Up-Time Pride and Down-Time Prejudice

by Mark H. Huston

  Bruce took her into the sanctuary, reverse what the normal flow of pilgrims would be. The church was empty of people, with light entering from higher up stained-glass windows behind the altar, and other smaller ones near the eaves. The interior was a simple whitewash, but the array of relics at, and around, the altar was substantial. Light bounced off gold and silver, making the interior glow with a strange jeweled light. Other relics lined a couple of small niches. Bruce fussed about and lit a few candles, while providing a running commentary on each relic. There were a lot of them, and each of them was contained in some sort of gilded fancy box, or glass tube, or silver and gold container. The two main attractions were the upper arm bone of Saint George, and the fancy glass tube of blood that had manifested itself before this very altar three centuries ago.

  “Bruce?”

  “Yes?”

  “May I just sit a while? Sit quietly, I mean? Alone?”

  He stopped his fussing about and his dusting of soot. He got a knowing look on his face. “Of course.”

  Mary sat in the front row and looked about her. Her first thought was that there was a fair amount of shabbiness to the place. While the reliquaries were shiny, and the faceted jewels caught the light, there was a tarnish on most of it. Candle soot stained the walls above dusty sconces. There were water stains on the ceiling, and the wood floor was scuffed and gouged. Autumn spider webs filled the corners. It smelled of mold and a little like a bar --except when the bar was empty, like spilled alcohol and old sweat. It was fifteen degrees cooler inside the stone building, and she pulled a shawl around her shoulders.

  She tried to imagine what it was like for pilgrims to come into the church, genuflect, and then hobble in hope to the front of the altar. Spend the day praying. In bliss, in fear, in desperation. Perhaps unable to walk, or lift an arm, or breathe enough, or were feeling some lump of growth under their skin they knew was not supposed to be there. What they must feel.

  Mary knew all about the placebo effect. She read about it in High School. Had learned about psychosomatic healing and its impact on modern medicine. She remembered a NOVA program on PBS quite vividly, and she mentally recalled bits of it now. That was what modern medicine said about the spontaneous healing of injuries.

  Never miracles.

  The mind of man isn't above fooling itself. In fact, it’s quite good at it.

  She knew these things.

  And yet, sitting in this shabby, run down, leaky-roofed chapel, she could sense something. Something religious, something creepy even. It felt odd, so outside her realm of understanding, that it was alien. Truly alien, as from another world. Foreign. She could see it, smell it, touch it, but she couldn’t understand. Even raised Catholic, there was too great of a disconnect for her. It spanned the centuries, a chasm too far for her mind to bridge. The pile of canes and crutches, the arm bone of a saint, the cool interior of a mountainside church felt like they were on Mars, or Venus, or some planet that Star Trek would visit. A campfire story. And yet, here, the reality of the thing, it’s substance, was all around her.

  Mary sat for a while, alone, unaware of the passage of time. For some reason she could not describe, she grew uneasy with the space, and the unease escalated rapidly. It surprised her. There was no real reason; nothing changed in the chapel. There was no noise. But she had an overwhelming feeling of needing to be away from there, and quickly. She stood, and left by the way she came, the side door, in a rush, somehow feeling pursued. She recognized it as irrational, but she was still was feeling tightness in her chest when she pushed open the door and erupted into bright sunlight.

  She ran square into Johann, who was standing with Renate and the incongruously named Bruce.

  “Slow down, Mary. Where are you going?” Johann was holding her arms in an almost-embrace, so she didn’t overbalance.

  “I-I needed some air, that’s all.” She glanced behind her, making sure that the irrational feeling she had was indeed irrational. Nobody there. Renate and Bruce looked at her knowingly, and she suppressed an irritated look in reply. She extricated herself from Johann’s arms, and he yielded after a very brief hesitation. He had very strong arms.

  “We were about to knock and come in, the priest is getting ready for the mass. Shall we go around to the front and come in like everyone else?” asked Johann.

