Across the large open space that opened before her, she saw the centuries’ old St. George’s Basilica and the women’s cloister dedicated to him. She entered the construction site that stood between her and the convent. Large piles of stone littered the hilltop around her. Across the open space, she saw the jagged shards, like the crumbling teeth of giants, beginning to rise in a gigantic semicircle around the old rotunda dedicated to the Mother of God. Heavy droplets of rain began to splatter down. Nearing the stones that were slowly becoming the apse of the cathedral, she set down her supplies and turned to face the north. She reached into her apron pocket and withdrew the length of red cord she had brought. She tied the ends together—no mean feat, given how cold and wet both her fingers and the cord were becoming—and threw the cord to the ground around her, creating a makeshift protective circle. Thunder rumbled in the distance.
Inside her circle, the lantern burned brightly, the flame strong and steady. She opened the wicker cage and reached in to grasp the black rooster by the throat from behind, deftly managing to avoid being pecked by its sharp beak in the process. It struggled briefly but could hardly move in the confined space. She slowly withdrew it, backwards, and held it down against the dusty cobblestones that were quickly becoming muddy in the storm. Its wings flapped once and its feet scrabbled against the stones. With her other hand, she pulled the knife from her apron pocket. Grasping it firmly, she took a deep breath and then quickly sliced open the rooster’s throat. She released her grasp of the rooster.
The bird’s head slumped to one side as its body sprang up and began to run around the haphazardly arranged piles of stone waiting for the masons. Blood spurted everywhere like a palace fountain gone wild. She watched it as it ran in and around the stones, the blood forming bizarre patterns on both the cobblestones she stood on and the larger stones for construction. The bird finally collapsed near the front doors of St. George’s.
The rain was falling harder now and the lightning drawing closer, flashing more frequently. But where was Svetovit? Ryba had promised that the slaughter of a black rooster on the hilltop was the surest way to call him. Why didn’t he appear?
Above Nadezda, lightning ripped the sky and thunder boomed, echoing among the stones on the hill. A mighty wave crashed against the bridge below, washing across the walkway. The storm clouds congealed into a massive masculine figure with multiple faces astride a great horse with several pairs of legs. The horse’s hooves pawed the sky, sending a cascading shower of sparks down the hill.
As the thunderclap rumbled out from the hilltop across the city, every dark thing in Prague—the shadows of the living and the shades of the dead—turned, as if summoned by the clarion call of a sentry warning of impending battle, and looked towards the hilltop where Svetovit was about to unleash his will on the city. Father Conrad, lurking behind Our Lady of Tyn and looking up at Lucrezia’s window, turned to look instead toward Hradčany, as did all the animals along the riverbank or in the farmyards surrounding Prague who had been human before attending the Epiphany feast at Jan’s inn. Bartolomeo, the nail in his head trapping him between the realms of the living and the dead, felt his neck wrenched about so that he had no choice but to look towards his former employment site. Even his mad wife, Daniela, rocking on the stool where she sat, sensed the importance of what was happening on Hradčany and cried out. František, running from his house wrapped in a sheath of flame, looked over his shoulder toward the castle, and Bonifác, wrapped up with the black dog near Loreto, growled at the nearby castle forever denied him. Seïa, the novice missing from St. George’s since Christmas, heard the thunder and peered through the icy darkness in which she found herself toward what seemed its source. Božena and Anežka, Aleksandr and Jiri in the Old Town Square paused in their suspicious circumambulations and glanced towards the old god and the young woman. The statue in St. Jakub’s Church, which had seized Hans’ arm, shifted ever so slightly in the direction of Hradčany as well. Hans, sitting on the doorstep of the closed and shuttered shop that had been Albrecht’s and staring at the ground, felt pain surge through his phantom arm as fresh as the morning it had been severed and looked towards the castle without knowing why. It was as if everyone who had been caught up in the web of Fen’ka’s curse were being summoned to witness the power of their tormentor.
“Svetovit!” cried Nadezda. “I have the fire now. I control it! It has not been extinguished yet!” The figure, which had apparently been directing its attention toward the bridge, tuned towards her on its great horse. Even she could hear the groaning and cracking of the bridge timbers as the river crashed against it and crashed against it again.
