Homo Sapiens: Overboard by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
VII.
“No, no, my child, let it be said that all scholars are fools.”
Iltis sat among a group of young people, preaching his worldly wisdom.
Strange that he hadn’t yet brought up his forty-five years.
Falk couldn’t forget his cynical remark from yesterday. He’d been watching all evening for a chance to put Iltis in his place a bit.
“All of them! I don’t know a single sensible one. Look, this is typical of those professors. I was once with a geology lecturer who wanted to take measurements. But the compass needle wouldn’t settle.
‘Aha!’ says the clever lecturer, ‘I have a magnet in my pocket.’ ‘Fine, throw it away,’ I said. The magnet flew far away. But the needle was still restless. ‘You probably have a pocketknife on you?’ Yes, indeed, the clever man had a pocketknife. The pocketknife flew far away. But the needle was bewitched. ‘You’re probably standing on an iron ore layer,’ I ventured timidly. ‘Can’t you throw the layer away?’ No, the clever man couldn’t do that.
That’s how measurements are made, and of course, God knows what theories are built on the results.”
“But are you sure the iron ore was the cause?” Falk asked.
Iltis looked at him in surprise. “Of course!”
“Well, you know, causes are a tricky business. You can hardly ever name a cause without it being wrong. Can you, to touch on your favorite topic, give causes for the inferiority of women?”
“You just need to open a physiology textbook.”
“Breathing? Those proofs are simply ridiculous. Children of both sexes breathe with their stomachs until the age of ten, and so do all women who don’t wear corsets, like Chinese women and Yuma women. The costal breathing type is artificially induced, as you can see with the women of the Chickasaw Indians…”
“Those are claims by scholars, dear Falk, that say exactly the opposite.”
“Oh no, those claims are made by unbiased people, but the second proof, that women are on a lower developmental stage because they resemble children in form and proportions, is completely invalid. On the contrary, it speaks to women’s higher standing. The childlike type particularly shows the essential traits of the human species, whereas the male type, morphologically speaking, signifies a growth into senility.”
“That’s metaphysics, dear Erik. You’re far too much of a metaphysician.”
“Possibly. But the fact is, you only reached your conclusions through a confusion of morphological concepts of higher and lower development.”
Iltis looked at him blankly. “I don’t understand.”
“That’s not necessary.” Falk searched for Isa with his eyes. Why talk at all? If he came here, it wasn’t to discuss morphology. He wanted to dance…
“And let’s make peace, shall we?” Falk toasted Iltis amiably.
Someone began playing a waltz.
Falk approached Isa. She stood in the back of the large studio. She smiled at him. No! That smile couldn’t be analyzed, that absorbing smile, as if the half-darkness she stood in had smiled mysteriously.
“Do you dance, Fräulein?”
A streak of light flashed across her face. “Shall we dance?” Falk asked, trembling.
His blood surged to his head with a sudden jolt as he pressed her slender body to his.
He was caught in a whirl that pulled him down. He felt them merging, her becoming a part of him, and he spun around himself, with himself, into an endless intoxication.
He didn’t see her, for she was within him. And he drew into himself the rhythm and line and flow of her movements, feeling it all as a surging and ebbing in his soul, softer and stronger…
And then, suddenly: yes, a feeling of something infinitely smooth, cooling, a soft mirror surface. He felt her. She pressed her cheek to his.
A jubilation rose in him, and he held her tightly. She was his!
He forgot everything around him. The faces of those around blurred into a flesh-red streak, circling him like a ring of sun. He felt only himself and the woman who was his.
He didn’t hear the music; the music was in him, the whole world resounded and rejoiced in him and shrieked with hot desire, and he carried her through all the world, and he was grand and proud because he could carry her so.
Who was Isa, who was Mikita?
Only he, he alone was there, and she a piece of him that he held in his hands.
Exhausted, they collapsed onto a sofa.
It was loud around them. Excited, incoherent voices reached his ears, which he didn’t understand, and still he saw the flesh-red ring of sun circling him.
He recovered. The red mist faded; he saw long, narrow wisps of cigar smoke.
She lay half on the sofa, breathing heavily, her eyes closed. He gently took her hand. They sat alone; no one could observe them.
She returned his grip.
And they held each other’s hands tighter and tighter.
She was so close to him—closer—closer still; their heads almost touched.
She didn’t resist; he felt her surrender, felt her lay herself in his heart, in the warm blood-bed of his heart.
She suddenly pulled away.
“Mr. Falk, allow me to introduce the first German patron of the arts—” Schermer grinned maliciously—“the patron of German race, pure and true… Mr. Buchenzweig.”
Mr. Buchenzweig bowed deeply.
“Mr. Schermer introduces me with a bit too much aplomb into your esteemed company, but I may say I have a great interest in art.”
Mr. Buchenzweig sat down and paused.
He looked odd. Beardless, his face somewhat bloated, with browless eyes.
“Look, Mr. Falk, your book interested and delighted me to the highest degree.”
“That pleases me.”
“Do you know why?”
“Mr. Buchenzweig is immensely interested in art—” Schermer tried to hide his drunkenness.
“Is that so…”
Mr. Buchenzweig spoke melancholically, puffing out his lower lip. “Do you know why? After many disappointments, I’ve come to seek solace in art…” The Infant approached.
“Well, Mr. Falk, have you discovered another new genius?”
“Well, you don’t seem to have discovered yourself yet, or have you already been discovered?”
Isa grew restless. She listened distractedly. How did this come over her so suddenly? How could she let herself surrender to Falk like that… It was ridiculous to allow a stranger, whom she’d only met yesterday, to get so close. She felt shame and unease because she felt that this man was closer to her than she wanted to admit.
“You know, Mr. Buchenzweig,” Schermer mocked, “are you really the man interested in art—yes, you’re always talking about German art and other nonsense—so do something for German art! Yes, do something, lend a poor German artist, like me for example, two hundred marks. Yes, do that…”
Mr. Buchenzweig puffed out his lower lip and stuck his index fingers in his pockets. He seemed to have ignored everything and glanced at Isa.
How unpleasant that man was to her. But why doesn’t Mikita come; it’s already late.
“Do you even have two hundred marks?” Schermer laughed with open scorn. “How many marks does your million-mark fortune amount to…”
That the man wasn’t offended. Isa suddenly found the company repulsive.
Why doesn’t he come? What does he want from her again?
She felt tired. This constant jealousy… But he had only her, no one else. Of course, he won’t come. Now he’s sitting in his studio, tormenting himself, raging, pacing…
She perked up. Falk spoke with such an irritated tone.
“Leave me alone with this endless literary gossip! We have better things to do than argue over who holds first rank in German literature, Hauptmann or Sudermann.”
“Now, now,” the Infant was very indignant. “There’s a colossal difference between the two…”
“But it doesn’t occur to me to doubt that. I’m an admirer of Hauptmann myself. I particularly value his lyrical work. Have you read the prologue he wrote for the opening of the German Theater? No? It’s the most precious pearl of our contemporary poetry. Listen:
*And as we, the old ones, succeeded in this house,
We will hold the flag high
Above the market clamor of the street…*
“The best part you forgot,” Schermer mocked. “What’s it called? That bit with the ninety-nine onion pieces and the shimmer of the wonder-flame and that thing… oh, whatever—it’s a pearl, isn’t it…”
The Infant threw Schermer a contemptuous glance and spoke with meaningful emphasis:
“I don’t know, Mr. Falk, if that’s your earnestness or mockery, but consider what it takes to write *The Weavers*…”
Schermer interrupted him sharply.
“That doesn’t impress anymore. We’re used to revolts and killings—from the *Lokal-Anzeiger*.”
The Infant found it unpleasant to be in the company of a drunken man, whereupon he heard a slew of unflattering remarks. The group dispersed. Only Isa and Falk remained seated.
He suddenly felt her so foreign, so far away. He was very irritated. Of course, she’s sitting on pins and needles, waiting for Mikita. He felt a sharp pain.
“No, Mr. Falk, Mikita won’t come tonight,” she said suddenly.
“Stay a bit longer. He could come any moment.”
“No, no! He’s not coming. I have to go home now. I’m so tired. The company bores me. I don’t want to stay here any longer.”
“May I escort you?” “As you wish…”
Falk bit his lip. He saw her restless agitation. “Perhaps you don’t wish me to escort you?”
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
V.
He must not see her again. That was clear to him now. No! Never again.
Fear, painful fear rose within him.
What would happen? How could he stifle this compelling desire? In one hour, that woman had sunk deep roots into him. Her tendrils ensnared his soul. Tighter and tighter, the mesh of this root-network constricted. He clearly felt himself splitting into two people: one cool and clear, trying to control his will, while the other suddenly flung thoughts into his mind that destroyed the conscious self, burrowing deeper with a longing and desire that tossed him restlessly to and fro, unable to find peace.
What had happened?
Oh, you psychologists! Explain to me with all your psychophysical laws what has gone on in my soul? Please, explain it!
He sat up abruptly. What was wrong with Mikita?
Did he sense it, feel it coming? But nothing had happened… Why was he so taciturn today?
He must love her immensely. Suffering twitched around his mouth.
Yes, Mikita feels across distances; yes, Mikita sees the grass grow… The tone with which he asked him to escort Isa to Iltis’s today. He had so much to do, and Isa was so eager to go.
Why didn’t he take her himself?
Yes, he might come later… But couldn’t he postpone his business until tomorrow?
Falk stood up.
No! He won’t escort her. He must not see her again. Now he might still be able to forget her. She could still become a glorious experience, yes, an experience he could use literarily. Literarily! Falk laughed scornfully.
He’ll stay home and be literarily active. Ha, ha… He felt disgust.
This stupid, idiotic writing! Why isn’t he aristocratic enough not to prostitute his most personal, finest, most shameful feelings? Why does he throw it all before the masses? Those gentlemen who wander the heights of humanity, along with the “Ferschten.” Yes, the “Ferschten,” like those in *Fliegende Blätter*, half poodle, half ape, with rolled-up trousers… Disgusting!
No! Now he’ll decide. Yes! It’s settled. He’ll stay home.
The firm resolution felt good. He sat at his desk and began to read.
He read a page and understood nothing.
Then he looked up. He couldn’t help thinking of a servant in a Gogol novel who took pleasure in purely mechanical reading without understanding a single word.
He pulled himself together and read on. What was it about her movements?
It was no longer movement; it was language, the most perfect expression of his own highest artistic ideal—and her hand, her hand…
He started.
How could he forget that!
He had to write to Mikita that he was prevented from escorting Isa.
He sat down and wrote a pneumatic post card.
How nice it would be to send someone with the card! Now he had to run to the post himself!
He stepped onto the street. It urged him to go to her, to see her just once more, to brush against her presence—to breathe her just once more.
But he mustn’t. Surely he could still control himself?!
Yes, control! Control, just like one of his friends whose greatest desire was to see Rome. And he went to Rome, but a mile before Rome, he told himself that a man must be able to control himself, and turned back. When he returned home, he went mad.
Yes, it all comes from the ridiculous idea that you can control yourself, and especially that which is strongest in you, because it’s been there from eternity.
And he thought of Heine’s words—what was it? If I could control myself, it would be nice; if I couldn’t, it would be even nicer. Something like that.
But the cynical undertone embarrassed him. He felt as if he had sullied Isa.
Why? In what way should Isa be connected to this undertone?
And he walked, brooding over the secret associations that take place somewhere in the hidden depths and then suddenly enter the mind without any apparent connection.
Yes, seemingly unconnected. The treacherous unknown knows exactly what it links together.
It amused him to puzzle over this strange riddle. Of course, he was only doing it to keep other thoughts from surfacing—how beautiful was the narrowness of consciousness… But the thought of Mikita broke through.
He didn’t want to think of him.
It was as if he had a heart cramp each time. His blood pooled in his heart for moments. It hurt unspeakably.
Why should Mikita have rights over a person, exclusive rights, some kind of monopoly?
He suddenly felt ashamed, but clearly felt a hot surge of—yes, truly, it was a distinct feeling of hate—no—displeasure…
For Mikita’s sake, he mustn’t go! For Mikita’s sake?! He laughed scornfully. Erik Falk thinks himself irresistible! With some pre-established harmony, he must make every man a cuckold, every fiancée of another must fall for him with compelling force.
That was endlessly ridiculous!
