On the upside, she had gotten the Smith and Wesson returned to her, cleaned and oiled, along with her Dad’s .32, also in perfect condition. She had the smaller .32 around her waist in the holster today, the one she wore the first day right off the airplane. The count had returned it to her personally with the admonition she was not to wear it in the castle. The holster hung awkwardly with her skirts, and she had a hard time finding the most comfortable position. It was designed to be worn with pants, and it just didn’t sit correctly. She was thinking about getting a shoulder holster made, some of the leather workers in town were very good, obviously. After all, more than a few examples of their finest work had just walked by as decorations for cattle. A shoulder holster should be easy. She made a mental note to ask around in Schwaz when she went back later this week. Trufer at the mine would know someone good.
Johann leaned gently to her as they walked. “Are you okay, Mary?”
She looked back to him, feeling a bit surprised. “Yes. I’m fine. What makes you ask?”
He glanced to her hip where the gun rested. “You keep fidgeting with the gun, or at least the holster. It’s a motion which draws the eye. The cowherders were, umm, well they looked a little nervous when they walked by. Did you notice?”
She furrowed her brows. She wasn’t conscious of touching the firearm, but she did reflexively inspect the herders as they walked by for potential threats. They weren’t armed, other than the usual sheathed belt knives that everyone carried. She sighed. She could see why they might be nervous. Most everyone knew who she was, even some of the more rural folks, and if they didn’t know her by sight, they would have guessed who the woman was that accompanied Johann Franz, who they did know, along with four guards from the Fugger household. The small leather holster that held the gun would certainly be a focus of attention, especially after word circulated about her almost-kidnapping. And killing three men. So, Mary figured that she might frighten some poor herder as she gave them the once-over while she was fingering her sidearm. “Well, crap.” She shook her head. “I suppose I can see how I might have made them a little nervous. Need to be a little more aware of that, I guess.”
Johann simply nodded slightly and kept walking.
“I’m thinking I will get a shoulder holster. Holds the gun up in here, and it will fit under a cloak or a jacket.” She gestured to under her left arm.
“That is interesting.” He looked at her motioning the holster. “Would seem to work well from horseback, too.” He kept walking.
“I hadn’t thought of that. Horseback.” They left the open meadow for the pine trees alongside a stream. The path got steeper as they worked their way up the mountainside. Mary focused on not scanning the trees and walking with her hand on the holster for her .32.
“Wolfsklamm is the name of the gorge,” said Johann, as they stopped to catch their breath. “The stream meets the Inn below us.” The path followed along the stream as it tumbled down the mountain. The rumble of the water had replaced the quiet of the forest, so much that Johann had to raise his voice to be heard.
Mary knew they needed to talk. They hadn’t, not really. There were polite exchanges, like the conversation they had coming up the path. Cows and shoulder holsters. Condolences from Jacob Bertran’s funeral. A couple of meetings with Fugger factors where he attended. But they needed to talk for real. There were things unresolved between them, and she hoped today could be the day to start the conversation.
She was trying to gage his mood. He was relaxed, but reserved, polite to a fault. Almost distant, but not quite. He was treating her as if she were broken or wounded. Or like he didn’t what to push too hard. She supposed it made sense, with the things she had said to him. But she was fine, and mildly irritated with his kid-glove treatment of her.
She also pondered what Jacob Bertran’s death had meant to him. They had known each other a long time, but Bertran was always subservient to Johann. He was an employee after all. Had enough time passed to discuss it, she wondered…
“Is there something wrong, Mary?”
She was brought out of her thoughts by his question. “I don’t think so. Why?”
“You have been staring at me for the last fifty paces, and I was wondering what it was you were so distracted by?”
The path had turned into a staircase of logs set into the ground, stepping up a particularly steep slope parallel to the stream. Mary paused on the first step that allowed her to be eye level with Johann, one step below her. The water rumbled down the hillside behind them. “We should talk, Johann. About your marriage proposal, about us, about what we should do. Do you agree?”
