Posts Tagged ‘writing’

OD: Chapter 4, pages 51-56

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fantasy, reading, writing on September 6, 2025| Leave a Comment »

by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Reichenbach grabs his coat and goes. The chief accountant thinks, thank God he’s leaving—I’d have had to get harsh otherwise; that damned know-it-all attitude can go to the devil, thinking he knows everything better.

Outside, the carriage waits. Reichenbach climbs in, and Johann tries to mount the coachbox, a pitiful struggle for his brittle bones. One leg barely makes the step, but lifting the second won’t do. Stiff, stiff joints, trembling knees—Johann pushes off the ground, hopping, hopping, but it’s a wretched, futile effort.

“Wait,” Reichenbach says, jumping from the carriage. “Get in! I’ll drive.”

The old man’s bright eyes widen in disbelief, his weary head shaking—how could this be? Get in? Then old Johann would sit on the blue cloth cushions, and the Herr General Director would take the coachbox. You can’t upend the order of the world—no, that won’t do.

“Shut up!” Reichenbach growls. “No arguing! Get in, and that’s that!”

No one defies the Herr General Director. The unthinkable happens: old Johann must sit in the carriage like a lord, while Reichenbach climbs onto the coachbox, taking reins and whip as if he were the driver.

Johann feels uneasy, but Reichenbach revels in wild inner joy, chuckling like a gleeful child. Yes, now old Johann rides like a lord, and let them at the castle see it and stew in their green and blue annoyance.

Sure enough, as he swings the carriage into the castle courtyard, someone at the prince’s study window starts back, stung by the odd spectacle.

Reichenbach carries his mocking, delighted grin into the study, flashing it at the two young men awaiting him.

First, Reichenbach learns that the stranger young man is Herr Lawyer Dr. Josef Promintzer, Dr. Promintzer from Vienna, successor to the old, somewhat complacent princely syndic Dr. Gradwohl, now retired.

“I’ve summoned you,” the prince says after the men take seats around the large diplomatic desk, “to discuss the balance sheet.”

“In the presence of the syndic?” Reichenbach asks.

“Indeed,” the young prince replies measuredly, recovering from the jab. He understands what Reichenbach means—that this used to be a matter of trust between his late father and Reichenbach, needing no lawyer’s involvement.

The men sit around the diplomatic desk, where the balance sheet and books, fetched by the prince yesterday, lie. The prince is a young, well-built man, slightly gaunt and stooped, with a stern, guarded, haughty face, almost entirely his mother’s. The new lawyer, by contrast, is a plump man with a short neck and a piggish snout. He wears owl-like glasses, like those Frau Paleczek, God rest her soul, used for reading. His breathing whistles through his nose, and a thick watch chain across his blue vest sways with his belly’s rise and fall.

A judicial air fills the prince’s study, the books and papers on the desk like evidence of a crime.

“It’s about this matter,” Dr. Promintzer begins namely, that certain things aren’t clear to His Princely Grace.”

Aha, Reichenbach thinks, those dubious entries I fought the chief accountant over, and instantly he’s ready to defend the accountant tooth and nail to the bitter end.

“Namely…” the prince continues, “the sugar factory. There’s a contract with my late father, the deceased old count—”

“Unfortunately, one might say!” Dr. Promintzer interjects.

“Stating the sugar factory must source its beets exclusively from the princely estate office at a fixed price.”

“We’ve talked about this several times, I believe,” Reichenbach grumbles. “Why throw money elsewhere?”

“Well,” the prince says haltingly, brow furrowed as if recalling a poorly learned lesson, “in bad years, with a poor beet harvest, the estate office can’t supply enough…”

“I find that irrational,” Promintzer cuts in quickly. “In good years, the factory could get beets cheaper elsewhere, but the estate office sticks to its price.”

“So what?” Reichenbach retorts. “We’ve gone over this ten times. It all ends up in the same pocket. Factory or estate office—it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.”

“The contract with my late father, the deceased old count—” the prince says.

“Hm,” Dr. Promintzer interrupts, his eyes vanishing behind the glint of his glasses. “You shouldn’t defend this irrational operation, Herr General Director, when you’re profiting forty percent from the estate office—a remarkably high share, one must say.”

Reichenbach turns dark red. The urge flashes through him to grab Dr. Promintzer by his watch chain and knock the glasses off his piggish snout with two slaps. But then he tells himself slaps are poor arguments, and you only strike a man so swiftly and directly if he’s meant to fall—or has already fallen.

“Well, well,” he says slowly, leaning back until his chair creaks. “So you think my share’s too high, do you?”

Promintzer shrugs, and the prince says, “In general…” laying his hand on a document, “the last contract with my late father, the deceased old count… before, you had twenty-five percent generally… in the last contract, your share rose to thirty-three percent… my late father, in his final days…” The prince tilts his head to his shoulder, his face deeply mournful.

“His Princely Grace,” the lawyer chimes in, “His Princely Grace believes the contract must be revised, and the general power of attorney needs amending as well.”

Business is business, and matters of honor shouldn’t mix with it. It’s wise to hear where this is going. They talk around it for a while, and it becomes ever clearer to Reichenbach that there’s a point where pride demands no further haggling over petty details. They want cuts, even now, to last year’s profits.

“You forget,” Reichenbach says, his chair creaking again as he leans back, “that this is largely my work.” He gestures at the papers on the desk, but his motion sweeps wider, encompassing forests and smoking chimneys, blast furnaces and ore mines, offices and laboratories.

Promintzer snorts sharply through his nose, seeing he has the man where he wants him. “All due respect,” he says deliberately, “your inventions and discoveries, Herr General Director! But, hand on heart, creosote, paraffin, and so forth—everyone knows it was really the chemist Mader—”

Reichenbach slams the armrests of his chair and half-rises. He keeps hold of the armrests—it’s better not to let go. “That, Herr Doctor,” he says, “is despicable, a low blow…”

He doesn’t look at the lawyer or the prince but at the suit of armor by the desk. It’s better to fix on the armor, where one of their warlike ancestors stood, perhaps that Niklas Salm who saved Vienna from the Turks.

“Strong words!” Promintzer smirks. “Strong words!”

Reichenbach could make a grand exit now. He could say, “I request my dismissal,” or “I’ll find my justice,” or “We’ll meet again at Philippi,” or something like that. But he says none of it. It’s enough that he made that grand gesture over the desk, sweeping toward the forests and smokestacks. He regrets it—enough is enough. So he simply says, “Good day!” and walks out.

“You’ll see, he’ll slap us with a lawsuit,” Promintzer smirks.

“Do you think so?” the prince asks, surprised and a bit unsatisfied with the outcome.

“I’m certain,” Promintzer says, his thick watch chain swaying on his gleefully heaving belly. Dr. Josef Promintzer is a lawyer, and lawyers, after all, thrive on people suing each other.

Reichenbach descends the stairs, thinking, the last time. Oddly, he doesn’t think of Dr. Promintzer or the young prince, but of the prince’s mother, that stiff-backed, angular, bony former convent lady who her son so resembles.

In the courtyard, Forester Ruf stands, also summoned for an audience. His hat’s sweep catches Reichenbach’s eye, slowing his step. “Do you know what just happened, Ruf?” he asks.

“What, Herr General Director?”

Reichenbach kicks the air. “No more General Director. I’ve fallen from grace.”

“Good heavens, Herr General Director!”

“No dramatic scenes, Ruf! I saw this coming a long time ago. Now I’m in otium cum dignitate—to put it so you understand, Ruf, I’m my own master now. At Reisenberg near Vienna. And if you ever get fed up here, Ruf, you know—I can always use capable people.”

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OD: Chapter 4, pages 45-50

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fantasy, fiction, short-story, writing on September 5, 2025| Leave a Comment »

The old count spoke without undue solemnity, yet Reichenbach sensed something weighty behind it, an inner shift toward something new.

“And what’ll happen here without you?” Reichenbach asked.

“It’s a blessing I have you, Reichenbach,” the old count replied, a wistful smile in his voice. “You don’t need me. It’s as good as if I were here. No task is too much.” Perhaps he truly smiled now, but it wasn’t visible.

“And tomorrow I’ll come by the factory again,” the old count added, then left.

Frau Paleczek appeared with a light and set the table, but as she brought the plates, she suddenly wailed and ran out. After a while, Susi brought the supper instead.

“Where’s Paleczek?” Reichenbach asked.

“She’s sitting in the kitchen crying,” Susi said, but then her composure broke too. She swallowed hard, abruptly sobbing, pulled her apron over her face, and ran out.

After poking at his food, Reichenbach rose and went to the children’s room. It had been fumigated with sulfur and juniper and sprayed with vinegar, still smelling sharp. The children lay in freshly made beds but weren’t asleep yet.

“Have you done your assignments for tomorrow?” Reichenbach asked, standing by Reinhold’s bed.

“Herr Futterknecht said,” Reinhold admitted hesitantly, “we don’t need to do assignments for tomorrow.”

“So!” Reichenbach said, nothing more. Then: “Good night! Sleep now.” He shook Reinhold’s hand, stroked Hermine’s forehead, and bent to kiss Ottane’s cheek.

The child flung her arms up, wrapped them around his neck, and pulled him close. “Papa,” she whispered, “I’ll always be good and love you so much.”

The painfully sweet tenderness of such clinging melted the stiffness in his limbs, and Reichenbach held Ottane close.

“I promised Mutti,” the child whispered, “and she’ll always come to me and tell me what the sky-sheep sing.”

“When did you promise Mutti?” Reichenbach asked, just as softly.

“Tonight—when she was with me.”

Tonight? Tonight? What could that mean, tonight? A sudden stab of dread seared his heart. Troubled, shaken to his core, Reichenbach tucked the blanket over Ottane and went to the next room, where the drawings for the new furnace still lay on the desk.

The furnace was built to Reichenbach’s plans and exceeded all expectations. It roared, spat, and glowed, producing nearly as much charcoal as the wood fed into it, and most importantly, showed no tendency for unexpected mischief.

Once it was running smoothly, Reichenbach decided it was time to restart the abandoned Doubrowitzer hammer mill. So he put it back into operation. Then he thought it was time to build a drilling rig. He built one, installing a drilling machine—naturally, the largest in Austria,and could bore cylinders over twelve feet in diameter.

Then Reichenbach turned to agriculture, starting, as agreed with the old count, to grow sugar beets, which naturally required a sugar factory. Since farming was foreign to him, with no innate knowledge of it, nothing became more important than beets and sugar. Some things succeeded, others failed, and years passed. Looking back on New Year’s Eve, it felt like each year had only begun the day before yesterday.

Meanwhile, the old count traveled the world, writing long letters to Reichenbach about his findings.

The old count wrote that he and Lord Rumford conducted experiments on gas expansion, especially gunpowder, nearly blowing themselves up once.

He wrote that he’d heard of Jenner’s vaccination discovery, calling it a magnificent invention, and was now vaccinating himself. He sent vaccine and needles to Reichenbach for free distribution, later adding a self-written treatise on cowpox.

Reichenbach replied that it was indeed a great invention, but the people wanted no part of it. Meanwhile, the workshop was now producing hydraulic presses, water-lifting, and conveyor machines.

The old count wrote that he was now studying the Loserdorre cattle breed disease, to be fought with iron-containing hydrochloric acid, and he sent a self-written pamphlet on it. He was also on the trail of a remedy for rabies, likely in a cyanide compound. But against cholera, no cure could be found.

Reichenbach replied that the Brno censor was a fool for banning the old count’s pamphlet. As for rabies, he begged him, for God’s sake, to be careful with sick animals. Meanwhile, he was shipping barrel hoops to Singapore, cookware to Haiti, iron stoves to Turkey, and creosote to America and Egypt. He said nothing about cholera or its treatment.

Sometimes the old count came home. His eyes had a restless glint; he laughed loudly, sat in Reichenbach’s sofa corner, smoked like a chimney, and drank heavy wine. He looked over the books, made a few tweaks to the machines, then vanished again for days. During one such visit, Forester Ruf came and said, “Can you believe, Herr Director, the old count stopped by my place today?”

