A Sojourn in Bohemia

by G. D. Falksen

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen!” the shopkeeper exclaimed, first in Czech, then in German, as if gauging which language his customers preferred. Settling on German, he offered his hand first to Iosef and then to Luka and said, “Come in, please, do come in. How may I be of service?”

  “You are Herr Mordechai?” Iosef asked.

  “I am indeed,” Mordechai replied, bowing his head. “And you gentlemen?”

  “Prince Iosef Shashavani,” Iosef answered. “And my…secretary, Herr Luka.”

  Mordechai paused a moment at the introduction, his smile never wavering. “Prince Shashavani, Your Highness, an honor. Your accent.… Russian?”

  Luka made a face at the suggestion, but Iosef merely nodded.

  “That will suffice for now,” he said. “I must confess, Herr Mordechai, you are not quite what I expected.”

  “It is the lack of a beard,” Luka explained, his tone ever so slightly jocular.

  Mordechai laughed. “A beard? That will be a first. Most of my customers are surprised that I am Indian. From my name, they expect me to be an aged Ashkenazi gentleman. I try to explain that there have been Jews in India since before there were Christians there, but it is to no avail.”

  “Men are foolish,” Iosef said. “It is no matter.”

  “No matter, indeed,” Mordechai agreed. “Now then, what may I do for you gentlemen? Is it to be books or curiosities?” He motioned to the shelves and cases. “As you can see, I have an ample supply to please all comers.”

  “Curiosities,” Iosef replied. “I understand that you recently acquired a number of items from the Hoffmann estate. I am interested in one of them.”

  “Ah!” Mordechai said. “Of course. Come, come.”

  He motioned for Iosef to follow him and led the way to the back of the room. Behind the bookshelves and the cases of mysterious trinkets was a sort of parlor that extended from the main room of the shop, adorned with a large desk, several cabinets, and even more books waiting to be read, stocked, or sold. A closed door led further into the building, perhaps to a private study or to the living quarters of the shop.

  Mordechai paused and opened a ledger on a nearby desk.

  “What precisely are you interested in, My Lord?” he asked. “I recall that the Hoffmann estate included a marvelous collection of Grecian pottery that has come into my possession. Would that be of interest to you?”

  “No, I fear not,” Iosef replied. “I am interested in one item, in fact. A small talisman composed of aluminium, stamped as if by a machine on one face with the symbol of the Greek ouroboros surrounding an eye and with sigils of an indeterminate nature on the other.”

  “Ah,” Mordechai said, clearly recognizing the description. He frowned slightly.

  “In fact,” Iosef continued, “Herr Hoffmann had agreed to sell it to me…before his unfortunate heart attack two weeks ago.”

  Mordechai nodded and sighed with regret. “A most tragic event. And under the new moon. An ill omen, surely.”

  “You have the item in question?” Iosef asked.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Mordechai. “I know just the piece you seek.”

  He removed a key ring from his pocket and unlocked a drawer in the desk. Opening the drawer, he drew out a small disc of silver metal and held it up for Iosef’s inspection. The object was almost identical to the one in Iosef’s possession, and he leaned in to study it carefully, astonished at the sight of it.

  “That is it,” he agreed. “How much do you want for it?”

  “Regrettably, nothing,” Mordechai said. “It’s not for sale.”

  “You wish to keep it?” Iosef asked.

  Mordechai made a face and replied, “Oh, no, not at all, Highness. I have no wish to keep the thing.”

  “Because it is an obvious fraud?” Iosef asked. “Clearly a product of machine production.”

  “Clearly it is,” Mordechai agreed, “barring some incredible craftsmanship on the part of ancient peoples.” He indicated the amulet in his hand. “Allegedly this was taken from the tomb of a Slavic king. And truly, if a high chief of the Polans had command of such quantities of aluminium and such precise craftsmanship, I would be astonished, but still.…”

  “It cannot have been created when the tomb was built,” Iosef said, echoing the facts about his own talisman, “and yet it cannot have been placed there at some later date.”