  Mary knew that she had to keep up appearances, and she really hadn’t done her penance yet, which was to take mass here at the little church. So she nodded, shaking off the strange feeling. “Yes, thank you Johann. I must have lost track of time.” He extended his arm, and she took it. They started to walk back to the front of the church.

  Renate grabbed her husband by the arm and followed them. “Ach. Prayer will do that. Make you lose track of time. I’ve seen it happen many times.” Her husband bobbed his bald head in agreement. “But Mary, before you go we need to ask you one thing.”

  “What is that, Renate?”

  “May we have one of your bones?”

  Mary stopped dead in her tracks, then whirled to face the plump woman, snapping her arm from Johann. “What?!”

  Renate stopped behind them, and then gave a nervous glance at the holster at her side. Mary took her hand off it and instead crossed her arms and glared. “A-after you are dead, of course, and we hope you live a long and pious life, we do, but we think you would be a good addition to the relics we have.” Mary had a fleeting feeling that Renate would have made a very good used car salesperson. In spite of getting a look from Mary that would freeze her younger classroom in place with its intensity, the woman kept going unabashed. “Hands are very good, people like hands. We have only one, but it isn’t well preserved. People like to touch them. Makes them feel closer to the subject.”

  Her look must have had some impact on Bruce. His tone was apologetic, but still completely sincere and earnest. “Not until you are dead, of course. We can wait until your bones are disinterred to make room for someone else. That’s what usually happens in whatever churchyard you end up in. After a few years. Heaven knows we will be long gone by then, but we can only hope that those who come after us would appreciate the donation and our work.”

  Renate took up the pitch seamlessly. “Also, in your will, make sure there is enough left to build the reliquary properly. It should be silver or gold, of course. And sturdy. Hands get a lot of wear when people touch the case.”

  Mary had no idea how to react. She stood, completely cognizant of the ineffective glare she had on her face. She looked at their expressions. Honest and open and convinced of the correctness of their request. She looked at the still open side door of the church, and the darkness within. Johann had moved to stand next to her, and she looked at him next. He was smiling kindly. He spoke to her. “It’s quite an honor, Mary, this request.” He gave the couple a judgmental look. “Although these sorts of things usually come through more official channels.”

  “Ach. Life is no pony farm,” Renate shrugged. “When the opportunity presents itself, you need to take it. When else are we going to get a chance to ask for the bones of someone from the future, a person who is a living miracle? Now is the time to ask this question.”

  Mary realized her impotent glare had slowly faded to slack jawed astonishment. “Can I get back to you on this?”

  Renate put her arm around Bruce and he smiled at her. The woman ploughed ahead. “Is tomorrow good? The day after? How about next Sabbath, we can talk after Mass. I've never been to the Fugger chapel before.”

  Mary took a moment for a quick glance at Johann, who was now grinning at her like a fool. She gave him a half-hearted glare and turned back to Renate. “Okay, stop. Renate, you should be a horse trader. Or sell used automobiles.”

  The woman’s eyebrows crinkled in confusion. “I don’t know about auto-things, but my father did do a lot of horse trading, that’s true. Ach, yes, very true.” She thrust out her double chins. “So, can I have an answer on Sunday?”

  Mary knew she was outclassed. She had only
one option. Delay. “One year. I need time to think, and to-to pray on this. Yes. So, give me a year to consider.”

  The plump grey-haired used car salesperson and horse trader, who also happened to be a Tyrolian cook and housekeeper, peered at her with doubt and pursed lips. “One year. If you need that, although I don’t see why, I suppose it shall have to be. If we don’t bite the grass before then. A year from now.”

  “One year,” repeated Mary. “That’s the best you are going to get out of me.”

  Renate harrumphed at her while nodding a reluctant assent. Bruce looked both embarrassed and excited at the possibility.

  The mass in the little chapel was uneventful, and no miracles were evident. Mary felt fine through the mass, the routine of the ceremony seemed to eliminate the feelings of discomfort she had felt while sitting alone in the chapel.

