“Don’t be afraid, fluffy chin,” the Emissary said, and Hrot’s hand instinctively flew up to his patchy beard. Halfway there, his fingers clenched into a fist, which he pressed against his galloping heart.
“I’m not here to hurt you,” the Emissary added.
But Hrot was afraid. In fact, each cell of his brain screamed at his legs to run. However, fear and cold paralyzed him too much to obey.
The Emissary said, “You know why I’m here, do you not, Hrot?”
Hrot only shook his head. He shuddered when the Emissary suddenly exclaimed in a perfect imitation of Hrot’s own voice, “I would sell my soul for more gold!”
The owl stopped hooting. Even though the sky was clear and spotted with thousands of bright stars, a distant thunder rolled somewhere behind the river.
“Weren’t those your own words?” the Emissary asked. “You didn’t keep the six nuggets too long, did you? Nevertheless, there could be more, much more! But perhaps it isn’t gold you are longing for?”
Hrot’s fingers unclenched. His hand slid over his belly and hung by his side. Nobody had ever asked or cared about what he wanted—except his mother, perhaps, but even she thought his dreams and wishes were foolish.
“I know you’re not happy in the village, Hrot. You are like me. You always strive for something better. You would die for greatness.”
Hrot’s fear slowly lifted. This dreadful ghoul was the only being in the world that had ever treated him like an equal.
“I’ve been watching you for a long time, and I admire you,” the Emissary said, making Hrot stagger. “I know you’d die to get out of here. When you see a bird, you lament you weren’t endowed with a pair of wings. When the merchants finish their trading and say goodbye, you beg to go with them. You long to depart for the faraway lands they always talk about. You want all that, and much more.”
A trout’s tail stirred the water and made Hrot cry out in fright. The Emissary chuckled. His eyes bored into Hrot’s like two spikes.
“You can read my mind?” Hrot said when the silence got too heavy.
“I can do anything, fluffy chin,” the Emissary said with a self-admiring grin. “I’ve got great powers—which are all at your disposal. I can give you more gold so that you can pay your way to the faraway lands. But I’ve got something better, much better to offer. I can take you to times where people gain respect not because of the skills of their hands, but because of the power of their minds.”
“You could help me travel in years?” Hrot asked in amazement. The concept of time travel lay far behind the limited boundaries of his tribespeople’s minds. Hrot, however, grasped it in a heartbeat. And he found it fascinating.
“Hundreds of years, fluffy chin! Just give me a nod, and I’ll take you to times where only pigs sleep on the floor, buffeted by winds coming from an open doorway. I’ll take you to times where people are not only smart like you, but also content, warm, and comfortable. I offer you an escape, Hrot—and enlightenment, happiness, and comradery.
“Just imagine: not far from here, but in a different epoch . . . imagine rows and rows of strong stone houses, all looking up to a giant dwelling called a castle. The place is named Prague. And in Prague Castle, men work on transmuting base metals into gold under the patronage of a generous leader, King Rudolph.
“Those men are called alchemists, fluffy chin. They are among the richest and most respected citizens of the world. And they are like you, dreamers and geniuses. In those times, however, they’re not ostracized and ridiculed but respected and celebrated. Great inventions have been made in those times, inventions that helped humanity to scramble out of a dark abyss of ignorance and into the enlightenment of progress.
“Do you know what they call that epoch? The Renaissance! It means rebirth: rebirth of the mind, rebirth of freedom and intellect.” The Emissary’s eyes shone fiercely as he spoke . . . the way they always shone when he galloped through Hrot’s sleeping mind.
“That’s enough,” Hrot said, his voice sounding more hysterical than he had intended. “I’ve seen your monstrous shadow. I’ve seen you in my nightmares. Do you really think I would ever make a pact with you? Don’t even waste your breath anymore.”
“Don’t be so hasty, fluffy chin,” the Emissary said, his relentless smile still playing in the moonlight but his eyes burning with annoyance. “Deep down, you’ve been waiting for me your whole life. And now you refuse to even listen. Why?