  “Quite so,” Mordechai said. “As a scholar, I assume it to be the work of great wealth by its owner and remarkable skill by its creator, and I fear that there can be no other explanation.”

  “And still you will not part with it?”

  “I would gladly be rid of it,” Mordechai replied, “but I fear it has already been sold. Indeed, I hope that the buyer will be arriving sometime today…or rather tonight. I sent him a letter about the acquisition before the Christmas holiday, and he replied by telegram with assurances of his impending departure. I hope he arrives before the year is out!”

  “So it is not for sale?” Luka asked, moving forward. It seemed he wanted to expedite the matter. “Perhaps some arrangement could be made.”

  “Gentlemen, I assure you, I am happy to sell,” Mordechai said. “It is simply that there is already a buyer, and I have agreed to sell to him.” He raised a hand to stop any dispute. “Ah, but when my client arrives, if he would like to sell it to you, then by all means, let him do so. I have my obligation; after that, it is none of my concern.”

  “I suppose that is reasonable,” Iosef replied. “And you expect your client tonight?”

  “I have expected him for the past three nights,” Mordechai explained. “It is entirely in his hands now.” He unlocked a drinks cabinet and withdrew a crystal decanter. “But…if you gentlemen would care for some Cognac, you are welcome to wait for him with me.”

  “I would certainly not refuse,” Luka said to Iosef. He quickly joined Mordechai as the shopkeeper began filling three glasses with fine French brandy.

  Being Georgian, Luka had very exacting standards when it came to wine, but he had developed a fondness for brandy and its various refinements over the years.

  “I suppose not,” Iosef said, taking a seat at the table with them. “If I may inquire, Herr Mordechai, who is your buyer for the piece?”

  “A Prussian gentleman, Count von Raabe,” Mordechai answered. “A bit of an occultist, truly, but a learned man. I daresay he seeks the amulet for its historical merits as much as wanting a piece of pagan exotica.”

  “And what is its history?” Iosef asked.

  It was a matter that struck a chord with his curiosity. He had studied the Kara Keçi Turks who had created the amulet he possessed, but discovering another that had been dug up from a Slavic tomb had surprised him. Perhaps there was a connection that he did not yet understand.

  “Well, obviously, it was forged in honor of the Horned Serpent,” Mordechai explained. “You are familiar with the Horned Serpent, are you not?”

  “I…fear not,” Iosef admitted, taking his glass and sipping the Cognac.

  Mordechai paused, perhaps sensing Iosef’s hesitation at admitting ignorance.

  “Oh, there is no shame in that, My Lord,” he said quickly, taking a drink of his own. “It is very esoteric. But tell me, are you familiar with the Black Goat—”

  “Of the Kara Keçi Turks?” Iosef finished. “Yes, I am acquainted with the history of Arslan Khan and his forebears.”

  Arslan Khan had been the ruler of the Black Goat Turks in the early thirteenth century, and he had very nearly conquered the rising power of the Mongol Empire before his untimely death at the hands of the Mongol general Jebe. Had Arslan Khan assumed control of Genghis Khan’s great horde, there was no telling what horrors the Kara Keçi might have inflicted upon the world.

  Mordechai nodded and drank from his glass of Cognac, perhaps a little impressed by some strang
e nobleman recognizing the name of the Kara Keçi.

  “If you are familiar with the Kara Keçi, surely you know of the Roman cult of the Dark Faun,” he said to Iosef, measuring his words carefully. It was surely an esoteric subject and not one to be addressed among unenlightened company.

  “Or course,” Iosef reassured him. “The cult of the so-called Magna Mater that allegedly inflicted the Plague of Cyprian upon the Romans.”

  “And the Plague of Justinian after it,” Mordechai agreed. He seemed pleased at having a companion familiar with the topic. “Ah, but I do not mean to distract us with talk of the Dark Faun. As I said, the connection that most interests me is that of the Slavic Horned Serpent, Veles as it is often known. And as my talisman came from a Polish Slavic tomb, I would assume it to interest you as well.”

  Iosef considered this for a moment. “I must confess, I am not familiar with this ‘horned serpent’,” he said. “Should I be?”

