Equinox (Augarten Book 1)

by Charlie Godwyne

  She cocked an eyebrow at me. "I think people would normally use the verb sense for the energies, but yes, I can see them."

  I told her about how it worsened when I got really hungry, and how I could also see the green exhalations of trees.

  Maria pursed her lips. "At the level you've described, that could just be synesthesia. It is common enough for the brain to make associations that aren't prevalent in the majority of the population. For example, I have a friend who associates colors with words. The word 'guitar' is always red, and depending on the type of guitar, the letters could appear as different shades of red."

  I took a moment to process that. "Reading must be so beautiful." Either that or overwhelmingly chaotic.

  I thought of what the angel had said to me the night before. "Do you happen to know what a Watcher at the Threshold is?"

  Maria's eyes twinkled and her expression turned pleasantly surprised. "Yes. For the sake of this discussion, do you accept the premise that the soul exists, and not just in the material plane, but in all planes at once? Material and etheric, astral, mental, and spiritual. The names differ across disciplines."

  "Sure." I could accept that premise to gain her explanation. Furthermore, the idea of having a soul who had survived my amnesia felt comforting. Not only that, but surely my guardian angel was assigned to guide a human soul, not just a mildly intelligent sack of meat running around.

  Maria nodded, extending one hand up high, the other held open in front of her chest. "The Watcher at the Threshold—in some disciplines—is a downward-facing projection of the Higher Self meant to keep you from pursuing spiritual practice until you are truly ready. In others, he is a manifestation of your guardian angel, but the function remains the same." Maria angled the hand in front of her chest down, fingers curved like claws.

  Clenching my hands, I fidgeted. "I tried discursive meditation for the first time, just a beginning technique in an introductory book, and The Watcher showed up immediately." That had to be the terra cotta warrior statue I had met, and what the angel had referenced.

  Maria dropped her elbows to the table and propped her chin on the backs of her hands. "It could be that you often meditated before you got amnesia, especially if such a vivid image came to you so quickly."

  I sighed. "But if the Watcher keeps me from recovering my memories…I don't have any kind of foundation, because I don't know who I am, or who I was."

  Maria leaned forward, locking eyes with me. "You have all the foundation a man needs, Gabriel. You have who you are, right now. You are still you. What you don't have is who you were before, but that isn't necessary for you to go on from here and live a perfectly normal and fulfilling life."

  Feeling like my chest had just caved in, I stared at her, unable to keep the air whooshing out of my lungs in a rush. "Are you telling me to give up on figuring anything out?"

  "Hm. I would, if I thought you'd listen to me." She finished her coffee, pushed away from the table and stood. "I'll get back to my job now. Vendors are starting to arrive to set up for the festival. If you wanted to help carry things, I bet you could make a bit of cash."

  I stood and thanked her, exchanged pleasantries that we'd surely see each other later, and Maria left.

  Andrea barged into the lounge not long thereafter. "Gabriel, good, I found you."

  I hopped up to pour her a cup of coffee, feeling like a barista.

  She accepted it gratefully. "Listen, one of the residents here is moving out of his apartment soon. I can't afford to let you have it without paying rent, but I was thinking I could take it off the market for a month and let you stay in exchange for your work. That might get you through until you remember who you are and get back to your prior life."

  I stared at her in awe. "Are you sure this wouldn't put you out?"

  She smiled at me, her bright green eyes twinkling as she warmed her hands with the cup of coffee. "I didn't have an immediate tenant lined up for the place anyway."

  "How much would rent be normally?"

  "Six hundred Euros."

  "Oh." I deflated. I was laughably underemployed for that amount on a monthly basis.

  Andrea finished the last of her coffee and quickly rinsed out the mug. "We'll talk more on Monday." Then she buzzed out of the lounge.

  I took a moment to close my eyes and mentally say a few words to my guardian angel on how grateful I was. Even though I had not recovered a single one of my memories, I still had many things to be thankful for.

  I rinsed out my cup, then left the lounge to help with the festival.