“So what?” Reichenbach asked. Why shouldn’t the old count visit Ruf? He roamed the valley, dropping in on folks, asking how they were, urging them and their children to get vaccinated against smallpox. Sometimes he liked to wander the woods in shabby, tattered clothes, like a traveling journeyman, chatting with old peasant women to beg from those who didn’t know him, only to richly reward them afterward if they gave him something. Why shouldn’t he have visited Forester Ruf?

“Well, but,” Ruf said hesitantly, “you won’t believe it. He sent Schnuparek’s widow, who’s watching the child, away, and when I came in, he was crawling under the table with the girl on all fours, barking like a dog, fooling around. He brought her a big new doll, too, and when he left, I saw money tucked in the mirror frame.”

“Why shouldn’t he give you money, Ruf?” Reichenbach said. “He probably remembered being at your girl’s christening and how different things were then.”

“But I don’t know if I can keep it,” Ruf stammered, flushed with embarrassment. “It’s a whole hundred gulden. The old count must’ve made a mistake.”

“Keep it!” Reichenbach urged. Yes, great lords sometimes had such generous whims, and perhaps the old count, with his incognito wandering and gift-giving, took after a caliph who’d done similar things. But Ruf shouldn’t thank him—the old count didn’t like being reminded of his kindnesses.

The old count never stayed home long. He’d look around briefly, bring gifts for Reichenbach’s children, praise their growth, looks, and progress, discuss business and new scientific plans with Reichenbach. But Friederike Luise was never mentioned.

Then the old count went on his way again.

He wrote: He had been admitted to the Société Harmonique in Strasbourg, where new and remarkable insights into human nature were to be gained. He was increasingly convinced that hidden forces lay in the human soul—a mysterious agent, a magnetic fluid, stretching into the incomprehensible. Mesmerism was merely a casual name for it. The laws of this natural force were still little explored, and he urged Reichenbach to study it, believing his skill and persistence could greatly advance science.

Reichenbach, grappling with sugar beets and tenants, thought something irreverent. Mesmerism, he felt, was for people with too much time, and it could slide down his back. A few months later, a letter arrived: the old count had become politically suspect in Strasbourg, likely because the French government had once seized his ancestral castle in the Ardennes. Facing arrest, he chose to slip away, continuing his studies in Vienna.

Then no further news came until a thick letter arrived, addressed in a stranger’s hand with black seals. It stated that the old count Hugo zu Salm-Reifferscheidt had unexpectedly died in Vienna of a heart ailment, leaving his heirs, his father the old prince, the widow, and his son, the young count, instructed before his death to renew the general power of attorney for Herr Karl Reichenbach. The enclosed power of attorney was signed in accordance with the deceased’s wishes.

This was written not by the old prince, the widow, or the young count, but by the old princely lawyer, Dr. Gradwohl.

In the midst of a heated argument with the chief accountant over booking certain items, the door opens, and old Johann enters.

He had knocked, of course, but with the shouting as the general director defended his view, no one heard it. Old Johann hasn’t grown younger since that glorious night of the meteor fall—a parchment-stretched skeleton, cheekbones nearly piercing his skin, nose crooked over a sunken mouth, but his eyes hold a strange brightness, as if seeing things clearer than younger eyes, perhaps through them. He had accompanied the late old count on his travels, not always a restful job, judging by what Johann occasionally lets slip. At any rate, he returned to the Rajzter castle quite aged and worn, and for a while, he was allowed to rest and do nothing. But then they pulled him out again, and the young count said Johann was far from too old to do nothing but smoke his pipe and whistle to his starling. The young count, barely made prince after his grandfather’s death, brought a sharper edge to everything, tightening all that was loose.

And the young prince thought old Johann far from frail enough to eat his bread for free, still capable of sitting on the coachbox, so long as it wasn’t the wild Lipizzaners hitched up. He could still save them a second coachman.

Now old Johann announces that the carriage waits outside and that His Princely Grace requests General Director Reichenbach to Rajtzer Castle. He says “requests,” though His Princely Grace simply said: Reichenbach should come.

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Anarchist Knights: Apprentice – Into the Wild: Solo

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bible, fantasy, fiction, short-story, writing on September 5, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 9: Into the Wild Solo

A veil rift shimmered as Tobal left Rafe’s valley, a faint tremor in the air marking his departure. Rafe explained the best way to survive in the winter was to hunt the larger animals like the deer. Each kill would provide enough food for a week or more, and in the winter, it was very important to have some food set aside for emergencies and for when the weather really got bad. Winter was also the best time for trapping animals for their fur. He would need some winter clothing before it got really cold, and this was as good a time to learn as any. He could make some things now while the furs were prime and keep them at Rafe’s camp until he needed them.

In the meantime, it was spring, and life was abundant. Flowers bloomed in the meadows, and insects flew and crawled all over. Tobal learned to make containers and drinking cups out of the green bark of birch trees, the rough texture soothing under his fingers, and boiled water in them. He used them to make teas and ointments that kept the deerflies and ticks away, the bitter taste lingering on his tongue. His skin became tanned, and his muscles hardened from constant exposure and work. He could stay outside in any weather and walk the entire day without being exhausted. By the end of the second week, Tobal was living completely on his own food. He was not only finding food but was providing food for Rafe to eat. He still had trouble cooking though—nothing he cooked tasted as good as the mouthwatering victuals Rafe provided, the salted jerky soup a savory highlight. Still, Rafe never complained. Tobal learned the importance of keeping his knife razor sharp, the edge biting into his calloused hands, both of them—keeping the one from his initiation on his belt and his old knife strapped to his right leg above his ankle just as Rafe did.

By the end of the second week, he was getting bored with the monotony of the daily grind and the constant need to keep busy. He was looking forward to something new. They moved out from Rafe’s small valley and traveled in different directions, meeting up at designated spots on the map every other day. Tobal became proficient with the map and with triangulating where he was at any given time, his intuition pulling him toward uncharted paths. He spent some evenings alone and others with Rafe. The evenings he spent with Rafe were spent creating different kinds of shelters and sleeping in them. He was amazed at how many things could be used for shelter. But they all had the bed made of soft fragrant pine boughs, and he followed the first rule of never sleeping on the ground if it could be avoided.

Leaning trees that had fallen provided shelter when combined with the gray poncho material. Two trees and his walking stick lashed between them became an impromptu tent. Lean-to shelters were easily made, and he also made a small teepee using the gray blanket material. The need for water was always present, and he never strayed too far from a good supply of it. He learned where to look for fresh water springs and waterholes. He also learned to collect rainwater with his poncho or blanket and fill his canteens and other containers. Rainwater was fresh and didn’t need to be boiled. Water from stagnant pools needed to be boiled before drinking.

He practiced continuously with the sling and his bow. He got his first deer at the end of the third week. He was really excited, even though there was too much meat. They spent two days slicing and smoking it into jerky that could be stored away to eat later. It made his pack much heavier, and he cached some carefully in a tree, marking the spot on his map so he could return to it later. Once in a while, they would see an air sled in the distance with a medic on it. They would wave, and sometimes the medic would wave back. Medics were not allowed to interfere with the Apprentice degrees unless there was an emergency, but they did keep an eye on things.

It was during the fourth and final week that Rafe asked Tobal to look at the map and decide where he was going to solo. He should also start thinking about where he was going to be training people. He recommended Tobal stay roughly within 60 miles of the gathering spot. “Where are the others?” he asked Rafe curiously. “We don’t move around too much unless we are training someone,” Rafe answered. “The Journeymen usually find a permanent spot, and no one bothers them. Many of the older Apprentices do too. That’s why we haven’t seen anyone. Still, a lot of the nicer spots have been taken, and it’s getting harder to find an area that someone has not at least passed through. We encourage the newbies to stay within 30 miles of the gathering spot so we can keep an eye on them. Since there are normally not more than seven or eight training at any given time, there is lots of space, and it’s easy to stay out of each other’s way.”

Tobal enjoyed the rugged outdoor lifestyle and the solitude. He felt a quiet confidence in his growing ability to survive and was looking forward to his own solo that was rapidly approaching. The fourth week was different than the first three. It was travel, travel, and more travel. Rafe knew where several people lived, and they set out to visit them. A shadow flickered among the trees one day—a rogue, perhaps—hinting at unseen danger. The meaning was clear: Rafe wanted Tobal to be able to go for help and find someone if it was needed. He also wanted Tobal to know who his friends were. Once, when they were going through the woods, Rafe stopped him and motioned him to be silent. He pointed at three figures in black that were going through the woods at a fast dogtrot.

“There are some people, particularly in the Journeyman degree,” Rafe said later, “that have gone off the deep end and gone rogue. These Journeymen will ambush a person, destroy his or her belongings, take their supplies, and leave them helpless. It is a real danger that must always be kept in mind. Fortunately, the rogues do not stay close to the gathering spot. They are not very good woodsmen and can barely survive on their own during the winter. That’s probably why they prey on others. Usually, they prey on other Journeymen that have set up permanent camps and take their winter supplies. It always pays to be careful. If possible, know whom you are visiting; some might make you welcome, and some camps might be dangerous. I don’t think there is any danger of being killed,” Rafe said, “but there is always the possibility of being injured and put in the hospital or something. The medics might not be able to get there in time. If you ever run across something that is not yours, leave it alone. There is no need to get anyone pissed off because you messed with their stuff.”

With that final warning, they headed back toward the gathering spot and the monthly circle celebration. Circle was different this time around, and Tobal whistled merrily as he traveled the path into camp. He didn’t see anyone on the trail, and no one tried to stop him or Rafe. Rafe seemed amused at Tobal’s whistling but didn’t say anything about it. He only whistled a few short bars at two sharp turns in the trail, and that was it. People were setting up teepees and gathering wood for the fires. There was a lot of work to do, and Tobal joined in with enthusiasm. He helped dig the roasting pits where the bigger animals were being prepared. It felt good to work alongside other clansmen and joke with them. He was grateful to contribute, and as evening came closer, he wondered what the night would bring.

Everyone was changing into robes. All clan members at circle wore robes that they kept in one of the storage buildings. A black-robed guard was handing them out. There was no reason to haul robes around all month when they were only used here. Tobal was given a long gray robe similar to the one he had gotten at sanctuary. “Just bring it back tomorrow when you’re done with it,” was all the guard told him. It turned out only four newbies were being initiated that night. Tobal made some new friends and was hanging out with them. They were all Apprentices. Zee was a raven-haired girl with shoulder-length hair and a good sense of humor. She had been one of Rafe’s students and was training her first newbie. Nicky, the newbie, had just arrived at sanctuary two weeks ago and was being initiated as Apprentice that night but would be waiting till next month before starting her solo.

Wayne was a stocky, good-natured fellow with sandy hair. He had been an Apprentice for two years and wasn’t in any hurry to make it to Journeyman. He didn’t have any student and hadn’t been training anyone for the past few months. He was more interested in being with his girlfriend, who was also an Apprentice. His girlfriend, Char, had curly brown hair and a ready smile. They were always seen together at circle. Tobal remembered both of them from last circle. It was easy to tell they were in love. A tall, lanky, sandy-haired kid was soloing the same time he was. They hit it off right away during last month’s initiation. In fact, all six that had been initiated last month were soloing this month. Kevin was more nervous about his solo than Tobal was. It made Tobal realize Rafe was a very uncommon teacher and extremely good at teaching others what they needed to know. Most soloists didn’t have the quality of training or the experience Rafe had given him. Kevin kept thinking about bad things that might happen in the woods, things that hadn’t occurred to Tobal since his first weeks of training. Many clansmen were excited about the six of them soloing, and they were given lots of support and encouragement.

