Vodník

  Lesana fainted, collapsing against the chair before crumbling to the floor. I sighed and set my pipe down and walked over to her. I knelt down beside her and stroked her hair. The more I saw Lesana, the more I liked her. I wanted to get to know her better.

  My hand stopped and I studied the girl. Something was wrong. She was too still for having fainted. I leaned forward, my heart rate increasing, and put my ear next to her mouth. She wasn’t breathing.

  I coughed and shook my head. That had been a short vision, and it had left me with a lot of questions. Easy to fix. I blinked the rest of the water out of my eyes, looked back at the sink, and dived in again.

  And got a face full of water.

  I sputtered and cried out in surprise before stumbling back from the sink, dripping water everywhere. Why didn’t the visions come every time?

  Maybe because Lesana was afraid of getting caught.

  I gave it another shot, just in case. No dice. Whatever the reason, I wasn’t going to find out now. I hurried through a shower, got ready, and was about to call Katka when I saw I had a message on my phone.

  “Hi Tomas, it’s me. The castle called today, and one of their guides broke his leg. I need to go back to work. Vacation’s over. But as soon as you can pass the tour off with my dad, you can come with me. I’ll see you later.”

  I sighed and sat down. Her voice sounded strained, and as soon as I’d heard it, I remembered her cancer. How was I supposed to be there for her if she was at the castle all the time? Enough was enough.

  I had the tour close to memorized already—I’d just been stalling out of fear of actually giving a tour. It’s one thing to work at a castle. It’s another to have to be in front of a bunch of people.

  I holed up in my room and memorized until my eyes bled. Well, I took time to watch Back to the Future for a break. (Why could I recite lines from that film after not having seen it for a year, but I couldn’t remember what year the Well of Love was built?) But other than that, it was memorizing. Before L’uboš left for his night shift the next day, I got the green light.

  “But,” L’uboš said, “I have told Katka to go with you at first. It is easy to memorize, difficult to perform.” He’d invited me over to his place for some dinner while I showed off my memorization skills.

  I cleared my throat. Something else had been bothering me, and I didn’t feel right starting the job with it still up in the air. “Uncle L’uboš, if the castle is in need of money, and there are hardly any tourists . . . wouldn’t it be better if I didn’t get hired? Save the castle some expense?”

  He frowned and exhaled sharply, his bearded cheeks puffing. “You shouldn’t worry about that.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “But I do anyway.”

  L’uboš’s face was lined with stress and age. It was as if all the energy he seemed to have was just a show, and that inside, he was worn out. “Look at it this way,” he said. “We need tourists. If we can tell tour companies we have a native English-speaking guide, then perhaps more will come.”

  “Is it that bad?” I asked.

  He nodded and sat back in his seat, pushing his bowl of soup away. “If we don’t do something to increase the tours by the end of summer . . . it will be too late. There’s already a German corporation trying to purchase the castle. That Vít’azoslav you met earlier—I am convinced he has been sent to make an offer.”

  My jaw dropped open. “A corporation?”

  “They want to make it a vacation spa resort. The city wants them to keep it open to the public, but Trenčín needs the money. Any tourists would be better than no tourists. I am just the night watchman. If I . . .” L’uboš swallowed, then stood. “Just be the best tour guide you can be, okay?”

  “What do you know about vodníks?” As soon as I said it, I hated the way I’d broached the topic. Talk about a change of subject.

  L’uboš grunted and picked up his spoon again. “Fairy tales. Why do you ask?”

  Could I tell him? Katka had said we should go to him, and if the vodník really were after me—and I was heading to the castle tomorrow—maybe I should have some support in place ahead of time. My uncle was into all that folklore stuff anyway. I could trust him. “I thought I might have seen one,” I said at last, figuring that was safer than saying I thought one was going to kill me.

  I could almost watch the wheels in L’uboš’s head turning. His eyes went to the door, then the phone, then back to me before sinking to the table. “Why do you think that?”

