The Time Roads

by Beth Bernobich

  “Near enough,” Ó Deághaidh replied. “For eighteen years he knew but firs and sheep, and then…” He snapped his fingers.

  The other man nodded. “So many tales like that I’ve heard.”

  Their conversation went on, haltingly at first. Whenever Ó Deághaidh found himself groping for the right words in Štokavian, he would try Russian or German. The old farmer spoke a little of both—learned from his goddaughter, he said proudly, who was a teacher in Cetinje.

  As they approached the city, the wagon track joined a wider road, which continued through a pair of long-disused gates and to a large square bordered by taverns and shops. Montenegro’s capital was not a large city by Ó Deághaidh’s standards, but there were at least thirty or forty thousand souls here, and over the centuries it had expanded to cover the surrounding folds and hills. Towers from the old university peeked above the buildings west of the river. On a ridge to the east, Ó Deághaidh glimpsed tall, elegant mansions painted in greens and golds and pinks. Those would be the embassies and houses for visiting dignitaries.

  The farmer drew his wagon to a halt by the fountain. “You might want to take a meal at Lazar Burgan’s cookshop,” he said. “They’ve good sausages, and the prices are not so dear. Are you heading on tomorrow?”

  “It depends on how willing my feet are.” Ó Deághaidh climbed down from the wagon and hoisted his knapsack over his shoulder. “Thank you for your company and the ride, my friend.” He offered a coin to the old man, who squinted at him before he accepted it.

  The first goal achieved, Ó Deághaidh thought, as he scanned his surroundings. Ten days in the wilderness had left him unused to cities and their noise. He wanted a quiet shelter where he could regain his bearings. He blew out a breath, considering his next few steps.

  A meal first, he decided, then lodgings.

  He found Burgan’s cookshop, where he ate a plate of sausages, then asked for directions to a suitable inn near the university quarter. Once he arrived at the inn—and it took a remarkably long time to traverse the city through its tangle of streets—he inquired about a single room for the week. The innkeeper took his money and showed him into a tiny bedchamber, with a single window overlooking a series of red-tiled roofs. It was like the dozen or so other rooms he had hired in this journey, and he could almost predict the innkeeper’s speech about when meals were served and how often he might expect the bed linens changed.

  Alone, Ó Deághaidh sat down on the hard bed and ran his fingers through his hair. Three weeks had passed since Vienna. Groer had surely telegraphed Éire to report his encounter with Ó Deághaidh, as required. He or the other local agents must have discovered the crumpled train schedule for Vienna and Croatia left behind in Ó Deághaidh’s room at the boardinghouse, along with a map of the coastal roads.

  He had taken a different route of course, though his destination was the same. Using new papers purchased in Vienna, Ó Deághaidh had boarded a train into the Czech Republic under the name Ivo Fischer. Once well inside Serbia, he traveled by whatever means possible into the hills, walking the last long segment to avoid the border patrols, and finally crossing into Montenegro. It was a carefully constructed trail, filled with deliberate gaps and misleading clues, so that those tracking him would not guess he meant for them to follow.

  Because they must know I am here, he thought. Because there could be no better way to discover the traitor than to offer himself as the perfect target.

  * * *

  He slept badly that night, from the stale, close air in his room, from the unaccustomed noises within and without the inn. Breakfast proved to be palatable, and the coffee blessedly strong and hot. Ó Deághaidh wanted nothing more than to launch himself into the next stage of his plans, but he crushed that urge at once. Caution, care and caution, he told himself, or he would be dead before nightfall.

  He took the entire day to refurbish his appearance. A few extra coins ensured him a hot bath, where he soaked then scrubbed away the grime from his travels. After that, he visited a barber for a haircut and thorough shave. A clean jersey and newer boots, bought from a street vendor, completed his transformation from tramp to migrant laborer.

  He also acquired a supply of paper, ink, and quills. That night, he mentally reviewed all the details for contacting Kiro Delchev. The signs and countersigns were simple—no intricate spy craft here. Ó Deághaidh wrote what appeared to be a grocery list of ordinary items. Certain words as the third, fifth, and seventh items established his identity. A scribbled reminder at the bottom about “Aunt Mirjana’s birthday” requested a meeting.