Nicky kept staring at Tobal’s face; finally, she blurted out, “What happened to your face anyway?” Tobal was caught by surprise and off guard. “I was attacked by a wild animal that knocked me down. I fought it off and was really lucky,” he lied. “I almost lost the sight in this eye,” and he fingered the long scar around his right eye. Nicky said, “It makes you look kind of sexy and dangerous,” and it was her turn to blush. Rising to her feet, she crossed over to where Tobal was sitting and crouched down in front of him, putting her arms around his neck. “Very sexy,” she whispered and kissed him deeply and passionately on the lips, pulling his hand against the top of her breasts where her robe lay casually open at the top. Then she stood back up and walked toward the kitchen to refill her mug of beer. Tobal was stunned, then pleased. In this camp, there were many scars and tattoos, and each one had a story. In fact, the more scars or tattoos a person had, the more stories that went with them. Wayne was planning on getting matching tattoos with Char. They were debating what tattoos would look right and the best places to have them.

There was an awkward silence, but it passed, and everyone started talking again about the coming solo. After a while, one of the red-cloaked figures came toward their group. She was a medic named Ellen. Tobal recognized her as the High Priestess who initiated him. She asked if everyone was ready for circle. A few hours later, Tobal and the others were at the circle entrance, waiting and watching as it was cast and purified. The older members were gathered around. The central bonfire was piled high, and the smaller fires at each of the quarters burned merrily. The High Priestess and High Priest cast the circle, and Tobal watched with interest as they worked closely together.

They stood together before the stone altar that was set on the northern side of the central fire. The High Priestess handed the High Priest a bowl of water. As he held it, she put the tip of her knife into it. “I purify you spirit of water, banishing all impurities and illusion. May you be charged with the power, strength, and love of the Lord and Lady. Blessed be!” Then the High Priest put the bowl of water back on the altar and picked up a bowl of rock salt, handing it to the High Priestess. She held the bowl as he put the tip of his knife into it. “I purify you spirit of salt, banishing all impurities and evil. May you be charged with the power, strength, and love of the Lord and Lady. Blessed Be!” Then he took the bowl of consecrated salt from the High Priestess as she picked up the bowl of consecrated water. They faced each other, and he poured the salt slowly into the bowl of water and set his empty bowl down on the altar. He stayed there as the High Priestess set her bowl on the altar and began casting the circle with her knife. She started in the northwest corner of the circle directly where Tobal and the others were standing and moved deosil, walking the perimeter of the circle, saying, “May this circle be a meeting place of love, joy, and truth. Shield us against evil, protect us, and direct the power we shall raise tonight. In the name of the Lord and Lady, So mote it be.”

The High Priest joined her as they both came back to the circle entrance. With her knife, she opened a pathway for them to enter the circle. Then she and the High Priest began to admit members into the circle with a hug and kiss, spinning them clockwise into the circle. The High Priestess greeted the males, and the High Priestess greeted the females into the circle until everyone was within the circle and seated. The entry was sealed, and the High Priest took the bowl of water and started at the North signal fire behind the altar, sprinkling it with the water and salt mixture. He continued around the circle, stopping at each quarter, sprinkling the water and salt mixture, intoning, “I purify you with water.” Coming once more to the North, he continued around the circle, sprinkling each member with water and blessing him or her.

As he was doing this, a different Master in a red cloak took up a smoking smudge of sage and stopped at each quarter, waving the smoking smudge, saying, “I purify you with air.” She continued around the circle, blessing and purifying each circle member. Another Master took a flaming torch from the central bonfire and purified the circle and members with fire. Only the High Priestess and High Priest had their hoods down. The other red-cloaked figures had large hoods that covered their faces and hid their identities. Tobal only recognized Ellen as the High Priestess. A Yggdrasil root pulse trembled beneath the fire, a faint hum grounding the energy.

The High Priestess went to the East of the circle and drew an invoking pentagram of air with her knife. “Watchtowers of the East, powers of air. I call upon you to be with us tonight.” Moving along the edge of the circle to the South Quarter, she traced a matching invoking pentagram of fire in the air in front of the signal fire. “Watchtowers of the South, powers of fire. I call upon you to be with us tonight.” Moving to the west, she traced an invoking pentagram of water in front of that signal fire. “Watchtowers of the west, powers of water. I call upon you to be with us tonight.” Moving to the North, she traced an invoking pentagram of earth in front of that signal fire. “Watchtowers of the North, powers of Earth. I call upon you to be with us tonight.” Tobal suddenly felt an electrical tension that filled the circle. It was a powerful energy but also quiet and balanced. He sensed each of the four energies and wondered at their uses, a psychic flicker brushing his mind with a distant fear.

Returning to the altar in the North, the High Priestess made the sign of the cross and turned with her back facing the altar. Her robe slipped to the ground, displaying her naked body in the firelight. The High Priest with his right forefinger touched her right breast, left breast, womb, and back up to her right breast, making a downward-pointing triangle. “I invoke and call upon the eternal Lady that is deep within you and has always been within you from the birth of your physical body and from the birth of your eternal soul. Join us in peace and love within our circle and give us your blessings.” The High Priest stepped back and waited silently. The High Priestess opened her eyes, and Tobal could swear it was not the same person. Her eyes and voice took on a power and authority that filled the entire circle, a transcendent Hel surge warming his intuition.

“Let there be Love.” Slowly they traded places, and the High Priest stood with his back to the altar, and his robe slid to the ground, exposing his hard and muscled figure. The High Priestess with power and authority touched him first on the center of the forehead, then the left shoulder, the right shoulder, and back to the forehead once more, making an upward-pointing triangle. “I invoke and call upon the eternal Lord that is deep within you and has always been within you since the birth of your physical body and the birth of your immortal soul. Join us in energy and light within our circle and give us your blessings.” Then she stood back and waited. The High Priest opened his eyes and responded, spreading his arms wide in blessing.

“Let there be Light!” Tobal could feel energy filling the circle. It was charged with a type of static electricity, and he was feeling hot and stuffy, almost a little uncomfortable. He also felt the presence of the Lord and Lady within the High Priest and High Priestess and wondered at it, their Hel energy pulsing through him.

The High Priestess and the High Priest then stood side by side, facing the East, holding hands as she intoned the charge of the Lord and Lady as he first heard it during his initiation. He felt deeply stirred at the memory, and suddenly he could see and feel both the Lord and Lady leaving the High Priest and High Priestess and taking their place above the central fire. He sensed them in his mind, looking down in blessing and filling the circle with love, peace, and healing. It seemed they looked directly toward him and smiled in welcome.

Then the drums began, and members began to dance deosil around the circle. Tobal joined reluctantly at first and then with growing passion. They danced slowly and then more wildly as the energy level rose. The drums beat more rapidly, and the dancers became crazed, throwing off robes and dancing naked in the firelight. They leapt and sang in ecstasy, moving around the fire alone and as partners, losing themselves to the beat and rhythm of the drums. Tobal gave himself to the pounding rhythm and to the Lord and Lady. He was dancing for them. The drums beat faster and faster until the dancers were sweat-streaked but showed no sign of stopping. A sudden signal from the High Priestess brought complete and abrupt silence to the entire circle as everyone turned and looked at her. The tension and energy in the circle were overpowering. “Lord and Lady,” she shouted, “We ask you to send your blessings and our blessings out to those in special need this night. We especially ask you to bless and assist those that are about to solo. Be with them and guide their steps so they may return successfully to us in a month’s time. So mote it be!” “So mote it be,” the entire circle replied, and Tobal felt such a wave of energy and love wash over him that he was swept out of his body and up once more into the arms of the Lady, this time as a baby. She gazed lovingly into his eyes as his consciousness faded away.

Tobal woke as someone helped him back to the edge of the circle where his robe was lying. That wasn’t the end, though, because Nicky’s initiation began. Again, he experienced the buildup of energy, only this time it was directed at Nicky. Again, in his mind’s eye, he saw the Lord and Lady taking their place above the central fire. Later, there were people standing in relaxed bunches around fires, drinking and eating. Instinctively, he knew the circle had done some powerful magick that night, and that his solo would be blessed. As the gathering wound down, Ellen, the High Priestess, approached him. “I noticed you faint when the Lord and Lady blessed you,” she said gently. “You might be sensitive to them and want to know more. I’m holding a special meditation group tomorrow morning for those interested in studying their mysteries and shifting to other realms. You’re welcome to join if you’d like—not everyone does.” Tobal nodded, intrigued.

This was quite different from the wild party he had experienced last month. There was a feeling of joy, friendship, and goodwill as people joked and talked with each other, helping themselves to enormous quantities of food and drink. They gradually moved into small groups to quietly sit together and talk far into the night. He made a special point of welcoming Nicky into the clan. He spent time chatting with Zee and noticed Angel was back from sanctuary. She was limping slightly but otherwise seemed to be doing well. He met another Apprentice named Tara. He had noticed her dancing and made a special point to meet her. Wayne and Char were both there, laughing at some of the stories Rafe was telling. It was a good party, and he felt warm and happy when he finally made his way to bed.

That night, after the party, Tobal drifted into a Niflheim dream—his parents trapped in a rune-lit cell, whispering, “Find the shard to break the veil.” Groggily, he woke, the vision lingering. The next morning, with the fresh magical energy lingering from the previous night’s blowout, Tobal attended the meditation, joining a small group in a quiet clearing. As they closed their eyes, a powerful vision enveloped him—the Lord and Lady stood before a shimmering lake, their voices urging, “Go south, to the lake, where a fragment awaits.” The vision faded, leaving him with a clear pull toward that destination, and he set out directly on his solo adventure.

Tobal’s solo wasn’t the way he envisioned it. He left circle on the 2nd morning when everyone else was leaving. He had decided to explore some country he hadn’t visited before, seeking a place with adequate water and a potential base camp. Guided by his vision of the Lord and Lady that morning, he felt compelled to head south. His map showed a small lake about a hundred miles south, a spot he’d noticed before but now felt drawn to explore. Though it was beyond the recommended 30-mile radius, no strict rules confined him. The circle’s energy had shifted his plans, pulling him toward the lake, and it felt right. He headed east until he found a small stream feeding into it, whistling lightly as he started out. The day was bright and warm, and he kept an eye out for food, setting up a leisurely camp by the stream. Late May brought a chill to the evenings but pleasant days.

After building a shelter and gathering firewood, he roasted a rabbit caught with his sling. As it cooked, he fetched the last wood and set fish traps for morning. Earlier, he’d retrieved smoked jerky from a cache. Mixing it with greens, he made a hearty soup to pair with the rabbit—a satisfying meal enhanced by the salt he’d gotten at circle. With survival routine now second nature thanks to Rafe’s training, his mind turned to the terrain ahead. Settling under blankets, he listened to the fire’s crackle and felt its light on his face. The Lord and Lady’s protective presence filled his mind, a Hel surge warming his intuition, and he drifted into a peaceful sleep, waking only to stoke the embers.

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OD: Chapter 3&4, pages 39-44

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, family, fiction, short-story, writing on September 4, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“I’d like to know—what the Viennese would say,” Reichenbach quips.

“I thought,” the old count continues, ignoring the jest, “if this turns out alright for me, nothing will happen to your wife.”

“What’s supposed to happen to my wife?” Reichenbach asks.

“I’m worried about her. Her good heart puts her in danger. Don’t let your wife go to the sick. She can’t help them anyway.”

Reichenbach promises a husbandly command, and after the next glass of wine, they part. As Reichenbach climbs down from the carriage at his house, the old count calls after him: “And tell your wife I fell in the water for her sake. But next time, I’ll definitely bring back a stalactite. She’ll have to be patient till then.”

Reichenbach steps into the house, finding Reinhold loitering in the hall with a frightened face, clearly idle.

“Where’s your mother?” Reichenbach asks, eager to share his tale. He’ll ask Friederike Luise, Guess where I’ve been? She’ll be a bit shocked, scold him, but end up happy seeing his joy at their success. Then he’ll tease her that the old count is head over heels for her.

“Where’s your mother?” he asks again, three steps up the stairs, as Reinhold hasn’t answered.

Reinhold stands rigid, eyes fixed on his father’s face, wide with fear—his mother’s eyes. “Mother’s sick. She’s in bed.”

“In bed…?”