If he could just say to himself: Don’t go, you’ll only fall in love where you can’t hope for reciprocation, since she…
He faltered.
He had such a ridiculously certain feeling that she was closer to him than to Mikita, he felt so clearly—yes, Mikita seemed to feel it too, that Isa…
No, no!
But one thing he could do with a clear conscience: be near her physically, just across the street—in the restaurant, there he’d sit and mechanically get drunk to make himself incapable of going to Isa.
Yes, that’s what he must do, what he will do.
He stopped in front of the house where Isa lived.
Now it was too late! Now he couldn’t notify Mikita in time.
What was he to do?
Good Lord, in the end, he’d have to go up.
His heart pounded fiercely as he climbed the stairs. He rang the bell.
Now he was badly startled. It felt as if the ringing would throw the whole house into uproar.
Flee! Flee! it screamed within him.
The door opened. Isa stood in the corridor.
He saw a hot joy light up in her eyes, spreading over her entire face.
She squeezed his hand warmly, very warmly. Was she trying to say something with that?
“You know that Mikita can only come later?” “Yes, he was at my place today.”
“Then you must escort me there. It’s not unpleasant for you, is it?”
“For you, I’d do anything!” It came out so brashly.
They both grew embarrassed. Yes, he had to stay vigilant not to lose himself again.
How did it happen so suddenly, without him being able to stop it?
They sat down, looked into each other’s eyes, and smiled. He sensed that she, too, was restless.
He forced himself to be cheerful. “So, how did you enjoy yesterday?” “It was a very interesting evening.”
“Iltis is a peculiar man, isn’t he?” She smiled.
“No, no; I mean it in all seriousness. I take the man absolutely seriously…”
Isa looked at him doubtfully. “Yes, Iltis is downright a dilettantish genius. He knows everything, has investigated everything, read everything. His mind works absolutely logically, but it reaches such odd conclusions that always ruin his entire work. Recently, for instance, he tormented himself with the problem of where to place children on the developmental scale. That naturally caused a lot of headaches. First: a comparison with women. All children are larvae of women, or rather, women are developmentally stunted children. Children and women have round shapes and delicate bones. Children and women can’t think logically and are unable to master their emotions with their minds
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
IV.
When Falk stepped onto the street, he became very restless.
He began to walk quickly. Perhaps it would pass with physical exhaustion.
But it was as if something whipped him forward ever faster, until he almost started running.
It only got worse.
He clearly felt a wave of unease coiling deeper and deeper into his body; he felt something spinning faster and faster within him, pressing into every pore, every nerve with growing fury.
What was it?
He stopped abruptly.
Was it coming back? Danger?! He stood still.
It must be some primal animal instinct in him, the ancient warning voice of a foreign soul.
He felt a violent jolt.
Flee, yes—flee, it screamed within him. And suddenly, he saw himself as a fourteen-year-old boy, high up on the fourth floor. Two windows facing the courtyard. Below, the endless hammering of the coopers’ apprentices.
He had to memorize a large assignment, or a harsh punishment awaited him.
And he sat and studied, studied until hot tears rolled down his cheeks like peas.
But his mind was dull. No sooner had he memorized one verse than he forgot another.
And outside, yes, outside beyond the fortress walls, his friends were playing, and Jahns was there, of course, Jahns, whom he loved so much.
And the day drew to a close. He threw himself to his knees, gripped by a nameless fear, pleading to the Holy Spirit for the grace of enlightenment.
But nothing, nothing could he retain.
He grew dizzy with fear. He had to. He had to. And he beat his fists against his head; he repeated each word a hundred times; but it was no use.
He knew no way out. Then, suddenly, all at once: now he knew. He had to flee, far, far away to his mother…
He ran out into the night, ran, panted, fell. Every sound crept paralyzing through his limbs, every flash ignited a sea of light in his eyes, then he picked himself up and ran again, relentlessly, until he collapsed breathless in the forest.
And now he heard it again, that strong, commanding voice: Flee! Flee!
He reflected and smiled.
The beast had awakened. As if a conscious person had no other defense than cowardly flight? Why should he suddenly flee?
Then a longing rose in him, spreading like a cloud of steam over his mind, stifling all his brooding. He felt her hand on his lips. He felt her physical warmth seeping into his blood, the tone of her voice trickling along his nerves…
He shot upright. “No!” he shouted aloud.
That wonderful Mikita! How he must love her… He saw Mikita, trembling, watchful, constantly observing them both.
Was he not certain of her love? Then, suddenly:
Her?! Could she even love Mikita? No, ridiculous! I mean, just whether such a refined being… no, no… just whether this woman could find Mikita’s movements pleasing… Hmm, Mikita was a bit comical today with his hurried speech and fidgety…
No! No! Falk felt ashamed.
Of course, one must love Mikita. Yes, beyond question… she loved him, she had to love him.
Perhaps only his art?
Really? Or did it just seem that way? But didn’t he clearly see a hint of displeasure glide across her face when Mikita spoke of his love’s happiness? And didn’t she try to make up for it when she stroked his hand so unprompted?
With a jolt, he grew angry. Hadn’t he just caught himself feeling that Mikita’s love was unpleasant to him? Didn’t he clearly wish his doubts were true? No, that was despicable, that was ugly…
Ugly? From whom was it ugly? Ha, ha, ha; as if he could do anything about the foolish animal instincts awakening in him.
He stepped into a tree-lined avenue. He was astonished. He had never seen such magnificent trees. He studied them closely. He saw the mighty branches like gnarled spokes encircling the trunk, strangely branched, woven into nets… And he saw the network of branches outlined against the sky, a vast web of veins spanning the heavens, the sacred womb of light and seed-blessing.
How beautiful it was! And the March breeze so mild… He had to forget her. Yes, he had to.
And again, drowning out all his thinking and brooding, came that ancient cry: Flee! Flee! …
No, he didn’t need to flee. From what?
But the unease rose higher and higher within him. He braced himself against the growing torment that made his heart falter.
Who was this woman? What was she to him?
He had never felt anything like this before? No! Never! He examined himself, searched, but no! Never…
Was it love? He felt fear.
How was it that in one hour a woman had entered into a relationship with him, invaded his mind like a foreign body, around which his thoughts, his entire feeling now gathered, into which his blood poured…
No! He shouldn’t, he mustn’t think of her anymore.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife! No! He certainly didn’t want that. She was Mikita’s entire happiness. God, how that man glowed when he spoke of his love…
It was wonderful that Mikita should find this great happiness! How it would enhance his artistic potency, to create for and through this woman.
But again, he felt her slender, hot hand on his lips. She didn’t resist him. He saw her veiled smile and the swelling glow and radiance around her eyes… And with infinite delight, he felt a trembling warmth within him; his eyes burned. It became so hot, so oppressive.
He longed for someone to be near, someone to whom he could be very, very tender.
Janina!
Like a bolt, the thought shot through his mind.
She was so good to him. She loved him so much. It was, God knows, wonderful to be loved like that.
He cared for her too, more than he was willing to admit to himself.
He saw her clearly. Yes, years ago, when *Brand* still haunted his mind. He had kissed her, and she became so happy. He walked away but watched her secretly. He saw her searching fervently, eagerly. Then he saw her take a neighbor’s little girl into her arms and press her tightly.
Her love suddenly seemed so beautiful, so mysteriously beautiful to him. She gave him everything, thought of nothing, had no reservations, she was wholly, wholly his…
Strange that he was so near her now. What had brought him here?
Yes, just one more street…
The night watchman opened the gate for him. He flew up the stairs and knocked softly on her door.
“Erik, you?!”
She trembled violently and stammered with joy.
“Quietly… yes, it’s me… I was longing for you…” He groped his way into her room.
She clung passionately to his neck. How dear her passion was to him now.
“Yes, I was longing for you.”
And he kissed her and caressed her and spoke to her until she was dizzy with happiness.
“This happiness, this happiness…” she stammered incessantly.
He pressed her closer and closer to him, listening inward, and cried out to his conscience: Mikita! Mikita!
Yes, now forget—forget everything for Mikita’s sake… “Yes, Janina, I’m with you; I’ll stay with you…”
Homo Sapiens by Stanislaw Przybyszewski and translated by Joe E Bandel
Falk faltered, then spoke with growing fervor.
“Look, what we need is a mind for which nothing is obvious, a mind that has awe and fear and reverence for the most obvious things; that’s the mind in which the nexus has been freed—yes, the sacred nexus of all senses, where a line becomes a sound, a great experience becomes a gesture, and a thousand people merge into one another, where there’s an unbroken scale from sound to word to color without the boundaries that exist now…”
Falk caught himself again and smiled quietly…
“No, no! Spare me your ridiculous logic of consciousness and your atavistic mate-selection trifles…”
Isa couldn’t stop looking at him. His thick hair had fallen over his forehead, and his eyes were wide and deep… She never would have guessed he could be so beautiful—so demonically beautiful…
“Mr. Falk seems to have studied with the Theosophists.”
The Anarchist spoke slowly and meaningfully, with a sudden glance upward.
Falk smiled.
“No, dear sir, not at all. But look: you are a great poet, and certainly, as far as the German tongue reaches, an unprecedentedly significant one…”
Someone suddenly laughed out loud, surely with malicious intent.
The Anarchist glared at him furiously, his face reddening, and shouted at Falk:
“I forbid any mockery!” Falk grew deeply serious.
“Look, that was very dignifiedly said. But unfortunately misplaced. It was my politest earnestness. I didn’t mean that I see you as such, but surely others do.”
The Anarchist seethed; he saw Isa’s eyes looking at him with unmistakable mockery.
“My dear sir, you go too far!”
“No, not at all. You assume I have insulting intentions, which I don’t. Besides, you’ve created something for me too, an image of such… I’d call it antithetical grandeur… Yes, I mean the red hussars of humanity.”
The same man laughed again, this time so clearly that it embarrassed Falk.
“But let’s get to the point. When you write poetry, isn’t it a strange, mystical, and, if you will, theosophical moment—since everything strange seems to be theosophy to you? You’ve surely heard of fakirs who artificially put themselves into a somnambulistic ecstasy, in which they can lie buried alive for months. I myself saw a fakir in Marseille who, in that ecstatic state, inflicted wounds on himself without a trace of bleeding. Now look, when you write poetry, it’s the same state of somnambulistic ecstasy, though it can’t be artificially induced. In a single moment, your entire life converges on one point. You see nothing, you hear nothing, you work unconsciously, you don’t need to think—it comes in your sleep… And now tell me, isn’t that mystical? Can you explain it with logic? Can you make it clear to someone why you are the significant poet and he isn’t?…”
Everyone fell silent, taken aback. Falk had gone too far. The Anarchist stood up and left.
Iltis hadn’t understood any of it. No, no, his mind was too big for these metaphysical games. But he understood that Falk had put the other down, and he toasted him amiably…
“Give me your hand.”
The young man who earlier deigned to throw glasses on the floor stood up, theatrically stiff, and extended his hand broadly.
Falk shook it with a smile.
Isa was silent. She felt so happy. She hadn’t felt this happiness in a long, long time.
Falk was a marvelous person. Yes, he was her greatest experience. She suddenly grew restless.
“You’re so quiet?” Mikita approached her. “I’m happy.” She gently squeezed his hand. “Aren’t you tired?”
“No, not at all!”
“But we should go, shouldn’t we?”
Something held her back with all its force. She wanted to stay at all costs. But she read a silent plea in his eyes.
“Yes, we should go.” It sounded strange, almost cold. She stood up.
“You’re really leaving? Stay a bit longer.” Falk would have held her back by force.
But Mikita couldn’t possibly stay longer; he had to escort Isa home.
As they were about to leave, Iltis jumped up. “So, Mikita, don’t forget…”
“Yes, right!” Mikita had completely forgotten that he and Isa were invited to an evening party at Iltis’s.
“Yes, I’ll definitely come. Whether Isa wants to come, I don’t know…”
Isa heartily wanted to come.
“And you, Falk? You’re coming, of course?” Iltis patted Falk amiably on the shoulders.
“Certainly.”
Isa suddenly turned to Falk and extended her hand again.
“You’ll come to me soon, won’t you?”
It seemed to Falk that the veil around her eyes tore apart; a blaze welled up and curled hotly around her lids.
“Your room is my home.”
