But on the wood sat a parrot, in whose blue-gray, wrinkled skin only a few quills were still stuck, while the large head with the rolling eyes was wrinkled and completely bald. The woman, noticing my gaze, hurriedly stood up, approached my place and after she had slung the strap over her shoulder, blew her burning breath into my face: “Beautiful, young Herr, Apollonius will tell you prophesy!” Despite her pitiful appearance, the dripping drunkard’s nose and the inflamed eyes I recognized in her the beautiful Laurette and in the parrot, the monster of the Spanish Envoy. A sharp pain went through my heart when I compared the image of Sattler’s Lorle against this gruesome, lemur-like apparition. Although the infernal parrot had called me by my name, there was not a spark of memory in her poor, devastated face. Instead I recognized in the squinting look of the bird such a rage that I could not free myself from a feeling of fear. The dull, old woman, who had once been young, rosy and innocent in my arms, looked at me out of half-blinded eyes and repeated the slurred phrase from before. I slipped a coin into her gouty fingers, which she put in her mouth in a disgusting way for safekeeping, and I saw with satisfaction that for the time being no one was paying any attention to us. “Sicut cadaver -,” chuckled the bird. “Kiss her like a corpse, fair Melchior!” I approached him and said, as if speaking to a human being: “May you soon be redeemed, poor soul!” Was it really I who suddenly found these words? The parrot looked at me with a fixed gaze. All malice disappeared from his eyes, and two large tears rolled down his beak, as I had seen before. It was eerie and poignant beyond measure. “Misericordia,” he groaned. “Mercy!” And then he hurriedly climbed down the short pole, rummaged back and forth with his beak in the colorful papers and grabbed a fiery red one, which he held out to me. I took the paper from his beak and gave the poor Laurette a gold piece and nodded to her. Not a ray of remembrance flickered in her features. With her box, on the crossbar of which the parrot lowered its head on her bare breast, she shuffled to the nearest table. “O mon Dieu!,” cried the parrot, and the hopeless tone of this lament went through my marrow and legs. “Keep your basilisk quiet, you old bone box,” cried a carter in a blue smock at the neighboring table. “No one understands its own words. There are no loud aristocrats here, who take pleasure in such silliness!” “Why don’t you turn the collar on that stinking grain- eater, Blaise?” shouted a miller’s boy covered in white dust. “And if you get your hands on an aristocrat, by the way – I’ll be happy to help you!” he said, half aloud, with a wry look at me. Startled, the old woman limped away from the table and huddled in her corner again. I observed the people, who were mainly given to boastful speeches and certainly not all of them were malicious, and drank my wine slowly. Besides, I had to wait for the new mail coach driver before I could continue my journey. I put the red square slip of paper from the box of the beautiful Laurette down on the tabletop, and although I told myself that such things could have no meaning at all, I had to remember that Apollonius had selected this note for me and I wanted to pay serious attention to it. In bad print under a series of astrological signs was written: “There is a great danger threatening you, which is not in your power to ward off. A tremendous change will happen to you, but fear nothing: for you it will be nothing more than the precursor to a new life.” I could not see anything else in this writing other than the ambiguous and naturally quite indeterminate nature of such fortunes which are given for a piece of copper, and selected from the heap of similar ambiguous sayings by an animal which is usually trained for this purpose, nevertheless this small piece of paper moved me in a significant way. And even though I was distressed at Laurette’s fate, the fate of so many careless and frivolous girls and women, I was almost more moved by pity for the soul, which in a miserable, slowly dying bird body had to atone for a terrible sin unknown to me. I was heartily pleased when the new mail coach driver, a young Frenchman adorned with the tricolor cockade, came in and then politely asked me to get ready for the onward journey. As I left the room, it was as if I heard scornful laughter and swearing aimed at me. I made an effort to remain completely calm and to excuse the groundless bitterness of people because of the injustice that had been inflicted on them for many generations. I was quite happy when I drove away in the coach. Admittedly, I was accompanied by all kinds of heavy thoughts. The sight of my former playmate, whom I had left in splendor and glory in Vienna and found her here as a pitiable, and trampled person deprived of reason, and even more the eerie encounter with the ghostly bird Apollonius, in which a damned soul was atoning, and lastly, the painful observation that undiscriminating hatred and blind vindictiveness rose up like an ugly layer of mold in this image of a great national revolution – all this saddened me very much and almost made me regret having undertaken this dangerous and exhausting journey. But at the same time, I felt the compelling necessity of a fateful decision, which drove me on and perhaps even more than that: the desire that came from the depths for the fulfillment and completion of what I had been destined to do. Also the conversation with the new coach driver, which he began with me, half turned back, did not help to cheer me up. He saw; that I was a gentleman of distinction, and in spite of the drivel about freedom and equality, this was a source of refreshment to him. Every day he had to deal with the lowest classes of society, who made big words and boasted of their bad manners. Nevertheless, the farther we got into the country, the more he wanted to advise me all the more urgently to howl with the wolves and in particular not to meet in public places, as I had just done, to stay away from the mob. Nothing irritates the rabble more than silent disrespect, for which the otherwise thick-skinned fellows have an exceptionally sensitive feeling. There was nothing else to do than to leave pride aside and be fresh with every brother and pig. For the time being, only the most hated and well-known oppressors of the common man, who succeeded in getting away with their bare lives, should still be happy. But as the signs were, it would soon go against all the nobles, but then also against those who were intellectually superior to the lower people, since they were considered protectors and friends of the old order. Whether the individual lived righteously and honestly, whether he perhaps had even been a faithful helper of the poor and oppressed, or even suffered hardship for their sake, blood-drunk mobs did not think about that.