“And Peter’s gone to fetch the doctor…”

Reichenbach races up the stairs, taking three at a time.

Chapter 4

The night before Friederike Luise’s light went out, Reichenbach sat in his study, plans for the new wood-carbonization furnace spread before him, complete with changes and improvements born of past failures. One couldn’t endlessly stare into fate’s empty eye sockets; he had to force himself to turn his mind elsewhere. Sitting by the sickbed, waiting, was unbearable. Waiting for what? The inevitable, signaled clearly enough by Dr. Roskoschny’s averted gaze and head-shaking? For a man used to mastering life, gripping it with both fists, kneading his will into things, this was intolerable. Sitting at the edge of grief and despair, powerless to help, was beyond his strength.

There were the drawings and sketches—shut-off valves, serpentine heating tubes, exhaust ducts, condensers, bellows—but even as Reichenbach pulled himself together and spurred his focus, he could draw and calculate for an hour. In the second hour, his attention waned, and it rose around him like water, dissolving his limbs.

It was a green, glowing flood, like the water in the Punkva cave, and he drifted on a raft over it. He saw stones on the bottom, the play of fish, and then a face swam just below the surface—his own, of course. He had never seen himself so closely, every feature sharper than in any mirror. Yet there was something strange in the familiar, something mysterious, unsettling, fearsome. Yes, that’s how it must be, Reichenbach thought, when the veils are stripped away. Veils? he wondered immediately. Why that word?

He jolted, somehow pulled away from his blueprints by the question, feeling as if someone in the next room had spoken the word aloud.

Reichenbach listened intently, but all was silent. His head swam from the sharp odors of the fumigated house.

Next door was the children’s bedroom. The children were gone; they couldn’t stay with their sick mother—the doctor forbade it, and the old count insisted they be taken to his castle. Beyond the empty children’s room was the room where Friederike Luise fought her hopeless battle for life, the marital bedroom now overshadowed by death. Frau Paleczek was with the sick woman. She wouldn’t be kept from keeping vigil, as all the maids except Susi had fled, and even Susi couldn’t be persuaded to approach the bed. Strangely, Frau Paleczek’s heavy steps had softened, her bass voice now gentle.

Perhaps Friederike Luise had spoken in her fever, or Paleczek had said something, or someone had called for Reichenbach. He stood and went to the children’s room, Distant lightning flared silently through the night, a faint glow from the lantern above the front door creeping through the windows, just bright enough to reveal the three empty children’s beds.

Then Reichenbach saw a figure standing among the beds, a mere shadow, tall, fleeting, indistinct—but surely, yes, none other than Friederike Luise.

“How did you get here? What are you doing?” Reichenbach asked, astonished.

“I was with the children,” Friederike Luise’s voice answered softly, sadly. With the children, Reichenbach wanted to ask, but the shadow was suddenly gone. The empty beds stood there, and lightning flickered over the valley. No door had creaked, but somehow Friederike Luise must have slipped out, and if he hurried, he might catch her climbing back into her bed. A wild hope of a sudden turn for the better surged through him.

But when Reichenbach opened the door, his wife lay in her pillows, face turned to the wall, so faintly nestled he could hardly believe she’d stood before him moments ago. Frau Paleczek sat beside her, her dark face bent over a worn prayer book.

“Was my wife up?” Reichenbach asked.

Paleczek stared at him through owl-round reading glasses. “Up? Oh, Jesus, Mary, the gracious lady hasn’t stirred for two hours. I think she’s sleeping. That’s good.”

“But I saw her—” Reichenbach wanted to say. He held back, realizing exhaustion, inner brokenness, and hopeless longing had clouded his senses.

When Frau Paleczek thought the sick woman’s sleep was a good, healing one, she was mistaken. It opened a dark gate for the patient, who passed through at dawn without regaining consciousness—a rare mercy, Dr. Roskoschny said, almost a gift from heaven.

Frau Paleczek set to washing the body, though washing cholera victims was forbidden. She refused to let the body be covered with quicklime, as regulations required, and Dr. Roskoschny turned a blind eye, feeling Friederike Luise shouldn’t be lumped with the mass of other victims.

Remarkably, news of her death spread quickly among the people. Though she was buried on her death day with no pomp, her simple coffin drew an unusually large following. Usually, only a few close relatives trailed behind, hasty and timid, some even seeming relieved when the earth thudded into the grave. But people couldn’t seem to tear themselves away from Friederike Luise’s coffin. The sobbing wrapped around the coffin like a web, cloaking it in a blanket woven from the heart’s emotion. Everyone found it fitting that, after the pastor’s blessing, the old count stepped to the grave to speak.

He didn’t get far. “We’ve come to say farewell, Friederike Luise—” he began, but his voice broke, tears streamed down, he shook his head, and stepped back. Then people approached Reichenbach, shaking his hand; some gently touched the heads of the children standing meekly nearby. Most did so silently, though a few felt compelled to offer words of comfort. Reichenbach had held himself together with composure, never losing control for a moment. Everything had been strangely vivid, but now, as it was essentially over and faces kept appearing and turning away in an endless stream, a veil fell over his clarity. Many faces he didn’t recognize; others he named only after long thought. There was Mandrial, the pastor; the broad cheekbones likely belonged to the chemist Mader; the timid dog-like eyes to the tutor Futterknecht; and that wretched expression to Forester Ruf, who said something about six children…

Yes, yes, Reichenbach had heard something about it. He recalled now, in the days when Friederike Luise fought against death, something about his seven children. Six had died, and only little Friederike, the deceased’s godchild, was still alive.

Friederike Luise had likely caught the germ of the disease from Ruf’s children. Yes, that’s how things were connected—everything somehow intertwined, however incomprehensible it seemed.

Then Reichenbach climbed the stairs in his house, and someone walked beside him—the old count Hugo zu Salm, personally baptized by Maria Theresa. A little later, Reichenbach sat on the sofa in the living room, the old count beside him, the house otherwise eerily empty. There were likely three children somewhere in the house, but with Futterknecht, who ensured they stayed quiet.

The day was dreary and cool. Reichenbach shivered, saying, “Autumn’s not far now, and the doctor thinks the cholera will stop then.” It could stop now, having taken its toll.

Then a voice came, as if from deep darkness: “It was a sin… a sinful thought… you cast such things into the world, and there are indeed evil spirits around us, waiting for such thoughts. They seize them and turn them into weapons. It’s my fault.”

Reichenbach perked up, realizing the voice had been speaking for a while. “What’s your fault?” he asked.

“I shouldn’t have linked my life with hers. I shouldn’t have done it, back when I fell in the water. That thought: if I escape, nothing will happen to her. It was as if they let me go to take her instead. I’m to blame for her death. It just sprang up in me so suddenly.”

“How can you talk like that?” Reichenbach protested. “Ask the doctor—she caught it from Ruf’s children.”

“Yes, yes… but that doesn’t get to the root of it. It’s the life force that decides in the end. And I want to get to the bottom of things.” As darkness fell, the old count rose. “You’ll have to work without me for a while. Lord Rumford has invited me to England for some experiments he wants my help with. And Richter in Berlin wants to conduct a few trials together. Then I’ll study English wool-spinning. And in Strasbourg, there’s a Société Harmonique exploring Mesmerism—I’d like to look into that too. I’ve been planning it for a long time.”

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OD: Chapter 3, pages 33-38

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged fantasy, fiction, nature, travel, writing on September 3, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 3, pages 33-38

“Where are the gentlemen headed?” Friederike Luise asks, brushing past the reproach.

Reichenbach mumbles something about inspecting the forest, then they shake hands and go their separate ways. The old count is silent for a moment, then says, “She has such a beautiful confidence. Maybe she’s right—how could something like that touch her? Wouldn’t it make you despair of God? But you shouldn’t let her.”

Reichenbach grumbles about allowing or not allowing and not letting anyone interfere, and how stubborn she can be, but deep down, he’s glad he saw Friederike Luise and held her warm, firm hand in his for a moment.

They stride out briskly now, and Reichenbach shifts the conversation to the damned furnace, still burning, which must be extinguished before they can build a new one. It’s the same path they took that moonlit night of the meteor fall, passing the hunting lodge and entering the Od Valley, always upstream along the Punkva, which they plan to tackle today. They reach the spot where the Punkva emerges from the rock a second time, and then it grows quiet beside them; the living water now flows within dead stone. And now they’re at the place where the little river vanishes into the cliff, and the narrow valley feels livelier again, with that voice of the water beside them. At last, they reach the spot where the Punkva first emerges from the rock, out of a wide, dark cave, its stone vault dipping low to the water’s surface.

The miners Franta and Hadraba are already waiting with two rafts, ropes, lamps, and all the gear for a journey into the underworld. The rafts are simple—each made of two planks, cross-latticed, with two more planks on top, just wide and long enough for a man to lie on and use his hands as paddles.

“Has the water level dropped?” Reichenbach asks.

“About a foot and a half, please, sir!” Franta replies.

Franta and Hadraba, the two miners from Willimowit, had to clear stones and boulders from the outlet on Reichenbach’s orders. They also dug a deep channel in the streambed to speed the water’s flow. And now the water has indeed dropped—perfectly, by about a foot and a half. Last week, when Reichenbach tried alone, the water in the first cave was too high to go further.

Reichenbach and the old count exchange a glance, reading readiness in each other’s eyes. They shed their clothes, tie ropes around their waists, and, in shirts and underdrawers, carefully slide onto the wobbly planks, still held at the shore by the helpers. At the front of each raft, a small oil lamp smokes in a glass tulip on a short stem, A waterproof pouch with tinder is nailed to the planks.

Reichenbach turns his head. Beside him lies the old count, arms spread, hands dangling in the water, smiling at him.

“Go!” Reichenbach commands. Franta and Hadraba give the rafts a push, and hands paddle on either side of the planks. Man and craft become flat fish with two short fins and a murky red, smoldering, stalked light organ at the head.

Dark, eerily quiet, the waterway emerges from under the stone arch, leading into the earth’s belly. The countercurrent is barely felt; the wooden fish paddle forward. It grows dim, the anxious red light pushing against rock that sinks, dipping into the flood. The water path turns left, daylight fades behind them, rock and water nearly touch.

“At this spot,” Reichenbach says, “last week I had to push the raft under the water. Not needed today. Just keep paddling behind me.” His voice rings painfully loud, as if through a megaphone. He shouldn’t speak, the old count thinks—no, the human voice shouldn’t sound so bold here, where something might sleep that’s better left undisturbed. Here, one should only whisper.

Cautiously, the men inch forward, one behind the other, through the low entrance, the lamp’s glass tulip nearly scraping the ceiling. But then the stone canopy above their heads recedes, the light breathes freely, stretching toward the ceiling of a cave polished smooth by spring floods and thunderstorms.

Dark openings in the walls lead onward. Reichenbach paddles toward the largest, his compass before him. “We’re heading straight for the Macocha. Maybe this is the same water as at its bottom,” he says.

He’s talking again, the old count thinks, feeling they should be silent here, like fish.

They glide into a second, roomier cave. Stalactites hang from the ceiling, large and small, snowy white. At the tip of each clings a tiny water droplet. For the first time, human eyes behold this marvel of millennia. A cold droplet falls on the old count’s shirt, stinging like a needle between his shoulder blades.

The vault sinks toward the water again. “Will we make it through?” Reichenbach asks before the narrow gap. “We’ve got to try.” He pushes the raft to the wall, wedges it under the rock, arches his back, presses against the ceiling, forcing himself and the frail planks underwater, keeping only the light—the searching, forward-probing eye—above, unextinguished.

How long is this perilous passage? Will their breath hold? A gamble with little chance of turning back. For the old count, left behind, it’s a painful wait, an almost unbearable strain on his soul. Fear? Hardly, but a sudden realization of the reckless audacity of their venture grips him. Something unknown glares from the darkness and solitude. He pushes away troubling thoughts, silences his conscience to stay strong. All reproaches must fall silent now; he thinks only of Friederike Luise, her eyes, the pressure of her hand that sent a spark through his veins, like dwelling on the eyes and hands of a sacred icon.

