Sixth Watch

by Sergei Lukyanenko

  Nadya flashed a quick glance at me and nodded. But I could see she didn’t believe it. I didn’t even believe it myself.

  “Herr Gorodetsky? Young Fräulein Gorodetsky?” a plump, middle-aged woman in a luminous white and orange jumpsuit asked, walking up to us.

  “Yes, yes, of course,” I replied.

  The question was rhetorical, naturally, since we could see each other’s auras. The woman was a witch. A Higher Other.

  “Etta Sabina Waldvogel,” said the witch, holding out her hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Herr Gorodetsky.”

  I struggled frantically to recall an old memory.

  “Frau Waldvogel . . .” I said, nodding, and asked: “Would I be correct in assuming that you are the author of Guidance on Journeying and Journeyers?”

  Etta Sabina’s eyes glinted with curiosity.

  “Have you read it, Herr Gorodetsky?”

  “No, I was unable to obtain a copy.”

  “It is rather rare,” Waldvogel said offhandedly. “And I’m not sure that I can release the Guidance to anyone outside our own community . . . or that such highly specialized literature would be of any help to you. But I can let you have Frau Etta’s Brief Trasology. It’s more popular and easier to follow.”

  “I’d be glad to read it,” said Nadya.

  “And I’d be glad to give it to you, sweetheart,” Etta cooed. “Come on, let’s go somewhere a bit warmer!”

  We followed Etta into the foyer of the hotel. There were no normal people there, only witches, including at the reception desk. Even the waitress carrying little jugs of mulled wine around the foyer was a rather high-ranking witch. Unlike our escort, they were all disguised as young, beautiful women.

  “What a pleasure it is for me to see an Absolute One, my child!” Etta said sweetly, putting her arm round Nadya’s shoulders and hugging her. After the cold, frosty air she looked exactly like a charming, ruddy-cheeked, genial middle-aged woman.

  The owner of the little gingerbread house that Hansel and Gretel visited probably looked exactly the same.

  Or maybe she and Etta had actually been acquainted and used to visit each other for supper?

  “Thank you, Grandma,” Nadya replied, lowering her eyes modestly. “It’s such a pleasure for a foolish and thoughtless girl like me to be invited by such wise women and given an opportunity to improve my mind . . .”

  Waldvogel laughed.

  “Oh, what a sharp little tongue!” she exclaimed, patting Nadya on the neck. “Why, you’re a witch, little girl!”

  “I’m not a witch,” Nadya objected. “You’re mistaken, Grandma.”

  “A witch, a witch!” Etta repeated cheerfully. “All genuine sorceresses are witches . . .”

  Nadya jerked her shoulder out from under Etta’s arm. I looked at my daughter curiously—she had tolerated the embrace for a long time, although ever since she was a child she had always hated this kind of physical contact from genial strangers who stroked her hair or patted her on the cheek. She didn’t actually suspect that people’s intentions were bad. She just didn’t like undue familiarity.

  “I’m not a witch, Etta Sabina Waldvogel,” Nadya said in a low voice that resonated strangely, filling the small foyer. The witches froze. “I’m not a witch, I’m not a werewolf, or a vampire, or a sorceress. I’m something more than that. I’m an Absolute One. Remember that, Mother of These Mountains.”

  For a brief instant Waldvogel changed, as if someone had run a damp rag over her, wiping away her magical makeup. The charming woman standing beside us was replaced by a bloated, ancient crone, with beady eyes drowning in loose folds of skin covered with a cobweb of fine red veins. Her half-open mouth was absolutely toothless, and I suddenly recalled that one of the traditional sins of witches in the Middle Ages was drinking a mother’s breast milk. Apart from sucking out Power—probably at least much as vampires sucked out—there could have been another reason for doing that . . .

  Then “normal vision” was restored, and the cheery, red-cheeked lady was there beside us again.

  “And all with just the voice,” Waldvogel said admiringly. “I haven’t removed that appearance for thirty years, I’d almost forgotten how to do it. I’m impressed, little girl. Well, come along now, come along!”

  The bustle in the foyer resumed, with witches scurrying to and fro. Some came in and sat at the bar in their ski suits and boots, drinking hot wine, while others went off to their rooms.

  Witches certainly know how to throw a good party for their Sabbath!