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.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
With paralyzing horror I looked myself in the face, saw how greedily and flickeringly my eyes burned, how my mouth was narrow and angry and spoke with cruel calm: “Weinschrötter, you come before the Inquisition in the second degree, I ask for the second time:” “Will you confess or not?” A cry of pain came from her mouth, but she shook her head in denial, so that a red flag waved around her. The one with the cowl scraped in a basin of glowing embers, and pulled a white-hot iron from the coals. Then smashing and crashing the terrible image collapsed. The mirror had slipped from my hand. Splinters and shards lay scattered on the floor. The magister entered and said: “Baron, I’m afraid this means seven years of bad luck!” “I want to get up and leave,” I ordered. “Get me a carriage. I don’t want to spend another night in this room.” “You are too weak, Baron,” he said and then added. “I know a carriage. The driver Peter will be happy to hitch up if I send him mail. But it’s a long way to the next town.” “Get me a carriage,” I urged him. “I’m not staying here.” He walked out shaking his head. I was afraid in that room. The man from the Orient had appeared to me here with a comfort that outweighed all the sufferings and wanderings of my life, yet demons dwelled in these dilapidated walls, which were hostile to all living things. The screams of pain, the curses and lamentations, which still haunted the tattered leather wallpaper, were hiding in the cracks of the wall and in the twilight they were like the buzzing of mosquitoes, yet they had still not succeeded in deluding me into believing that I had attended a coven, that I was among larvae. I listened up and let the magister tell me the miraculous things that the people, tired of the zealousness and the artificially created crisis, had already accomplished in this country, and when he, with fiery eyes and a face that I did not recognize, swore high and dear, that the bright dawn of freedom would rise from the smoking and stinking debris of the shattered fortresses, this description moved me so much that I felt a desire to see the events in Paris with my own eyes. Supported by the Magister, I climbed down the crumbling staircase of Krottenriede for the last time and knocked on the door of the master of the hound. He was sitting at a table, whistling to himself and looking at the components of a gold-inlaid rifle lock, which he had taken apart and anointed it with a feather from a small bottle of clear bone oil. When he heard of my intention, he did not want to know anything about it, and said that now the fun days of stalking the red buck would begin and that he wouldn’t like it if the son of his old crony Dronte left without a successful hunt and with such an abrupt departure. And as for taking that maleficent fellow, the windy magister along with, it was completely out of the question, since he will be taking the next few days, to write various sharp manifests to the farmers all around, whose dogs would again begin to prowl and roam around and this must be stopped immediately and punished with severe punishments. I replied to him very politely that I could hardly be restrained from staying on Krottenriede, especially since I had important and urgent business. Otherwise it would hardly occur to me to travel for miles on a farm wagon in a state of half recovery. If he were to take it upon himself to leave me in my infirmity without any other companion than the waggoner, then this was a matter that he would have to decide with his conscience. These words struck him to some extent, but nevertheless he swayed his head back and forth and said that he did not like to let the magister out of his hand. I, as a nobleman, must understand that such good-for-nothings, when they get the chance would make an attempt to escape. He had confronted the journeyman with the fact that a couple of times the wood invoices had not been correct, for which he, the master of the hound, was himself to blame, nevertheless, it occurred to him that he could threaten the windbag, on the basis of this fact, pay him less and let him walk into the hole until he would willingly return to food and whip. Because, added the old swindler with a wink, he would never get such a cheap and good scribe in his life, and for that very reason, he could not let the man out of his sight. I stopped and asked him once again to allow the man as my escort, he finally gave in after some cunning consideration and said that he already wanted to authorize the windbag and give him papers so that the rascal with his severed ears would have to return immediately after he had brought me to my destination. But he wanted to advise me one thing: to treat the imaginary one, the scholarly monkey no differently than a pot de chambre, porter and lackey, and on occasion not to spare a few kicks or face slaps. For this is the best medicine for such birds, who secretly think they are better than a nobleman or a good soldier. I shook his hand and asked for a temporary leave; so that he could think that there was still time and that I would