He looked back at her at eye level. She saw concern. “Only if you feel you are up to it. You and I have been through some…” His expression became hard, then, as if from force of will, grew softer. “…some changes. You more so than I. I do not want to force you – no, that is not right.” He looked away, as if in pain. “I do not want you to make a decision while you are under undue emotional distress.”
“What do you mean?”
His eyes again met hers. “I mean we have both had challenges lately. Distractions. Pain, both emotional and physical.” He raised his hand, in a movement that she thought was going to caress her face, but instead he gently laid his hand on her shoulder. The thought struck her that it was the first time he had ever touched her in this way. She had held his hand when Bertran died, true. But this was different, and she felt… something. She took a sharp intake of breath. He continued. “I don’t want to risk—I mean I don’t want to have a discussion at the wrong time, a time when you or I are not able to make the right decisions.” There was pain and a longing in his eyes, and she could no longer take the intensity of his gaze. She looked away.
“I-I’m fine. Really, Johann. Fine.” She turned and continued up the trail staircase, the thump of the logs beneath her boots. She turned and spoke over her shoulder as she walked away. “We can talk any time.”
After another half hour of climbing, they came to a covered bridge which crossed the stream, now far below in the gorge. It was supported on a large dam-like wall that spanned the stream and had ports through it for the water to flow. On top of the wall were the wooden supports for the bridge. Mary thought it would be a great place for a hydroelectric plant. The bridge itself had a gentle curve that followed the contour of the wall below it. It was a substantial structure, nearly 100 feet long, and wide enough for a wagon. It led to the monastery grounds, which was a series of small buildings set on a promontory pushing out from the side of the valley. From the bridge she could see a sheer drop at the front of the outcropping that plunged several hundred feet into the valley below.
As she stepped off the bridge and onto the monastery grounds, she felt the world transform a little. There was a sense of peace here. It was quiet, like much of the 17th century, but it felt like a deeper quiet. The roar of the stream could still be heard below, but it was muffled and distant. Several Benedictine monks met them as they entered. They recognized Johann, and there were quiet greetings and professional respectful bows while Mary stood apart. The buildings formed a small three-sided courtyard, with the church at the head closest to the precipice. Curious, she strolled across the square to the edge of the promontory. Back up-time, it would have been very different, with signs warning you not to fall off, and likely a metal railing sunk into the bedrock. But down-time, of course, the path ran to the edge of the rock and ended in a small open ledge. No signs, no rails, just a couple hundred feet of open air. A wooden bench sat nearby. She carefully peered over the unprotected edge. The view was impressive and the drop to the bottom even more so.
Still wandering about, Mary turned back to the courtyard. The chapel dominated the square, and Mary didn’t feel up to visiting it just yet, and they were quite a bit early for the scheduled mass. She had issues with saintly veneration as a matter of doctrine back up-time, in her own church, although she had always kept those thoughts to herself. She believed it a qu
aint tradition, and the display of relics of saints she considered a historical moneymaking scheme more than anything else. Her AP Senior English class had read parts of the Canterbury Tales and she had detected the cynicism in the writing even back then. And those were a couple hundred years old even today.
There were apparently over one hundred relics housed in the small chapel, the most important one associated with a miracle nearly two hundred years ago. Something to do with blood, of course. And the star of the show was the all-important humerus of St. George himself, direct from the third century. She shook her head slightly at the thought of it, amused at the prospect of seeing it later. As she continued to wander about, soaking up the atmosphere, a small and plump white-haired woman came up to her. She was dressed traditionally, like the mountain people, and was followed by an equally small and wizened man sporting very worn lederhosen. He had only a small thatch of grey around his temples.
The woman waltzed right up to her, as if she had known her for years. “Ach! Is this your first time to the monastery, dear?”
“Yes,” Mary replied. The man smiled a semi-toothless smile at her. She continued. “And you? Your first visit?”