  Augarten was completely transformed. The long gravel pathways were now lined with a row of stalls on each side, leading the guests from the entrance with the painted angel wings up one pathway, then down another, up and down again, with a total of four complete rows of festival cabins. In front of the main circular tower stood a huge stage where cultural groups could give traditional dance performances and folk band concerts. The stage was covered in fall produce: pumpkins and apples and squash. The sign announcing "Erntedank Fest," the Harvest Gratitude Festival, stood adorned with sunflowers. The stall owners were more often than not dressed in leather Lederhosen for the men and Dirndl dresses for the women. I admired the women for being able to work such long hours in a dress that had a built-in girdle. Even the men didn't look to be overheating in their brown leather pants, white shirts, and suspenders. If I were in their place, I would swelter.

  "Gabriel!"

  Mrs. Buchinger waved vigorously from a crowded little booth. An old man with salt-and-pepper hair beneath a scally cap grumbled that she was going to knock something over.

  I approached. "Good afternoon."

  "Grüß Gott, Gabriel. This is my grumpy husband, Otto Buchinger."

  I extended my hand. "Mr. Buchinger, it's a pleasure to meet you."

  He shook it gruffly, dark brown eyes scanning me before returning to stacking books in the back. "He's so tall, he wouldn't even fit in this booth."

  "I'm suggesting Gabriel help you with your everyday business, dear. You could use a young pair of hands setting the clamps and sewing signatures." Mrs. Buchinger winked in my direction.

  "My hands are fine," Mr. Buchinger grumbled under his breath.

  I stood there quietly, having deduced this was something of a matter of pride for Mr. Buchinger, and I would do best by not jumping in. That he still resisted was incredible, because Mrs. Buchinger was such a persuasive person at Augarten.

  It didn't look like Mr. Buchinger wanted to chat, so I smiled at Mrs. Buchinger and excused myself. Farther down the lane, a vineyard stall desperately needed more people unloading their truck, so I rushed over. People were so grateful to have someone standing around ready to help carry things that vendors were secretly grabbing me to help them, then pressing cash into my hands. I was so proud to finally be earning money. Andrea found me and gave me an Augarten green vest that signaled I worked at the festival. I thanked her, but felt ridiculous because the vest was so small on me, though she said it was the longest one she could find.

  Thankfully, the first couple of hours were blessedly quiet. Mothers and families with young children came in the earlier, less crowded hours, which made it easier to keep track of their kids. The fourth row of stalls backed up against the playground that the kindergarten inside the park used, so parents indulged their children in a pastry or cookie from the festival and then herded them into the fenced off area where the children could play without running wild. I helped Augarten sell their jars of pickles to the older folks who also came early to escape the crowds.

  At 3 p.m., however, as the mothers piled their little ones back into carriages and bustled away, school let out in Vienna. Andrea said several schools were in the vicinity of Augarten, so students swarmed the festival before the adults of Vienna got off work and headed over.

  The radio DJ got started off to the side of the stage in front of the circular tower, and with local radio announcing the festival, people came in droves. I he
lped at the Augarten booth until one of the Sturm booth managers—a middle-aged lady named Ingrid I'd assisted earlier—came over and offered to pay me if I'd help her. Andrea practically pushed me out of her booth.

  Ingrid explained that Sturm was a drink that was halfway through the cycle toward becoming wine, and as such, was only available for a short time in the fall, and always a centerpiece of the harvest festival. Though I was only pouring Sturm and taking money for it, we were so busy I didn't notice the passing of time except when I was able to step aside a moment and take a sip of water, usually when I got so parched my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. When I looked out—having to duck under the wooden panel menu at the top of the booth—the sky was already getting dark. The festival event lighting came on for the cabins and walking paths. I thought I felt the trees enjoying the festivities, some even laughing at the party lights hanging from their branches.

