Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy

by Stephen Morris

  “You trust in your religious medals and precious salt, but you cannot stop me,” she taunted them. “You cannot stop any of us,” she hastily corrected herself, remembering Magdalena and George. “You think yourselves so clever, you with your modern studies and explanations for old legends and stories. But you are as powerless now as men have been for generations. There is nothing you can do. Certainly not here.”

  Mary Claire explored the gravestone she had tripped near. A rough, cracked rectangular stone it seemed to be, revealed by her deft exploration with her hands. It was fairly large. She thought she could make out carving on it, letters and emblems perhaps, but without light it was difficult to be sure what the writing might have said.

  “Put some bricks on it!” Oison called back to her.

  Could she do that? It was one thing to hand bricks to Seamus, but could she, in good conscience and without thinking of herself as a superstitious old-timer, build a cairn of stones on a grave that might or might not have marked the burial of the Dearg-due?

  “What the hell?” she concluded. “Why not? It’s not any more foolish than handing bricks to Seamus and Oisin.” She sighed, amused at herself, and got up off the stone. She brought back three bricks to the stone and thought momentarily about how to arrange them.

  “In the middle? Or near the top? Which would be most effective? Or symmetrical?” she considered, letting her head lean to one side on her shoulder. “In the middle, more or less,” she decided. She knelt and set the bricks on the stone in front of her. She thought she felt a shiver run through the stone as she did so.

  “Old stone. Unstable earth below,” she reasoned, thinking of the rotting wood of the coffin collapsing under its own weight. Stretching out her hands, she determined the width of the stone and then set the three bricks in what was more-or-less the center of the grave marker. She stood to get more bricks and nearly fell as the stone shuddered beneath her.

  “Very unstable!” she said to herself, going for more bricks. Calling out to the men, she asked, “Did you two have any stones nearly collapse underneath you?”

  “No,” the two male voices answered in unison. Seamus added, “Does that one seem dangerous to you?”

  “It seems very unstable,” she called back.

  “Be careful!” warned Seamus. “Don’t stand on the grave! Just reach over and put the bricks there!”

  Mary Claire was already back, kneeling on the grave, searching with her hands for the bricks she had already placed there. Finding them in the dark, she set two more atop them and then, as a crowning flourish, one more atop that. The scrape of the bricks against each other sounded solid and substantial, a satisfying dose of everyday reality there in the night. She brushed the brick dust off her hands and stood.

  “She’s right,” muttered Sean out of the corner of his mouth to the others. “There is nothing we can really do to stop her.”

  “But we can fight. We can slow her down,” Theo countered. “The medals and the salt both proved that.” As he spoke, he took another canister of salt from the shopping bag and tore it open with a grunt and then sent it sailing through the air toward the Dearg-due. The Dearg-due darted to one side but was unexpectedly cut short, as if the trailing billows of the shroud had been nailed to the ground. The salt canister hit her hip, causing her to twist about in the air, salt spewing down the length of the shroud. Sparks and ragged flames burst along the length of the red cerements.

  The Dearg-due twisted back, attempting to see what held the end of the shroud.

  “Did you see that?” asked Victoria. “Something happened. Something she didn’t expect. Could she be trapped in the air somehow?”

  “You will not stop me!” the Dearg-due cried out, turning her attention back to the academics. “You are fools if you think otherwise!” She lunged at them, making for Theo before he could throw any more salt.

  But as rapidly as she hurled herself through the air, she was as rapidly wrenched back. The shroud would not move along the ground, its tatters pinned to the cobblestones by some power none of the academics could see.

  “Did the salt fall on the ends of your shroud?” called out Fr. Dmitri. “Is it pinning your shroud to the ground? Is that why you are trapped there?” He exchanged a glance with Sean, who shrugged. “That high in the air, we will not be able to touch you with the medals that most of us have. But you cannot hover there forever. And when you come down…” He rummaged in his pocket with one hand.

  The Dearg-due tugged furiously at the shroud but it would not tear away from whatever force was pinning it. She glared at Dmitri.