  Early the following morning, Ó Deághaidh took a meandering walk around the nearby square, where the cookshops and booksellers already did a brisk business. Just as the mysterious papers had described, there was a crooked lane next to a coffee shop. He followed the lane into a small courtyard, where he stuffed his message behind the expected drainpipe, then continued to the next street. If Delchev agreed to the meeting, the man would leave a thank-you note, the wording of which would indicate one of three predesignated meeting spots.

  Throughout the rest of that anxious day, and half the next, Ó Deághaidh avoided the lane and the courtyard. Instead, he scouted the rest of the city, from the old university on the western bank of the Cetinje River, to the several prominent plazas, to the centuries-old taverns beside the river. In all the wineshops and taverns, he heard the same talk he’d heard from the old farmer, about Prussians and their recent conquests, debates about independence versus an alliance with Austria—even the relative advantages to joining with Serbia in a Greater Slovakian Alliance. No one seemed happy about these choices, however.

  A second visit the following day showed his letter untouched. Ó Deághaidh told himself that Delchev was a professor, not a regular agent who checked his letterboxes daily. He spent the morning poking through the displays of various booksellers near the university, then retired to a nearby wineshop, where he divided his attention between a book and the old men playing chess. After the sun had set, however, he decided to make another pass.

  Most of the shops were closed by this hour, and the lamplighters had just begun their rounds, but two old women were walking their dogs, and a group of Russian tourists crowded around their guide in the square. Off in the distance, Mount Lovćen loomed dark against the dusky skies, its uppermost peak illuminated by the last rays of an invisible sun.

  Ó Deághaidh made a desultory tour of the square. No one appeared to notice him, and so he continued into the lane beside the coffeehouse.

  Here it was dark and quiet. He heard nothing except his own footsteps, and the tick-tick-tick of water dripping onto stone. Still his skin prickled, and he hurried toward the faint glow that marked the courtyard’s entrance at the opposite end of the lane.

  Just as he passed a doorway, an arm snaked out. Ó Deághaidh flung himself away and blocked a blow purely by instinct. His attacker came after him again. He was a thickset fellow with a knitted cap pulled low over his forehead. When he swung the next punch, Ó Deághaidh caught the man’s wrist and twisted away, sending his attacker to his knees. Ó Deághaidh struck him between the shoulders, driving the breath from the man’s body. That would keep him occupied long enough, he thought. But as he turned to run, a movement off to his left caught his eye. He spun around—too late. The second assailant struck him on the elbow with a wooden club. Ó Deághaidh dropped to his knees in a shock of pain. The next moment, someone grabbed his hair, yanked his head back, and pressed a wet cloth over his face. A cloying smell filled his nose.

  Ó Deághaidh jerked his head back, but it was too late. His head swam and his legs gave way beneath him. His last memory was of five shadows standing over him.

  * * *

  Awareness returned with a stabbing pain at his arm, and a rising wave of nausea. Ó Deághaidh clamped his mouth shut and swallowed. His head felt thick; his tongue lay heavy and dry in his mouth. Cool air whispered over his bare skin, and he shivered. Whoever had taken
him prisoner had confiscated all his clothes except his trousers.

  Gradually he took in his surroundings. He lay on his side, on a cold hard surface with his hands tied behind his back. A low fire threw off a little light and heat, but otherwise the room was left awash in twilight. A basement or underground room? Then, close by, he heard the ripple of water against stone. Smelled wet earth. Underground, then. Cautiously he twisted his wrists. The ropes did not give at all.

  Ó Deághaidh breathed slowly until the nausea subsided. His attackers, whoever they were—Delchev and his friends, or another rival faction—had not killed him. Yet. They wanted to question him first. It had happened too fast, too easily. They had marked him as a dangerous person from just that one message. A shudder went through him.

  They want to know who betrayed their secrets. Then they will have me killed, and not Éire or my queen will know.

  His movements must have attracted someone’s attention, because a blurry shadow interposed itself between him and the firelight. “You are awake, yes?”