  Better to get it all out at once. “Because I’ve been seeing mythical beings since I arrived. A fire víla, and Zubatá, and a water spirit, and—”

  L’uboš’s eyes snapped back to mine, and he cut me off. “Tomas, you must not let . . . I promised your mother . . . Go to your parents. Talk to your mother about this.”

  “Do you believe me?”

  “I believe you believe. But this isn’t the first time our family . . .”

  That was opening enough for me. “Babka,” I said. “Your mom. What do you think happened to her?”

  He sighed and put his spoon down again. “Who told you?”

  “I read it in some of the books you loaned Dad. There were newspaper clippings.”

  He leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table, the wood creaking with his weight. “I will say only this, and then you will leave and not ask me about it again, for all our sakes. My mother, she was a good woman. But we have a history in our family. A streak of madness. My great-grandfather, my great uncle. My mother. The doctors think it is some strange hereditary schizophrenia. See things. Hear voices. We were worried it was happening to you when you were little, but you moved to America, and it went away. Maybe you should not have come back. You need to talk to your parents about this. Not me.”

  He stood up and left the room without another word. I sat staring at his bowl. Crazy? I wasn’t crazy, was I? I rubbed my scarred arm. That wasn’t seeing things. And Zubatá—I saw her before the girl died. I still had nightmares about that.

  No. I wasn’t crazy. And something about L’uboš’s attitude told me he didn’t think I was crazy either. The way he shut the conversation down so quickly. How he couldn’t quite meet my eyes. How he insisted I talk to my parents about this. One thing was certain: I wasn’t talking to my parents until I had proof. Something they couldn’t argue with. Because otherwise, my mom would just pull a “don’t talk about that” stunt, and that would be that. Well, that or she’d put me on antipsychotics. Neither a good option.

  I hardly slept that night, too anxious about the next morning on top of all the other things happening to me. The thought of taking groups on tours—having them listen and watch me for an hour or more nonstop—was the stuff nightmares were made of, not to mention the fear of what would happen if the vodník tried to act. I wasn’t crazy. This stuff was real, no matter what anyone said. And then there were the castle’s finances. I couldn’t imagine why more people didn’t come to Trenčín. It had everything a town should have, and the castle was incredible. Was it that stupid rumor of the Gypsy curse, given extra credence because of the vodník’s drownings?

  By the time Katka knocked on my door, I had been dressed for two hours and was sitting by the front door, staring at it. I stood and went into the hall. Katka looked better than she had in a week. The color was back in her cheeks, and she was as full of energy as ever. That was something, at least. We headed into town. The farther we went, the more it felt like my stomach was trying to make diamonds out of whatever was left in there from last night. Way too much pressure. “What if I forget what I’m saying?” I asked as we exited our neighborhood and entered the park.

  “I’ll take over,” Katka said.

  “What if they’re too grossed out about my burn?”

  She didn’t even glance back. “They won’t care. And if they do, why should you care?”

  I wished I could do that. Not care. “It’s easy for you to not worry about people thinking you’re a freak. You’re gorgeo
us.”

  “Tomas, people only treat you like a freak because that’s how you act. It’s how you treat yourself. So you have a burned arm. So what? It’s much more important to you than it is to everybody else.”

  Whatever. I didn’t want to think about the terrors of the day and be psychoanalyzed by my cousin at the same time. The castle reared up higher and higher above us. I started dragging my feet, and Katka groaned in frustration.

  “We’re going to be late! Come on.”

  One way or the other, we made it there—and without even a trace of the Bigot Gang. The other tour guides introduced themselves. I had my burn covered at first, worried about how people would take it, especially if they already had a problem with Roma. But the more people smiled and shook my hand—with no winces or stares—the more I opened up and relaxed. Not only did they not mind my burn, but they didn’t pick on me for being a Roma, either. This was L’uboš’s home turf. It made sense people would be more accepting of Roma—or at least of his family. Why had Katka and I not been coming here?

  Oh yeah—we’d been too busy hunting for drownings at the pool.