“Ach, no. We live here, I am the cook and my husband Bruce is the caretaker. Lived here for years.”
Mary tilted her head inquisitively. “Bruce?”
The old woman had a twinkle in her eye. “His mother was a Scot. Came here for a pilgrimage, didn’t leave. This place, it calls to some. Some choose to stay for a long time.” She gestured expansively, and Bruce quietly smiled his semi-toothless smile again, like an accent mark to whatever statement the old woman made.
Mary bobbed a curtsey. “Mary Russo, Grantville.”
The old woman curtseyed in return. “Renate Wittrup, but you can call me Oma, everyone does.” She eyed Mary knowingly. “You're the up-timer, from Thuringia? Ach, with that accent, you're not from anywhere around here. I hear many accents, with the pilgrimages, but not quite as many as before. I can tell where someone’s from as soon as I hear them speak. But you, Ach! Nowhere I know. Such an accent. Oh my! So, what brings you to St. Georgenberg?”
“We are on a little pilgrimage, and it’s a nice day for a walk up the mountain.” She looked to the sunny sky. “And I'm not sure how many nice days we will have until it snows.”
“Ach, yes I see, I see. Are you here to see the relics?”
Her husband butted into the conversation. “Renate! Of course, she is here to see the relics. Don’t be silly, woman.”
“Don’t you be silly, old man. She might not be. She is a miracle herself. A beautiful girl from the future. Ach! the future!” She turned to scold him playfully. “And don’t tell me you didn’t notice she is beautiful.”
“Of course I didn’t notice, love. I only have eyes for you.” Bruce winked at Mary so his wife didn’t see. Mary suppressed a giggle.
Renate looked skyward and crossed herself. “We live our life surrounded by relics and miracles, and when a living one comes to visit, all you can ask her is if she wants to see more miracles?”
Mary was having a little bit of trouble keeping up with their accents – it would have been unintelligible to her only a few months ago -- but she caught that last statement loud and clear. “Whoah! I'm not any sort of a living miracle, you can put that thought right out of you head. I’m just a girl from a small town in West Virginia. Not an angel, certainly not a devil, and most assuredly not a saint.”
“Oh, no Mary. We did not say you are a Saint, that’s for others to decide.” Renate tsk-tsk’d with considerable animation. “But there are many warrior saints. St. George was one, so it’s still possible that you could become one.”
Mary sighed deeply and hung her head. There would be little reasoning with these people. But Mary smiled slightly to herself. She was amused, and the same time slightly comforted that these people thought she could still be considered for sainthood, even though she had shot a few people. Down-time. Weird.
Renate continued, oblivious to Mary’s frustration. “But you're not the normal pilgrim either. No. Not at all. Right, Bruce?”
He shook his head vigorously in more support of Renate. “Not a saint. But what? Divine, certainly.”
Mary decided a firm statement was needed. “No. I'm not divine. I’m just a girl. A woman. That’s all.”
Renate shrugged a remarkable shrug that showed disbelief and just a hint of smug assuredness. “But from the future...”
Mary’s eyeballs itched, she wanted to roll them so badly. She looked around for Johann, or anybody who could rescue her from the couple. There were no ready volunteers, and Johann had disappeared somewhere with one of the monks. Her bodyguards were still lurking about on the perimeter, but apparently didn’t think the elderly couple were a physical threat, so they kept their distance. Out of options, she drew herself up and put her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to offend, but I'm simply who I am. Not something that you think I should be. I am from the future, okay, fine.” She waved her hand around. “Girl from the future. That’s all I am. That’s it. Don’t make me something else. Please. It’s tiresome.”
The couple looked back at her, expressionless. Blinking. After a moment, the woman spoke. “Don’t worry dear. Who knows why geese walk barefoot, eh? We are used to miracles here. Comfortable with the idea of them. See ’em all the time. It’s one of the reasons people come here.” She squinted at Mary in the bright sunshine, her blue eyes piercing and judging. “Have you witnessed a miracle before, Mary Russo from the future? In person, right before you?”