Mikita grew restless; he shook Falk’s hand especially firmly, and they left.
“They’re in a hurry!” Iltis winked lasciviously.
Falk suddenly became very irritated. He struggled to hold back a word that surely wouldn’t have flattered Iltis.
But he sat back down and looked around.
Everything became so bleak around him, and he felt so lonely…
He was also very dissatisfied with himself. He felt a bit ridiculous and boyish. He had really tried so hard to impress Isa. No doubt… And everything he’d said seemed so stupid to him… So many grand, pompous words… He surely could have said it all much more finely… But he was trembling when he spoke.
He grew genuinely angry.
That stupid Infant, how disgustingly he slurped at his glass… Repulsive! Suddenly, everything in the famous “Nightingale” became repulsive to him—everything.
No! Why should he sit there any longer? He needed fresh air. He felt an urge to walk and walk, endlessly, along every street… To clarify something. There was something inside him that needed to be resolved, something… yes, something new, strange…
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 11
Before the door on the third floor of the old house on Kohlmarkt, Ottane had to pause for a moment to catch her breath, so quickly had she run up the stairs. She always felt anxious when she came here, and today she had proof that her concern about being caught was not unfounded.
Was someone following her? She leaned over the stair railing and looked into the dark depth. On the first floor, two women stood in the hallway, talking loudly and excitedly. But no one followed her, and Ottane was just digging the key out of her little bag when the door opened, and a hand grabbed her arm, pulling her inside.
Kisses overwhelmed her—wild, famished kisses in the dark—as if she hadn’t been here three days ago but three years. The terror of the past minutes threw her into the passionate embrace like a refuge.
Inside the meticulously kept little room, Max Heiland helped her out of her coat and took off her hat.
“Imagine,” said Ottane, still distraught, “I ran into Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel. The Hofrat lives two houses over, and I’ve always thought I’d meet him or her someday, and they’d ask what I’m doing here.”
“Did she see you?” asked Max Heiland, concerned.
“I don’t think so. I suddenly stood before her; I couldn’t dodge anymore, but I think she didn’t notice me. She passed by stiffly and stared straight ahead.”
“Then it’s all right,” said the painter, quickly reassured. “You must have an excuse ready for all cases. Something to get rid of people, because if you ever kept me waiting in vain, I might lose my mind.”
“And there were so many people on the street. I think a lot of them were workers; they had angry, grim faces and carried sticks; they moved in groups, shouting and singing. It was hard to get through.”
“Yes, I believe they want something from the government. I passed by Stephanskirche; they posted a placard there last night, calling on the Viennese to free the good Emperor Ferdinand from the bonds of his enemies, and it says that whoever wants Austria’s rise must wish for the downfall of its state leaders. They mean Metternich. And it’s said the students want to move to the country house in Herrengasse and demand that their wishes be brought before the Emperor.” He laughed cheerfully and placed his hands on Ottane’s hips: “But what do we care about the Hofräte, the workers, the students, Metternich, and the addresses and placards? You’re with me, and now the world outside can go to ruin. How long can you stay?”
“Not long,” pleaded Ottane, “maybe an hour. I must be home soon; the father is in an increasingly bad mood.”
“Oh, what’s an hour after three days of longing?”
A small table stood there with a bowl of pastries and a bottle of Hungarian wine and two glasses. Max Heiland moved it close to the sofa, poured himself some in a picturesque manner, and pulled Ottane down beside him. He bent her body back, seized her mouth, and kissed her so long that she felt she was suffocating, and her vision darkened. She forgot everything; everything had sunk and vanished; she was only a part of the life force coursing through the universe, blissfully stolen from herself and swept into another.
Max Heiland had found this hideaway for their love hours since his atelier wasn’t safe enough. Strange women came there, and Therese made surprise, mistrustful visits. She had asked: “Are you meeting with Ottane? Where are you meeting with Ottane? I know you’re deceiving me, but watch out—I’m not one of those women who let themselves be cheated.” Max Heiland also had to be cautious; no one suspected this nest. The kind, deaf old woman who had rented him two rooms in her apartment made herself invisible; she didn’t want to risk losing the good pay.
“Take!” he said after releasing Ottane. He broke a piece of dry pastry in two and pushed half into Ottane’s mouth; he was an exuberant, reckless, boundless-in-love big boy. “Your father is still in a bad mood? Have you told Hermine anything yet?”
“I don’t know if it might not be better not to tell her. She keeps asking why Schuh doesn’t come. What should I say? I tell her he’ll come back eventually. Maybe Schuh was wrong, and Hermine cares for him more than he thinks. But she has a way of not showing it.”
“Thank God you can show it,” laughed the painter and kissed her.
“She’s closed off and completely unapproachable. But I think she’s tormented, suffering, unable to explain it. And Schuh doesn’t come. The father wrote him a letter. He wrote that Schuh isn’t suited for marriage, that he lacks the flexibility and suppleness needed for it, and that Hermine has a similar character—stubborn and unyielding—and that she has therefore turned down other proposals. He should not disturb Hermine’s peace and should be content with her respect and friendship. And he wrote that this is by no means a reason to avoid our house, and he should come and must come. But Schuh doesn’t come.”
Ottane raises her head; it feels to her as if a distant noise is pressing in—murmuring of many people, a clamor that a marching crowd pushes ahead of itself.
“If I imagine,” says Max Heiland, “that I should always be with you and not reveal with a single word that I love you… I couldn’t do that; I’m convinced it would be impossible for me. How can your father impose such a thing on Schuh? I find Schuh is right not to come. I, of course, might have done it differently.”
“Yes, you…” says Ottane, looking at the painter quite strangely. Then she adds: “Father is conducting experiments with the Hofrätin, and he probably needs Schuh to discuss the matter with him.”
“Egoist!” Heiland declares with great certainty.
Ottane wants to reply, perhaps that all people are more or less selfish, but her attention is drawn to the noise on the street. What is that? Step and tread, step and tread on the street—a vast crowd must be passing below.
Max Heiland and Ottane stand behind thick curtains, shielded from the view of people across who lean out of windows, looking at the street, waving handkerchiefs, and calling down. Below, a dense throng of young people, row upon row, linked arm in arm, marches—feather hats, caps, waves, and shouts back and forth between the street and the windows.
“They are the students,” explains Heiland, “heading to the country house in Herrengasse.”
Ottane lets out a cry: “Reinhold is among them!”
“Why shouldn’t he be there? The youth is making its voice heard; it wants to be listened to.”
“But the father? And if there’s a tumult, a rebellion? And how will I get home if the streets are so full? I must leave.”
Max Heiland has a cure-all for doubts and anxiety attacks. He takes Ottane wordlessly into his arms and kisses her. And Ottane instantly loses her senses. She knows nothing more of herself, floats between being and non-being in a rapture where all form dissolves into luminous ether.
Reinhold, on this March morning that anticipates a piece of May, went to the Polytechnic as usual. But there were no lectures today; the students stood in the hallways and around the building. It’s said those from the university mean to get serious today and force a decision. Yesterday, the lecture hall was locked, but the university students forced it open, drafted an address, signed it, and two professors had to deliver it to the Emperor. And it’s said that Count Kolowrat, who is usually very accommodating and seeks to balance opposites, even Count Kolowrat has said: “That’s just what’s missing—that the students should make splinters for us!”
But the Emperor gave an evasive and delaying response, and now those from the university want to make it happen. In the suburbs, there have been already been said yesterday: “It’s starting!” And the workers didn’t go to work today, and some masters even released their journeymen themselves so they could be part of it. In Reinhold, enthusiasm surges—yes, now freedom will finally come; he feels the breath of great events, what happiness to be able to throw himself into it. Bent, twisted, crushed all these years, but now he straightens up; somehow, the surge also crashes against the rigid bonds of his own life. All tyranny shall be shattered; it’s also against the tyranny of fathers—Reinhold has a very comprehensive concept of the freedom that is now coming.
A young student hurries up: “They’re already heading to the country house.”
“Comrades!” shouts a broad-shouldered, bearded man next to Reinhold, “are you servant souls? Do you want to remain slaves forever? Always just put off? Forward, we march with them!”
And the broad-shouldered, bearded man grabs Reinhold under the arm and pulls him along. This broad-shouldered, bearded figure was once a small, pitiful tutor and house steward, a poor wretch and hanger-on named Futterknecht; long ago, he also taught Reinhold and, through detours via other households and families, found his way back to being a student. With every house, every table, every bite of educator’s bread, every reprimand, and even every praise, a drop of hatred was added to his soul. The years since have thoroughly cleared away his humility and obsession; they have let him grow into a broad and bearded man, and freedom has stamped a daring hat with a feather on his head. Through his age, his enmity toward tyrants, and his relentlessness, he has gained respect and weight among his comrades; they follow him, and now he marches at the head of the procession with Reinhold under his arm. Reinhold is very proud to be so far forward, the confidant of the leader. Yes, now freedom comes; they are leading freedom.
The people join in, workers walking alongside, encouraging with shouts, shaking their fists. Reinhold stands next to a ragamuffin with a coat like a map of Germany, stitched a hundred times over, and a dirty cap. His pockets bulge wide, stuffed with something heavy. Beside him hobbles an old, greasy, stocky man, striving to keep pace; he wears a broad-brimmed hat and a coat much too large, with sleeves turned up, and something heavy must be in the long tails’ pockets, for they slap against his thin calves with each step. And now the ragged giant laughs, reaches into his pockets, and pulls out a fist-sized stone, showing it to the other; the greasy old man reaches into his coat tails and also pulls out a fist-sized stone, showing it to the ragged giant.
Now that she was calmer and accepted the situation, things went smoothly. He helped her go through her equipment and made sure she was wearing her med-alert bracelet. He explained about Sanctuary—the processing building where the Sanctuary Program, overseen by Heliopolis, processed newbies—mentioning only that the place was designed to push people out fast.
Tobal showed her the compass and map, pointing out which items were more important than others. He advised her to grab a couple extra blankets off the beds and showed how to pack everything tightly into a pack she could carry, the fabric rustling as she stuffed it in. Curious, she sipped the water from her canteen, grimacing at its metallic tang, then nibbled the food bar, spitting it out with a cough. “Ugh, that’s awful!” she exclaimed. Tobal chuckled. “Told you—it’s safe but nasty. Encourages us to move quick.”
He decided to wait out the rain. There was no sense traveling in such bad weather, and he spent one more day at Sanctuary getting to know Fiona and teaching her how to use the supplies. He explained about the maps and compass, tracing routes with his finger, and how to read them. On the morning of the second day, the rain had stopped, and it promised to be mild and clear. The sun was shining, its warmth seeping into his skin, the air fresh and crisp with the scent of wet earth. It was a perfect day for traveling, and he started by having her triangulate their location and finding it on the map, her focus sharpening with each step.
In high spirits, they headed cross-country to the southeast toward the lake where Tobal’s main camp was. Fiona was leading the way, marking knots in her cord every half-mile, her steady pace a reassuring rhythm. Since her steps were shorter than Tobal’s, she used a higher number of steps before tying the knot, but the principle was the same, her determination evident in her careful movements. As they walked, Tobal’s strange dark dreams grew stronger, the ghostly figures and slaughter haunting his sleep, and one night he woke Fiona from a nightmare, her voice trembling as she whispered, “I saw blood on the waterfall.” Her restless murmurs mirrored his own, deepening their shared unease.
As the first week progressed, things didn’t go as smoothly as they had when training with Rafe, especially since he had lost most of his emergency supplies in the flash flood. They relied heavily on the nasty-tasting Sanctuary food at first, its bitter aftertaste lingering. They spotted Federation drones sneaking around, one buzzing by a distant waterfall, its hum cutting through the trees, and once or twice, Tobal paused, feeling watched. “Did you see that?” he whispered, a shadow rustling at the forest’s edge. Fiona tensed. “Stay close,” she murmured, though he never found tracks, the sight sending a chill down his spine.
Fiona proved a quick student with an animal instinct toward self-preservation and survival. Tobal made a walking stick for her, its smooth wood fitting her grip, and showed her how to use it. As they traveled, he taught her many of the things Rafe had taught him—testing food to see if it was edible, the earthy scent of safe herbs guiding their choices, and collecting them as they went along. She caught on to snares with an uncanny sense of how animals thought and where they made their trails, her nimble fingers setting traps with ease. During one trek, Fiona slipped on a rock, Tobal steadying her as a sharp edge cut his hand slightly, blood mixing with mud, a stark reminder of nature’s unforgiving edge. Everything was backwards from how Rafe had taught him, a reversal that challenged his instincts.