start packing. Instead of partaking in the upcoming lunch, I waved to Hemmetschnur, who was anxiously waiting in the antechamber, since he had always been forbidden to enter the manorial chambers with the exception of the dining room, and quickly climbed with him onto the waiting carriage, which the young farmer on the driver’s seat at my command immediately set into motion. We rattled down the steep road and were only a few thousand paces from Krottenriede when a loud bugle sounded from the heights. The farmer made an effort to stop the horses, and said: “The merciful lord is calling us back!” “You fool!” said the magister. “It’s only the hunter Räub, who gives a farewell to the high-born gentleman next to me. Therefore, be quiet!” So we drove on, and soon the blowing died away, in which I well recognized the call “Rallie”, in the fresh wind. In the afternoon, we stopped in a little village. My weakness increased considerably. Half asleep I listened to Hemmetschnur, who, after he had gained so much confidence, told me the story of his cut off ears and how this had been a severe punishment for a stupid prank he had committed in Stambul, when he had responded to the waving and nodding of a Turkish, veiled lady, by climbing over a wall, and was immediately seized for the cuttings and, at the command of a man in rich clothes, was wounded by two burning cuts with a hand-held scimitar, which one of them pulled out of his belt, and was deprived of his ears. When he collapsed from pain, weakness and loss of blood, the cruel man’s servants dragged him out into the deserted street, in the sweltering heat of the noon, and threw him on a heap of dung and rubbish, where he remained. Towards evening he awoke and felt how the fierce wild dogs that they have there in all the alleys licked his wounds for the sake of blood, and this was the reason that no inflammation appeared. A compassionate Muslim picked him up and took him to a Franciscan monastery, where he was cared for. And the most distressing thing of all was that he learned later that the veiled lady had been a nasty old hag who had wanted to have some fun, which was made worse by the arrival of her son-in-law, a Pascha as powerful as he was violent, who had brought it to such a miserable end. I was not able to take food and I kept seeing the cut off, shell-shaped ears of the magister in front of me, and how shaggy dogs fought over the bloody pieces in the yellow dust of the street. When we arrived in the Rhenish city toward evening and the carriage was parked in front of the door of the inn “Zum Reichsapfel”, I gave Hemmetschnur leave, although he was very concerned about me and wanted to stay with me. But I reminded him to cross the river before the city gates closed or before a messenger on horseback from the master of the hound came behind them. Then he was so frightened that his teeth snapped open struck one against the other. Once again he kissed my hand, bowed many times and then pointing to the wide, calm stream, said: “I go to freedom, my patron! Wherever I see you again, my Herr Baron, I will serve you faithfully and be yours with blood and life!” After I had amply rewarded Peter, the driver, who had observed the departure of the magister with much head scratching and frowning, I entered the inn. “The gentleman is burning red in the face,” said the waiter, who directed me to my room. “The gentleman should go to bed; I will immediately call Doctor Schlurich.” He helped me to undress, and immediately after that I felt the hot waves and the shivering chill of the fever that was setting in again. And then there was darkness around me, out of which an endless procession of sights passed by me, even more morose and sullen than the face of the magister on the day when I had first seen him at Krottenriede Castle. After long weeks of a bedridden life in which I barely stirred, after countless days in which my inner gaze firmly and unwaveringly held the image of Isa Bektschi, the hour came when I, as if awakening from a deep sleep, saw doctor Schlurich sitting at my bedside. He was a slim man of about forty years, very distinguished and intelligent-looking, with a high, clean forehead and beautiful eyes. His black suit was made of the finest fabric, and in his tie was a bright green emerald of great value, and his hands were delicate, white and well-groomed. “My lord baron,” he said in a pleasant and subdued voice. “I am glad that your vigorous nature and will to live have won the not easy victory over a severe nervous fever.” “And your art,” I added politely. “My skill can, at the best of times, support the secretive forces with which the body can defend itself against the impending decay, can even summon it, can alleviate pain and restlessness, but must – with the exception of a few cases – as it were, watch, how the quarrel surges to and fro. The friendly fighters against death here and there with this and that means to bring support (and it may be that this is sometimes decisive), but on the whole the sick person must find the remedy in himself or bring it forth. This time you, distinguished Herr, were on the way into the shadow realm, and you have rightly returned!”