  “Ah, well…” Mordechai replied. It seemed that he believed it so, though he was hesitant to say so to such a distinguished customer. “Well consider, Highness, the Dark Faun may not have made contact with the Black Goat cult in a timely fashion, but the Horned Serpent of the Slavs holds many similarities to the Kara Keçi cult, including blood sacrifice made to the head of a goat; and as neither the Turks nor the Slavs left written records, we cannot dismiss the possibility that the two cults were connected to one another.”

  Iosef sat back in his chair and studied his Cognac, unable to conceal the smile of curiosity that crossed his lips.

  “Herr Mordechai, you have certainly caught my attention,” he said. “If we are to wait for your elusive buyer, perhaps you would care to tell me more about this ‘Horned Serpent’ and its manifold secrets.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  While Iosef and Luka attended to their business at the bookstore, Varanus took Ekaterine to find her son. The address provided by Doctor Constantine was located in a particularly low part of the city, a winding expanse of streets with crumbling buildings that loomed over the claustrophobic pathways below them. A few of the houses were old, dating back at least a hundred years to when the region had been rural land outside of Prague. The rest were far newer: tenements and townhouses erected to house Zizkov’s rapidly growing population, and run by landlords who cared little for their working class tenants.

  “It reminds me of London,” Ekaterine announced, as they picked their way through a torch-lit alleyway and past a snoring drunk who lay huddled in a doorway against the cold.

  “How curious that your keenest memory of London should be Osborne Court,” Varanus said.

  Osborne Court had been a particularly corrupt and rotten rookery in the heart of London’s Spitalfields, where Varanus and Ekaterine had operated a small charitable clinic during the unfortunate year of 1888. It was certainly an apt comparison to the neighborhood that Friedrich had taken for his residence, and that fact troubled Varanus.

  They continued along to Friedrich’s address, which proved to be a decaying townhouse of what appeared to be considerable age. Its windows were greasy and in some places broken, stuffed with rags and newspaper to keep out the cold. Behind them, warm lights flickered and danced against the frosted panes. Varanus shivered at the sight of it. This was not the sort of place she wanted her son to be residing.

  Sighing, she walked up to the door and gave it a few strong knocks with her fist. At first there was no answer, but presently the sounds of footsteps came from within, and the door opened to reveal a fair young woman only barely out of her teens. She was dressed rather more finely than Varanus would have expected given the location. But, she realized, the girl’s dress was stained in places and fraying; it had not been properly cared for in several months at least.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” the girl asked, her voice revealing a very fine Hungarian accent. Though she seemed startled and a little frightened by the sight of them, the girl maintained the poise of nobility.

  “I am looking for my son,” Varanus replied, advancing into the decrepit foyer despite the girl’s protestations. “Perhaps you are familiar with him: Doctor von Fuchsburg?”

  The girl looked astonished. “Friedrich? You are Friedrich’s mother?”

  Ekaterine joined them and closed the door against the cold, shivering slightly.

  “She is,” she confirmed. “And I’m his aunt, and we are both very eager to find him.” She quickly extended a hand to the girl. “I’m Ekaterine Shashavani. And you are?”

  “Erzsebet,” came the reply.

  “Lovely to meet you, Erzsebet,” Ekaterine said. “Do you have a family name?”

  “No,” Erzsebet said quickly, drawing away.

  While Ekaterine did her best to exchange pleasantries, Varanus took a moment to study the house. The foyer had long ago seen better days. A nearby doorway led into an adjoining parlor, from which came the smell of smoke and alcohol and the sound of violin music being played in a manner that was both too rapid and too syncopated for prevailing styles. A rickety staircase led to the upstairs part of the house, and from that direction Varanus smelled the faint odor of chemicals left to burn.

  “Erzsebet, who is it?” called a voice from the parlor door.

  Varanus turned and saw another woman, several years older than Erzebet, who had just joined them. Her hair was dark and wavy, left in far greater disarray than Erzebet’s more precise arrangement, and her clothes were dotted with flecks of paint, which also stained her hands and fingertips.