  Once we closed down for the night, I helped everyone lock up their remaining wares or load them back into their vehicles. Ingrid pressed a fifty Euro note into my hand before driving away, with promises of tomorrow and the next day. Neither Florian nor Solomon had shown up, but I had been too busy to wallow about it. I found a wrapped sandwich with my name on it in the lounge fridge and took it to my storeroom to eat. I didn't even remember sitting on my bed pallet—only waking sometime later, the harvest moon pouring light in through the window and my bladder screeching in protest, still in my Sturm-sticky clothes, and a half-eaten sandwich in my hand.

  Chapter Nine

  The next morning, things picked up faster, since it was Saturday, but not at the overall pace of the crush from the night before. I helped Andrea, bid good morning to the Buchingers, and took a quick stroll through the festival, trying to delay going to Ingrid's booth because I knew once I arrived I would be stuck there all day. I was just passing the turnoff to the second tower when I heard the sound I had sought ever since that fateful morning, the sound that had made me turn in hope every single time: a bicycle bell. Ting.

  I stopped, whipped around, my ears straining amid the growing din of morning festival goers. Ting. I dashed down one of the rows, searching everywhere for a bicycle, praying it wasn't just some kid making noise.

  Ting, this time softer. I flailed, thinking it had just been louder a moment ago—were there really two bicycles? Ting. Louder now. I dodged high tables of people standing and munching on morning Müsli porridge or stuffed Semmel breakfast sandwiches.

  "Don't get day drunk! Have some coffee!"

  I slid to a stop, kicking up dust and gravel, turning…

  Florian.

  Surrounded by older Viennese sipping from tiny white mugs cupped in their hands to keep warm, Florian pulled espresso shots and received two-Euro coins for them. I stood in amazement as I took in his setup: the same bike trailer he'd almost plowed Solomon over with had a panel that slid back, and in one or two steps became a complete espresso stand with a mechanical cash register. He had a pallet of plastic crates, one on each side of his wagon that held the clean shot mugs and then took the dirty ones back.

  The people standing around were chatting and drinking. Customers paid a deposit for the larger Sturm glasses, to prevent them from carrying the glasses home for free, and they could return the mugs after drinking and get the deposit back. It didn't appear that Florian bothered to do this, though. Just a hope and a prayer that people didn't walk off with his little mugs.

  Florian looked like he'd gotten a haircut since last I'd seen him. Dazzling, expressive hazel eyes that shone at each customer who made it to the front of the queue. Something pricked at the back of my mind, and then I saw it—when I relaxed my eyes, like when I was tired and hungry and couldn't focus, he glowed. The same pale blue and pearly white I'd seen my first night in Augarten surrounded him. It was a powerful glow, a tidal wave of force, yet constrained, like a huge lightning bug trapped in a jar. It was as if he himself knew he had that light and was taking pains to hide it. On instinct, I wondered how bright he would be if he didn't hold back.

  Then a sensation filled me, almost as tangible as if a friend had stepped up behind me and put a hand on my shoulder. I gasped, took my eyes away from Florian, distractedly casting across some trees and focusing inward. The sensation felt familiar, and I recognized it as the same hand that had gripped my stomach so hard I'd almost thrown up on the black horse two nights ago.

  I summoned mental words, sharp and focused. It's you. My guardian angel. I've been meditating to try to talk to you, but all I get is The Watcher statue. You're not the Watcher, right?

  I felt something like a chuckle, then his voice, again familiar but not my own. Correct, but that's not why I'm here. Look.

  The 'hand' left my shoulder and touched the side of my jaw, angling me toward Florian. My eyes slid to something in his breast pocket over his heart. It was small but looked a little bit heavy, like a lucky rock in his pocket or something. What is that?

  Hmm, came the only response, with no small amount of mirth. Then the presence was gone.

  I looked up from his pocket to find Florian staring directly at me, noticing me noticing him. I gasped, ripped my gaze away, then whipped around and charged in the opposite direction. Bypassing Ingrid's Sturm booth, I beat a quick retreat back to my storeroom and grabbed my jar.

  I shook out its contents, put all the bills back, then scraped the coins into my smelly corduroy pockets and jingle-jangled out of my storage closet like a mechanical engine with more than a few screws loose. I walked back into the crowded festival, careful to keep my hands fisting the coins so not a single Euro jumped out of my pockets.