Mary looked back at the woman, uncertain of where she was going with this conversation. She was willing to play along for a moment; there was something about the couple which was genuine and honest; there was no indication of some sort of pilgrimage-scam which she half expected. “Well, I suppose the act of just coming here was a miracle of some kind,” she answered. The older woman started to nod knowingly, and Mary held up her hand signaling hesitation. “But there is an expression that up-timers use that says something like ‘sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic’. And what happened to us is something way beyond what we can comprehend. So, we look at it like magic. Or religion. Could be something else entirely.”
Bruce looked unimpressed. “This one could be a Vatican lawyer, she could. Angels on the head of pins. Argue all day.”
Renate agreed wholeheartedly. “Ach! Vatican lawyers. We just let go our captive Cardinal a few years ago, didn’t we, Bruce?”
“Ten or eleven years now. Time flies. We are just beginning to recover. When Cardinal Melchior Khlesl, bishop of Vienna was imprisoned here, it was difficult for us, there were many soldiers, many guards, and the pilgrims were not encouraged to be here. So our monies dried up. But things are better now.”
“Hard times they were.” Renate took up the tale. “Pilgrims couldn’t come on the grounds without soldiers searching everything. They finally took him to Rome, where they let him out. He eventually returned to Tyrol, and was Bishop of Vienna again, until he died. Couple years ago now.”
“What does a Cardinal have to do to get tossed into a monastery?” Mary asked, genuinely curious.
Renate laughed at that. “Ach! Well, when those Bohemians threw the governor out of the window in Prague, he didn’t pursue them vigorously enough for Ferdinand II, so he fell out of favor. He was a nice man. Peacemaker for the most part. Ate like a horse, skinny as a sapling. But he made things difficult for us. There were very few miracles while he was here.”
Bruce nodded in agreement. “Very few miracles. They dropped off to almost nothing. I suspect it had to do with all the Vatican lawyers, and a Cardinal present here. At least that’s what Renate and I think.”
“Okay, what miracles are you talking about?” Mary asked. “I thought the miracle was something back in the twelfth century where a priest was doubting during mass, and the wine in the goblet turned to blood, and overflowed. They saved it, and it’s a reliquary
in the church.” Mary pointed to the entrance of the church, several yards away. It wasn’t yet open for mass. “Do I have that right?”
“Ach, yes, yes! That’s what started it. But we are talking about the other miracles that happen here. Those attributed to St. George, and the other relics.” Renate looked at her like she was a stupid child.
“I'm afraid I don’t understand.”
Renate motioned for Mary to follow her behind the church. The security men were alert, and followed at a distance. They made their way to the side of the small building, smaller than her church back home, and then around to the back corner. There was a side door and a bench from a split log. A few tall pine trees shaded a pathway. “This is where people exit the sanctuary after prayer to the saints. And here is where many of them leave their crutches and canes. Able to walk again.”
Bruce eased up next to his wife and pointed. “The pile is large now, we need to take them down to Schwaz and Jenbach for the needy, before the snows.”
Mary found herself looking at a three-foot-high rough stack of canes, crutches, heavy leather wraps used for back braces, and other 17th century medical detritus. She stared at it for a moment, then turned, puzzled, to the couple. Renate shrugged at her. “Miracles,” the old woman said. “We get them all the time up here.”
Bruce scratched his leg, flashed his toothless smile, and agreed. “Happens a lot.”
Mary dusted off the bench with her hand and sat down. She made a small noise of disbelief. “H-How often?”
The cook and the caretaker looked at each other, and performed some kind of unspoken calculation between them. Renate answered. “Not that often. Five, six times a month, sometimes more, sometimes less.”
“Much less when the Cardinal was here.” Bruce added with a knowing look. “But more often lately.” He pulled out a set of keys and opened the door to the church. “Come in, Mary. Private tour. Just for you.”
Up-Time Pride and Down-Time Prejudice Page 31