More times than not, it was Fiona’s snare or trap that held the rabbit or quail, not Tobal’s, the snap of the catch a small victory. She turned out to be a much better trapper than he was. He comforted himself with the thought they had plenty of meat and spent a few days smoking jerky, the rich smoke curling around them, building up their emergency food supply.
Fiona proved to be a natural with a sling and said she played a lot of baseball as a kid, her aim sharp and confident. She was already skilled in archery, which she learned in high school, having been on the school archery team, her arrows finding their mark with practiced grace. As she threw her knife at the quail, Tobal noticed her focus, muttering, “Where’d you learn that?” She shrugged, “Survival back home,” her tone leaving it open-ended.
There were less than 24 days until the next gathering, and Tobal wondered if Fiona would be ready. He suspected she would, given how fast she caught on to things, her quick learning a quiet pride for him. He felt it didn’t matter that much because Fiona was ready to solo, and one or two days less than a month should not matter that much. He pushed the thought out of his mind, focusing on the path ahead.
After four days of travel, they reached the lake. Tobal looked around his main camp with a mixture of shock and grief, the charred remains stinging his eyes. There was nothing left standing. It had been vandalized and burned until nothing was left. Two of his food caches had been plundered, but luckily, they hadn’t found the third in a hollow spot of an old tree, sealed with rocks for protection from squirrels and other animals. As they opened the cache and divided the food, Fiona started a fire, the crackle a small comfort, and began making supper, the scent of cooking meat rising. Tobal wandered the ruins in stunned disbelief with tears stinging his eyes, wondering why anyone would have done this. Gradually, grief gave way to intense anger that rolled in his belly and glinted harshly in his eyes. He started looking around the camp for signs of who had done this thing.
He found some tracks and signs but wasn’t good enough at reading them to discern much about what had really happened. Obviously, three people had come along and destroyed the place. All of his hard work was gone, and his supplies ruined. It was hard to tell what was missing or just scattered. He was able to retrieve a few tools, their weight a faint consolation. Everything else was a loss.
The attackers left no trail to follow. Not wanting to stay in the remains of the camp, they set out around the shore of the lake. Tobal and Fiona sat by the water’s edge, the lapping waves a quiet backdrop. “What do you think happened here?” she asked, her voice soft. “Looks like someone didn’t want anyone staying,” Tobal replied, his tone heavy. “Maybe they’re hiding something.” She nodded, her eyes scanning the ruins. “It’s creepy—feels like we’re not alone.” They agreed to move on, the mystery lingering.
There was a waterfall at the far end of the lake where a mountain stream fed into it, and Tobal wanted to explore that. He had noticed it on his first trip around the lake, and something about it called to him, a pull he couldn’t ignore, especially since it haunted his dreams. Now he knew he wanted to explore it more later.
The country was rough, and they were careful to keep their own trail hidden, the crunch of gravel underfoot their only sound. The next camps Tobal and Fiona made were small and well-hidden, sheltered by rock overhangs or dense thickets. They now knew why no one else built anything on the lake. It was an obvious target for anyone going up or coming downstream. It was simply not safe and asking for trouble to build there permanently.
The end of the lake with the waterfall was very rocky and difficult to travel. There was no shore, and the rock simply dropped down into the water. What Tobal had in mind was finding some way to go upstream and explore with Fiona for a couple of weeks until the gathering. Perhaps he could find a better place to set up a main camp. With this goal in mind, they struggled through the maze of rock, boulders, and vegetation until reaching the edge of the water on the left side of the waterfall.
The waterfall was thirty feet high, and you could tell it was ancient since it had once been ten feet higher. Erosion by water in the streambed caused the rock on both sides of the stream to rise like stone pillars hidden by pine trees and forest vegetation. It was a small stream, only ten feet wide. The falling water arched over a narrow ledge that disappeared into a blank stone wall at the other end of the fall. Where they stood, the ledge opened into a small patio-like area that was flat and free of rock. It was less than a foot higher than the lake and formed a deep pool.
The water fell into the lake with a roar and violence that made the water churn and froth, but on the side where they were standing, the water was inviting and made just for swimming. There was a ledge slightly below the surface of the water, so a swimmer could easily climb back out after diving into the icy water. Tobal probed the hidden ledge with his walking stick, and the shock of discovery made icy chills explode at the base of his spine. It wasn’t a ledge at all. It was the first of at least three steps that had been deliberately carved into the rock, leading down into the pool of water. He felt a pull to dive, resisting it with effort, knowing this was something he needed to explore more later.
The discovery of the stone stairs made him more alert, and he carefully examined the small patio area where they stood. Fiona shared his excitement and enthusiasm, her eyes bright with curiosity. She finally found what they both were looking for. The cliff face jutted out in a rough and uneven manner. She had been following the cliff face and turned a sharp corner that couldn’t be seen from the patio area. In a small recess, there were distinct footholds and handholds carved into the face of the cliff, leading up where they seemed to disappear.
Tobal was first up the cliff and pulled himself onto a wide ledge that wasn’t visible from below. He helped Fiona over the edge, and they both looked around with interest. There was vegetation since topsoil had collapsed from above and fallen down. Trees, shrubbery, and vines found footholds in the small layer of topsoil and clung desperately to the rock.
Near the trees, a narrow crack in the cliff face formed a small chimney that could be climbed by pressing the body against one side and gradually working up the remaining fifteen feet to the top. They took off their packs and cut one blanket into strips, braiding it into a short rope they used to lift their packs up the chimney. Grabbing onto foliage and tree roots, Tobal pulled himself out of the rock chimney, helped Fiona out, and coiled the rope, putting it into his pack. At the top, the soil was heavier, and the foliage was more dense and almost impossible to get through. The ring of foliage gave way to pine trees, and the footing got easier. He could see what looked like a large camp ahead and started toward it.
They broke into the open and looked around in wonder at what had obviously been a large camp. There were the remains of permanent shelters and a kitchen area. Near the river was a large circle ringed with stone seats that must have been used for ceremonies and initiations. Further up a small hill were the remains of a sweat lodge, and beyond that, a patch of volunteer corn was still coming up in patches after all these years. It must have been fifteen or twenty years since anyone had visited or used the camp.
A large cairn of rocks dominated the middle of the site and was covered with offerings. They were a strange assortment of man-made objects, weathered and destroyed beyond recognition of what they once had been. As Tobal approached the cairn, a haunted energy emanated from it, a cold shiver running through him, and he instinctively knew it was the mass grave Adam had told him about. Even more strange was an offering of fresh flowers lying at its base, their sweet scent a stark contrast to the decay. “Someone else knows about this place,” he murmured, his voice tight. Fiona nodded, her eyes wide. “And they’ve been here recently—who could it be? Maybe they honor the dead?” They stood in silence, the mystery deepening their unease. “We need to get out of here, now,” Tobal said urgently. Fiona agreed, her voice low, “It feels wrong to stay.” With a shared glance, they gathered their gear and moved quickly, the weight of the secret pressing them to leave.
This was the place he had been dreaming about. People had once held gatherings here just as they did at circle. What had happened? How and why had they died? Had they known his mother and father? Was this the place Sarah’s mother and two brothers were buried? A certainty deep in his gut told him that it was. All these questions were turning in his mind, but even more forcefully was the instinctive knowledge that they needed to get out of here fast. They couldn’t be found in this place.
He knew with sick certainty this was why no one was allowed to build camps near the lake. There was some secret hidden here that was meant to remain hidden. It was dangerous to stay because they could be tracked by their med-alert bracelets. Medics would be coming soon by air sled to check on them unless they got out of the area quickly.
It was an hour later when the first air sled appeared and circled over them. By then, they were three miles away from the abandoned camp and heading upstream. They waved, but the medic didn’t wave back. After circling a few times, he simply left.
Tobal was feeling uneasy about the situation and knew continuing upstream was a mistake. It would give the impression they might follow the stream back down again to return to the forbidden area. With this in mind, he checked his location on the map and set out directly cross-country toward the gathering spot. Twice that day, air sleds checked on them but simply flew over without circling.
They made a few dry camps before reaching water again, and the going was extremely rough. The terrain was much more rocky with less vegetation and animal life. More than once, Tobal was grateful for Fiona’s prowess with snare and sling. Things would have been much more difficult if he had been on his own out here.
There were no more air sleds, and Tobal felt relief but remained careful. Camps he chose now were secret, hidden, and very hard to find, sheltered by rock overhangs or dense thickets. They built fires with dry wood that would not smoke and give away their location.
Fiona took to this new training like a duck takes to water. She was naturally secretive and suspicious of strangers. She moved so quietly with the ability to appear and disappear that she seemed like a ghost. She laughed when he told her that, though. Basically, Tobal was an even-tempered teacher, and she was quick and eager to learn. After one week of wandering, they had learned navigating by map and compass. While she was an expert with the sling, it took her a while to get her first deer with the bow, mainly because of the terrain they were traveling in. With time running short, they returned to Tobal’s main camp area, working to rebuild shelters and caches, the reversed methods from Rafe’s teachings challenging their efforts.
She was now providing the food for both of them and learning to construct various shelters. It was mid-July, and there were plenty of berries to eat as well. They saw larger animals like deer, bear, cougar, and mountain goats. It was certainly an area not occupied by anyone else.
After one week of wandering, they found a small hidden canyon with its own small waterfall and plenty of game. It was a box canyon with only one entrance that was a narrow crack in a rock face. They only found it by accident when Fiona was checking places to set out snares for the night.
It was in this remote little canyon that he decided to make his permanent base camp. They spent the remaining time building shelters, reinforcing Tobal’s main camp with new structures. He finished his teepee and used the blanket material they brought as outer covering. Together they built a permanent smoker and rack for sun-drying jerky in the hot summer sun and completed a sweat lodge they were both dying to try out.
One morning, Fiona came running to him, all excited. She had found a honey tree. It was a rare treat, and Tobal knew it would make a big hit at circle if they could find a way to get the honey without killing the bees. In the end, they covered themselves with poncho material and smoked the bees out, reaching into the tree with heavily protected hands and arms. They took two canteen cups full of the rich honeycomb and honey, leaving the rest for later. Tobal wanted the bees to survive and keep a constant supply of honey available.
Time passed quickly; it was almost the full moon, and they were far from the gathering spot. To make things even more complicated, they would be coming into the gathering spot from the valley and not from the cliff trail that most newbies entered on their first time into the area. He didn’t know how that was going to work out and decided to think about it later when they got closer to circle.
Uncertain how to bring Fiona into the camp, Tobal chose to remain hidden. With a smirk of satisfaction, he stepped around the boulder from the wide trail onto the narrow ledge and climbed to the top with Fiona following him, then instructed her to come back down the trail on her own. He figured the hidden guards would understand what was going on. He told her to wait five minutes before descending, then settled to watch. As he climbed, he hesitated, thinking, “Should I warn her about the guards?” but shook it off. He passed the area where they had taken him without incident and felt things were going all right. He was totally unprepared for the blood-curdling scream and sounds of struggle he heard coming from below. It was too late now.
Racing back down, he saw Fiona standing with her back to the cliff face, a bloody knife in her hand and a crazed look on her face. She saw Tobal and flung herself into his arms, sobbing hysterically and trembling violently.
“They attacked me,” she kept sobbing. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
One of the guards lay sprawled on the trail, bleeding fiercely from a gash in his shoulder. Tobal recognized him as a Journeyman named Dirk. The dark-haired girl was applying first aid to her fallen companion and ignoring Fiona as if she didn’t exist. The third guard was presumably running for assistance back to the camp.
Tobal held her shaking body, keeping her steady until she cried herself out. He didn’t know what to do. Other guards would be coming soon, and he was going to be in big trouble. He couldn’t think of anything to say and quietly led Fiona back down the trail. They heard the sound of running feet and moved quickly into the shadows as a group of six guards raced up the trail toward their fallen comrade.
Getting back on the trail, they entered the camp, and Tobal tried finding someone with a red robe that could straighten this whole mess out. He found Ellen, the High Priestess, by the circle and turned Fiona over to her. Fiona clung first to him as he tried to leave and then to Ellen for reassurance and safety after Ellen convinced her that everything was going to be all right.