Then a voice comes from the crevice, a strained sound: “Keep going. It’s alright!”

Without hesitation, the old count pushes his raft underwater, feels the icy flow envelop him, shoves with his back, paddles with his hands, holds his breath tight in his compressed chest. Just when he thinks he can’t bear it any longer, the raft surfaces, air rushing back.

The two rafts float in a hall, its vault soaring beyond the reach of their light, lost in darkness above their heads.

“This is as far as we go!” Reichenbach says. They paddle along the walls, encrusted and coated with limestone, sloping into the water everywhere except the entry point. A white curtain of rippling folds hangs from the darkness to the water’s surface. As Reichenbach passes, he raps his knuckle against the stalactite. It rings like a bronze bell—music of the underworld.

“We’d need a very dry year,” Reichenbach says. “Maybe then it’d work. Today, we turn back.”

They squeeze through the passage into the second cave, where stalactites hang. Take one, the old count thinks, for Friederike Luise—a trophy from the underworld.

He kneels on the raft, eyes searching for the finest, largest stalactite, reaching out, but the planks slip from under him. He stumbles, grasps for support, and plunges thrashing into the water. A spray shoots up, falls back, dousing both lamps. Reichenbach clings to his rocking raft, seeing a struggling body in glassy green, wild, frantic, aimless movements stirring air bubbles. This isn’t the steady confidence of a swimmer at ease in water—it’s a desperate fight against death. A moment’s hesitation, then he tears the rope from his waist, ties a loop, and as the sinking man’s flailing brings him briefly to the surface, throws the line over his head and arms.

“Calm! Stay calm!” Reichenbach urges, pulling the old count close and paddling with one hand to the drifting raft. “Try to climb up now!”

Obediently, the old count grabs the planks, slides them under himself, rolls his body onto them, and scrambles aboard. Then he lies still, exhausted, surrendering to the reclaimed sense of life.

“You can’t even swim, can you?” Reichenbach asks reproachfully.

“I can swim,” the old count gasps, “swim well, just as I can ride, shoot, and fence. But I don’t know what happened. A paralysis… like a stone around my body… I was pulled down…” He adds, “If it weren’t for you…”

Reichenbach doesn’t reply, his attention now wholly captured by something else. He only now realizes why, despite the lamps going out, they aren’t in darkness. Light radiates from the depths, the water glowing in emerald green, like liquid bottle glass flecked with gold, so clear you can see the rocky bottom, every stone, and the trout standing still or flashing their white bellies in swift turns—green stars, meteors of the deep.

The walls, ceiling, and stalactites shimmer in this green reflection, drawn under the rocks. Waves stirred by paddling hands cast their glimmer onto the stone, bringing it to life. When you scoop water and pour it out, a spray of sparkling gems falls back. It’s daylight’s light, the green forest light of trees, absorbed by the water and carried beneath the rocks—a fairy-tale harmony of elements: water, stone, and light.

The feeble human wit of the lamps had hidden this wonder; now, with them extinguished, it shines in unveiled splendor. They need no further light, finding their way through this green enchanted realm back through the cave’s mouth to the miners Franta and Hadraba, who are a bit worried, and to old Johann, who has arrived with the carriage as the old count ordered.

Soaking wet, the two men lie in the grass to dry off a bit before diving into the basket old Johann brought. As they clink their first glasses, the old count furrows his brow, turning serious: “Do you think thoughts can weigh like stones, stopping you from swimming?” For a moment, it seems he wants to say more, but seeing Reichenbach’s skeptical face, he suppresses the urge and forces his old smile. “And now, on top of everything, you’re my lifesaver! Cheers!”

“Oh, don’t talk about it,” Reichenbach grumbles. But deep down, it’s not unpleasant to be his master’s lifesaver, all else aside. There are still a few things he’d like to see settled his way.

After a pause, the old count adds, “You know what I thought when I suddenly couldn’t swim?”

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OD: Chapter 3, pages 27-32

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged book-review, books, fiction, history, writing on September 2, 2025| Leave a Comment »

by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 3

Three days after the christening feast, Frau Paleczek was back in the forester’s small cottage, but in a different role than before.

She had a corpse to wash—the body of Frau Ruf, who had died of childbed fever. Despite all brave resistance, death had won out, and Dr. Roskoschny’s hope of pulling her through was dashed. Medicine could name the thing raging in the new mother’s veins, straining her body and twisting her face in agony—childbed fever—but it couldn’t say where it came from or offer a real cure. In the end, it had to leave the outcome to God.

And now Frau Paleczek bent her face, black as the Virgin of Częstochowa or Kiritein, over the ashen one on the red-checkered pillow, dressing the deceased in a clean gown.

And then she said, “Jesus, Mary… seven children… such a pretty young woman… and seven little children … such misery… such misfortune. What’ll you do now, Herr Ruf?”

The forester sits in the corner, head in his hands, silent. What should he do? What can he do? He doesn’t know—seven little children, one a tiny infant, and their mother dead.

“For a few days, I can help out,” Paleczek grumbles in her deepest bass, full of pity, “but I can’t stay long, of course—I’ve got my own business to tend to.” Then, after folding the deceased’s hands over her chest, an idea strikes her. “Maybe your wife’s sister could come, your sister-in-law in Lettowitz. Right?”

The sister-in-law in Lettowitz. Maybe, perhaps the sister-in-law. But the forester is paralyzed, unable to stir. Just three days ago, he was a happy man, a man of importance, sitting between Frau Director and the pastor, bringing home a slight buzz—not from beer or schnapps, but from wine, fine wine like the gentry drink at the castle. And now look at him: seven children, and his wife dead!

Everyone feels great pity for him, all of them. They all come to the funeral, even Frau Director Reichenbach, and many weep as the coffin is lowered into the grave and the six orphans begin to sob. The old count is visibly moved, subdued and distracted in a way wholly unlike him—one might almost say timid. He speaks to no one and leaves after the funeral, heading straight home without looking at anyone. It clearly hits him hard that the woman has died—she used to help out at the castle often. Then Frau Director Reichenbach pulls Ruf aside and says, “You’ve got it tough now, Herr Ruf, but you must keep your head up and trust in God.”

Oh, keep his head up—if only it were that easy, if his head weren’t so heavy, sinking to his chest again and again. Worries weigh like lead.

“I’ll send Susi to you,” says Frau Director. “She’s good with children—she was the eldest of nine at home and had to look after the others. And I’ll come check on you every day.”

That lightens his head a good bit, enough for the forester to lift it and look into Frau Director’s eyes. His hand, no longer so limp, meets hers as she reaches out.

For a few days, Ernsttal and Blansko buzz with talk of Frau Ruf’s death—how young she looked, despite all those children, and how cheerful she always was. They speak of the tragedy of seven motherless children, of Frau Director Reichenbach’s kindness in taking them under her wing, and of the old count sending Ruf a heap of money—a saint of a man, that old count! The talk might have gone on longer, but then comes the news that the machinist Schnuparek, on Sunday, leaving the factory tavern walking out, is struck by sudden illness. A searing pain grips his gut, as if he’d drunk sulfuric acid, tearing his insides apart, turning him inside out. He clutches his stomach, groans, roars, and finally, everything goes black before his eyes.

They find Schnuparek in the roadside ditch, thinking at first he’s drunk, but Schnuparek isn’t drunk—he’s sick. They lift him and carry him to bed. Then Dr. Roskoschny is fetched. He puts on his gravest face, orders vinegar sprayed and juniper burned, and declares it’s cholera that’s struck Schnuparek.

It can no longer be hidden: cholera has come to the land. Now everyone knows what the falling stone from the sky meant. It foretold cholera, the great dying with no escape. There it is—laughing off such things and mocking the fear as foolishness does no good. The great lords don’t know any better than the common folk, and it might’ve been wiser to leave those ill-fated stones where they fell in the forest instead of picking them up and hauling them to the laboratory, as Reichenbach did. Surely they were poisonous, surely they carried the disease.

But what good is the whispering and grumbling now? The specter is here, its first shadow cast over the christening feast, standing among the people, reaching into houses and huts, snatching the farmer from the field, the worker from the lathe, the mold, the furnace, the miner from the pit, the clerk from his books.

Forester Ruf decides it’s time to fetch his sister-in-law from Lettowitz. Two of Frau Director Reichenbach’s maids have fled home to their village, where it might be safer, so Susi is hard to spare, and Frau Director can’t spend all day with the children.

But when Ruf arrives in Lettowitz, he finds his sister-in-law in bed. A few hours ago, she had to lie down, gripped by searing pain in her gut, moaning and groaning, her face burning with fever, blue spots visible on her chest.

Ruf sits with the sick woman for half an hour, giving her drops of Jerusalem miracle balm, good for everything—frostbite, toothache, gout, headaches—then leaves, deeply troubled and at a loss, heading home.

Plenty of fresh air, preaches Dr. Roskoschny, plenty of fresh air and movement.

Work grinds to a halt; people are sick or hiding. This gives Reichenbach time to explore the strange land fate has brought him to. He believes one must know how to gain something from every situation, even making misfortune serve a purpose.

Years ago, when he was at the chemical laboratory of the Polytechnic Institute in Vienna, the old count Hugo met Salm-Reifferscheidt, this region was as foreign to the Swabian as some stretch of the Congo or Niger. Even then, the two men took a liking to each other, bonding over their scientific pursuits. When the old prince handed over the estates and factories to his son to retire, the old count promptly summoned Reichenbach. That was many years ago, and the ironworks and laboratory have consumed so much time and energy that little else could take hold.

Now, though, there’s a chance to look around. It’s a remarkable landscape, these forests in the heart of Moravia—a stretch of limestone with strange sinkholes, caves, and karst rivers. There’s the Macocha, or “Stepmother” in German, a chasm so deep you could set Vienna’s St. Stephen’s Tower in it; caves with bones of prehistoric animals and ancient firepits; underground domes and passages with stalactites. And the rivers! They surge from a rocky maw, dark and unfathomable, only to vanish again into mysterious depths after a brief run above ground.

Reichenbach roams with a geologist’s hammer, tapping cave walls, digging in clay-filled crevices. Then a desire grips him to uncover the secrets of the Punkva River. Others have tried and failed before him, but he will succeed; what others botch only spurs him to push to the utmost.

It’s settled: Reichenbach and the chemist Mader are to venture together, each on a light raft, to probe the Punkva River’s secrets. It must be done discreetly—Friederike Luise shouldn’t know yet; no, it’s better not to tell her, as she’s no fan of such risky undertakings. Reichenbach waits for Mader, then realizes he should say goodbye to Friederike Luise. There’s no real danger, but still, one doesn’t just slip away without a word.

“Where’s your mother?” he asks Reinhold.

Reinhold stands at attention. “She just left for Forester Ruf’s—one of the children is sick, and she’s going to check on them.”

Reichenbach paces impatiently in the garden, plucks a green caterpillar from a rosebush and crushes it, then cuts an unruly vine from the arbor with his knife. Mader’s taking his time—always taking his time. Someone needs to give him a good shake.

Someone passes by the bushes outside. But it’s not Mader—it’s the old count. “Mader sent me,” he smiles. “I’ve switched places with him.”

“What? Mader? Switched?”

“It’s not very nice of you,” the old count says good-naturedly, feigning offense, “keeping secrets from me. Why not take me along, Reichenbach? You know I’m keenly interested in such things. I tried it once long ago with a canoe, but it didn’t work out.”

“So Mader couldn’t keep his mouth shut?”

“Thank God, or I’d have missed out on the fun.”

“But—you know a fellow from Vienna nearly drowned trying to swim it. If his wife hadn’t pulled him out…”

“Does your wife know?”

“No,” Reichenbach says, “she mustn’t find out.”

Then the old count asks, as Reichenbach did earlier, “Where’s your wife?” Perhaps he asks because he thinks it wise to shake her hand before embarking on something rather unusual. He seems uneasy to hear Friederike Luise isn’t home.