Thunder rumbled. “Svetovit! Listen to me!” She took a deep breath to make herself heard above the storm. “The fire is all but extinguished, but not quite. You cannot destroy the city. Not yet. And since I control the fire, I can rewrite the curse.” She held up her lantern, showing the steady light within to the angry deity.
The massive warhorse pawed the sky again and then, released from its standstill position by Svetovit, who dropped the reins and kicked its ribcage, bolted down towards Nadezda. Sparks burst from the air where the hooves struck and Svetovit leaned down and opened his hand as if reaching to pluck Nadezda from among the piles of stones waiting to be dressed and assembled into the cathedral’s walls.
Seeing the great cloud-figure bearing down on her, Nadezda cringed, bracing for the onslaught. Wind rushed past her and thunder collided with her eardrums. Icy fear gripped her bowels. Would her little circle of cord prove strong enough to keep Svetovit from seizing her?
The cloud-horse and its rider descended from the heavens towards her, the wind ripping fragments and wisps of cloud from its great torso. Then, as it breached the radius of the magic circle, it dissolved and lost its shape, reforming and coalescing as it reared up behind Nadezda. The horse whinnied in frustration and Svetovit roared with anger. The fragile cord had saved his prey from this first pass. Pulling tightly on the reins, Svetovit drew the horse around behind Nadezda so it faced her again. Its front hooves gouged lines of fire in the sky. Svetovit dug his heels into the horse’s ribs a second time and the steed charged towards Nadezda.
Seeing the angry four-faced god galloping towards her, she again braced herself for his attack. But this time, at the last instant, he turned the horse to one side and instead reached with an open hand to seize her as the eight-legged steed fell onto its side and slid along the rising cathedral wall. Again, the cloud-hand dissolved and then reconfigured itself as it passed into and then beyond the circle of red cord around Nadezda. Svetovit cried out in fury and shook his fist towards the sky. The horse clambered upright and pawed the sky, its thunderous whinnies mingling with the storm. Svetovit pulled hard on the reins and the horse reared up, dancing about, as Svetovit considered his next move.
“Svetovit!” Nadezda could not wait for him to tire of his attacks. “I control the fire and will not allow you to destroy the city or bring all our nightmares to life as it dies. No! Your vengeance is tied not to the dying of the fire but to the passing of the generations—you must leave Prague in peace until…”
Svetovit did not wait for her to finish the sentence but drove his heels into the steed’s ribs. The horse lowered its head and charged at Nadezda for a third time. Sparks burst from the gouges its hooves cut in the air. Thunder boomed from the hilltop as Svetovit brushed alongside the power of Nadezda’s magic circle. This time, however, he clutched a handful of stones from the construction site and swept them towards Nadezda.
The large stones whistled toward her, unimpeded by the magic of the circle, as they were earthly, not magical, weapons. One struck Nadezda on the shoulder, nearly knocking the lantern out of her hand. Svetovit pulled his great horse around behind her and paused, laughing. She immediately understood her predicament. She was trapped in the circle—if she stepped outside the cord, Svetovit could seize her, but if she remained in the circle, she was an easy target for the stones he could hurl.
Sh
e shook the lantern at Svetovit. The pool of light from the lantern was the only illumination that pierced the strange darkness engulfing the hilltop. “Heed my words, Svetovit!” she demanded. “When this fire dies, you may not touch the city but you must wait until…”
Another stone flew past her and shattered on the ground behind her. The horse pawed the air, showing itself anxious to charge at her again. The animal snorted, steamy clouds puffing from its nostrils, and its hooves scraped sparks from the sky.
Something moved amid the stones along the edges of the construction site. She glanced in that direction. Shadows and dim, transparent figures seemed to be gathering around her.
A shadow peacock strutted between the piles of stone. A man in a cassock—a priest?—stood there, his arms crossed. A party of four—two men and two women—slunk between the piles of stone. A young girl, a novice nun if her shadow-habit was to be believed, darted behind the rising walls of the new cathedral.