  She and Johann went to the precipice behind the chapel before heading back to Schloss Tratzberg. There was a small bench built from a split log, and they sat, enjoying the view. They stared out at the valley, not speaking for a few moments. A cold breeze washed across from above, and she drew her wrap around her shoulders.

  Johann noticed the cold breeze too. “The weather will be changing soon.”

  “Snow?” asked Mary.

  “Very soon. That’s why they’re bringing cattle down from the high pastures. The passes through the mountains will close, and only the foolish or the most desperate will attempt to cross into the valley from the north.”

  “I’m looking forward to the snow, I like to ski, and back home it was not easy to find enough snow. I really enjoyed it back up-time. Couldn’t do it in Wurzberg. I always thought I would go to school in Colorado or someplace like that, with mountains and skiing.”

  “I like to ski too.”

  “Wait. What? You ski?” She turned to face him.

  “Yes.” He glanced at her but still looking out on the vista in front of them. “You seem surprised.”

  “I am. I just didn’t expect that you people would ski. You being a fancy Bavarian Count.”

  He smiled at her. “We have mountains, we have snow, we have skis, we have to get around in the winter, of course we ski. And I am Swabian, not Bavarian.”

  “Huh.” She had never really thought about it before. Swabian and he skis. Another surprise. “You know this area was a big ski resort back up-time, people came from all around the world to ski near here.”

  “I had read about it in some articles from Grantville, so yes, I know that.”

  “Oh. I suppose you would have read everything Grantville had about the area. That makes sense.”

  “Yes,” said Johann. There was a pause, and they both again turned and looked out at the valley below. The view, as always, was breathtaking, with the thin ribbon of the Inn river glinting from the sun, the green of the valley floor, and the occasional smudges of smoke from farmhouses, which filled the lower valley with a slight haze.

  After a few more moments, she turned to him. “You know, we are talking about shoulder holsters and cows.”

  He turned to her. “I thought we were talking about skiing.”

  “Same thing.”

  “Mary, I must confess that you do occasionally baffle me greatly. Your mind does things that are quite amazing.”

  Mary took a breath, a very deep breath. She almost said nothing. But instead, she said… “Well then. We will have to go skiing together, once it snows.”

  There was a pause, and Johann looked out over the vista of the valley below them. “That would be nice, I would like that.”

  Chapter 27 It’s all Machiavelli’s Fault

  Late October, 1634

  "N

  o!” screamed Sybilla. The delicate Venice-made vase shattered against the stone wall of her chambers with a sharp whack. “I will not lose Johann to an up-time whore. A demon spawn from Hell. It must not happen!”

  Smashing things always made her feel better. It usually made her feel much better. But today, it wasn’t helping. She reached for a ceramic vase with flowers and heaved it at the wall. It shattered with a satisfyingly damp and hollow thwock. Better. She looked at her dressing table, and only her perfume bottle, mirror, and hairbrush were left. The mirror was ridiculously expensive, and her only one, so she reached for the brush. It didn’t break but bounced off the wall. Not as satisfying but her rage was subsiding.

  “Sybilla, perhaps we should try to look at this differently-”

  “-No!” She whirled on Franz, looking for something else to throw. The only thing left were pillows from her bed. Very unsatisfying. “Who was responsible for them going to St. Georgenberg together?”

  “I believe it was Father Huntsha, from the village. Part of their penance.” Franz winced at Sybilla’s glare.

  “Not our priest!? What is his name? Avanetti or something like that?”

  “Father Anaverdi.”

  “Yes, that one. Why didn’t he stop them?” Sybilla had a pillow in her hands, deciding whether to toss it at the wall, or Franz, or some other target in her chamber.

  “He didn’t give them the penance, Father Huntsha from the village did. Anaverdi hasn’t given anyone a penance harsher than a Hail Mary in fifteen years. The man is over seventy years old, he’s the sort that will always leave the church in the village. No changes from him. Easy penance is his reason for being here, Sybilla.”