  The queue had grown by the time I returned to the espresso bicycle trailer, so I got in line. Only then did I realize I had no idea what to say. "Hi there, remember me? I startled you the other morning when I interrupted your prayers. Would you like to go for lunch sometime, maybe after harvest is done? You would?"

  Yeah, right.

  Florian did not seem to tire, even as he worked through the dozen or so customers ahead of me. He had a smile for everyone, like this was easy. Despite him being relatively young—probably just a few years older than me—the older ladies and gents joked around with him. He responded in kind, with boisterous comebacks and laughs that bordered on guffaws. Indeed, from their body language, it was clear that if he weren't so busy, several of the customers would have liked to linger and keep chatting with him. Gradually, the line scooted forward one by one.

  In my preoccupation with whatever was in his breast pocket, I had not realized that he wore suspenders. Tracing the suspenders down, I found Lederhosen.

  Lederhosen, the traditional leather pants, older-looking, but from what I could tell, of high quality. Florian made his knee-length ones look incredible. Like for many Viennese, these might have been an heirloom from relatives living in the countryside. Not only that, but he looked classy as hell in them, filling them out with muscular thighs and a round caboose. It took all of my control not to stare. Be still my heart.

  I made it to the front of the line.

  He smiled at me. "Gabriel, right? From the other morning? You look like you might need some espresso. Caught you eyeing the line earlier."

  That was gracious, considering he'd actually caught me eyeing him. I handed him a two Euro coin. "Good to see you again. I'd love some."

  As he pulled the shot, I executed my planned maneuver. I scooped my hands deep into my pockets, then deposited the fistfuls of coins into the tip jar with a righteous jangle loud enough to make it rain on judgment day.

  Florian jumped at the sound. He stared at the tip jar a long moment as the shot pulled, carefully avoiding my gaze. When it came time to give me the cup, he did so with a very guarded, professional smile. "Here you go. That's generous of you."

  I knocked the shot back and returned it to his hands that were still outstretched from handing it to me. "Another, please. I'm about to work in a Sturm booth all day, and I'm going to need it." I pointed over my sho
ulder toward Ingrid's.

  Florian looked to where I pointed, still holding his hands up. "I see. I'll try to swing by there later. How about a decaf one this time? Best pace yourself so you don't crash at work. Besides, my decaf beans still have a bit of kick to them, since they're not chemically decaffeinated."

  I clicked another two Euro coin on top of his mechanical cash register. "Thanks."

  He smiled at me, clearly a bit uneasy. I blushed and kept quiet, feeling guilty for throwing him off his pace. The older man behind me motioned toward me and frowned at his wife as if to say: Look at this guy. He gets to drink twice.

  Florian pulled the decaf shot and handed it to me, his smile more genuine this time.

  I took it from him with a nod of gratitude and stepped aside. Florian turned to the gentleman and his wife, greeting them while I downed the decaf shot and placed it in the dirty dishes tray. With one last look over my shoulder at him—just catching his back as he emptied the used espresso grounds, his crisscrossing suspenders shifting as he moved—I resigned myself to getting covered in spilled Sturm again today. Ingrid beckoned me inside as soon as I got there, and I was put to work.

  Business started out relatively slow, but then as the lunch hour neared, guests became more and more willing to have a glass of Sturm with their goulash or bratwurst with mustard or deep-fried Käsespätzle noodles with cheese. Ingrid's young granddaughter came by with wrapped sandwiches for us, and I sent her with another of my two Euro coins to find Florian's bicycle trailer. Ingrid and her husband threw in as well. I told her to tell the barista that Gabriel had sent her.

  At some point mid-afternoon, I noticed him in line. Giddy, I had to force myself to slow down or I would spill Sturm on myself even more than I already had.

  Florian stepped up to the front of the line, and I made sure I was the one to greet him. He smiled bashfully at me, those hazel eyes twinkling, his cropped-short hair no longer allowing him to hide his face. "Hey."