  It was a woman’s voice. She spoke in German, in a low contralto, her accent blurred. With the fire behind her, Ó Deághaidh could make out little of her features—just the tilt of her head, the whiff of sandalwood, the quiet and stillness of her attitude.

  “Who are you?” he said with difficulty.

  Before she could answer, a second figure approached—a tall, lanky man, who held his hands loose and ready at his sides. The man stared at Ó Deághaidh. His lips drew back, and the firelight glinted from his smile, reminding Ó Deághaidh of a hungry dog.

  The man spoke to the woman in a rapid monotone, too quick and low for Ó Deághaidh understand. She shook her head. The man stabbed a finger toward Ó Deághaidh and spoke sharply—a clear threat, because the woman flinched. She turned back to Ó Deághaidh.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “You must talk. And you must tell the truth.”

  “And if I do not?”

  “We know about you. You wrote a coded message to Kiro Delchev, which means you must be from Éire or one of its agents. But you have chosen a curious time to ask for a private meeting.”

  There were strange, contradictory signals here. The man, so ready with his threats, he understood, or thought he might. The woman, however, was not so easy to read. Nervous and afraid of her companion, and her tone seeming to imply more than the words themselves. “Are you friends with Kiro Delchev?” he asked. “Where is he?”

  She hesitated. The man rapped out another question. The woman answered slowly, keeping her face turned away from her companion. Ó Deághaidh had the impression she was giving him a carefully edited version of their conversation.

  Another long tirade from the man. Again she made the translation, though clearly an abbreviated one. “We can answer none of your questions. It is you who must tell us why you have come to Cetinje, and why now. Please,” she added in a breathless whisper. “If you do not, he will hurt you. He says it will be faster.”

  “What about you?” Ó Deághaidh said. “What do you think?”

  She made a brief, negative gesture. “I cannot stop him.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  The man interrupted with a question. She turned to answer, but he shoved her to one side, pushed Ó Deághaidh onto his stomach, and wrenched his arms up until the bones cracked. Ó Deághaidh gasped and bucked against the agony.

  Then it was over, leaving Ó Deághaidh sweating and panting. Above the roar in his head, he heard the buzz of voices, then footsteps retreating. A warm hand brushed his forehead. Someone placed a water canteen to his lips and held his head steady as he drank. The water tasted of cool minerals, and helped to clear away the bitter aftertaste of the chloroform.

  “He has gone to fetch a friend,” the woman said softly. “Another man who watches for the patrols. He says that between them they will persuade you to talk.”

  “And if they cannot?”

  “Then you will die.”

  “While you watch?”

  “I’m sorry for you. But I can do nothing, nothing at all.”

  “How convenient.” He had no need to pretend bitterness. His death would be the least of his failures.

  The woman shook her head. “You do not understand. Ilja would—”

  Ó Deághaidh drew a deep breath that eased the pain in his gut. “No, I do not understand. But I would like to.” He let a soft groan escape that was not entirely feigned. If only he knew how long before the man would return. The woman appeared unarmed. If he could distract her a moment, he might take her by surprise. “More water,” he whispered. “Please.”

  She frowned and glanced over her shoulder. The moment her attention turned from him, Ó Deághaidh rolled onto his knees and launched himself at her headfirst. They both crashed to the ground. Ó Deághaidh rolled free and lurched to his feet. The woman scrambled away and fumbled at her boot.

  “Hej! Valerija—”

  Two figures rushed into the cave. It was the man who had questioned him before—Ilja, she had called him—and his companion. Damn, damn, damn. Ó Deághaidh wanted to snarl and curse, but he had no time. Ilja had drawn a gun. Ó Deághaidh aimed a hard kick at the man’s knee and connected. The man dropped with a strangled cry, his gun clattering to the ground. Meanwhile, the second man circled around, a knife in one hand. Ó Deághaidh backed away. A glance showed him the woman pressed against the wall on the far side of the cave. She too had a knife in her hand.