  Almost all the other tour guides were high school aged. From what Katka had told me, it was considered a fun summer job for most people, and students would come up and talk to each other and relax in between tours.

  I had trouble with the Slovak names: Miloslav, Svetozár, L’ubka. Who was supposed to keep all those straight? Adam was there too—ready with his pop culture lines that were such a contrast with his appearance. It was like he had the soul of a film geek in the body of a bearded action star.

  He shook my hand and smiled. “Go ahead. Make my day,” he said in English.

  I grinned at him. “That one doesn’t quite work.”

  He shrugged, and the smile stayed on his face. “So you finally convinced your uncle to let you come.”

  I nodded, and he slapped me on the shoulder. Not terribly hard, but I could see how he was friends with L’uboš. “How are things going in Slovakia? Do you enjoy it?”

  The question in Slovak took me by surprise. So far he’d usually just used me as an English sounding board. “Uh . . . good. I like it fine.”

  “What’s your favorite part?”

  “Are you kidding?” I said. “This castle.”

  He laughed. “Good answer. I’ve got to go help get the joust ready for performance, but I’ll talk to you later, okay?” He switched back to English. “Remember: do or do not. There is no try.”

  And then he was gone. Someone cleared their throat behind me. I turned to see Vít’o, the short turtleneck guy. The probable German spy.

  “Hello,” he said in English. “Fancy meeting you here again, and on such an auspicious occasion too.”

  I frowned in confusion. “Huh?”

  “Huh, he says. Huh. As if he didn’t know. As if he were unaware of the brilliant tour guide career that he was about to unleash on the unwitting, unknowing people of Slovakia.”

  “Oh,” I said. “That. How did you know?” It was kind of hard to take him as a real threat. Maybe he was just a nosy guy with a wide smile and overactive sweat glands. Once again, his turtleneck was sopping wet. I watched it drip onto the ground, bringing “disgusting” to a whole new level.

  “I am nothing if not well connected,” Vít’o said. “And a fitting day for an American tour too.”

  “Why?”

  “Surely you jest. You must be. I expected you to have fireworks ready to shoot off at a moment’s notice. Aren’t you Americans all wild about the Fourth of July?”

  It was the Fourth? “Uh . . .”

  Katka came up to me, frowning at Vít’o. “We’ve got to go,” she said. “Now.”

  “By all means,” Vít’o said. “Just wanted to wish the boy good luck. Break a leg. Or don’t. Take a break instead.” Laughing at his lame joke, he walked away.

  “What day is today?” I asked Katka.

  “July . . . third? No. The fourth.”

  I failed as a patriot. Oh, well. “What do we do now?”

  “Nothing. I just don’t like that man, and I don’t want to encourage him being here. Now we rest and wait for the tours to show up.”

  I swallowed. “Okay.”

  For once, it was a busy day. Each group that headed up the hill was another exercise in torture. Would they be foreigners? I was nauseous. Katka tried to keep a conversation going with me, but all I could concentrate on was what language was being spoken by whoever was walking up the hill. And it finally happened.

  English.

  I heard it long before I saw them. Loud, cacophonous talking that sounded more like a flock of seagulls than people communicating. Katka and I turned at the same time to see a group of twenty making its way up the hill, all of them dressed in bright colors and stupid hats, all in stars and stripes. It was the first time I’d ever looked at a group of Ameri­cans and seen them as other people might. Were we all that obnoxious?

  Katka chuckled. “Ready?”

  My stomach had already dropped, and my palms were sweating. The left one, at least. Scars don’t sweat. “I need a drink.”

  She didn’t say anything in response, just stood up, reached in her bag, and passed me a bottle of water. It was warm, but I barely noticed.

  “Come on,” Katka said. “We’ll meet them over there.” She pointed to the glass and steel monstrosity, where even now the Americans were congregating. One family was having a meltdown, with a boy that couldn’t have been more than four screaming that he wanted to go to the zoo. Trenčín didn’t have a zoo.