“I know all this has been too sudden. But don’t the best things in life always come on a pair of frantic wings? So what do you say? Wouldn’t you like to enjoy the warmth and comfort of a solid stone house? Wouldn’t you like to put your intellect into making gold and become rich and respected?”
Hrot heard himself wheeze. His heart was hammering against his ribs as if he’d been running. The desire for change made him feverish. He knew that after hearing about the world of the Renaissance, every moment in the village would be hateful to him. Perhaps he had really been waiting for something like this his whole life. Fear and curiosity fought a raging battle for his soul. A small, shadowy corner of his mind urged him to recall the horrid nightmares, while the rest of his brain fought to suppress them.
“If I said yes, what would you expect in return?” Hrot stammered out, immediately wishing he’d bitten his tongue.
A loud plop came out of the water as a frog jumped in, making Hrot gasp. The moon that reflected on the river looked like the white belly of a giant fish. The wind made the willows creak and shed their colorful leaves.
“What I would expect in return? Not much, really. Only a few drops of your blood that would open the portal to take you through centuries. The blood would also symbolize that I’ve become your master.”
The last word made Hrot shudder. He recalled the emaciated beings some merchants brought along, their backs and knees bending under heavy loads, their wrists and ankles skinned from shackles. He’d rather die than become a slave.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, fluffy chin,” said the Emissary, who’d been reading Hrot’s mind. “To begin with, I don’t need shackles and chains to control those who belong to me. I can assure you that you’d live quite freely, and you’ll be only required to do me an occasional favor. So, what do you say?”
The wind rushed toward them as if it also wanted to hear Hrot’s answer. It brought a loud, insane squeal of a large sow. Startled, Hrot made a few steps back. He tripped over an aerial root and fell down. The memories of the leprous swine from his nightmares rushed into his head.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, scrambling back to his feet. “I’ll never let you have a single drop of my blood because if I did, I’d be entirely in your power.”
“Don’t throw this chance away, Hrot, for this is the only one you’ll get in your whole life. With my help, you can leave these horrid, primitive times. You can leave the people who laugh at you while they put your salt in their gruel. You can live in times when people are gentle and appreciative, and when food brings delight because of spices that are much better than salt.
“Stop worrying about what would happen afterward. Just think about the bliss of spending a decade in those marvelous times.”
Hrot felt that every word hypnotized him like the eye of a snake. But his own fascination scared him more than anything else. He knew he had to flee before he did something dreadful.
“I don’t want to hear another word!” he shouted. Although he had tried to make his voice sound forceful, only a pitiful shriek gushed out of his tremulous lips.
Heavy clouds covered the night in black. The Emissary’s eyes flared in the sudden darkness, just as they had on the first night.
“Do you think I could ever trust such an unearthly monster?” Hrot heard himself yell. “Do you really think that anything in this or any other world would ever induce me to become your servant? Stop making me sleepwalk! Spare me those horrible nightmares! Find yourself someone else to tempt. Or better yet, leave the human race al
one!”
Although he couldn’t see the pale face, Hrot could feel the Emissary was scowling. A deep growl escaped from the fiend’s gentle mouth. The notion that the darkness might transform the Emissary into the antlered monster made Hrot turn around and flee.
“You’ve got until the winter solstice to decide,” the Emissary shouted at his back. “I grant you the whole autumn to consider my offer, but not a day more!”
CHAPTER THREE
The days grew colder and colder. The wind blew almost incessantly, first ripping the leaves off the alders, beeches, and willows, then punching and toppling the pines and spruces, and finally bringing the first blizzards. The river was slowly freezing over, and the thatched roofs of the hovels bent and creaked under the weight of snow. The women spent whole days smoking and salting meat while the men felled and chopped dead trees and the children hauled the firewood to the village.
