Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  It was nearly the time that most people retired for their first sleep. Cries of “Good night, neighbor!” rang up and down the lanes and alleys of the Old Town. Doors were bolted and shutters clapped shut over windows. The pub behind them remained full of young men, youths who were either drunk or fearless or both, who would venture into the night at some point. Or perhaps they would lapse into sleep before the pub’s fireplace and be allowed to snore there until morning. Those that did venture out would often shout and curse, singing badly as loudly as their hoarse voices could manage, causing those in their beds to mutter and complain about the hooligans and vagabonds that made the streets so dangerous at night.

  Dietrich led the drunken Hans down a narrow lane towards the Jewish Quarter. They stopped at a door just before reaching the Jewish neighborhood. It was a small but well-kept home, a dark silhouette in the night. A wisp of smoke curled into the sky from the chimney.

  Hans watched as Dietrich paused at the door and glanced about them as he drew an iron pin of some sort from a pocket and inserted it into the keyhole. He shook the pin slightly and Hans heard the “click” of the bolt. Dietrich pushed the door. It opened, a crack of darker shadow within appearing along its frame.

  “Now, it is your turn,” whispered Dietrich, stepping back and guiding Hans by his shoulder again. “Step through the door and across the room,” Dietrich instructed. “I have watched this house for days. There will be a purse behind a candlestick on the mantle above the fire. The householder and his wife sleep in the room upstairs and are elderly.”

  Hans hesitated. Even in his drunken stupor, he realized what he was being asked to do. He attempted to form words of protest but Dietrich cut him short.

  “Do you not think that I have been watching you as well?” Dietrich asked his inebriated apprentice. “I saw you take the food from the basket in the square as the old witch was burned. Do not tell me that such transfer of property is unknown to you or that you are above such pilfering—there were also some sausages and perhaps a cheese that found their way into your pockets, were there not? If it pleased me, I could report your theft in the square to the Old Town Council, and do you think they would treat lightly such an act? Even now, I could call loudly and awake the neighborhood and report that I caught you breaking into the home of an honest man and his wife. Do you not think the dungeons under the Old Town Hall were dug precisely to punish the likes of young men such as yourself? Step across the threshold, Hans, or I will raise the alarm.”

  Hans stared in amazement at his companion. Nothing Dietrich said was untrue, but Hans had hoped to not sink again to theft in order to survive.

  “You swore on your mother’s life,” Dietrich reminded him, glancing about the dark street again. “Is the breaking of an oath something you take so lightly, so quickly?” Dietrich paused, and in the dark, Hans imagined a kindly smile curl across Dietrich’s face. “I promised you food and security, Hans. With the skills I can teach you, you will never want for food or clothing or a place to sleep. This is not so different from taking the food in the Old Town Square, and that food was quickly gone. How long before you resort to such a theft again and risk capture because you do not know what you are doing? The skills which I am offering you can last a lifetime.”

  He gave Hans’ shoulder a gentle push. “Be careful, boy. If you cause a disturbance, I shall vanish and you will be left to deal with the householder and perhaps the constable.”

  Hans stepped through the door of the house.

  He stood there in the dark, listening. A man snored upstairs. He heard echoes of voices from outdoors, at the other end of the lane. His eyes began to adjust, seeing the coals glowing in the fireplace, waiting for the householder’s wife to stir them in the morning to rekindle the fire for cooking and heat.

  Guided by the light of the coals, Hans stepped around the table in the midst of the room. Sweat ran down his forehead and into his eyes. Reaching out, he felt along the mantle above the fire. His hand knocked into a pitcher, which wobbled, the sound of the clay jug rocking against the wood of the mantelpiece sounding like thunder in his ears. He reached out with his other hand to steady it.

  He continued to feel along the mantle, searching for the candlestick and the purse Dietrich had promised would be there. There it was! Hans closed his hand around the leather purse tucked behind the ceramic candlestick and slipped it into his pocket. He stepped backward and glanced about, searching for the doorway.

  As he stepped back in the dark, the beer still befuddling his thoughts, he knocked into the table and a second pitcher that must have been left there crashed to the floor. Immediately he heard the barking of a dog upstairs and voices, the householder and his wife roused by the noise.

  “Who is there?” called the householder. Hans heard steps, and the ladder leading up to the sleeping loft creaked as the man began his descent. The dog continued to bark, yapping and snapping, seeking a way to dash down the ladder ahead of its owner.

  Hans turned and ran into the street. He looked up and down the lane. There was no sign of Dietrich. “Where has the master thief gone?” his mind cried out. Another dog was barking in one of the other houses along the street. He ran toward the nearest corner, nearly slipping on the ice, where the lane joined the broader lane that led to the Old Town Square. As he burst into the broader lane, he crashed into Dietrich.

  Dietrich grabbed Hans by the shoulders and shook him. The sounds of barking continued to fill the air but no footsteps came down the lane behind them in pursuit. Dietrich shook Hans again and held the drunken man’s face, peering into his eyes.