  I followed Katka, my mind in a daze. Suddenly I couldn’t remember how the speech started, or where we were supposed to go first, or if we went into the armory before or after we went to the tower. My cousin must have noticed how rigid I had become. She patted my shoulder and whispered. “They’re strangers. And remember to talk in English, not Slovak.”

  I nodded and stepped out in front of the group. “Uh. Hi. Welcome to the castle. We—”

  “You speak English?” The woman who spoke up had a loud, brassy voice and a spray-on tan. It’s not often you see geriatrics the color of an Oompa Loompa.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’ll be your tour—”

  “Good, then maybe you can explain why I had to pay ten times as much as Slovaks do to get in here.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s highway robbery! What—they think Americans are made out of money?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  “Because I’m not made out of money. I’m on a fixed income. I’m retired. I want to pay the cheaper price. I want a refund.”

  What she wanted was a good swift kick in the butt. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure. I—”

  Katka cleared her throat. “The Slovak government decided to make that a rule. The economy in Slovakia is much different than the rest of Europe or the United States. If they charged the same price for everyone—the higher price—then Slovaks wouldn’t be able to go to their own national heritage sites. I’m sure you noticed, though, that our prices are still a fraction of what you’d pay to visit similar sites in the rest of the European Union.”

  The woman opened and closed her mouth, reminding me of a frog. Then she said, “Oh. Well why didn’t you say that?” She faced me. “Are you not a real tour guide? If I’m going to pay the American price, I better be getting the best tour guides they have, not some amateur.”

  The tour didn’t improve from there. The woman threw me off my game. I forgot my lines five times. Each time, Katka was there to correct me. She even took over on three different occasions for whole rooms at a time, and once I led the group into an oncoming tour on its way back from the tower. If Katka hadn’t been there, I might have told that woman exactly what I thought of her, which would have gotten me fired. Who would have known giving a tour was that complicated?

  When it was finished and the Americans were on their way, I was about ready to give up my passport and become Slovak for life. “Are we all li
ke that?” I asked Katka.

  She smiled over at the departing group. “No. Sometimes Americans wear hats that match.”

  I sighed. “What do we do now?”

  “Celebrate,” Katka said. “You did it!”

  “Ha ha. I practically ran over a toddler, and you talked almost more than I did.”

  Katka motioned with her head that I should follow her, and we went off to the break room. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said. “My first time was worse.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Want to bet?”

  “What did you do?” It couldn’t have been worse than my day today.

  She laughed. “Until you put money on it, I’m not saying.”

  We entered the break room, which was back behind the glass building. “I don’t have any money with me.” And now I wished I had some.

  “Your loss.” Katka went over to the refrigerator and took something out. “I’ve got you a surprise.”

  She handed me a large bottle. I read the label. “Kofola?”

  Katka nodded. “It’s the Slovak equivalent of Coke. We had it during Communism. I even got it chilled for you—aren’t I nice?”

  “A lifesaver.” I opened it up, it hissed out the extra air and I was chugging it before you could blink. I stopped in midswallow, and stared at her, my head tilted back and my eyes wide. I slowly took the bottle down and forced myself to finish swallowing.

  “What do you think?” Katka asked, a bit too innocently.

  “It’s very . . . Communist.” Rancid.

  She laughed. “That’s one way to put it. Most people say it tastes like Coke with beer. It’s an acquired taste.” She held out her hand for the bottle, and I was more than happy to give it back. Katka drank deeply. When she finished, she grimaced. “It’s better warm.”

  I shuddered to think of it. “Can we go back outside?” I asked. Usually on a hot day I would have been glued to a chair someplace cold, but habits change when there’s no air-conditioning.

  Katka nodded, and we went out and back in the direction of the main keep, just walking for the fun of it. L’uboš passed us as we headed up, a broad smile plastered over his face. The joust must have finished while Katka and I were giving the tour. “Fantastic, Tomas,” he said, gesturing to the crowd around us. “Six groups in one day. You’re a good luck charm!”