Tobal explained the situation to Ellen, and Fiona was aghast and horrified to find out she had attacked and wounded someone who was only trying to initiate her into circle. She was furious at Tobal for setting the thing up, and Ellen had to forcibly restrain her from attacking Tobal in her fury. Ellen took it in stride and chuckled a bit.
“You certainly have what it takes to belong to our clan,” she said. “Things will be alright. Don’t worry about it.”
When the guards came to get her, Ellen suggested not to fight but go along with them peacefully for her initiation and entry into the clan. Tobal saw with amusement that Rafe was one of them and the dark-haired girl another. There were six guards coming over to where Ellen, Tobal, and Fiona were talking. Although some of the guards looked angry, Rafe was smiling. Tobal gave him a bear hug and couldn’t help but notice that Rafe flinched as if he were injured or hurt. “You okay?” Tobal asked quietly. Rafe deflected with a grin, “Just tired,” and gave no further sign anything was wrong. The guards took a peaceful and submissive Fiona to get ready for her initiation.
As they left, Ellen turned to him with a grim look on her face and said, “I think you’ve got a little explaining to do to Zee and Kevin. They were looking all over for you after circle last month. I’ll be wanting to talk with you a bit later myself, ok?”
“Oh, damn!” he said. “I forgot all about them! When do you want to talk with me?”
“Sometime after circle.”
Word soon spread that Tobal’s newbie had skewered one of the guards on the way into camp. The guard was doing fine and in no danger. Most clansmen treated it as something that was highly funny, but Tobal was not amused. Things had gone horribly wrong, and someone could have been hurt or even killed, and he felt responsible.
He was at the center of the circle proclaiming Fiona ready for her initiation when he noticed the red-haired girl, Becca, staring at him from the left side of the fire. Turning away, he continued talking and then resolutely returned to his sitting spot, determined not to look in her direction again. He had seen the wonder and astonishment on her face and knew she was as surprised to see him as he had been to see her.
Tobal’s situation was unique in that he was acting as a sponsor bringing a person into the clan for the first time. This was not a normal situation, and Fiona’s escapade with the guards made a lively buzz of conversation around the camp as people congregated before the circle and chatted together. To his relief, after her initiation, the elders approved her solo.
There were some farewells as some three-year Masters left to become citizens. August was hot, very hot even in the mountains. He was thirsty and walked over to the beer barrel.
“Hi Nikki,” he said.
“Oh,” she looked startled and turned around toward him. “Hi.”
“Congratulations on soloing.”
“Thanks.” She said and bit her lip. For some reason, she seemed a bit cool towards him. As she walked away, Tobal overheard her mutter, “Should’ve told us,” hinting at his sudden departure after circle.
“Is there anything wrong?”
“No,” she said, “I’ve just got to get going. I want to train a newbie and need to get my things ready to leave early.” She turned and walked away from him.
“Good luck,” he said to her back as she walked away. There was something definitely wrong, and it seemed to be him for some reason.
Moving over by the circle, he saw Angel dressed in a black robe and was surprised that she was a Journeyman with three chevrons.
“I thought you were an Apprentice,” he told her. “When I saw you in Sanctuary with your broken leg, you were dressed in gray.”
“That was because of my injury,” she told him. “When I went through processing for treatment, I was given the old gray stuff, and my other clothes were ruined.”
They chatted for a bit, and she was pleasant. It must just be the Apprentices that were pissed at him.
“Who is that dark-haired girl with Dirk?” he asked suddenly. “I’ve been meaning to find out her name for two months now.” He blushed a bit.
Angel laughed. “That’s Misty; she’s only got one more fight to win before she makes Master. Perhaps she can fight you, get you ready for being a real Journeyman?” She winked.
Tobal was embarrassed and changed the subject. He always had trouble with girls and didn’t really know how to take them.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter10
Freiherr von Reichenbach had made every effort to bring his thoughts into order. But before he could manage that, something had happened that renewed the confusion and only increased it further.
About two days after the visit to Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel, a sense of unease had come to his awareness. A dull feeling of fatigue at first, then dragging pains in the limbs, hammering in the temples, ringing in the ears, flickering before the eyes, scratching in the throat. And then the cold was there, with all that goes with it—sniffles, headache, and cough—the Freiherr had to take to his bed despite his resistance. Tea-drinking, sweating, and gargling.
There he lay over the Christmas holidays and had time to think further. So he had indeed become sick; he had caught the cold on the way to the Hofrätin, and she had foreseen that he would become ill. She had sensed it beforehand, at a time when he still believed himself completely healthy. How was that possible, what secret powers did this woman possess? And if she had correctly foreseen this, then all the other phenomena that Reichenbach had observed were likely neither conscious nor unconscious deceptions. One had to assume it was so, but where was the explanation for all this? Amid the swaying of considerations, the fleeting glimmer from back then held up the best. Were they on the trail of an unknown natural force, a kind of invisible rays?
Caught up in this mental work, Reichenbach was so gripped that he could hardly wait to test his thoughts. He had Eisenstein summoned; Eisenstein sat by his bed, but chatting with him didn’t help—Eisenstein had few ideas; he was too eager to agree with the Freiherr, making him only impatient. Reichenbach needed substantive objections to clarify his thoughts.
As soon as he was allowed to get up, he took Ottane aside. He didn’t say what it was about. He had Ottane stand, walked slowly toward her, circled her. He had her sit and stretched his hand toward her—the left, then the right; he touched her shoulder, her hips; he had her lie on a sofa and stood alternately at her head and her feet, asking in between: “Do you feel anything? Do you feel anything?” But Ottane felt nothing at all.
He locked himself and Ottane in a room, hung blankets over the windows and doors, extinguished the light. And after they had sat in the darkness for half an hour, he asked: “Do you see anything? Do you see anything?”
But Ottane laughed, saying she saw absolutely nothing—how could she see anything in this pitch darkness? Then he took Hermine aside and performed the same solemn, mysterious actions with her as with Ottane, asking in between: “Do you feel anything? Do you see anything?”
“No,” Hermine replied each time shyly and anxiously; she felt nothing and saw nothing.
“Naturally,” said the Freiherr angrily, “how could you feel or see anything other than the most ordinary?”
Afterward, the two sisters stood facing each other, and Hermine looked quite frightened, but Ottane also showed a concerned expression.
“What’s wrong with the father?” They exchanged their experiences—yes, yes, approaching and withdrawing, strokes with the hands, sitting in the darkness; the same for both—what could this be again?
Hermine began to cry.
“No, no,” Hermine comforted her, “you don’t need to be afraid that the father might—; no, that’s certainly not it. I think he has discovered something new; he looks just like someone who has made a new discovery.”
Ottane had something luminous in her nature, a radiant confidence that quickly made her victorious over all doubts. She held her head high and had a light, free step; she often smiled to herself without anyone knowing the reason; she tilted her head as if listening to an inner voice. Often she startled Hermine by suddenly pouncing on her and kissing her. Hermine found that her sister was somehow mysteriously elevated; Ottane said nothing, nor did she reveal where she sometimes went when she claimed she had errands to run. Oh yes, Ottane, she took everything lightly; when one is happy, one can take many things lightly that become a cause of worry and gloom for others.
When the Freiherr received the delayed permission to leave the house due to bad weather, his first visit was to Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel. He found her in relatively good health, a bit bloodless and weakened, but mentally alert and, though with some sighing, willing to undergo the experiments he had in mind.
Reichenbach had brought a system with him, a framework of thought built on provisional, bold, yet very astute assumptions. He saw much confirmed, had to discard some things, some hit the mark exactly, others remained unruly and enigmatic; overall, however, the basic outlines of a new understanding began to emerge more clearly from the mist. Only after hours of work did he relent from his subject when the Hofrätin, groaning, declared she could no longer continue, and finally a violent vomiting brought everything to an end. The Freiherr was dripping with sweat, his brain convolutions glowed; he assured the Hofrätin that her nausea was trivial and held no significance compared to the healing that had befallen her today: that she had, namely, entered the annals of science with this day.
“A new science, dear lady!” he said, beaming with joy, waving the black notebook in which he had meticulously recorded the course of his experiments. “Your name has become immortal today.”
For the time being, however, the Hofrätin felt so miserable that she had no real understanding of scientific fame and immortality, and her only wish was to see the Freiherr out the door from the outside.
Reichenbach staggered through the streets like a drunk, bumping into people, nearly getting under the horses of the princely Esterházy carriage; in one of the courtyards he passed through, he threw a handful of coins into a blind violinist’s hat; he felt the urge to grab some unknown person and say: “Do you know what has happened? I’ve made a discovery, an extraordinary discovery.”
When he returned home somewhat calmer, he heard four-hand piano playing from the music room. Schuh was there, thank God—a man with an understanding of the significance of the event. He opened the door and shouted into the middle of the Adagio of the Beethoven sonata: “Please, dear Schuh, come over to my room at once.”
After a while, Schuh came, more serious than usual but Reichenbach was incapable of making observations that didn’t connect with what consumed him.
“You shall be the first to hear it,” he said, “wait. Please, stretch out your hand and raise your spread fingers. Like this!” Reichenbach took a blank sheet of paper from the desk and placed it over the tips of Schuh’s outstretched fingers. “Now?” he asked, looking at Schuh with eager anticipation: “How do you perceive it? Pleasant or unpleasant?”
Aha, thought Schuh, now comes that thing Hermine and Ottane told me about. He couldn’t help but smile; a sheet of paper lay on his fingers—what of it? How could that be pleasant or unpleasant?
“Nothing?” asked Reichenbach, slightly disappointed. “Well, it doesn’t matter. You just don’t belong to the people sensitive enough to feel it.”
“How was I supposed to perceive it?”
“Unpleasant!”
Now Schuh couldn’t refrain from laughing outright: “Yes, why?”
Reichenbach was too elated to get angry; he took the paper and placed it back on the desk. “Yes, that’s it, that’s what it all revolves around. Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel perceives it as unpleasant.”
“So, Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel?” Schuh chuckled.
“Exactly, I’ve conducted a series of experiments with this lady that have shed some light on the matter. Pay attention! What happens when you rub your hands?”
“If I’m cold, I rub my hands, and they get warm.”
“Exactly, with you! With the Hofrätin, only the left hand gets warm, not the right. When the Hofrätin folds her hands as if in prayer, it soon becomes so unpleasant that she must separate them again. The same happens when she points her fingertips toward each other. She cannot place her hands on her hips; she cannot rest her head on her arm without feeling unease. What do you make of that?”
“Strange!” said Schuh, quite seriously.
“Wait. When the Hofrätin covers her right eye with her hand and looks into my left eye with her left, she is completely blind for a while afterward. If I take two glasses of water, one in my left hand and one in my right, and slowly turn them between my fingers, the Hofrätin finds the water from the left lukewarm and repulsive, and that from the right cool and pleasantly tingling. If I place two glasses of water on the table, one in the sunlight and one beside it in the shade, what happens?”
“Certainly something odd,” answered Schuh, without changing his expression.
“Quite right. The Hofrätin drinks the water from the sun with pleasure and says it’s cool, while the water from the shade is lukewarm and unpleasant. What do you say to that?”
“What I say? I personally esteem the Hofrätin highly, but there are coarse people who think she’s a crazy box.”
“Schuh, I beg you,” growled Reichenbach, annoyed, “I took you for a more serious thinker.” He suddenly stepped toward the disobedient disciple, grabbed his left hand with his own left hand, and pulled it sharply toward himself. “Stay like that—for a moment!” And he stretched out the index finger of his right hand and moved it close over Schuh’s wrist and across the palm in the direction toward the middle finger. “Now?” He almost pleaded, the tufts of hair, like gray, wild underbrush beside his bald forehead, seemed to crackle.
Schuh shook his head: “I’m supposed to feel something?”
“Isn’t it like a fine, cool wind drifting over your hand, as if… blown from a straw?”
“And even if you cut me up for goulash, I wouldn’t feel any wind or straw!”
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
He projected images onto a light-sensitive plate with a lens; everyone was talking about it, everyone flocked to the young man; all of Vienna wanted to stand before his lens—it had become a lucrative business, Schuh had money in abundance. He had also made pictures of the entire Reichenbach family, each one individually and all together with the Freiherr in the middle—no doubt, it was living reality, so vivid and faithful as no painter could reproduce.