There were other figures in clothing that Nadezda did recognize. A man who was looking away from her at first but then seemed to notice her. He held a great sword, needing both hands to support its weight. He slowly turned and then moved towards her, carefully watching where he stepped. A woman, about the same age as Nadezda, stood behind him and—after watching him—also moved slowly towards her. On her other side, the hazy forms of several people were intently watching the man stalking her with the sword. One pointed at her and seemed on the verge of crying out.
A large stone hit Nadezda’s leg and she cried out, falling to one knee. Her attention was wrenched back to Svetovit and she saw him pluck an even larger stone from among those the stonecutters had set aside for carving.
“You must wait for four times eight generations to pass, Svetovit! Four times eight generations must follow the extinguishing of the fire before you may touch the city again!” Nadezda called out.
Svetovit paused, seemingly startled by her assertion that his final onslaught against the city could not be accomplished immediately. Then with an even greater fury and strength than displayed before, he threw a stone directly at Nadezda.
Nadezda ducked her head and the stone struck her shoulder. She crumpled onto her side, clutching the lantern as her other arm splayed out beneath her. Her left hand touched the ground outside the red circle.
Immediately there was a flash as Svetovit seized a silver javelin from the air and in a single, flowing movement sent it sailing towards Nadezda’s fallen form. The lance pierced her wrist and a great spurt of blood burst from the wound. She cried out and attempted to pull her hand back into the protection of the magic circle but the lance pinned her wrist to the ground. The shadow-man who had been approaching her amid the construction site debris darted up to her and the sword in his hands sliced through the air. She screamed again in shock and pain as she fell back, her hand—still pinned to the earth by the javelin—severed from her arm. Blood splashed everywhere around her. She felt sick and dizzy.
Lightning flickered around the hilltop again. Nadezda, unable now to both hold and open the lantern, set it on the ground beside her. Had her falling back extinguished it? Melted wax had splattered about inside the lantern, and she held her breath as she unclasped the hinged pane that opened outward. In the midst of her pain and nausea she saw that the Candlemas candle stub within still burned.
Nadezda knew she would never escape the magic circle alive. The blood kept spurting unstaunched from the stump of her arm even as she plunged it into her apron pocket and tried to wrap her cloak about it. How long did she have? She wasn’t sure. A wave of darkness swept across her vision and then receded. It was difficult to breathe. She bent forward and blew on the wick of the candle. The flame stirred but did not go out.
“Four times eight generations, Svetovit,” she whispered and blew again. Another stone came sailing out of the air and crashed onto the lantern, splintering the glass and twisting the lead that had held it together. Wax splattered. A wisp of smoke curled up from the wick, now buried in the soft white wax. It hovered for an instant and then melted into the air. Nadezda collapsed onto the ground beside it, unable to hold herself upright any longer. She felt the muddy cobblestones beneath her cheek and, peering up through the miasma that swam before her, saw Svetovit charging towards her once again. She was dimly aware that she could feel the red cord under her shoulder. That must mean that her shoulders and head lay outside the protective circle, exposed to the full brunt of Svetovit’s wrath. But she had rewritten the curse and extinguished the fire. His wrath should be stayed. He should not even be here any longer.
A shadow-face flickered into focus before her. It was the woman who had walked behind the man with the sword who had severed her arm. A strange expression was on her face. Concern. Sympathy. Confusion. Anger. Nadezda could see her lips moving but could hear nothing over the roar of the wind and the thundering approach of Svetovit’s horse.
Nadezda swallowed and attempted to gather her strength. She reached out with the hand that was still hers and asked the woman, “Did we stop Svetovit? Did we save Prague?”
The Tower
(Wednesday, August 14, 2002)
“A
re you sure no salt is left?” Dmitri asked Sean.
Sean pulled the shaker from his pocket. “Maybe a few grains. Virtually nothing.”
Victoria watched as Dmitri bent down and pulled another card, this one at random, from the deck. “Pour out whatever is left,” he told Sean. “We’ve already burned the last of the Major Trumps at the other door. We can only hope that this card will stand in for all the others whose power we have not released. We can only trust in Providence.”