  “I—I have it,” gasped Hans. Dietrich nodded and reached into Hans’ pockets until he found the purse, which he retrieved and then slipped into one of his own.

  “You did well for an apprentice on his first night’s work,” Dietrich congratulated him. “Most young men would not have moved so quickly or so deftly in the house.”

  Hans nodded, unsure if he should thank Dietrich for his praise. Dietrich folded Hans into his grasp and they walked down the lane shoulder to shoulder. They turned toward the Ungelt and passed through the gateway, after alerting the gatekeeper (in German) to their presence and paying the small toll in exchange for disturbing the gatekeeper’s first sleep. Dietrich led Hans through the warren of streets that surrounded the main court where the German merchants lived and did their business before leading Hans through the door of a small inn. Dietrich brought Hans to a small bedroom off the inn’s common room. After no more than a gesture from Dietrich, Hans collapsed onto one of the two beds.

  The next morning, Dietrich gave Hans a few small coins from the purse following their breakfast in the common room. “Go out for the day,” Dietrich instructed Hans. “Practice watching people, how they come and go. How they engage in business with each other and how they speak to one another. Meet me here for supper this evening and I will begin your more formal instruction in the art of our trade.” Dismissing him, Dietrich returned to the bedroom and closed the door.

  “Judging from the way that purse hung in his hand, he must have kept most of the coins for himself,” calculated Hans. Stepping out into the morning light, he rubbed his eyes and blinked. His head ached, even after having eaten. But he was glad to have slept in the bed and even more glad to have eaten. It had been his first meal in days. He stood on the cobblestones, trying to decide which way to turn and where to practice watching people, as Dietrich had instructed. Drawn by the sounds of carts and wagons, voices and shouting, he walked to the Ungelt courtyard.

  Merchants were streaming through the courtyard, some lining up at one door to pay the taxes on newly arrived goods from German territories to the north. Others were waiting their turn to pay the toll and exit the gateway, headed for the Old Town Square with goods for sale in the market. Still others stood in small groups, haggling and negotiating with each other.

  He had often stood here, watching these merchants, hoping one of them would need him to work for the day. He finge
red the coins in his pocket. Few though they were, it was more money than he had held since his arrival in Prague. Without the fear of not finding work for the day, this was the first time he felt free enough to simply stand and watch the merchants go about the beginning of their day.

  There was one man, a scrawny man with thin, greasy gray hair that hung around his shoulders and clothing, which was worn, though far from tattered. Hans had seen him before in the Ungelt court but he never seemed to have a cart of goods or a basket of wares to hawk in the market. He had a small shop but dealt only with the other Germans. The shop was small and dark and Hans had always wondered what business the man engaged in but had never approached him because he seemed uninterested in hiring anyone like Hans. There was never anyone in the shop and the scrawny man rarely spoke to anyone. Today, however, was different.

  Hans watched the man, sitting alone across the square on a stool in the snow before the door of the shop. The man was carving a stick of wood, sliding a knife along the grain and slowly adding to the collection of thin and curling scraps at his feet. He would glance up and look around the courtyard for a moment and then return his attention to the stick.

  After a while, Hans realized the man was watching him, too. The man’s eyes would move past Hans but return to rest on him, ever so briefly, before glancing away again. As the courtyard emptied, with merchants making their way into the Old Town Square for the day of selling and buying, Hans approached the man on the stool.

  “Guten tag, sir,” Hans greeted the man, who lifted his face from his carving. Their eyes met. Hans saw that they were gray flecked with gold. Sad. Nervous. The man seemed uneasy and glanced back down to his carving.

  “Good day, young man,” the man replied. The knife twisted in his hand and Hans saw a decorative vine begin to appear along one side of the stick.

  “What are you carving, sir?” Hans asked.

  “A whistle.” The man did not look up.

  “Ah,” replied Hans, not sure of what else to say. “A toy for a child. A gift, perhaps? Or is it to sell in your shop?”

  “It is not a toy for a child,” snapped the man. “It is not a toy at all,” he added. “Nor for a child!”

  Hans stood there dumbfounded. Why else would the man be carving a whistle? Another thought occurred to him. “Perhaps it is to accompany the singing in a pub in the evening?” he ventured.

  The man scowled and continued working.

  “It is a whistle of rowan wood,” the man announced to Hans. “Very difficult to carve. But if carved without splintering, such a whistle can summon a wind at sea or a summer breeze in a garden. It can cause a winter storm on land or a lashing gale that overturns a ship. It all depends on how hard you blow on it and the delicacy of the tune you play.” The man lifted the whistle for Han’s inspection.

  It was fine work, the decorative vine curling about the areas where the three or four holes would be placed for the player to cover with his fingers. It was not yet hollow, though, and that would be the difficult part of the carving. Hans had carved a few very crude whistles as a child, most of which had broken when the knife slipped or he held the wood too rigidly.

  “It is fine work, sir,” Hans offered.

  “It is,” the man agreed. He returned to his carving. Hans stood there awkwardly.

  “My name is Hans,” he finally said, as much to break the silence as for any other reason.