  The priest pulled an Infant of Prague medal from his pocket and held it up for the Dearg-due to see. He took a step forward.

  Screaming, she threw herself at him but was wrenched back. She screamed again and again, anxiously tearing at the shroud, but it would not give way.

  Suddenly, a great cloud of crows came wheeling out of the sky over the Astronomical Clock. Filling the air with their raucous cries, they circled the clock and swooped. Beaks and claws extended, they fell like a rain of bullets onto Sean and the other academics. Their cries filled the air, as did the crows’ and Elizabeth’s. The academics hurried to protect themselves, covering their heads with their arms and huddling together. The crows darted and weaved around them, pinning them in their places much as the Dearg-due found herself pinned by whatever the shroud was caught on.

  The Dearg-due gave a final tremendous heave on the tattered shroud and screamed again. But this scream had a different tone. This was a cry of frustration and sorrow as well as a cry of rage. It was less a cry of defiance of her attackers and more a defiance of other, greater powers further afield.

  The gravestone heaved beneath Mary Claire, knocking her into the grass, where she fell to the ground, her arms splayed out. Something soft and wet slithered across her hands. She screamed. Hearing the commotion, Seamus and Oisin hurried over, knocking aside a few of their carefully built cairns as they came running. Flashlights bounced in their hands, sending spears of light slashing wildly through the air.

  Seamus pulled her into his arms, dropping his flashlight onto the ground. In its brightness, Mary Claire saw a mass of pale maggots and worms slithering and squirming, as if struggling to either escape from or return to the grave, she wasn’t sure which. The cairn of bricks remained intact on the stone. Dazed with shock and disgust, Mary Claire collapsed against Seamus. With a cry, Oisin grabbed Seamus’ shoulder and pulled Seamus—supporting Mary Claire—away from the grave.

  Wisps and tendrils of smoke curled from beneath the grave marker, quickly becoming thicker ropes and then clouds of acrid smoke that stung their eyes and throats, illuminated from within its own billows by a dirty yellow-red light. The ground rippled and shifted under their feet and for several yards around the gravestone, nearly knocking them over. Clouds of crows darted out of the sky, screaming as they dove.

  Raising their hands and arms to protect themselves from the crows, unsure of their footing as the earth continued to heave beneath them, the three cairn-builders huddled together and stumbled away from the grave. A handful of crows darted at Mary Claire, Seamus and Oisin, but most of the crows ignored them and instead darted at the stone, as if attempting to overturn the cairn of bricks Mary Claire had erected.

  An angry woman’s cry cut through the air like a knife. A scream that was defiance and rage and sorrow all wrapped together rang out, going on and on and on, coming closer and closer.

  The shroud twisted and writhed, gathering like a snake preparing to strike. It caught the Dearg-due in its folds, pinning her legs together. She shrieked in hysteria now, frantic to pull the cerements loose but unable to work her talons into the cloth. The shroud billowing up around her shoulders began to twist itself around her torso, caught in the magical vortex of the cairn being erected in Ireland.

  Abruptly, a portion of the flock of crows spun away from the academics and then split again, one group wheeling around the Dearg-due and the other
making straight for the face of the Astronomical Clock.

  The academics were unable to see any of what was going on because of the attacking crows. Keeping their heads down, they could hear the Dearg-due’s cries as well as the cries of the birds hurling themselves against the clock.

  The crows fluttering about the Dearg-due cawed and called, urging her in their own way to stop struggling against the inevitable. In frustration and despair, she shook her fists at the night sky, finally giving way to one unyielding cry. The sound of that scream went on and on and on, echoing throughout the Old Town and filling the minds of everyone that heard it, driving away any thought but acknowledgment of its presence. Foul black smoke, thick and acrid, burst from the winding sheet the Dearg-due was wrapped in, making the academics cough and choke as they attempted to strike back at the crows jabbing at them with sharp beaks. The clouds of smoke and crows seemed unending.