Thus, it was by no means the Freiherr’s intention to completely fall out with Schuh, and the neglect of Hermine’s botanical work wasn’t so serious either, since Schuh helped her with it too. When Reichenbach expressed his dissatisfaction, it was probably more because he had grown accustomed to occasionally picking at her to spur her on to higher achievements.
Reinhold also provided ample occasion for disapproving criticism. Although they now lived in the city, he sometimes stayed out in the evenings and excused himself with his studies, but then he was surely huddled with the other students in some back room, holding conversations about “freedom” and “people’s wishes.” Over this part of his life, he spread deliberate obscurity. How much he had been incited to defiance was shown by the fact that he dared to retort to his father that he was no schoolboy, that rascal, and that one had to rebuke him sternly to make him crumple and then stand at attention again.
Even with Ottane’s household management, Reichenbach had much to criticize. His reproaches brought forth tears.
“And how long are these sessions with this Herr Heiland supposed to last?”
“Heiland says my picture will be the best he’s ever painted.”
“Nonsense, this picture-painting! Look at Schuh, you step in front of his apparatus and in a few hours have a picture, more similar than any painter could ever make.”
“Heiland says that Daguerreotypy will never be able to replace painting. Daguerreotypy is mechanics, but painting is art.”
“Briefly,” the Freiherr cut off Ottane’s thread, “I want this matter to come to an end once and for all.”
Perhaps Reichenbach’s mood would have been considerably better if he had come to a more intimate understanding with Therese Dommeyr. The fame of the actress was still on the rise; her star shone over the Viennese theater sky; so many people took an interest in her art and her existence; ultimately, it was no wonder if little was left for the individual. She also came to Bäckergasse, fluttered through the rooms, had pastries and a glass of Spanish wine served, rang out with her bell-like laughter, told theater stories, rearranged the knick-knacks on the dressers and cabinets, moved the embroidered and crocheted covers from one place to another, and then vanished again.
As soon as she was gone, Ottane, who never showed herself during such visits, reappeared, sniffed with a wrinkled nose at the foreign scent, put the table runners and sofa covers back in their original places, and also returned the knick-knacks to their spots.
Sometimes Therese came laden with bile and on the verge of bursting. “I beg you, Baron, have you any idea? This rabble at the theater, such a bunch! By my soul, I’ll pull myself together and run away from them.” They had annoyed her; they didn’t appreciate her enough, things didn’t always go her way; the colleagues were full of envy and spun intrigues, the male colleagues were after her, but Therese didn’t care about them, let them go, and then they switched to the enemy side. She wept a little, she scolded like a magpie, she called down God’s judgment on the whole theater gang, she screamed and shook herself, and in all that commotion, she was as charming as ever.
“Yes, the theater is hot ground,” Reichenbach said cautiously, “ultimately, you’ll get tired of it and want to flee into a bourgeois existence.”
“Do you think so?” Therese let the handkerchief sink, which she had stuffed into her mouth to stifle her crying fit. “Oh,” and she made sorrowful innocent eyes, the expression of a deeply wronged child, “I think, after all, I’m lost for that. A bourgeois existence… and married, ultimately a comedienne?” And the look of those innocent eyes became so penetrating that it sent a shiver, hot and cold, down Reichenbach’s back.
Yes, she offered, so to speak, samples of her iridescent, light-hearted personality and left behind an increased appetite for more after every visit. But before any grasping or holding, she slipped away smoothly and agilely like a glittering little fish.
On a winter evening, Severin announced Doctor Eisenstein.
Reichenbach was just in his laboratory, engaged in investigations on magnetism, prompted by Schuh. Eisenstein? What reason had Eisenstein to seek him out? For if he thought that Reichenbach had changed his mind and now thought differently about his suit, he wanted to thoroughly dispel that misconception. Reichenbach stiffened, and as the doctor entered, he saw the Freiherr armored in icy inaccessibility before him.
“I come,” the doctor began at once, “to ask for your advice.”
“What is your pleasure?”
“You see me somewhat embarrassed… it is namely a case in which I’ve reached the end of my art. I have a patient.”
“I am no physician, Herr Doktor; turn to a colleague.”
Eisenstein shook his head: “That wouldn’t help me. The colleagues don’t think beyond the tips of their noses. I need a man who has an unprejudiced eye for the new, who looks beyond the obvious, who at the same time masters the entire field of physics—in short, a man like you.”
“Very flattering,” said Reichenbach, buttoned up to the top.
“It concerns, namely, phenomena that seem to have a certain similarity to magnetic facts.” Yes, Eisenstein paid no attention to Reichenbach’s mockingly dismissive tone; he seemed so filled with the matter that he had no ear for it. It might be animal magnetism, as Mesmer and his pupils had taught, and yet much was different again; one was compelled to consider purely magnetic phenomena in physics, and since the Freiherr was precisely in this field—Eisenstein cast a quick sidelong glance at the apparatus—possessed of experience like no other… One couldn’t very well go to someone else with these enigmatic matters. Reichenbach was no ossified scholar; he wasn’t bound by prejudices; he had even advocated for Semmelweis; he was equipped as a researcher with the superiority of a sage.
“Who is your patient?” asked Reichenbach.
“Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel.”
“Very well,” said the Freiherr after a moment’s reflection, “I will accompany you.”
They walked through the snow flurry the short distance to Kohlmarkt, where the Hofrätin lived. He didn’t want to prejudge the examination, said Eisenstein; the Freiherr might form his own judgment about the phenomena. Only with the case history must he familiarize him in outline. About two years ago, the Hofrätin had been seized by the illness that was, so to speak, fashionable back then. The Freiherr might perhaps recall—symptoms of a cold, sniffles, cough, headaches, high fever, nothing otherwise extraordinary; the distressing thing, however, were the consequences. After a duration of a few days of the cold subsiding, but then came the most unpleasant surprises. Lung inflammations, joint inflammations, leg inflammations, heart diseases, some of them with fatal outcomes. It seemed some kind of poison had remained in the body, which then chose an organ to lodge in and wreak havoc. In the case of Frau Hofrätin Reißnagel, it was as if the poison had struck the head, at least since then those strange states had set in, a lapse of consciousness for certain durations. It had occurred particularly often in recent times that she had undertaken things of which she later could not remember, she had left the house and stayed away without afterward being able to say where she had been. Her soul would occasionally fall, so to speak, into a twilight, from which she returned dazed and without memory of what had happened. Added to this, and alongside it, was that heightened sensitivity, of which the Freiherr would now be able to convince himself.
They had meanwhile arrived in front of the old house where the Hofrat lived, climbed the stairs, the old maid opened the door, and Eisenstein led the Freiherr, after he had taken off his coat, straight into the sick woman’s room.
Upon entering, Reichenbach found himself in such complete darkness that he dared not take a step. He stood still, but from the depths of the impenetrable blackness came a sound and then a faint voice: “Is that you, Baron Reichenbach?”
“It is I, gracious lady. Has Eisenstein told you—?”
“Eisenstein has told me nothing. I know it’s you; I felt you coming before the door.”
If Eisenstein had said nothing, how could the Hofrätin know who had stepped into the dark room, and what did it mean that she had felt him before the door?
“Why is it so dark here?” asked Reichenbach.
“I cannot tolerate the light,” came the faint reply.
“The windows are draped with cloths; opposite, a streetlamp is burning.”
“The Frau Hofrätin cannot sleep if the moon shines into the bedroom,” Eisenstein added from the darkness, with conscientious matter-of-factness. “Is this the bedroom?”
“Not really,” said Eisenstein, “it is the Frau Hofrätin’s room. But she sleeps here. She cannot tolerate the proximity of another; confinement is oppressive to her. You will recall that she became unwell at your place back then, and then she wanted to lie with her face to the wall, which she cannot do over there.”
Nerves, thought Reichenbach, what beyond nerves, as is so common with women, or could the Hofrätin perhaps even—? But Eisenstein should have known that.
The next day continued at a luxurious pace, the soft rustle of leaves and distant bird calls weaving a tranquil rhythm. For the first time, there was no hurry or pressing matter. He indulged in curiosity and took exploratory hikes away from the stream, the cool earth beneath his boots and the faint scent of wildflowers drawing him to interesting and promising areas that from time to time caught his attention.
There was plenty of small game, and he was always able to knock down some bird or animal for a quick meal, the crackle of its cooking flesh a comforting sound. He never thought about using his bow. He had no need for that much meat and didn’t want to waste the time curing and drying it into jerky.
As long as he was following the stream, he didn’t have to worry about getting lost or even using the map and compass. All he had to do was keep going downstream, the water’s gentle murmur guiding him. There were actually a few times when it was raining, the patter on his shelter a soothing lullaby, that he would set up camp for a few days in the same spot and just sit out the bad weather. It was so peaceful and beautiful, with golden sunlight filtering through the trees, that one day led to the next. There was no pressure to perform and no Rafe to challenge him or push him harder.
He loved setting his own pace and being his own boss, the freedom swelling in his chest. He moved as the spirit moved him, and his solo was more like a vacation than actual work.
When he arrived at the lake, he made one spot a semi-permanent base and spent two weeks there, just fishing, exploring, and working on his clothing and equipment. The lake was good-sized and fed by several mountain streams, its surface reflecting the fiery hues of colorful sunsets that painted the evening sky. But nights were not restful. His dreams turned horrifying—vivid scenes of people being slaughtered, their screams echoing, and ghostly figures drifting among mass graves, their hollow eyes pleading. The Lord and Lady never came to him; it seemed the dead walked in his dreams instead of the living, a chilling weight settling on his soul. One night, a low hum from a Federation drone sliced through the silence, its cold metallic glint passing overhead, startling him awake, heart pounding, as it vanished into the dark.
Game was plentiful, and he started a permanent camp similar to Rafe’s. No one seemed to be at this particular location, but he did run across the remains of old campfires and a few shelters. There was nothing recent. He saw many deer with young, and the bear had come out of hibernation. He saw one mother bear with cubs and gave it a wide berth, the musky scent of her fur lingering in the air. Spring was the natural time for most wild species to give birth and nourish their young. Many of them at one time or another came down to the lake for water, usually in the early morning or late evenings just before sunset. One morning, he even saw a cougar or mountain lion on the opposite shore of the lake, its stealthy grace sending a shiver down his spine.
It seemed like birds were everywhere, and he learned to listen to the forest and what it was telling him—their songs a lively chorus at times, or an eerie quiet that raised the hairs on his neck. At night, the trees would creak and sway in the wind, and he would hear night creatures prowl around the camp in the darkness, their rustling footsteps a stark contrast to Rafe’s reassuring voice. Being alone in the woods was a lot different than being with someone, and he thought that maybe his dark dreams and that drone’s intrusion were getting to him.
Tobal thought about the time that he would need to teach six other people to solo just like Rafe had done. He didn’t know if he wanted to teach anyone yet. It would be much more fun to explore and develop a permanent camp. Perhaps he would take his newbies down into this area. With that in mind, Tobal began building his own teepee-shaped structure. He could get the blanket material from Sanctuary later after the framework was completed.
He began setting up things he had seen at Rafe’s—a smokehouse, a rack for drying jerky, a sweat lodge, and several traps for fish and for quail. These were spares for later in the winter months since he didn’t need them right now. It didn’t take him long to realize that he needed more cord and string. He also wished he had something heavier than a knife to cut wood with. A good axe would come in handy. He remembered the one he had seen at the store in Old Seattle and tried making one like it. It turned out better than he had expected, and he used it to chop smaller trees for his shelters.
The days passed, and once or twice he reflected it was strange he wasn’t missing human companionship. He wasn’t even feeling lonely, just surrounded by a deep peaceful feeling, the warmth of the sun on his face a balm—at least during the daytime. Before he knew it, the month was almost up, and it was time to head for the gathering spot once more. It was almost full moon. The clan would be having circle, and they would be expecting him back.
He gathered enough smoked fish, rabbit, and venison jerky to last several weeks. He could supplement that with anything fresh he found along the trail. He hated to leave the lake, the gentle quacking of ducks and the splash of beavers tugging at his heart. He loved to watch the ducks, geese, beaver, muskrats, and all the other animals that visited the lake and called it home. He even toyed with the idea of staying, but it was time to go, and he knew he would be back.