Sean unscrewed the top of the salt shaker and turned it upside down. A few crystals fell onto the face of the card Dmitri held flat against the smooth paving stones before the central portion of the mosaic. Dmitri held out the matches to Sean, who took them, struck one, and held the fire to a corner of the card.
The edge of the card embraced the fire, which slid across its upper edge. Hesitating, as if afraid of the character in the center of the card, the fire hung back before engulfing the image. The salt sizzled and popped. Dmitri jerked his fingers back at the last instant, but not before the fire had singed his fingertips. The black ash that had been the card curled and twisted and fell away.
Sophia removed her arm from Victoria’s shoulder, passed the empty bowl from her right hand to her left, and crossed herself. Victoria held her breath.
Silent fireworks burst in the air directly before the great mosaic. Incandescent colors rained down before the Golden Gate. Bloom after bloom of multicolored light blossomed and faded. Barely visible in the center of the fireworks stood a young man in a multicolored patchwork coat, walking toward the cathedral as he gazed up at the spires and flying buttresses supporting the stone walls. He had a staff and knapsack swung over his right shoulder and held a white rose in his left hand. A little dog jumped excitedly around his feet, seeming to bark but making no sound. The man kept walking, seemingly distracted by the intricate masonry above him. Without once looking ahead of him, as if he had not a care in the world and was uninterested in where his feet might be taking him, he walked directly into the Doomsday mosaic and vanished. The fireworks continued bursting and exploding for long moments after he had vanished, but as they faded from sight, Victoria felt a tremor roll through the pavement beneath their feet and heard a rumble in the distance.
Victoria, accompanied by the others, gasped and coughed, unable to hold her breath any longer.
“Did you feel it?” Victoria was unable to conceal her excitement. “The Royal Road! It trembled beneath us. It must be awake!”
Then, seemingly at their elbows, a great cock-crowing pierced the air. It echoed and resounded all around them, bouncing off the stone walls and the paving stones. The crowing rang on and on as if it would never stop, then was cut short, silenced as abruptly as it had begun.
“What’s that?” Sophia cried out.
�
�A rooster! Svetovit was worshipped on this hill with the sacrifice of a black rooster!” Dmitri reminded them all with a shout. “George is summoning the old devil-god!” Rushing further along the cathedral wall, Victoria and the others tumbled into another portion of the plaza surrounding the great Gothic church. Ahead of them, in the center of the plaza, were George and Magdalena.
George, with his back to them, was standing over Magdalena, who was kneeling slightly to one side. She was hunched forward, pressing a black bundle of feathers to the ground with both hands. George was leaning on the sword, which he must have used to cut the rooster’s throat. Fountains of blood spurted and shot from the wound.
George must have heard their commotion, because he turned around. Magdalena, keeping the rooster pressed to the ground, turned her head too as the blood continued to spurt, though in shorter and smaller arcs.
“Well, well,” chuckled George, seeing Victoria and the academics. “How is it that you five are here?” His voice hovered between anger and incredulity. “You should still be ill, much too ill to be here… Unless the poppets we buried…?” He glanced at Magdalena.
“We were ill,” Dmitri answered him. “But we have recovered and are here now. To stop you. Both of you,” he announced, looking from George to Magdalena and back again.
“A bit late for that,” George taunted him. “The bridge is nearly washed away, its power gone. We hold the sword and staff and have disabled the Astronomical Clock. I have sacrificed this black rooster within a circle drawn with the very sword from the bridge’s foundations. There is nothing to stop Svetovit now. The city is vulnerable, defenseless. When the rooster dies, Svetovit will come. You have failed.” He lifted the sword and pointed at Dmitri.
“Magdalena!” called Victoria. “Don’t you see? He’s calling Svetovit to destroy the city! Our city! You must see that!”
Magdalena continued to hold the rooster down. “He is not calling Svetovit to destroy Prague, Victoria! You and your friends have conjured this flood! You and your friends have destroyed the power of the bridge and brought this disaster upon us!” Though Magdalena said the words forcefully, Victoria noticed that she seemed to be trying to remember something. Was she under some spell?
Come Hell or High Water: The Complete Trilogy Page 119