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.
The Rebirth of Melchior Dronte by Paul Busson and translated by Joe E Bandel
“Hell! Hell!” groaned Hmmetschnur and ran his hands through his wild hair. “If only I could get away from here!” I said good night to him and went to my room. By the light of the burning candle, I searched for the lady of hell’s little pot and cut with the knife around the rock-hard, dried-up bladder. Inside was a crisscrossed, cracked greenish- brown substance. This may have been an ointment, but the excessively long time had made it firm and brittle. I thought that perhaps the candle flames might warm it up enough for it to take on more or less its old consistency, and so I held the blue jar over my candlestick. The melting stuff stank disgustingly of old fat and pungent herbs, but I gradually managed to soften the sediment, so that I could investigate the ointment and test its magical nature. In the glow of my five wax candles I saw again the gray eyes of the Lady of Weinschrötter, who appeared to smile in amusement at my cheeky beginning. “Shall I not?” I addressed the painting. But neither an answer nor a sign came from the now lifeless painting, which yesterday had greeted me with a now vanished resemblance that had frightened me to my very soul. Was it the heat of the candles or the vaporous fat and poisonous herbs that made me behave in this way: a flying heat, which I had already felt in the afternoon during the walk, came over me, and when I undressed, I felt how leaden my limbs were. My blood pulsed in rapid throbbing as if a fever were near. Nevertheless, I remained stubbornly determined or forced by something to stick to my plan to try the ointment. I took off my shirt, spread the stuff on my chest, belly, hands, feet and forehead, as I had learned from the horror stories, that old Margaret had told me in childhood, and still remembered the witch’s spell: “Out the top and nowhere on!” laughed at myself for my silliness, blew out the candles, and lay down in the creaking four-poster bed. The blood rang in my ears, a tingling sensation ran through my limbs. I saw the half moon in the window, which I had forgotten to close. And then I slowly sat up in bed, slipped out from under the low canopy and floated between the ceiling and the floor, without me finding this strange. I had often flown like this in my dreams, with casual movements of the arms or some footsteps to steer the flight. But I now saw myself lying in bed, illuminated by the blue moonlight. Open-mouthed with two sharp wrinkles in my face, that went from my nostrils to my chin as the result of some evil experience. I saw the extinguished candles with the long scrolls, the bare cleaning scissors, and my robe on an upholstered chair, the open hair bag. I was amazed at nothing, nor was I startled when Lady Heva Weinschrötte- cautiously climbed out of the picture frame and floated out through the open window. I kicked the air with a feeling of well-being, like a swimmer treads the water that carries him. All of them followed after Heva. An old Jew with a caftan, another one, whose white, scabby skull peered out of the raised trapdoor, a hunchbacked woman with a snuffy nose and eternally smacking mouth, and with a black tomcat that sat on the hump and a white, lame little dog that was running after her, another ugly, goggle-eyed woman, who sneaked to my bed, hissed at the resting body and with crooked fingers reached for the little pot to quickly lubricate her yellow, wrinkled skin. And then in infinite well-being I turned to the open window and flew in an instant over the bent and wind-shredded poplars, full of joy at the regained skill of flying. At will, I ascended with a very light hand and foot stirring up and down, shooting light as a feather upwards or slowly downwards, turned immediately, let the air carry me horizontally or sank like a rock, just as I liked. Nevertheless, it continued like that without me being frightened, and I drifted like a flying feather before the wind. Even if I remained motionless, I saw beneath me tree tops, reflecting water, meadow surfaces and lonely little houses gliding past. But this did not worry me at all; rather I surrendered with full pleasure to the bliss, liberated from the weight of the body and floated through the silvery moon light like a cloud. Also I made no steering movements any more, but gave myself completely to such bliss of an earth-liberated state. Then, however, I saw closer and more distant figures in the milky air, on the same path as me, gently drifting and hovering like old wives’ summer. Young women with white and golden brown limbs, with loose hair and willingly naked, their eyes closed as if in sleep, their arms spread out; but in between also bony and shapeless hags, then again fat ones with sagging and flabby fullness, scrawny old women, disgustingly hairy and coarse male figures, slim-limbed girls with weakly curved breasts, beautiful