As Tobal neared the gathering spot, he saw others heading toward the circle. When they waved, he felt like he was indeed coming home, a surge of belonging warming his chest. Nobody else whistled as they approached the camp, and they laughed at him. He asked why and was told there were no guards except on the trail that led from Sanctuary. Newbies were only to come into camp from that path. After they had joined the clan, there was no need for a guard. It was just part of the initiation. Tobal felt silly and wondered why Rafe had never told him that part of it. He remembered Rafe laughing at him the last time they had come to circle when he had been constantly whistling. It was so like Rafe to let him figure things out for himself.
He was in high spirits as he helped set up the structures and gather firewood for the bonfire, the crackle of logs and chatter of clansmen lifting his mood. He was enjoying being treated as an equal and kept busy throughout the day. He was feeling good when his friends showed up, congratulating him on his solo. He talked with Nikki; she had completed her training with Zee, and the Elders approved her for soloing this month. She was excited about it. Tobal made sure to give her a kiss for good luck. Nikki was a stocky, well-built brunette with an infectious sense of humor and an impulsiveness that got her into trouble at times, but she always managed to get out of it just as quickly.
“Hey, don’t I get one too?” Zee asked, pouting and tossing her braided raven hair back over her shoulder, her voice a playful challenge that hung in the air, a moment heavy with the promise of their shared journey.
Tobal moved over and gave her a big hug and a kiss. “How have you been?” he teased, his grin widening.
“I’ve been doing quite well, thank you,” she laughed, her eyes sparkling. “I’m heading out for Sanctuary in the morning. You want to come along? It’s always more fun traveling together than alone.” Her smile was warm, carrying a hint of anticipation that lingered, a decision point that would shape their next steps.
“That sounds like a good idea,” he said, considering the journey ahead. “How early are you planning to start out?”
“The sooner the better,” she replied, her tone firm yet inviting. “How about sunrise?”
“I’ll see if I can get up that early,” he griped, and they both smiled, the moment sealing their plan with a shared lightness.
He walked over and found out Kevin was going to try for a newbie and hoped there would be enough newbies for everyone. They congratulated each other on their solos and told stories about how it had gone. Kevin was pretty excited.
When Rafe showed up, it was kind of odd because he was alone and didn’t have anyone with him. After a warm hug, Rafe explained he’d been visiting others and taking it easy since his last training stint. He mentioned earning his sixth chevron at the upcoming awards and his initiation as a Journeyman in two weeks, a mix of nerves and excitement in his voice as he looked forward to the ceremony.
Later at the afternoon assembly, introductions were made for Tobal, Kevin, and the four other newly soloed Apprentices. They were brought out in front of the circle to the sound of cheering, good-natured applause, and joking.
The next to be brought forward was Rafe. Alongside Kevin’s teacher, Rafe was eligible for the Journeyman degree. They were called to the front as the sixth chevron was sewn onto their sleeves amidst joking and laughter. The Journeyman degree initiation was set for the new moon in two weeks at a secret location, marked on their maps but unknown to Apprentices.
He chatted with Wayne and Char for a bit before sunset. They were building a permanent base camp and planned on spending the winter together. That got Tobal thinking about the coming cold weather and how he needed to get prepared, resolving to pick up his winter gear cached at Rafe’s on the way back to circle next month. He figured he’d be okay for this month since the furs weren’t prime yet.
He visited with Tara for a while. She was concentrating on building a base camp and getting ready for the coming winter, hoping to find someone to share it with. She was disappointed when Tobal said he was planning to train during the winter.
The bonfire was lit, and word came around that there would be several Apprentice initiations. Ellen wanted to start early, reminding Tobal about the small meditation group the next morning to explore the Lord and Lady’s mysteries—a detail he barely registered in the moment. He almost forgot about it until he heard one of the guards boom out, “Becca Morgan is welcomed into our clan as a new member.” Along with the others, he was caught up in the shouting, applause, and craning his neck to get his first view of this new member of the clan.
As the High Priestess and High Priest began the initiation ceremony, Tobal found himself remembering parts, though some things seemed reversed. Then he realized the High Priest was doing the initiating, not the High Priestess, because Becca was female. It seemed the High Priestess only initiated male candidates, and the High Priest initiated female ones.
Tobal was admitted into the circle by the High Priestess with a hug and a kiss and found a place to sit on the northern side of the circle. He sat with others as the circle was purified and made ready for the candidate.
Everyone sat back in anticipation as Becca was led out, hoodwinked with both hands tied behind her back. Her guide was the same dark-haired girl that had been his guide, and he still didn’t know her name. He was going to have to ask someone. As Becca was initiated, Tobal found himself staring at her. Her tunic had been cut so short he could almost see where her slender white legs joined together beneath the cloth, and he found them incredibly attractive. The air buzzed with a rising energy, a warm current that pulsed through him, stirring a mix of awe and anticipation as the Lord and Lady’s presence began to form above the central fire.
He was watching the candidate—or rather, watching her legs—as the charge was read, reliving his own initiation in his mind. The energy built, a tingling wave that coursed through his body, heightening his senses with a vibrant hum. When the drums started and it was time to move around the circle and build the cone of power, he found himself dancing clockwise with the others. As he touched her shoulder and gently turned her, a spark raced up his arm and down his spine, a surge of electric thrill mingling with discomfort. What was going on? He was obviously aroused and attracted by this unknown girl, and he could even feel how she must feel as the focus of all this energy, her presence amplifying the circle’s power.
His elation turned to shock and horror as the Priest took the hoodwink off Becca, and her face was exposed to the firelight of the circle. As she blinked, he saw it was the girl who almost clawed his eyes out a year ago. An energy backlash hit him, a sharp jolt that twisted his stomach and sent a cold shiver through his frame, as if the circle’s power turned against him. She was being initiated into his clan and his circle as a sister. The realization unleashed a powerful emotional reaction—rage, betrayal, and fear crashing over him, his breath catching as his hands clenched, the weight of her presence unbearable.
Stunned and hurt, he got through the rest of the ceremony by retreating so deeply into his own thoughts and inner anguish that he hardly realized what was going on within the circle. He sat through three other initiations in a stupor, the meditation group forgotten in his turmoil. Later, when the party started, Tobal made a pretense of having a good time but soon slipped away, and nobody seemed to notice he was gone.
Tobal didn’t know if anyone had missed him. Overwhelmed, he left that evening and struggled his way up the cliff leading back to Sanctuary, forgoing safety precautions in his haste. He was well on his way along the narrow cliff ledge as the sun came up and shed its light into the valley, but the terrain was treacherous, and his mind was elsewhere. His gut churned with a mixture of raw emotions—anger at Becca, confusion about the circle, and a desperate need to escape.
It wasn’t fair. This was his clan, his circle, his people, and his friends. For Goddess’ sake, he was in the middle of the wilderness attempting to become a citizen of a Forbidden City. What was the likelihood she would be doing the same thing? The world simply wasn’t that small.
He was in a numbed state as he made his way toward Sanctuary for the first time. The trip was a blur, and he didn’t remember much. He ate from his own food supplies and didn’t bother hunting for anything but water for his two canteens, his focus shattered.
The cheerful, easy peace of mind he had experienced during his solo was gone, and he stumbled blindly along. The connection he had formed with nature was temporarily forgotten as the sun beat mercilessly down on him during the day, and he slept on the hard, unforgiving ground during the night. The next two days, it rained mercilessly, and he narrowly avoided a flash flood that swept his camp away, losing most of his supplies. The roaring water nearly took him too, a close brush with death that left him shaken. Nature’s unforgiving power was a stark lesson.
Luckily, he still had his map and compass in a pouch around his neck and was able to triangulate his position. He was wet, cold, tired, and hungry as he trudged across a muddy terrain made slick in spots by red clay that clung to his shoes, making every step a grueling challenge. The water had filled his shoes and sloshed between his toes, and he could feel blisters beginning to form on his heels from the chafing, each step a painful reminder of his recklessness.
When he arrived at Sanctuary—the processing building for the Sanctuary Program, overseen by Heliopolis with an unknown connection to the local Federation outpost—nobody was there. He was disappointed but also very humbled that he had lost most of his supplies in the flash flood, including his jerky. As he chewed down some of the nasty-tasting stuff from the machine, he resolved to wait right there until someone did show up. There were usually several new people each month that somehow arrived at Sanctuary from wherever they came from. Remembering Rafe’s advice, he stripped completely, leaving his gear in a corner, and went through the medical exam again, getting a new set of robes, pack, and med-kit, and most importantly, fresh socks and a new pair of hiking boots.
Tobal thought about using the new robe as a raincoat or slicker and grabbed several blankets to take back to the lake as a covering for his teepee. He went through the contents of the new pack and med-kit, finding another knife, razor, and toothbrush to replace those he had lost in the flood. He looked at his old wet hiking boots, wondering whether he should keep them or not. Besides being soaked, they were almost worn out from the rugged lifestyle of the past two months. He decided to hang onto them anyway. Boots were hard to come by in the wilderness, and homemade ones just didn’t have the comfort of these heavy-duty hiking boots.
He was feeling satisfied with his pack and starting to feel better in general when he heard footsteps entering the building and a timid “Hello.”
He froze in the darkness, waiting. There was a short silence, and the footsteps continued until he heard the familiar mechanical voice saying, “Do you seek sanctuary in the city of the sun?”
A timid female voice answered weakly, “Yes, I do.”
Tobal moved silently to the edge of the dark archway and looked into the other room. He saw a slight figure with her back toward him. She was entering the sliding door into the exam area.
Yesterday, he had gone through the exam wearing his med-alert bracelet, and it had been nothing like the two-day processing he had gone through the first time. It had only taken about 3 hours before he emerged with his new clothing and gear. He knew it would be two days for this newbie to finish processing, so he settled down to wait.
The pouring rain continued, and he assumed Zee and Kevin had decided not to travel in the storm and would be coming later after the weather had cleared.
It was around noon on the second day that a sure-footed hulk came through the door dressed in the gray tunic of an Apprentice. It was a boy Tobal had seen at circle briefly but hadn’t talked to. He felt this hulking boy had been hostile toward both him and Rafe. Tobal remembered the boy’s name was Victor, but most people called him Ox, probably because he was so slow and big. Ox stopped and grinned when he saw Tobal.
“Anyone come in yet?” he asked.
“Yeah, someone’s processing right now,” Tobal replied.
Ox padded over to him, his bulk towering over Tobal in a menacing way. He could see the five chevrons on Ox’s sleeve and knew Ox intended to claim this newbie for himself.
“You’d better run along little boy,” Ox told him. “I’ll take care of this one.”
An icy feeling settled into Tobal’s gut. He felt sick and powerless to stop what was happening. Ox was too big for him to take in a fight. He sat back on one of the cots without saying anything. A small flicker of triumph gleamed in Ox’s eyes as he turned and went outside for his pack.
Moments later, Tobal heard a door slide open, and the girl, now dressed in a gray robe and carrying a bundle, stepped into the darker room where he sat waiting. As if on cue, Ox came stomping in and walked up to her. He roughly grabbed her arm.
“Come on, I’m your new teacher,” he growled. “Let’s get going.”
She shrank back, obviously terrified, and Tobal instinctively stood up without thinking.
“Wait a minute, Ox,” he said. “I’ve been waiting here three days, and I think you’re rushing things a little bit. She might prefer to go with me than with you.”
His challenge stopped Ox in his tracks.
“You still here, scarface?” he asked. “You’d better run back to Rafe before I mess you up.”
“Why don’t we just explain the situation to the newbie,” said Tobal reasonably. “We can both talk to her, and she can make her own decision about who she wants as a teacher.”
Ox didn’t even wait. He spun and lurched over to where Tobal was standing, grabbed him by the tunic, and threw him down on the floor. In disbelief, Tobal narrowly missed being kicked in the face by a huge boot. This guy was really trying to hurt him! He rolled hastily to his feet and watched Ox with fear in his eyes. There had been no real warning. Tobal was caught completely off guard by the viciousness of the attack and had no idea what to expect next. Ox was obviously used to getting his own way and was coming around the end of the cot to close with him and give him a real pounding that could involve serious injury.
Instinctively, Tobal’s hand went to his knife, and he held it in front of him protectively with the edge upward. Ox halted, shock registering on his face. He was obviously not used to being threatened with knives and didn’t know what to do about it.