  Just as that scream reached its most maddening, most unbearable crescendo, it was cut short. Silence erupted in its place. Without warning, the crows wheeled into the sky and away from both the academics and the clock, disappearing in the same direction they had come from. Slowly, unsure the crows had really gone and were not regrouping for another attack, the academics lowered their arms and stood up. The smoke began to clear. Eyes stinging, they began to look around the square.

  “What’s happening?” cried Mary Claire, her eyes squeezed tightly shut. “What’s going on?” A cloud of the acrid smoke spilled over them and any further words were impossible as they coughed and struggled to breathe.

  Crows continued to dive around them. The earth heaved in waves, as if being overturned by great shovels from below. The scream in the air continued to grow louder and closer, shutting out any reality but itself. Tears stung Mary Claire’s eyes, but whether of fright or because of the smoke or because of both, she was not sure. They all three cried out.

  Then, as suddenly as it had all begun, the scream was cut short and the crows vanished. The earth under their feet was still. The smoke cleared away, drifting on the currents of a gentle breeze that sprang up from the river. All was silent, except for the cries of the three themselves, and this new silence was as disconcerting and frightening as the previous commotion.

  Finally, Mary Claire pulled herself up and away from the men. They all slowly opened their eyes and wiped the backs of their hands across their faces. Mary Claire looked down, the lights from the discarded flashlights bouncing off the grave at odd angles.

  “What’s this?” She picked up a strip of something that was torn and caught under the edge of the gravestone. “This wasn’t here before.” She held up a strip of filthy red linen. It had a disgusting, rotten odor that she couldn’t identify.

  Unsure of what had just happened, afraid that Elizabeth might reappear at any moment, Fr. Dmitri led the academics quickly across the Old Town Square as soon as the crows wheeled away into the night sky. They didn’t pause until they reached the Powder Tower at the end of the street that ran alongside Our Lady of Tyn.

  The power of the Royal Road slept beneath their feet.

  PART 3: DELUGE

  The Chariot

  (Sunday night, August 11, 2002)

  G

  eorge had two errands to run now that Magdalena was gone. He needed to meet Fen’ka and Jarnvithja, who were to deliver the great sword of Bruncvik to him. And he had another task to attend to on his way to get the sword.

  Before sending Magdalena with the magical staff of Rabbi Loew to meet Elizabeth in the Old Town Square, where they were to sabotage the Astronomical Clock, he had spoken to the hotel desk clerk about arranging an appointment with a local prostitute.

  “I would like to meet at her apartment, not here at the hotel,” George had confided to the clerk, winking as he adjusted his clerical collar. “It might not look good, you understand, if she were seen coming to my room.”

  “Of course, Father.” The clerk answered the Jesuit from New York in a bored voice, as if accustomed to requests like this. “What time should I make the appointment for?”

  “I would also appreciate meeting someone who is—how to say?—not adverse to light bondage,” George explained. “She should have her own rope and be ready for a session that involves…” George fumbled for the right word. “I understand that this can cost extra. The cost is of no concern.”

  “I understand. Of course.” The clerk also seemed to have heard this request many times before. “I will need to make some phone calls. What time did you say you wanted to make the appointment?”

  George gave the clerk the approximate time he’d like to meet the woman later that evening, and a short while later, a bellhop had delivered an envelope to his room. Inside was a note that simply indicated a woman’s name, her address, and the price in Czech currency.

  Now, George waited to be sure Magdalena was well on her way from the hotel and slipped a few supplies into his pocket. Then he stepped out of the hotel, found a taxi, and gave the address to the driver. The driver nodded and quickly deposited George at the door of the apartment house a few blocks away. George walked through the lobby and up a flight of stairs to a door on the next floor. He knocked. The door swung open.

  “Good evening.” The woman at the door was young and lovely, a beautiful sheer robe revealing her provocative curves as a silk sash hugged her hips.

  “Good evening,” George answered. He stepped inside and closed the door. “It is a pleasure to meet you…”

  “Agafia.” She smiled and leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. He slipped a hand inside her robe and pressed his palm against her breast. She winked and placed his other hand against her hip.