  His opponent took advantage of Ó Deághaidh’s momentary distraction, snatched up the gun, and fired twice. Ó Deághaidh threw himself to one side. His shoulder burned. A shot must have grazed him. He spotted a flash of firelight against metal—a knife spinning on the ground. With his hands behind his back, he had to scrabble to catch hold of the hilt. There, he had it, and just in time. Regaining his feet, he saw the man was reloading the gun. Ó Deághaidh kicked at the fire, scattering hot ashes into the man’s face. The man let his gun fall and clawed at his face. Ó Deághaidh drove his shoulder into the man’s chest and shoved him against the cave wall. Before the man could recover his breath, he spun around and rammed the knife into his gut.

  A gasp. A gurgled cry. Warmth spilled over Ó Deághaidh’s hands, and the stink of blood rolled through the air. Ó Deághaidh staggered to one side, trying to catch his breath, and the man slumped to the ground. A few coals from the scattered fire cast a red, uncertain light over the floor and ceiling. Except for the labored breathing of the man Ilja, it was quiet. Where was the woman? Had she gone for help?

  Then, he heard the echo of gravel falling. The woman was making her escape. He stumbled through the dark toward the sound. A few false starts and he discovered the opening to a narrow tunnel that slanted upward. From above came the thudding of footsteps over hard-packed dirt, the scent of crushed pine needles, the kiss of air upon his cheek. That way, yes. He scrambled up the tunnel. Very soon he came into the open, a hillside dotted with pine trees and fields of grass and wildflowers. Lights from a city speckled the plateau below. Cetinje.

  His breath puffed out in noiseless laughter. No shirt and no shoes, no papers or money, and any shelter miles away. At least the night was warm and dry. He set off down the rocky slope, away from the cave and toward the city below.

  * * *

  The hard stones cut his bare feet, and he stumbled more than once, but he did not pause until he reached a stand of pine trees. There he wedged the hilt of his knife into a split trunk, then sawed through the ropes binding his wrists. The blade pierced his skin several times during that long painful exercise. Afterward, he washed his wounds in a mountain freshet, and the shock of cold water jolted him awake as nothing else could. His belly shivering, he set off down the mountainside, gathering up droplets of strength from a source he had not realized existed within himself, exhilarated, laughing aloud at finding himself alive and free. It was not until he reached Cetinje, and the alleyway where he would spend the night, that despair overtook him. If he did not solv
e this mystery, he would truly have nothing at all. No honor. No kingdom. No future. He wept until his throat burned, then wept again, shaken by his sudden loss of control.

  * * *

  The rising sun pulled him back from the despair, but it could not restore his former sense of purpose entirely. He spent two days wandering Cetinje’s poorest districts, begging from those marginally better off than he. Seeing his tearstained face, they called him a madman, but they were gentle with him nevertheless. A local wisewoman dressed his wounds and blisters. A butcher’s apprentice fed him with bones and scraps of fat. He clothed himself from trash heaps—a soiled jersey, a pair of boots beyond repair, which he fastened with twine. At night, he wrapped himself in a stolen blanket and slept underneath the glittering stars, uncertain whether he played a role, or lived it.

  “You are a curious man,” said Natka, as she offered Ó Deághaidh a mugful of hot ale. She was an old woman, her hands like rough slabs from washing pots for a riverfront tavern. It was she who had supplied Ó Deághaidh with socks to pad his ill-fitting boots, and a ragged coat for nighttime, which sometimes turned cool in spite of the approaching summer. “But then, you are probably filling in the empty places.”

  Ó Deághaidh drank down the ale, wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve. He had spent the day listening for any talk about foreigners, murdered men, or Kiro Delchev’s whereabouts, with no success. “Nothing into nothing,” he replied, slurring his words to cover his accent. “Hard to fill that up.”

  Natka regarded him with a look much keener than before. “Or maybe, too much all at once, and it makes for confusion.” Then she laughed, and her eyes disappeared into the folds of her fleshy face. “Oh, no. We neither of us have too much, do we, my friend?”

  She gave him a couple stale bread rolls for later, and an old woolen cap she claimed no longer fit her youngest grandson. “We have some wet days coming,” she said, brushing away his thanks.