  “And now they are talking about skiing! Skiing! I know that Johann likes it, but a girl? An up-time girl who likes to careen down a mountainside like some alpine soldier? Horseback riding, fine. Walking all over the countryside, fine. But skiing? Nobody does that except the simple mountain folks, and only when they have to.”

  She threw herself into her chair, pillow now clutched to her chest, rage mostly subsided. It was time to think. Sybilla could always think well after one of her rages. It was one of the things she was good at. She flipped the pillow back onto her bed and sunk further into the overstuffed chair. So, think, Sybilla!

  Her explosion of anger had flared when Franz reported to her that Johann and Mary were growing closer as a result of the day-trip to St. Georgenberg, for reasons that made no sense to her. It was like some sort of weird courtship was going on, but nothing like she was used to seeing. Johann was acting like he was some besotted adolescent, in puppy love with the girl. It was unseemly. There was an expression, ‘to have love for someone’, and it meant that you liked someone but were not in love. It was appropriate for Johann to ‘have a little love’ for a girl, a passing fling that provided advantages in the moment, but you didn’t fall in love over your ears for a girl like that. The man was a fool, obviously. Or bewitched.

  And where was Regina? Wasn’t she supposed to be the one looking for suitable matches? Why wasn’t she driving them apart? Could she be under the influence of that girl? That up-timer? That was the only explanation. They spent a lot of time together, Mary and Regina. Surely the Count would not condone such a match. A match? With a girl like that? Out of the question. No family, no dowry, what would he be thinking, other than to bring shame on the family? She shook her head again.

  The only reason that line of reasoning made any sense to Sybilla is that the girl was a demon, and Sybilla, along with a few of her cousins back in Augsburg, were the only ones who could see it. The only ones who could see the up-time influences poisoning everyone here. The girl was like a disease, a pestilence creeping through the city walls and infecting everyone around her. And what is the solution with house that has pestilence? You to isolate it, quarantine it, and then burn everything. She knew how plagues worked.

  “Sybilla? Are you okay?” Franz sounded nervous. He was young, and not as bright as he should be, but it was what she had to work with.

  “I’m thinking, Franz. And don’t use that word with me.”

  “What word is that?”

  “The ‘okay’ word.”

  “Okay? You don’t like the word ‘okay’?”

  “No, Franz. It’s an annoying word, and
from up-time. And anything up-time is likely to be evil, or possibly even blasphemous. So no, I do not like the word. Please do not use it.”

  “O—err. Yes, Sybilla. I will.”

  “Very good.” She sighed and shifted in her chair, allowing her eyes to grow dreamy for a moment. “You know where we should be Franz, instead of here?”

  “No, Sybilla? Where?”

  “We should be in Vienna, or Augsburg, or even Munich. Someplace exciting, civilized, with colorful and beautiful people. But instead. Here we sit. By a mine. In Schwaz. Granted, this place is on the Brenner pass, quite a lot of traffic for the middle of nowhere, but it’s still only a place where people pass by. One does not usually make a destination of a mining town. That ball we had was barely a country dance by Vienna’s standards. And we must spend all this time here missing out on the newest dances, the exciting balls, the pleasures and intrigues of the court. Any court.” She shook her head. “I do not like this place.”

  Franz walked over by the wall where the vase and other items had met their demise, and picked up her hairbrush. He dusted it off with his fingers, making sure there were no shards of pottery or glass in it. “I too, am missing things. I should be with my regiment. The family is pulling troops into Swabia, and I am not part of it. Something is going on, and I do not know what it is. But I should be there.”

  She gave him a highly sympathetic look while rising from her chair. She placed her hand on his arm and patted it in a sisterly, compassionate fashion. Inside she was irritated, but she needed him. So irritation did not come into her words, only kindness and concern. “It must be terrible to be away from them. You are certainly important to your regiment, just like you are important to me.”

  Franz turned to her and bowed one of his military bows. “Thank you, Sybilla, it is—” He was interrupted by a knock on the outer door to her chambers.

  “Enter!” She gestured to him in acknowledgement of his thanks and turned her attention to the door of her rooms.