“Well, then, let’s go in God’s name,” he says finally.

They walk on foot to avoid drawing attention or involving too many people. But as they pass near the forester’s cottage, they spot Friederike Luise on the meadow path. The old count stops, his face lighting up with joy. “I haven’t had the chance to see you in ages, gracious lady.”

“You were at Ruf’s?” Reichenbach asks.

“Yes, Lada’s very sick—the third eldest. The doctor just arrived and sent me home at once. He was almost rude, told me not to dare come back.”

“Does he think—?” Reichenbach hesitates, reluctant to say the word, as if speaking it aloud carries danger.

“Please be careful,” the old count urges, concerned. “What good does it do? You can’t help, and you have children at home.”

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OD: Chapter 2, pages 23-26

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fiction, romance, short-story, writing on September 1, 2025| Leave a Comment »

The glasses were still clinking when the old count also took the floor: “My dear friend Reichenbach has given the father our little Friederike well-deserved praise, but having children is a matter that involves at least two people, and if we men were alone in the world, the emperor would soon have no soldiers left. So let us not forget the mother of today’s christened child, who sadly cannot be with us today because the stork bit her leg a bit too hard. We wish her a speedy recovery and the return of her strength. But we should also honor another woman to whom we owe a thousand thanks. ‘Honor the women,’ our great Schiller already said, and truly, he was right, for it is women who bring sunshine into our lives and adorn it with the roses of love and loyalty.”

The old count paused and lowered his gaze into his half-raised glass, as if he saw something reflected there that made him pensive.

“Reinhold!” Ottane whispered to her brother. “Pass me a Linzer Kränzerl. No one’s looking.”

Reinhold saw all eyes fixed on the speaker; they were unnoticed, they could risk it. Carefully, his hand crept across the tablecloth to the tempting dish and snatched two of the round, golden-yellow, fragrant cookies—one for Ottane, one for Hermine.

“You’ll have no doubt who I mean,” the old count resumed, his voice thick with emotion, “none other than the good angel of these houses and huts, who has bestowed a thousand blessings and deserves a thousand thanks. There’s likely no family in this valley that hasn’t experienced the kindness and generosity of this woman who hasn’t found her a comforter and benefactor, a helper in misfortune, and a sympathetic friend in good times. This time, too, she has shown our good Ruf that she shares in the joys and sorrows of even humble people. So I believe I speak for all when I say: our hostess, the godmother of little Friederike, our esteemed Frau Director Reichenbach, may she live long—cheers, cheers, cheers!”

The speaker unleashed enthusiasm—who could toast more sincerely than this woman, so different from the stiff, formal, aloof old countess? Everyone knew the dishes sent in her name went on her husband’s account.

But as the old count leaned toward Friederike Luise to clink glasses, she said with quiet reproach, “Why did you put me on the spot like that?”

“Please,” the old count defended, his voice still trembling slightly, “let me at least once say what I think of you. Forgive me.”

Then Frau Paleczek signaled that the children’s great table delights could begin—the Linzer Kränzerln, gingerbread, preserved nuts, candied calamus. The christening cake was cut, the strawberry punch served, and the mood grew ever cozier toward evening.

The first to leave was the doctor: “I must still check on Frau Ruf, and I have a patient at home who needs me.”

The others rose from the table and left. Forester Ruf pressed close to Reichenbach, grasping his hand, his eyes glistening with tears and wine. “Herr Director… Herr Director… forever… forever your grateful… to you and the gracious Frau… an honor till my dying day… I’d let myself be cut to pieces for you…”

His tongue stumbled, reluctant to obey, but his heart was deeply moved. “Alright, Ruf,” Reichenbach soothed, “stay steady, just do your duty well.”

As the guests departed and the children started to leave with Herr Futterknecht, Reichenbach called his eldest back. “Reinhold! What’s the seventh commandment?”

Reinhold stood rigid and paled. Merciful heavens, did Father have eyes everywhere? “Thou shalt… not steal!” he stammered.

Two hefty slaps landed on the boy’s cheeks. “There! One for each Linzer Kränzerl. And you’ll write a hundred times: I shall not be naughty at the table. That’ll be on my desk by noon tomorrow. Good night.”

Frau Friederike Luise took a vase of roses from the table and carried it to the bedroom. “You shouldn’t always be so harsh with the children,” she said as her husband followed.

“Should I just let such nonsense slide? When even Futterknecht doesn’t keep a better watch! Honestly, he deserves a slap too.”

“I saw it too. Reinhold slipped them to Ottane and Hermine.”

“It’s always better one slap too many than too few. Today Reinhold didn’t know a thing about chromite again.”

Next door, Frau Paleczek bustled, barking orders in her rough bass voice to the maids clearing up. Frau Reichenbach removed her hairpins and loosened her hair before the mirror. “Don’t you think love is the best way to raise children? They’re afraid of you.”

“Oh, nonsense. They can’t learn soon enough that life demands you stay sharp and it’s no child’s game.”

With a small sigh, Friederike Luise dropped an object, letting go of a matter they’d never agree on. “Aren’t you going to undress?” she asked, starting to unbutton her blouse.

“I’ve got to head to my study,” Reichenbach said. “Tomorrow, I’m making a new contract with the old count—I need to draft it. We’ll grow sugar beets, big scale, and produce sugar. If it pans out, I’ll buy Reisenberg near Vienna—a proper castle, and you’ll be a castle lady.” He chuckled briefly, placing a hand on her bare shoulder. “By the way, I think the old count’s a bit sweet on you.”

Big eyes stared at him. “Karl, how can you say such a thing?”

“Oh, come now!” he smiled with a sly grin. “Let him have his fancy. I’d believe his heart doesn’t warm to the old countess. And I know you’ve got no eyes for anyone but me.”

With that, he went to his study to draft a solid, profitable contract that would secure him a good share.

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OD: Chapter 2, pages 16-22

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fantasy, fiction, short-story, writing on August 31, 2025| Leave a Comment »

Chapter 2

On the swing sat little Ottane, with Reinhold keeping it in motion.

“Higher!” Ottane squealed, kicking her thin legs. Her brother strained, stretching himself so that he could just barely touch the swing’s seat at its highest point with his fingertips.

“Now I’m flying!” Ottane crowed. “Now I’m flying into the sky, right through the clouds!”

“What do you see up there?” her brother asked, panting.

“I see lots of sheep on a green meadow. Nothing but—”white sheep. They have blue ribbons around their necks. No, some have red ones too. And they sing…”

“Sheep can’t sing,” Reinhold corrected.

“Oh, yes, the heavenly sheep can sing.” Ottane was indignant that Reinhold wouldn’t believe her sky-sheep could sing.

“If you talk such nonsense, you’ll have to get down,” said her brother, stopping the swing. “It’s Hermine’s turn now. Hermine!”

Hermine was kneeling in the grass by the flowerbed, holding a thick green seedpod in her hand. “Never mind,” she said, “I don’t want to.” She had other things to do; with a sharp little knife, she was already dissecting the elongated pod, carefully studying the arrangement of the snow-white, soft seeds in their tiny cradles.

Ottane obediently climbed off the now-still swing and walked slowly, a bit sadly, to her sister. “Is that why you don’t want to swing?” she asked. “There’s nothing better than flying like that.”

“Look!” Hermine held up the sliced pod to her sister. “See how beautifully the seeds lie side by side.” She pursued the life and growth of the plant world with passionate zeal, dissecting stems, flowers, and roots; her neatly kept herbarium had reached a tally of about five hundred specimens.

“No,” Ottane disagreed, “the whole thing is much nicer.” With a faint pang of regret, Ottane watched for a while as Hermine’s knife continued its work of destruction. Then she put her arm around her sister’s neck: “There’s a huge cake with a seven on it, and Friederike. And whole mountains of gingerbread, sooo high, and candied calamus and preserved nuts—”

“Father’s coming,” Reinhold said, standing by the girls, his voice carrying a note of warning. The children looked up, a ripple of tension and composure running through their bodies.

Reichenbach came through the garden, bringing with him the gravity of life, judicial sternness, responsibility, duty, and a faint unease about the incomprehensible. Only Ottane ran to her father, wrapping her arms around his knees. The other two stood stiff and alert, an unyielding will casting a shadow over them.

“Have you done your lessons?” Reichenbach asked, and the children nodded, Reinhold with a slightly guilty conscience, for two of his six math problems remained unsolved.

“Is Mother back from church yet?” he asked further. No, the christening party hadn’t returned yet; but the old countess had sent a ham and Linzer cookies, Ottane reported, and Frau Paleczek had arrived, putting on a large white apron and a white cap, looking so funny with her dark face, like a fly in buttermilk, Ottane thought.

Reichenbach stroked Ottane’s blond head, listening for a moment to the clatter of plates in the large room on the first floor, where the christening feast was being prepared, and to the booming voice of Frau Paleczek, who had taken command over the maids.

“She sent us out to the garden,” Ottane confessed,— “She doesn’t need us; we’re just in her way.”

Now Reichenbach noticed the sliced seedpod in Hermine’s hands. “Well done!” he praised. “What’s the plant called? Iris germanica. Repeat!”

“Iris germanica,” Hermine recited obediently.

“You’ll write down what you found while dissecting it. The work will be on my desk by noon tomorrow.”

“Father, what’s that?” Ottane asked, tapping the small linen sack Reichenbach held in his hand.

“Well, that’s something special.” Reichenbach lowered the heavy sack to the ground, reached in, and pulled out a black stone. It looked like a dark-brown coal with a host of strange bumps and hollows, as if it were made of a dark, molten glass fused into a lump. At the fracture, it was blue-gray, speckled with iron-gray and yellow flecks.

“What is it?” Reinhold asked eagerly.

“It’s a stone that fell from the sky,” Reichenbach said. When he spoke to the children, his Swabian dialect was scarcely noticeable. “And when it hit the Earth’s air, it shattered. That was a few days ago, at night, but you were all asleep, of course, and didn’t hear a thing. The foolish people say it’s a sign and means trouble. But it was just a stone—granted, a stone from the sky. And we’ve been searching for the pieces, hundreds of them, scattered in an elliptical— pattern, like a strewn field. The smaller pieces fall almost straight down, while the larger ones continue their slanted path. Remember that, Reinhold—you’ll work on a problem about it, and it’ll be on my desk by noon tomorrow. What you see on the outside here is a fusion crust. That comes from the tremendous speed and heat. And what’s inside the stone? I’ve already examined some of the pieces in the laboratory and found various minerals—nickel, labradorite, hornblende, chromite. Reinhold, what is chromite made of?”

Reinhold stared at the stone, a heavy unease sealing his lips. Chromite, my God, chromite—what’s it made of? He stayed silent.

“You don’t know,” said his father, his eyes hardening. “You don’t know. You’ll know it tomorrow and write it out a hundred times on my desk. It’s remarkable that these stones contain iron compounds not found in nature, but which we produce artificially in metallurgy.”

Reichenbach didn’t get a chance to expound further on these curious iron compounds, for now the sound of wheels rolling on the road was heard, and then the decorated carriages came into view, bringing the christening party back from the church.

Frau Paleczek poked her dark face, framed by the white cap, out of the open window and shouted, “Jesus, they’re already here!”

The children felt stones lift from their hearts, far larger and heavier than the ones that fell from the sky. They breathed a sigh of relief and ran to meet the guests. But Hermine still found time to give Reinhold a poke in the ribs. “Write it out a hundred times, ugh!” And Reinhold returned the poke with interest.

Ottane trailed behind slowly, lost in thought. A small tumult had erupted in her mind. Who was throwing these stones from the sky? On her green heavenly meadow with the singing sheep, there were no such black, ugly stones.

The christening feast was loud and merry. That Frau Friederike Luise Reichenbach had taken on the role of godmother for the seventh Ruf child turned the modest forester’s family event into a matter of significance, granting the father honors that dazed and delighted him long before the wine, provided by the old count from his cellar, took effect.