Sensing an advantage, Tobal took a quick step toward Ox, waving the knife slightly.
“I said let’s talk to her. Let’s explain things to her, and then let her decide.”
Ox stood still, not moving, a nervous tick showed on his left cheek, and his eyes were bulging. Like most bullies, Ox was a coward at heart. He was clearly unprepared for any of this and didn’t know what to do. The silence built until his nerve broke, unwilling to challenge Tobal any further; he spun away with a dangerous glint in his eye.
“I’ll remember this,” he said and stalked heavily out of the room.
Tobal turned toward Fiona, who was shrinking from him in fear. Then it occurred to him that he was still brandishing the knife in a threatening way. He put the knife away, blushing.
“Sorry about that,” he said in an embarrassed way. He felt a red flush creeping up his face, making the muscles go tight and pulling the scar tissue, making it stand out in the dim light. He was uncomfortably aware of how he must appear to this frightened girl.
“Sorry,” he said again weakly and sat down on the edge of a cot.
As Fiona stepped into the room, Tobal’s eyes widened in recognition. “Fiona!” he exclaimed, a rush of relief and surprise breaking through his exhaustion. She froze, her dark brown eyes meeting his, then softened into a faint, tearful smile as her blonde hair caught the dim light. “Tobal, I found you!” she whispered, clutching her bundle. “They stole all my things!”
She burst into tears, unable to take more, and Tobal’s heart softened, a chuckle escaping at the irony. He lay back on the uncomfortable cot, looking her over with a mix of concern and nostalgia. She was taller than he’d first thought in Chapter 1, reaching his shoulder, her blonde hair now stringy from the journey, her thin, long face marked by a black eye and yellowing bruise. Her shoulders shook, an ordeal etched into her frame.
“Why did you come here?” he asked gently, leaning forward.
Gradually, her story spilled out. She had missed him back home, asking around until she heard about Sanctuary—the processing building for the Sanctuary Program, overseen by Heliopolis with an unknown connection to the local Federation outpost. Wild stories of time travel, witches’ circles, and magick had reached her, but she hadn’t really believed them. Determined to find him, she’d run from an abusive home, only to arrive scared and lost, the reality far from her expectations.
“It’s not at all like I thought it would be,” she confessed tearfully.
“You ran away from home?” Tobal asked, noting her blush and the bruises.
She nodded, her face reddening to her roots, and Tobal shuddered, imagining her with Ox. Her sanctuary was a refuge from violence, unlike his search for parental clues.
Not quite knowing how to begin, “This is kind of complicated,” he said at last. “Sanctuary isn’t that easy, and becoming a citizen takes a long time.” He began lamely. “You see, they don’t just let people into Heliopolis….”
She started to clench up and quiver, fighting back tears, and he motioned her to keep quiet and let him finish. He tried a kindly smile, seeing her flinch.
“Heliopolis only grants citizenship to those who’ve proven themselves worthy. Claiming sanctuary means you’re applying and willing to prove your worthiness.”
He stopped, realizing she didn’t understand, and tried again.
“You just had a medical exam, right?” She nodded. “You’ve also taken tests and been given a pack with clothing and a sleeping bag, right?” She nodded again.
“What you’re expected to do is prove you can live off the land alone for a month.”
She looked at him in shocked disbelief, her eyes widening in horror.
“You mean there’s no sanctuary here?” she asked.
His face relaxed into a grin as he sat up. “There is safety and sanctuary in a way. A group of us live outside the city in the wilderness. We’ve all claimed sanctuary, even Ox, whom you met. We’re proving ourselves worthy of Heliopolis citizenship. It requires three degrees of work and study. The Apprentice degree is learning to survive alone for a month, or 28 days—the moon cycle—without help. Once you solo, you train six others. Mastering that earns you the Journeyman degree, which we can discuss later.”
“Ox has trained five, but I haven’t yet. I just finished my solo three days ago and came hoping to find someone to teach.”
She grew curious, attentive.
“Ox came for the same, and we clashed, as you saw,” he grinned ruefully. “I’m alive, though! He’s too rough for me.” He looked at her solemnly. “I’d be glad to teach you survival skills for the Apprentice degree if you’d like.”
She smiled lightly, humor glinting. “I’d like that very much, Tobal.”
“Tobal,” he said.
“Tobal,” she said, “I like your style.”
They laughed, the sound carrying a weight of their shared history—Fiona, having tracked Tobal here, rekindled their bond with a knowing glance.
OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel
Chapter 5
Silkworms are a tricky bunch. They need warmth, but not too much, fresh air but no drafts. They’re more delicate than you’d imagine, and above all, stubborn—they’ll only eat mulberry leaves. But mulberry trees don’t grow around Vienna like limes, birches, or chestnuts. You have to bring the leaves from afar, which raises costs, and the worms don’t seem to like leaves that aren’t freshly picked.
Even if you refresh the leaves with water, dry them, and do everything humanly possible, one day, for no clear reason, the silkworms stop eating. Something suddenly doesn’t suit them. They stop feeding and shrink into empty husks, or they swell, grow grotesquely fat, and burst, dissolving into mush. It happens alarmingly fast—in a few days, not a single worm is left alive.
Reichenbach has endured three such mass die-offs of his silkworms. But you can’t leave anything untried, so he starts a fourth time.
“You know,” Reichenbach said to his famous guest, the chemist Liebig, “you mustn’t shy away from personal sacrifices to launch an industry. Imagine if we succeed, if we can produce the silk we need—how much wealth that’d bring to the land.”
Liebig paused. “Maybe the critters don’t take to your Viennese climate. Maybe they’re just homesick. Your wine thrives better here, anyway. And frankly, you should stick to chemistry—that’s your field.”
Liebig was headed to the naturalists’ convention in Graz and had accepted Reichenbach’s invitation to be his guest, using his city apartment on Bäckergasse, his carriage, and one of his lackeys. Today, though, he’d come to Reisenberg for the feast Reichenbach was hosting. He arrived early that afternoon so his host could show him the estate. Count Kolowrat had wanted to appoint Liebig to the university, and Reichenbach hinted the idea was his, claiming he’d moved heaven and earth to secure the scholar to win for Vienna. The negotiations fell through, but the friendship forged then endured.
And because of this friendship, Liebig felt obliged to speak plainly about what struck him during the tour. “Look,” he said, “a man shouldn’t want too much at once. Or if he does, it should all stem from one center. But you’re scattering your strength—estates here and in Gutenbrunn, in Galicia, ironworks in Ternitz and Gaya, and now this silkworm business. Why not stick to your true field and build there? Why let others reap the fruits of your groundwork? Sell, who apprenticed with you, started tar distillation in Offenbach, and Hofmann found the tar base kyanol there. That’s a big deal you let slip away.”
“It’ll be no less big,” Reichenbach insisted, “if I succeed in founding a local silk industry. Once these trees grow and the worms get fresh leaves…”
They walked the road from Sievering to Reichenbach’s castle, known locally as Kobenzl, a road he’d lined with mulberry trees on both sides. But for now, the delicate fodder saplings were mere twigs, pitiful brooms, and if the worms had to get their food from elsewhere, countless generations might still perish.
Liebig saw that Reichenbach was one of those people who can’t pass a wall without wanting to bash through it, learning only from their own failures. But it was regrettable, deeply regrettable, to see him stray so far from his true calling.
Before the castle, Reichenbach excused himself, asking the baron to stroll in the garden or sit in the library until he’d changed.
But after leaving Liebig, he didn’t go straight to his dressing room. Instead, he wanted to quickly check the silkworm room. A double door sealed it from the hall to shield the delicate creatures from drafts. As he opened the first door, he heard someone weeping inside.
Indeed, there sat Friederike on the floor, sobbing bitterly.
It was a large, bright room with whitewashed walls, lined with wide wooden racks stacked with wire trays for the silkworms. And amid the racks, fifteen-year-old Friederike sat on the floor, crying wretchedly.
Lost in grief, she didn’t hear Reichenbach approach, wholly surrendered to her tears, as if she’d dissolve into a stream. She started when she heard his voice: “Now, now, little one, why such crying?”
When Reichenbach spoke to the child, he always slipped back into his native Swabian dialect, which he usually suppressed with great effort. But despite the kindness in his words, Friederike pressed her hands tighter to her face, tears flowing even more freely. The little Friederike, whom Frau Friederike Luise had once christened, had grown into a lanky, angular girl. Everything about her was sharp-edged, but her brown hair, in contrast to her otherwise plain frame, hung in two heavy braids down her back.
“Come now, little one! What’s so terrible?” Reichenbach asked again.
Finally, sobbing with heaving shoulders, she stammered, “They… won’t… eat… anymore!”
What, the silkworms wouldn’t eat again? Reichenbach stepped to one of the racks and saw that, indeed, the same thing that had happened before was starting again. The wretched, spoiled, delicate little beasts had stopped feeding. They lay still, no longer crawling, motionless on the wire mesh. Some had half-raised their bodies, as if rearing up in a desperate spasm before freezing in place. A nudge with his finger toppled them. A few showed faint signs of life, but most were already free of hunger’s cares. Just last evening, even this morning, they’d nibbled at the leaves, and now, inexplicably suddenness and for unfathomable reasons, the great dying had come over them again. The entire colony was clearly on the verge of collapse.
“Yes, yes,” Reichenbach said mournfully, “they won’t eat anymore.” But as the child sobbed harder, he steadied himself, giving his voice a brighter, comforting tone: “Nothing to be done. These critters just don’t like it here. No one’s to blame… least of all you.”
Little Friederike Ruf had begged to care for the silkworms, wanting to do something, especially something she knew Reichenbach cared about. She could be trusted with the task—no one had been more diligent, more attentive, kept the racks cleaner. If disaster had struck again, Friederike bore the least blame; she’d overlooked nothing and surely rejoiced more than anyone in their thriving.
Now she lifted her hands from her face and rose to her knees. A delicate, clever child’s face emerged. Tears still streamed from her eyes, her lips trembled, but she looked up at Reichenbach with gratitude and trust.
“You can’t let your spirits sink,” Reichenbach continued confidently. “One day we’ll succeed, figure out what’s wrong. Now, you must pick out the dead worms, and we’ll see if we can save the rest.”
He stroked the child’s wavy crown, and from the touch, joy flowed into her young, yearning soul. Yes, now she could laugh again and spring to her feet. Reichenbach wasn’t even out the door before she began clearing away the worms ravaged by the plague.
At the end of the hall, where the stairs rose to the upper floor, Reichenbach paused before a door and, after a brief hesitation, entered.
The corner room had two windows. One was draped with vine leaves over a curved iron grille; in the bright light of the other stood a long table with books and plant specimens.
Hermine was still bent over the microscope.
“It’s time to get dressed,” Reichenbach urged. “Our guests will arrive soon.”
“Yes, Father.”
“Maybe you could sing something today.”
“I think,” Hermine said timidly, “my voice isn’t quite right today.”
“Not right? What nonsense is that? Are you a theater princess? Theater princesses can afford to be ‘out of voice’—it always sounds interesting. You don’t need to make yourself interesting. If you sing poorly, people will say, ‘Well, she’s a botanist, it’s not her field, but for a woman devoted to science, she sings remarkably well.’ And if you sing well, they’ll say, ‘She’s a botanist too, and the late Baron Jacquin called her his most gifted student, and she’s already made a name for herself in the scientific world with her discoveries about plant anatomy. It’s remarkable that she sings so well too. Besides, you really do sing well—why else did I spend so much on your lessons if you’re suddenly not going to sing? So you’ll sing, and that’s that. I’ve already sent Severin with the carriage for Meisenbiegl.”
“Yes, Father!”
From the door, he added, “Oh—and one more thing. Dr. Eisenstein will be here today. He’s an ambitious young man, a capable doctor, you can’t deny him that. He’s got all sorts of unusual, new ideas; he’ll make something of himself. But he’s too eager for you and has hinted he’ll soon ask me a certain question. I don’t like it, and it shouldn’t suit you either. You have other plans, other goals—you’ve already turned down professors, councillors, barons, counts, and rich factory owners. So if he gets any ideas, make it clear his suit won’t find a warm welcome, not from you, not from me. Let him spare himself the trouble. I hope you understand.”
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