Bears snored comfortably in warm lairs, but deer were sleepless from hunger. They ventured closer and closer to the village, hoping to find something to eat and often becoming a meal instead. Wolves stalked the deer everywhere, and children were no longer allowed behind the palisade. The terrible howling coming from the white pastures and desolate fields kept the whole tribe awake on many nights.
Hrot hadn’t sleepwalked once since his second encounter with the Emissary, and no nightmares tormented his sleeping mind. To his horror and surprise, he realized he missed the fiend.
He often woke up in the dead of night, hoping to hear the Emissary’s voice, and he felt depressed when all he could hear were the crackling of the fire and the coughing, snoring, and wheezing of his family. Hrot needed someone to reassure him that he wasn’t a childish idiot. He wanted to hear more about the astounding world of the Renaissance, the paradise he might never see but of which he could at least dream.
Hrot grew more and more restless as autumn advanced. His sleep came in short and fretful spasms. At the winter solstice, he felt as if all his bones had turned into iron and as if a magnetic field ran through the river, pulling and dragging him toward its frozen banks. Feverish, he couldn’t find the strength to rise for breakfast or lunch—and suddenly there was the burbling of the freezing river and the grunting of feral boars. But he didn’t hear them.
Hrot had been asleep when he’d put on his boots, mittens, hat, and coat, and when he’d left the hut while everyone was out. He’d been asleep as he’d crossed the pastures and descended the fisherman’s path. And he was still sleeping now when he turned his back to the descending sun and tottered upstream.
The vegetation was so thick he often had to duck to pass under low branches. He murmured disjointedly as he struggled through the prickly undergrowth. At times he walked over the snow’s hard crust; at other times he plunged knee-deep into the white mass. Giant boulders rose here and there, and finally he reached the sandstone realm.
Trim rocks towered everywhere like pillars supporting a celestial dome. An array of animal footprints crisscrossed the snow, but the woods were strangely silent. The sun streamed through the canopy in thin bars, making it look as if Hrot were plowing through an endless golden cage. Struggling in silence through the labyrinth, he ventured far beyond his tribe’s hunting territory. Then he reached the ford marked by ten black stepping stones.
Hrot moaned from his sleep as he put his foot on the first stone. He slipped on the last one, and his foot plunged through the thin layer of ice into the frigid water. He gasped as he scrambled onto the bank—but he didn’t wake up. Not until he made a few hundred more steps.
The first thing he saw when he’d opened his eyes was the grinning face of the Emissary. This was the first time Hrot had seen him in daylight. He noticed the fiend’s eyes were tawny and gentle like a fawn’s, but a maze of blue veins pulsed under his white skin, which made his face repulsive.
The Emissary was leaning against a rock that distinctly reminded Hrot of the face of—a man? A beast? The thick layer of fungus that covered the surface made it impossible to tell. Hrot could, however, distinguish a pair of terrible eyes chiseled into the sandstone. A jagged scar ran across a twisted mouth and down toward the foot of the rock.
Squinting into the afternoon sun, Hrot finally realized he’d been sleepwalking again. But this time, he must have crossed into what the elders called the wrong side of the river.
The woods were even more dreadful than he’d remembered from his nightmares. The snow was filthy gray. Most trees were fallen and decayed. The ones that were still up were hung with crimson icicles as if they had been bleeding. Large patches of frozen blood marked the snow everywhere, and the stench of rotting carcass coiled in the air like a mist. An invisible horde of wild boars squealed all around him.
“What am I doing here?” Hrot snapped at the smiling Emissary. “You must have been at your unclean tricks again. Why would you bring me to such a horrid place? I want to go back!”
“Never mind the place, fluffy chin: I brought you here because of this.” The Emissary turned to the rock and pointed to the scar-like fissure. “This is the portal to take you to the Renaissance.”
“The Renaissance? Or to the wasteland from my nightmares? Do you think that, after seeing these woods, I’d ever make a pact with you? Just show me the way to the ford.”