  “You received my instructions?” George whispered into her ear, feeling himself respond to her attractions.

  “I did,” she purred. “Come right this way.” She turned and kept one hand entwined with his as she led him down a short hallway to a door on the left. They entered a room filled with sumptuous Victorian-era style furniture, a Tiffany lamp casting a warm glow across the scene. A few candles twinkled around the edges of the room. A dining room chair stood alone on a plush Turkish carpet in the midst of the richly detailed parquet floor. Coils of silken white rope sat on a nearby table, its surface polished to a glossy sheen.

  You will excuse me, my dear,” he explained as he stepped away from her, “but I am a man of strict habits and there are certain—shall we say, small fetishes?—which are necessary.”

  “Such as?” Agafia asked.

  “I must make a slight rearrangement of the furniture,” he told her. “May I?”

  Agafia nodded, seemingly intrigued by his request.

  George turned the chair slightly so that a person sitting in it would face north. He also brought a candlestick from a shelf and set it on the edge of the rug. Then he pulled a small object from his pocket and bent over, his back to Agafia, and traced a circle on the floor around the chair and rug. He slipped the object back into his pocket and turned to face Agafia, who seemed slightly bemused.

  “You are interested in bondage?” Agafia asked coyly. She pulled the sash around her waist loose. She shrugged and the robe rippled down into a puddle of fabric around her feet. Naked, she stepped into the middle of the room.

  George caught his breath. Agafia was exactly the sort of woman he could enjoy the whole night, but there was no time for that now. He had to finish the task at hand and then go meet Fen’ka and Jarnvithja.

  “Yes,” he answered, his rising desire making his voice a rough growl. He picked up the rope and ran his palm along the smoothly braided cord. He and Agafia smiled at each other. He joined her next to the chair. He stood behind her and leaned forward, bringing his head down to brush his cheek along her throat. She leaned her head back, exposing the length of her neck, sighing and relaxing against his body. He guided her into the chair and wrapped the rope snugly around her torso.

  “Not too tight, is it?” he asked, as if concerned about Agafia’s welfare, standing behind h
er and pulling the cord gently up beneath her breasts. He leaned down again, running his tongue up her throat and tickling her ear.

  “No, it is not too tight,” she answered. She sounded delighted, in fact, enjoying herself, no doubt relieved that her guest did not seem to be dangerous. The ropes were snug but not so tight that she could not wriggle her way out of them easily, if needed.

  George’s cheek rested against her neck. Desire rumbled in his throat. He closed his eyes. Agafia’s scent filled his head and momentarily distracted him. She murmured something he did not understand. He nuzzled her earlobe again and slowly stood upright behind the chair. She leaned her head back against him and he heard the sounds of desire rising in her throat too.

  He rested his palms on her shoulders, gently stroking her upper back with his thumbs.

  “So beautiful,” he whispered. “So very beautiful.” He gazed down over her shoulder. He slipped loops of rope loosely around her wrists and the back legs of the chair. Then he pulled the whole rope tight. So tight that it cut into the tender flesh beneath Agafia’s breasts. She gasped.

  “Rough, heh? You like it rough?” she snarled, as if changing character from smooth seductress to wild tigress. “You like a girl who fights, heh?” She bucked in the chair, nearly knocking George over.

  “Yes, I like it rough,” he agreed, pulling the cord even more tightly around her and tying her hands firmly against the chair legs. “I like a woman who fights but ultimately knows her place.”

  Agafia struggled against the rope but George could tell that it was not heartfelt. It was only an act to please her client. She seemed to feel that she was in no real danger. He came around and knelt before her, pulling the ends of the rope forward and binding her ankles against the front legs of the chair. She continued her muted protests.

  Still kneeling before her, he buried his face in her lap. His energetic attention there quickly had her writhing and bucking in the chair again, though he was unsure if it was simply a pretense she thought would please him. Raising his head, he looked up at her and winked.