  “Everyone has come, absolutely all the rooms are taken,” Waldvogel murmured as she led us to the elevator. “I hope you don’t mind that I booked you a very basic one; after all you won’t be staying overnight, it’s only so that you have somewhere to tidy yourselves up . . . Was the skiing good? How’s the snow?”

  “It was really great, thanks,” I replied.

  “Excellent, excellent. Come and ski here more often, it’s a good spot, and I asked the mountain to remember you, so you won’t crash or break any bones—unless you do something really stupid, of course . . .”

  How much of what she said was true and how much of it was the kind of bluster that witches all excel in? Could a witch really ask a mountain to do something? And if she could, what did that mean?

  I didn’t ask.

  Our heavy boots clattered on the floor of the elevator as we got in and rode up a few floors. Waldvogel opened the door of the room right beside the elevator (I knew from personal experience that these rooms were the very smallest, which were usually given to solitary, unassuming travelers and guests who smoked and looked like alcoholics—the ones most likely to get the urge to go out during the night).

  But we didn’t have to spend the night here.

  The room was cramped, but clean and tidy. Lying on the bed, which was too wide for a single and too narrow for a double, was a magnificent suit of dark-blue woolen fabric, a white shirt, a tie, socks, boxer shorts, and a pair of fashionable men’s shoes. And lying beside them was a long black dress (which, to my surprise, looked slightly worn), a pair of black tights, black pants, a black bra, and black shoes.

  Nadya turned to the witch with an indignant air.

  “I’m sorry, Fräulein,” the witch said imperturbably. “I didn’t wish to embarrass you. But you are with your dad, after all, not some young man, and your father is hardly going to be shocked by the sight of your underwear.”

  Nadya blushed violently, raked up the clothes, and disappeared into the bathroom.

  “Ah, children,” Waldvogel sighed. “But I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. A girl attending a Sabbath for the first time is obliged to dress in the traditional style. Everything black. Some believe that the underwear can be white, but I consider that an impermissible liberty. They start by blowing their noses in paper handkerchiefs, then they stop shaving their armpits, and they end up with white lingerie under a black dress—and look where it all leads: states crumble, morals decline, and they hold exhibitions in the churches.”

  “How very politically correct you are, Frau,” I said, pulling off my heavy boots and starting to unzip my ski suit.

  “Yes, that’s the way I am,” the witch said. “Kinder, Küche, Kirche, as we say in Germany. A healthy society starts with a healthy family and good taste! Do you need any help, Herr Anton?”

  “I’ll manage,” I said, pulling off the ski suit. “I hope you won’t mind if I don’t take a shower, but just rub myself down with the throw from the bed and change into the clean clothes?”

  “I don’t mind,” said the witch. “A man’s sweat is the finest aroma a woman can smell. You won’t feel embarrassed getting changed with me here?”

  “Not in the slightest,” I replied, taking off my sweat-soaked underclothes.

  “What a pity,” Etta said. “I adore my craft, I love being a witch, and I’m a good witch, believe me, Anton. But it’s a shame that our appearance is so . . . unattractive.”

  “But no one can
see that,” I said, getting dressed quickly. “And it doesn’t seem to affect your health at all.”

  “I can see it,” the witch complained. “And you can see it.”

  “Oh come on, what’s the problem, really?” I protested. “We Others aren’t the only fish in the sea, and it’s not as if we’re so macho that all the men in the world pale in comparison.”

  “Should I knot your tie for you?” Etta asked. “Men sometimes don’t know how to tie a tie.”

  I nodded, holding out the tie—it was dark-blue silk that matched the tone of the suit, with gold stars embroidered on it.

  “I used to knot all my husbands’ ties,” Etta murmured, examining my tie somberly and holding it up against the jacket. “Hans, may he rest in peace, and Wolfgang, and Alfred, good riddance to him, and Otto, and Conrad, and Ludwig, and Basil . . . He was one of you, by the way, a Russian. And Antonio as well, and Horst . . .”

  “How many husbands have you had?” I asked.

  “About a hundred,” Etta said with a casual wave of her hand. “Don’t get the idea that I saw them all to their graves, Gorodetsky, we usually lived together for two or three years, then I got a bit bored, and men get this yearning for heroic deeds—I don’t like that sort of thing . . . So I got divorced, or I simply left. It was only Hans that I lived with right to the end of his life, and Alfred, of course, and Ludwig . . .”