“I can read your mind, remember? These woods scare you, but you are curious. The whole autumn you have been dying to know more about the pact. I know you often wonder and fret about what would happen once the pact expired, don’t you? But there’s nothing to fear. All you would have to do is to obtain a few souls for me. Oh, and you’d have to call me Master. Call it vanity, if you wish.”
A scraggy, bald lynx limped by on the stumps of its malformed legs. Its clouded eyes peered at the Emissary with fear. The wind above their heads seemed to be whispering dreadful curses. Slight whining and growling crept from the black depths of nearby thickets.
Hrot’s eyes darted around the moribund woods. “I won’t deal with you. I would never make other human beings suffer from your unclean presence. You’re an evil spirit.”
The Emissary laughed. “Am I now? Am I from the underworld, or do you live in hell? Are you an idiot as the whole village thinks, or a genius as I believe? Are you awake or asleep? Why do you feel such an urge to stamp a definition on everything, fluffy chin? Let’s just say I’m the emissary of a world you would never even dream of, but whose powers are at your disposal, today only.
“I’m offering you ten years of happiness in enlightened times and among the brightest minds, as opposed to a lifetime in misery among people who are brutish and bovine and who look down on you instead of worshiping you. And you worry about who I am?”
A raven alighted on a branch above their heads. It flew up again, however, as soon as it spotted the Emissary. Its angered croaking carried over the river as it disappeared behind the wall of the dead, snow-capped trees.
“Ten years, fluffy chin,” the Emissary continued. “That’s almost an eternity for a genius mind. And if you really manage to turn metal into gold, I promise to let you stay in those times for life. Do you hear me? You’ll be rich and free; the world’s greatest alchemist!
“Here—take this.” He procured a leather pouch filled with golden coins. “This will enable you to live a life of comfort, for the pouch is bottomless. Gold will pour down whenever you tilt it, and the stream will never end.”
Hrot’s hand nearly flew toward the pouch. Then he put his hands behind his back and shook his head as if the Emissary had offered him a dead viper. A shade of inhuman wrath passed over the Emissary’s gentle eyes. The blue veins pulsed fast under the white skin.
“What are you so scared of? All I need is a few drops of your blood to open the portal.” The Emissary pointed to the fissure. “My magic would make you emerge right on the other side of the rock. It would still be the winter solstice but in a completely different epoch. This experience alone is worth one’s life, for there are only a handful of portals like this in the who
le wide world, and only a few entities like me that can open them. And yours is one of the few powerful minds that could be chosen to embark on such a journey.”
“Chosen, perhaps, but not willing,” snapped Hrot, but his eyes caressed the fissure.
The Emissary smirked and said, “There are people who would give their life just for the chance to travel in time. And I offer you much more and demand much less. I offer you an escape from your miserable village and from these oppressive times of filth and ignorance. A single year in that epoch is worth more than a century in your tribe. And I’m not offering you a single year, but a whole decade—and perhaps a lifetime!
“Can you imagine ten more years in your village, fluffy chin? Can you imagine ten more years in that rat-gnawed hovel you call home? Do you really want to spend your life sleeping on the freezing dirt floor and the prickly straw mattress? Can you imagine how your life would be once your mother has croaked? Nobody would stand up for you. You’d be alone, ostracized, and utterly miserable!”
Hrot said nothing. His lips twitched in the blizzard of clashing thoughts that raged in his skull. His fever was rising, in spite of the murderous cold that crept through his fur coat. He could feel sweat pouring down his back.
The Emissary smoothed his mustache and continued, “If you stay here, you’ll soon turn into a sickly wreck. All your grandparents had died before you learned how to shamble, hadn’t they? And look at your mother, all bent and twisted, even though she’s only some twenty years older than you. Look at your father, wheezy like an old dog because of the smoke from the hearth and the draft from the doorway. Do you want to end up like them?”
Hrot said, “It’s still preferable to ending up like the souls I’ve heard howling in the tunnel during my nightmares. I prefer my bones to rest in the beautiful woods behind the river than to stick from the horrid marshes of your realm.”
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