The pastor Mandrial was there, along with Dr. Roskoschny, the chemist Mader, and a dozen other senior officials from the Salm works, and, of course, the old count himself. He sat to the right of the hostess, and to her left, between him and the pastor, the proud father of today’s christened child swelled with a sense of boundless bliss and importance. He was clearly at a pinnacle of his existence, taking great care to match the refined manners and skill of the distinguished company around him. In doing so, he completely forgot the worries about his wife, who had been lying in high fever since the birth of the child, and the ominous head-shaking with which Dr. Roskoschny had stood at the sick woman’s bedside.

Reichenbach had taken his place between the chemist Mader and Dr. Roskoschny, who was Meineke’s successor as the doctor in Lettowitz. They were a welcome audience for his current obsession with meteors—their origins, orbits, and composition—especially since, alongside the already-convinced Mader, the doctor was a skeptic who still needed persuading.

At the lower end of the table sat the children next to their tutor, a poor, peasant-looking philosophy student named Futterknecht, whose name seemed to prophetically chart his life’s course. They were perfectly well-behaved and modest, but their eyes lingered with growing longing on the dish of the old count’s Linzer Kränzerln nearby, waiting for the moment it would be served.

But Frau Paleczek, midwife, corpse-washer, and indispensable fixture at every festive feast far and wide, kept bringing out new platters of roasted and baked poultry from the kitchen. Her quick eyes darted over the table and guests, and her face—blackened since time immemorial by some ailment—gave no hint of when she would finally allow them to move on to the long-prepared pastries.

“That’s how it is,” Reichenbach said, clapping the doctor on the shoulder. “You can believe me, and once I’ve thoroughly studied the material, I’ll write a major treatise on meteors that’ll push science forward a bit.”

The doctor shook his head, unable to accept what Reichenbach was explaining. “Couldn’t it have been an optical illusion?” he asked cautiously, with the tenacity of his old-school training, reluctant to abandon an opinion without proof.

“Optical illusion, please, Doctor,” Reichenbach snapped. “The old count saw it, and I saw it, and we were only on the second bottle of Forster Hofstück—where’s the illusion supposed to come from?”

The doctor stared gravely ahead. “For now, it looks like the common folk with their superstitions might be right.”

“Please, don’t talk like that as a man of science!”

“Haven’t you read about the epidemic in Hamburg?”

“What’s Hamburg got to do with us?”

“And last week it started in Prague. And since yesterday, I’ve had a case in Lettowitz that seems highly suspicious to me.”

Reichenbach paused. “What exactly do you mean?”

The doctor hesitated to say the word, glanced around, and then said very quietly, “Cholera! But please,” he added quickly, “keep it to yourself. The symptoms aren’t entirely clear yet. We don’t want to cause alarm among the people prematurely.”

A gray shadow fell over the table and the guests, a hollow-eyed specter in a blood-flecked shroud grinned palely through the loud, carefree merriment.

But Reichenbach wouldn’t let himself be daunted. “Oh, come off it,” he said brusquely, “with your cholera! In summer, it’s just stomachache season—people gobble cherries and currants and unripe apples, then gulp down raw milk, and there’s your cholera. Besides, if medicine was worth anything, it would’ve found a cure for it by now.”

“The best remedy for cholera is not catching it,” the doctor admitted. “Careful eating, plenty of fresh air, and staying away from the sick.”

“That’s not much wisdom to boast about,” Reichenbach scoffed. “And the best remedy for childbed fever is not having children!” Then he added, “How’s our Frau Ruf doing?”

“I hope we’ll pull her through,” Roskoschny said curtly.

A gesture from the hostess drew Reichenbach away from further attacks on medicine. It reminded him of his duties. With a sharp tap of his knife against his glass, Reichenbach called for attention and stood to toast the christened child and her proud father. After tossing in a few more jocular remarks about Ruf’s remarkable vigor and the blessings of his marriage, he urged those present to raise their glasses to the father and little Friederike.

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OD: Chapter 1, Pages 7-15

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged books, fiction, god, reading, writing on August 30, 2025| Leave a Comment »

By Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

“I know,” Reichenbach replied gruffly, “nothing but trifles and side matters.” To him, all that had been achieved and accomplished were mere trifles and side matters; the great and decisive things always lay a bit further ahead in the dark, brittle, resistant unknown. Failures didn’t paralyze him; they spurred him forward. That thick Swabian skull knew no surrender.

The carriage jolted over the dark, rutted path, then the hooves clattered over small wooden bridges under which the Punkwa roared, the mysterious river of this landscape.

After a while of silence, Reichenbach said: “Sometimes it feels like there’s an evil spirit haunting my life. You know, don’t you, that as a young man I spent two months locked up in the Hohenasperg fortress?”

“Where Schubart was once imprisoned?”

“Yes. And do you know why? Because I wanted to emigrate to Tahiti with a few friends. Back then, Napoleon had made our own homeland unbearable for Germans, and the king was pressing all young men into military service. That’s why we weren’t allowed to emigrate and got locked up—because we didn’t want to fight Napoleon’s wars. And who betrayed our plan? I truly believe it must have been that same evil spirit. Because sometimes I think I’d be better off if I were with the Tahitians in the Pacific Ocean now. It’s always like this: I manage this or that, but when it comes to the real thing, it just doesn’t work out—there the devil puts his tail on it.”

The old count didn’t reply; he likely thought he should let his friend talk out his frustration. They had now reached the spot where the Dry Valley and the Od Valley meet. The waning moon had risen above the forest’s edge, sleepy and mute lay the Skala Mill, its white limestone cliffs glowing in the pale light. The stars had faded before the moon, except for the brightest ones; the Punkwa trickled silver over the stones.

The Salm hunting lodge was a simple wooden structure with a veranda on the upper floor under a jutting roof. They stopped, and the servant carried the bottle basket up the stairs behind them.

There they sat in the moonlight, and the old count Hugo let a greenish wine flow from a narrow bottle neck into bulbous goblets. “Forster Hofstück!” he said. “Your wine, Reichenbach! Cheers!”

A brief, bright clink of glass on glass, then the Punkwa’s rush grew louder again.

“I always think of Karoline von Linsingen when I’m in this lodge,” said the old count into the weave of the night, “the later Frau Doktor Meineke. She loved sitting here too. A remarkable woman.”

“Hm!” Reichenbach cleared his throat and tilted his goblet to catch the moonlight, making the wine sparkle.

“You know, your wife reminds me of Frau Meineke. She’s just as gentle and quiet, and been a bit dreamy. A remarkable woman. She was already dead when you arrived here. But you knew Meineke, and you were quite close with their daughter, Frau Teubner. I don’t know the whole story very well, but Frau Teubner gave you the letters of the deceased, so you know more about it.”

“God, an unhappy love affair,” Reichenbach growled.

It was a soft, gentle, soul-soothing summer night, perfectly suited for reflecting on an unhappy love story. And besides, it was time for Reichenbach to move on from the furnace that nearly blew them all sky-high. “Yes, she was,” the old count continued, “as far as I know, she was morganatically married to the Duke of Clarence, later King William IV of England.”

The Forster Hofstück had slowly begun to lift Reichenbach’s sullen and irritated mood. “They were properly married,” he said. “They were wed in Vermont, by a Scottish priest, all in secret. The queen tolerated the affair at first, as long as it was just an affair, but when it got serious, she raged against it and refused to recognize the marriage.”

“The quintessential mother-in-law,” the old count interjected.

“Karoline loved the prince dearly, but she was too proud and too noble to throw the entire royal family into chaos. She insisted the marriage could stand, but she gave in and agreed to the separation.”

The old count pulled the second bottle from the basket, poured, and asked in between: “And Meineke?”

“Yes, he was a doctor in Hannover back then and was called to Karoline when she was lying in a fever from grief and distress. They say she was out of her mind for a week, and everyone thought she was done for and ready to be buried. Only Meineke recognized that she was still alive and saved her from being put in the grave. And later, out of gratitude, she gave him her hand. But Meineke probably dressed it up romantically after the fact.”

“Why? Why dressed up?” asked the old count. An unhappy woman and a strange story, but that’s just how it was—there were ordinary stories and strange ones, and perhaps the charm of life lay in its peculiarities and mysteries. Why didn’t Reichenbach believe Doktor Meineke’s story? Surely there was some secret principle in people, something magnetic, a fluid or the like, that entered the body and left it again, and perhaps that was what made up life. The Indian fakirs with their tricks, right? They lie down, hold their breath, and stay as if dead for months, then get up, and everything’s as it was before. And the spiritualists with their table-turning and ghostly apparitions? It’s not entirely laughable. Maybe it’s true that they draw life force from their mediums, that magnetism, that certain principle, and then work with it.

“Oh, come now,” said Reichenbach mockingly from above, “don’t rack your brain with such nonsense!”

But the old count couldn’t be stopped when he got to talking about these things. And what about animal magnetism? That couldn’t be denied, could it? There was the case of von Linsingen. And he could tell a story from his own family, dreadful enough, that had happened to one of his own relatives. She had died and was properly laid to rest in the Salm family crypt in Bloup. The next day, the sacristan heard a clattering and rumbling under the church floor at night. The noise came from the crypt, and the sacristan told himself it could only be the countess making a racket—that is, though she had died and been laid in the coffin, her spirit was somehow, understandably, restless. So he locked the church and went home. The next day, the spirit was making a commotion in broad daylight, which, frankly, isn’t proper for a respectable ghost. The priest was called; he heard the uproar too. A Countess Salm finding no rest in her grave? Could a deceased countess Salm even haunt? One only haunts if they’ve left something unresolved in life, and a Countess Salm, even after death, has a duty to the family to keep her conduct above reproach. Besides, a church is a consecrated place, guaranteeing peace in the crypt. And what would people think of a church disturbed by a ghost? So, not a word of it; the priest made the sacristan swear to silence. The noise did indeed grow weaker and weaker, and after a week, it stopped entirely. But years later, when the crypt was opened again to remove a coffin, they found a human skeleton on the stone steps, and the countess’s coffin was open and empty.

Reichenbach shrugged. There could be no doubt about the truth of the account, but what was it supposed to prove?

“The life force,” said the old count eagerly, “that’s the great mystery. Where is the life force when the body lies in a death-like state? Or even when it’s asleep? It wanders around, maybe enters another person. That’s what they call possession. Or a demon. You yourself spoke of an evil spirit haunting your life.”

Reichenbach grew irritated, seeing his own words turned against him: “Oh, come on, sometimes you just spout that kind of nonsense!”

“No, there are still plenty of gaps in our science. They call Africa the dark continent. But I tell you, the human being is a far darker continent than Africa.”

The old count broke off; a glowing sign had suddenly appeared in the night sky. It had burst forth from the cluster of stars, right where a thin cloud was veiling them—a fiery ball, as big as the moon and brighter. It trailed a blazing tail, igniting the cloud with its light so that it flared like a fiery host, growing quickly larger than the moon, twice as large, six times, ten times… Had the heavens opened? Was its fire breaking forth to devour the earth? And now the blaze burst into a sheaf of colored light points; streaks flashed, darted earthward over the hunting lodge. Sparks sprayed as if from an iron block struck between hammer and anvil; three thunderclaps crashed down, followed by a rumbling that rolled away, chased by a whistling and whooshing, as if a monstrous whip were being swung between heaven and earth. Then came a cracking and snapping of branches in the forest and a splash in the water, like a stone hurled.

“Now, what was that?” cried the old count. “Did Saint Peter’s wood-carbonization furnace explode up there or what?”

The lantern, which had been all but extinguished in the onslaught of the heavenly fire, flickered back to life with its faint, earthly glow.

Reichenbach had leapt up, gripping the veranda railing and staring into the night. But nothing stirred anymore; the apparition had vanished, and the Punkwa rushed as before. Reichenbach returned, agitated, enraptured, inspired: “Did you see it too? Where did it come from?”

“From up there,” said the old count hesitantly, pointing with his finger to a spot among the stars, “at least, I think so.”