  “Visitors for Freddie, Zoya,” Erzsebet answered. “They claim to be his family.”

  “Is that so?” asked Zoya, slowly advancing toward them. She did not appear hostile per se, but she did seem rather skeptical about being visited by two well-dressed women of obvious means, which was to be expected given the neighborhood.

  “Yes,” Varanus replied. “I am his mother.”

  “And I’m his Aunt Ekaterine,” Ekaterine added cheerfully, offering Zoya her hand.

  Zoya turned toward Ekaterine, and suddenly she stopped and stared. Gazing in wonder at Ekaterine, she exclaimed, “You!”

  “Me?” Ekaterine asked, quickly looking over her shoulder in case there was some other person concealed behind her.

  Zoya did not reply. Instead, she reached out with her fingertips and touched Ekaterine’s face. Varanus frowned and made a move to stop her, but Ekaterine did not seem to mind, appearing more curious than anything. She allowed Zoya to tilt her head from side to side, smiling all the while.

  “Oh muse…” Zoya said. “The light! It adores you!”

  “Does it?” Ekaterine asked.

  Zoya suddenly took Ekaterine’s hands. “I must paint you, muse,” she announced.

  There was a pause as Ekaterine considered the strange statement and then said, “Yes, all right.”

  “Ekaterine, do you really think—” Varanus began.

  “Come, muse!” Zoya exclaimed, gently pulling Ekaterine toward the parlor.

  “Now just a moment!” Varanus protested.

  “Farewell, Doctor!” Ekaterine replied. “I’m off on an adventure! Don’t wait for me!”

  And with that, she vanished into the parlor along with Zoya, into the smoke and the wailing of the violin. Varanus was about to follow when a man suddenly appeared on the upstairs landing, drawing her attention.

  She saw her son Friedrich standing at the head of the stairs, wearing a soot-stained smoking jacket over an open shirt and a pair of rather worn trousers. Friedrich was not quite as Varanus remembered him, for the passage of ten years had clearly weighed upon him. Now in his mid-thirties, he looked thin and tired. He seemed not to have slept, and Varanus doubted that he was eating properly. And worse than the gauntness of his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes was Friedrich’s hair. Still the same shade of fiery auburn as his mother’s, it was now shaggy and unkempt, while
Friedrich’s handsome face was marred by a bushy tangle of beard that seemed absurdly cultivated.

  “Mother?” Friedrich exclaimed in astonishment. He began to descend the stairs, at first slowly but then with hurried steps as he rushed to embrace her. Reaching the bottom of the steps, he caught Varanus in his arms and swung her around, laughing with delight. “Mother! It is you!”

  “Put me down, Friedrich,” Varanus said, doing her best to hide a smile at his exuberance.

  Friedrich quickly set Varanus down, still smiling at her.

  “Mother, what are you doing here?” he asked. Then, just as quickly, he motioned to Erzsebet. “And have you met my friend Erzsebet? Erzsebet, this is my mother, the Princess Shashavani.”

  “Kindly call me Doctor Varanus,” Varanus interjected. She had little interest in being addressed by something so tawdry as a courtly title.

  “We have already met, after a fashion,” Erzsebet said, but she bowed her head to Varanus with all proper deference to rank. That, coupled with her dignity in so low a place, all but confirmed her background. “And it is an honor to meet you…Doctor.”

  “Where is Aunt Ekaterine?” Friedrich asked.

  “She was stolen to be painted,” Varanus replied.

  Erzsebet cleared her throat and explained, “Apparently Zoya has found her new muse.”

  “Aunt Ekaterine?” Friedrich gasped. “That is…wonderful, if unexpected.”

  “Who can say with Zoya?” Erzsebet said, shrugging. She looked at Varanus and asked, “You are Friedrich’s mother? Truly?”

  “She is!” Friedrich answered.

  “I am,” Varanus agreed.

  “You are simply so youthful,” Erzsebet explained. “My own mother would be envious. I would not imagine you to be a day over thirty…if you will pardon my saying it.”