  “Mine is Albrecht.” The man put aside his knife and picked up another tool from the ground, with which he would hollow out the whistle. Hans sat next to the man.

  “How is it, sir, that you know the properties of rowan whistles?” Hans asked quietly.

  “I know many things,” Albrecht replied, just as quietly. “Many things, most of which can be dangerous to know.”

  Hans nodded. He began to understand why the shop was small and dark and why he never saw anyone there. “You must have many customers at night, sir.”

  “Some. A few.” He sighed. “Very few.”

  “I have also just begun to learn a trade that must needs be practiced in the dark,” Hans informed Albrecht.

  Albrecht looked at Hans, an eyebrow raised.

  “I have been taken on as an apprentice by Dietrich,” Hans continued. “You know him perhaps?”

  Albrecht nodded as he worked on his whistle. “I recognize the name.”

  There was another silence between them. Wood chips continued to fall onto the snow around Albrecht’s feet.

  A thought occurred to Hans. “Might you ever consider working with my master, Dietrich?” he inquired. “Perhaps the skills you each command can benefit the other.”

  Albrecht continued to carve as if he had not heard Hans.

  “I am sorry if I have offended you, sir.” Hans stood as if to go. “I only thought that if your customers are few and my new trade also relies on darkness, there might be a chance that we could work together.” He brushed a stray wood chip from his breeches.

  Albrecht held up the whistle, looking at Hans through the freshly hollowed-out wood with one eye. “I never said that we could not come to some agreement, boy. I have seen more than a few young men embark on a trade such as Dietrich’s. Most did not succeed. Many were imprisoned before a fortnight was out. Do you hope to do better than that, boy?”

  “I do,” Hans answered.

  “Mention my name to your master. Tell Herr Dietrich that Herr Albrecht the hexenmeister has something to offer him and that his new apprentice might find it very useful.”

  “Can you tell me what that might be, sir?”

  “Mention my name to your master, boy. Then come to see me this evening.”

  Dietrich stood in the shadows that filled the Ungelt courtyard after he and Hans had eaten their supper and drank a mug or two of ale. Most of the customers of the pubs of Prague had made their way home already for their first sleep. An owl hooted above.

  Hans walked directly across the court to the door of Albrecht’s shop and knocked lightly. Dietrich, remaining where he was, shook his head sadly. “You have already forgotten everything I told you over supper about walking about in such a way as to not reveal your destination,” Dietrich whispered to Hans, even though the young apprentice was too far away to hear the quiet reproach. “It will be a long time before you are ready to be trusted with work of any importance, my boy.”

  The shop door opened slightly and a hand drew Hans within. The door was left ajar and Dietrich made his way stealthily from shadow to shadow before melting through the doorway and into the shop. He closed the door behind him.

  Hans, peering intently at the walls around him, stood in the midst of the shop with Albrecht. Albrecht held a single candle, and the small light hinted at the racks and shelves that surrounded the three men. Without a word, Albrecht nervously bobbed his head at Dietrich and then led his guests into a small room behind the shop and closed another door before lighting a handful of candle stubs placed around this inner chamber.

  A small bed was pushed against one wall opposite a fireplace that held the glowing coals and small flames of a cooking fire, the shifting light dancing around the room and illuminating it in addition to the candles. A small pot hung over the fire and Hans could make out the fragrance of stewed meat. A large worktable filled the center of the room and on it were a multitude of mortars and pestles, small purses and larger boxes, glass bottles filled with liquids or powders. Stalks and seeds and petals and leaves were also strewn about the table, waiting to be ground or made into philters and teas.

  “Herr Dietrich.” Albrecht bent towards the master thief. “I have heard your name mentioned in many places, but always after you have gone.”

  “Herr Albrecht.” Dietrich inclined his head to the hexenmeister even as he inspected the room. “I understand you have something to offer me.”

  “Indeed, indeed I do,” Albrecht agreed. He shuffled around the table and sat in an old and threadbare seat, indicating that his guests should also sit. Hans found two rickety stools u
nder the table and pulled them out for his master and himself to sit opposite Albrecht. A “pop!” at the hearth and a shower of sparks greeted a collapsing log.

  After a long silence, Albrecht spoke again. “I had the unusual opportunity recently, very recently, of obtaining the necessary raw material for making a rare implement,” the hexenmeister announced, his scratchy voice barely audible. He grinned, apparently at his good fortune. “A rare implement that you may find useful.” He looked eagerly from Dietrich’s face to Hans’ and back. Hans had no idea what Albrecht might think they would find useful. Dietrich remained inscrutable. Finally Albrecht pulled one of the wooden boxes on the table towards him and placed his hands upon its lid, lightly resting his fingertips on it and slightly rising from his seat.

  “This, Herr Dietrich and my young friend Hans, is worth a great deal to someone in your profession. I wonder if you know what it is or have ever seen one before?” He set aside the lid of the chest and pulled the wondrous implement from the box, setting it on the table.

  A low, long whistle escaped Dietrich’s lips. “I have heard of these,” he whispered admiringly, “but I have never seen one.”