“Definitely from up there! Do you know what that was? It was a meteor! And we Salm folks saw it fall straight from the sky. Right from the heavens. But the know-it-alls don’t want to believe that stones can fall from the sky. Not until a few years ago near Paris, when stones nearly bashed their heads in. Tomorrow, I’ll go collect those stones—one must be in the Punkwa; you heard it too, didn’t you?”

“Well, Reichenbach,” said the old count, “there you see, there are still plenty of question marks between heaven and earth. But I’m glad that a heavenly boulder didn’t crash into our bottle basket.” And he pulled out the third bottle of Forster Hofstück.

As the two friends descended the stairs in the twilight of dawn, they found the old servant distraught and trembling, kneeling on the ground floor. His withered lips mumbled prayers.

“Now, what’s the matter, Johann?” asked the old count, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder.

The old man struggled to his feet, standing shakily before his master with eyes full of mortal fear. “A calamity, gracious lord, a great calamity,” he stammered. “The heavens have given a sign.”

“The heavens haven’t given any sign,” Reichenbach snapped irritably, “except that your foolishness is crying out to the skies!”

“No, Johann,” the old count smiled soothingly, “the only calamity here is that those were our last bottles of Forster Hofstück, and we’ll need to order a new cask. You’ll remind the estate manager about it, Johann, understood?”

The carriage first took the old count to the castle, then Johann took the reins and drove Reichenbach home. He arrived in the bright morning; the bedding was already airing out in the open bedroom windows, and from the arbor at the back of the garden, the voices of the children could be heard, sitting with their tutor for morning lessons. At the garden gate stood the forester Wenzel Ruf. As Reichenbach climbed down from the carriage, the man doffed his hat, his face a tangled mix of urgency, shyness, embarrassment, and pride.

“Do you want something from me, Ruf?” asked Reichenbach.

The man twisted his hat, looked at the ground, swallowed, then glanced up again, sheepish but trusting.

“Has something happened?” Reichenbach encouraged the hesitant man.

“Yes, Herr Director—my wife gave birth to a girl last night.”

“Well, then… Johann, you were right after all.” Reichenbach turned, but Johann was already driving off, enveloped in a cloud of white limestone dust down the road. “So the heavens really did give a sign. Only, we don’t know if it’s a misfortune or a blessing. Your wife certainly picked a memorable night. So, how many is that now, Ruf? You’ve got quite a brood already, if I’m not mistaken.”

“It’s the seventh, Herr Director.”

“Thunder and lightning, Ruf, you’re outdoing even your name!” The forester let out a delighted, gurgling laugh.

“And what do you want from me? Besides my hearty congratulations, of course—”

“Well, Herr Director, since it’s the seventh, my wife thought it would be a special honor and mark of respect, and because Frau Director is so kind and has always had a heart for us and my children…”

“If I understand you correctly, Ruf, you want my wife to be the godmother.”

A blissful nod confirmed that Reichenbach had understood correctly.

“Well, alright, I’ll tell my wife, and I’m sure she’ll do it.”

A radiant glow of gratitude spread across the man’s face. He mumbled something muddled about never forgetting and eternal devotion. Then it was clear that, now certain of the outcome, he was eager to rush home with the good news.

“Go on, then,” Reichenbach allowed, “and tell your wife.”

As Wenzel Ruf was already some distance away, Reichenbach called after him: “And send me a few men right afterward—maybe ten—to help search for the shattered stones.”

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OD: Chapter 1, pages 1-6

Posted in Uncategorized, tagged family, fantasy, fiction, short-story, writing on August 29, 2025| Leave a Comment »

OD by Karl Hans Strobl and translated by Joe E Bandel

Chapter 1

Today, great things are underway at the Princely Salm Ironworks in Blansko—decisive, momentous things.

The new gigantic wood carbonization furnace has been burning for the third day now. It is a Leviathan of a furnace; it can devour eighty cords of wood at once, and when it’s really going strong, its voice becomes a prolonged roar that echoes through the valley. It recalls the exodus of the Jews from Egypt; its signs are a gigantic smoke cloud by day and a pillar of fire by night. The smoke cloud spirals out of the chimney like a yellow-and-brown mottled Nicene serpent, then gathers itself and rolls as a sluggish monster up the valley slopes, slowly disappearing into the forests amid shivering, tormented treetops. The pillar of fire is so bright that one can still read small print quite well from a thousand paces away.

Now the second machinist, Schnuparek, stands on the threshold of the chemical laboratory. Streams of sweat have carved bright furrows into his blackened face; he looks like a Negro with a skin disease, the whites of his eyes framing a frightened gaze. He twists his cap: “Your Grace… the acid has started to flow… but the gas…!”

The old count, who has been watching a tar distillation with Director Reichenbach and the chemist Mader, turns around: “That’s fine, Schnuparek, we’re coming. Just open both valves in the meantime.”

The old count and Reichenbach leave the chemist Mader alone with the tar distillation; they walk through the carpentry shop and then through the room where the artistic cast-iron pieces are displayed—statues after the antique, all sorts of Christian items, animals and large vases, the she-wolf from the Capitol, the Florentine Molosser hound, all cast in iron, very much to the buyers’ taste and cheap, cheap. The iron comes from the ground, and the wood grows in the immeasurable princely forests.

Between a Christ on the cross and the Capitoline she-wolf, they step out into the courtyard. The ground trembles, the windows of the long building in front of them rattle, the furnace hisses and roars. From the chimney, a hellish torch glows yellow and red into the encroaching twilight.

Black and helpless, people swarm before the wrath-trembling monster; the furnace doors glow, the pungent smell of wood acid forces the breath back and bores into the lungs. At the other end, at the valves of the distillation kettle, stands the first machinist Wostahlo, a small, stout creature of the underworld. In streams, the acid gushes from the pipes into the vats.

“Excellent,” praises the old count, “what’s the matter, then? It’s going splendidly.”

“I don’t know,” hesitates the machinist, “it seems to me it’s getting weaker.”

“Already now?” says Reichenbach. “Why, though?”

The furnace raises its voice to the roar of a prehistoric beast. “Like an old saurian,” laughs the old count.

“Exactly! Because it has to give up acid!” Reichenbach can’t help but say. But he walks around the furnace, places his hand on the wall of the cooling vessel where the pipes are supposed to release their heat. He pulls it back with a cry: “The water’s boiling!”

Schnuparek comes running: “Your Grace, please—the gas…!”

“Open all registers!” Reichenbach bellows back. “Let out the gas and hydrogen!”

It’s too late; a dull bang shakes the furnace. A giant fist lifts the thick walls, supported by heavy pillars—the entire armored vault—and slams it back down onto the ground.

And now there can be no doubt any longer: the stream of acid dries up, becomes thinner, just a thread, a trickle. It must have found another way out, pouring into the interior of the furnace. Boiling steam hisses out from the joints of the cooling system; the explosions follow one another more rapidly, the masonry sways.

“To the devil!” roars Reichenbach. “To the scoop wheel! Do we all want to blow up?”

The men have lost their heads, but Reichenbach’s roar brings them back to their senses. They run, illuminated by a firelight that bursts from the shattered heating system. The explosive gas inside the furnace hurls itself against the walls, hammering with destructive fists against its prison; the demons of fire exult and jeer. God knows what the acid is doing.

“Look,” says the old count, “now the thing’s starting to glow.”

Indeed, the iron plates of the cooling system take on a red glow, slowly from the inside out; the rivets expand with a sigh. The water has evaporated; fresh air comes through the burst furnace doors, fanning the blaze ever more. A mad screeching pierces from the trembling structure.

“Water!” Reichenbach’s voice cuts through the tumult. “Quickly! Fresh water!”

A worker comes running: “Jesus Christ, sir, the scoop wheel’s done for!”

“Done for?” Reichenbach thunders at him.

“Done for! It’s not working! Someone’s messed it up.”

Now we’re really all going to blow up, thinks Reichenbach. And he grabs the old count by the arm, pulling and pushing, trying to tear him away from the hissing, howling demon that has rebelled against human control, slipped from the command of their will—away, just away from here. His mortal fear is not for his own safety but for that of his friend.

But the stocky old count has the muscle of a wrestler and the sturdiness of a bear. At Legnano, he held off the French long enough for his corps, threatened with annihilation, to cross the Etsch.

For he will not budge, and no one can move him from the spot. He braces himself against them; if Reichenbach and he were to flee, everyone would run, and the furnace would burst into pieces.

The scoop wheel is ruined; they rush with water buckets, pouring against the tide. But on the glowing walls, the water hisses into boiling steam, atomizing into scalding clouds that no one can approach. And greedily, the cracked furnace mouth sucks in air, mixing it with the flames and the gas that rattles the structure.

“Pickaxes here!” shouts the old count. “Pickaxes and wet clay!”

The heat singes hair and skin; embers from above add to the blaze. Blue flames flicker over the shingles and the roof’s timber; sticky pitch falls in burning, bubbling clumps that sear into human flesh. The chimney has shattered; tar and pitch have caught fire, setting the roof ablaze.

The old count has thrown off his coat. In shirtsleeves, he grabs a pickaxe and shows his men what he wants. He has, after all, often worked alongside them in shirtsleeves before, with apron and trowel, demonstrating tricks and techniques in molding and casting. The tool thunders heavily against the glowing boiler walls, tearing open gaps; steam surges out, the sharp point bites in all directions, and the red serpents within become visible. From the modeling workshop, they drag in troughs of wet clay. They’ve grasped what the old count intends: through the torn-open walls, shovel after shovel of heavy, damp earth is thrust, clinging to the— coils of the pipes, enveloping them layer by layer. All hands shovel, sealing the cracks and fissures of the furnace, cutting off the air supply, throttling the breath of the fire.

Hours of struggle follow, and then the danger is averted. The flames rage on, devouring wood and coal, intoxicated by gas, but they are tamed within the furnace’s interior; the broken chains are thrown over them once more.

“I think we’ve done it,” says the old count. “Now we just have to wait until the fire burns itself out.”

“It’ll take a good while yet,” says Reichenbach.

The old count washes his face and hands in a wooden tub of water and puts his coat back on. “You believe that, Reichenbach,” he smiles contentedly, “let’s head to cooler territory for a bit. And we’ve earned a glass of wine, too.”

They rode in a light carriage to the hunting lodge up in the valley. Midnight hung over the peaks, crowned with gleaming constellations, edged with a pale shimmer of moonlight.

“It’ll be done differently next time,” said Reichenbach after a long silence, as they passed the sawmill. “Now I’ve figured it out. The furnace needs shut-off valves and heating tubes so the fire can’t get to the wood so easily, and the gas duct should be extended thirty cords long and cooled with flowing water. This mustn’t happen again. I was a real fool. The gentlemen are always smarter coming out of a meeting than when they go in.”

“Please, Reichenbach,” replied the old count, encouraging the horse with a click of his tongue, “don’t make such a fuss about it. Everyone makes mistakes; you learn from mistakes, and trying trumps studying. It’ll all work out. The main thing is that no greater misfortune happened. How easily could someone have lost their sight in an explosion—better red-hot than blind.”

Of all the misfortunes in the world, blindness seemed to the old count the cruelest. He had come close to it himself, back when, after returning from French captivity, he was struck by an eye affliction brought on by the hardships and toils of the campaign. He knew what it meant to see a gray veil fall over the world and to have to grope along the nearest objects with a stick.

In Reichenbach’s mind, a defiant thought flared: Now more than ever! “As long as you don’t give up, it’ll be fine. I won’t let go. But it’s still a blunder. And when bad luck piles onto stupidity—”

“What do you want?” comforted the old count. “You’ve got nothing to complain about! Haven’t you built up the entire operation? The ironworks, the rolling mill, the artistic castings, the steam engines we build—the first in Austria—the enameled goods that go as far as Haiti and Singapore, all that bears the name Reichenbach. What—”would it be just a small-time operation without you? And the creosote and paraffin, the picamar, the pittacal, the eupion, and all those things you’ve teased out of the tar. That’s all nothing?”

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