boys and skinny, miserable bodies of gaunt old men. However, as soon as I made an effort to focus more sharply on a face, it became a vague round egg of whirling mist and dissolved. But even that did not put me in fear or astonishment. Rather, everything had long been familiar and quite right, as if I had experienced and seen this many times. And effortlessly, I was blown, through the will-less, delicious detachment of my own limbs and the lightness of my body, by the air between clouds, moon, stars which drew me toward the friendly tugging of the earth deep below. I sank. The figures gathered more densely around me. I went down into the depths, gently sinking. A pale glow dazzled. Lights bounced beneath me, bluish and yellow lights. Faces with slanting eyes and flaring scoops of fire. And there was fire everywhere. Between bushes and grass there was a swarming and jumping, a twisting and turning of innumerable figures that surrounded me. Some squatted in rigid clusters around red- yellow brushwood flames, murmuring in swelling, nasal song from books, keeping the beat with their hands. A brown boy with pointed ears, handsome and cheeky, round-hipped like a woman, was chasing a black, bearded shaggy goat with wild heel kicks through the midst of couples, who were twisting in spasmodic entwinement as they rolled in the leaves. Gray wolves whose dark sweat dripped from their muzzles crept with glowing red eyes between beautiful, naked women. A crippled man without legs pushed with agile monkey arms the rest of his body through the tumult in a wheelchair and looked out of long distended eyes like those of a crab. One, whose skin stretched like parchment over the fleshless bones, blew squawking on a hollow leg bone, while glow worms crawled around in his eye sockets. A dwarf’s body consisted of a bagpipe, and the purring and humming pipes protruded from the back of his trousers, while the trunk-mouth blew into the air tube and the twisted fingers of his hands wandered over the indecent flutes. A row of gray-toothed women with dangling tits danced hand in hand in circles around these musicians. “Are you here too? Hussah!” There was a bellow next to me, and when I looked, Montanus had just passed by, and his belly was hanging red like glowing iron from the inflated trousers. More and more new dance groups formed. I saw legs from which the skin was hanging in shreds and laughing mouths, out of which white and yellow worms crawled. Dissolute children with disgustingly twisted eyes were writhing in the arms of hermaphrodite creatures, women cried out ruthlessly and dragged giggling, skinny boys to their steaming wombs, from goat udders fat milk ran into the toothless mouths of old men. One with broken, buckling limbs led another, who, leaden-grey faced, had a rope around his neck and displaying a monstrous manhood stumbled forward to a black-haired woman who was shrieking and twitching and rolling. Flames danced and shot pointedly out of the earth, and from out of a bush in front of me rose the deathly sad, pale face of the Bavarian Haymon with the crushed red nose, and his mouth whispered: “Take some advice and see that you will come again, Mahomet!” There arose a tremendous shouting, whooping and wild singing. They waved with their hands, their legs flailing and jerking against a high black stone block, on which, in the wavering, uncertain light, a figure was crouched, his knees drawn up to his chin, angular and silent. I stared at it and recognized with raging horror Fangerle. As if fused to the rock, he squatted there, his evil, pinched face under the big peasant hat glowed like rotting wood, and his long-hunters coat glowed in all its buttonholes, as if blue fire was hidden under them. The piercing goat eyes were directed straight at me, full of indescribable malice. And then he uttered the horrible scream that Heiner had in front of the wheel. “I-i-i-ilih!” A thousand arms, fingers, claws and nails stretched out towards me. I wanted to rise quickly into the free kingdom of the air, but they hung on to my feet, pulled me down. “Catch him! Stop him!” shrieked Satan on the block. Desperately, I kicked my feet and flailed around. But new ones came, arms of women wrapped heavy and soft around my neck, hot lips pressed sucking against my face, claws tore at my hair; heavy masses clung to me, squeezing out my breath. I could no longer get up, saw in deathly fear the yellow goat eyes stare, the saw teeth bared, paralysis was like tough dough around my limbs, my heart was hammering, close to bursting, my breath caught, choking my throat. “Lord, my God!” I cried out in deathly peril. Then the hand of Fangerle grabbed me and flung me high into the air. Scornful laughter rang out behind me, neighing. The fires went out in the deep night, shadows flitted. Whirled, it whistled in the air, cried, screamed, howled —. I lay in my shirt in the middle of a wet meadow.
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