  The door of the bathroom opened and Nadya came out with a rather embarrassed air.

  “How do I look?”

  I examined my daughter critically and was surprised.

  “You know, you look pretty good. The dress could have been made for you . . . although I don’t think it’s new.”

  Etta giggled.

  “You guessed! It isn’t new. Girls have been going to their first Sabbath in it for three centuries. But we had it taken in for Fräulein Nadya; the dressmaker worked all day on it . . .”

  “You look magnificent too, Dad,” said Nadya. “You ought to wear a suit and tie. It’s so . . . charmingly old-fashioned.”

  “Thank you, my dear,” I said with a nod. “You certainly know how to make your father feel good. Frau Waldvogel, how are we doing for time?”

  “You have a quarter of an hour,” said the witch. “You can have a glass of beer or wine in the bar. Or vodka, if you like. What do you usually drink in the evenings?”

  “No, I can’t have vodka, I promised my bear that I wouldn’t drink any without him,” I replied. Nadya giggled. “Frau Waldvogel,” I continued, “can you satisfy my curiosity on one point . . . Is this really your six hundred and sixty-fifth gathering?”

  I think the witch was actually embarrassed by my question.

  “In a certain sense it is,” she replied evasively. “You see, Anton, we witches are rather superstitious. So we’ve been holding the six hundred and sixty-fifth session of our Conclave for almost a century now. It has become a tradition.”

  “An interesting solution,” I said.

  “That’s what I think too,” the witch replied without a trace of irony. “After all, the most important things in life are peace of mind and a positive attitude.”

  I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.

  But Nadya could.

  “That’s a good one, Dad,” she said in a quiet voice.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE CONCLAVE OF WITCHES WAS ASSEMBLED IN THE HOTEL restaurant. A decision had been made “to combine duty and pleasure,” as they say. Fortunately, there weren’t mountains of food—the sight of two hundred munching witches would have been just too much. Most of them really love eating, and copious hors d’oeuvres easily could have distracted them from the beginning of the end of the world.

  The tables were set with only tea, coffee, wine, beer, and cognac (which was the preferred tipple of many of the ladies), canapés with red and black caviar, foie gras on small pieces of toast, various little fancy cakes, and slices of gateau (there is no limit to the amount of sweet things that witches can eat).

  Most of the delegates had already taken their seats when we got there. For the most part, they had chosen to look young and were dressed brightly, but even the appearance of those who looked middle-aged or older was an improvement on reality, designed to deceive. The Power that witches possess drains them of beauty and youth. They can live for a very, very long time, almost forever in fact, like the rest of the Others. But we live our long lives in bodies that are young, while witches live theirs in the bodies of old crones.

  Frau Waldvogel, who was dolled up in a luxurious evening dress and modern jewelry (which was obviously very expensive), led us to a table where the most highly respected witches were sitting. As far as I could see, they were all Higher Ones. Khokhlenko was among them, but even she seemed rather surprised to be there. The Grandmother of Moscow probably had been been seated at the top table out of respect for us . . . For Nadezhda, that is, I thought to myself. Not for us. For Nadya. She’s the one they’re interested in.

  As we made our way between the tables, I heard snippets of conversation.

  “Jack was a fine young fellow, very fine. But you know, my dear, a childhood like that is simply bound to scramble a person’s brains. There weren’t any psychologists back then, so he took it out on those poor prostitutes . . .”

  “No, no! You’ve got it all wrong! Physical chastity is absolutely unimportant. I mean, it is desirable, but it isn’t the main criterion! What is important is spiritual innocence; you could even call it spiritual naïveté, a purity that comes from the bottom of the heart, an innocence of the mind! And given the right treatment, the heart of a chaste girl like that . . .”

  “How disgusting,” Nadya said in a low voice, taking hold of my hand—she was listening to the conversations too. “At least I know I could never be taken for that kind of virgin.”

  I pretended as though I hadn’t heard that.

  However, there were less disturbing conversations too.

  “Early in the morning! The very moment the edge of the sun appears over the horizon, you go out into the fields and start collecting the buds, thinking good thoughts, with a smile on your lips, and you can sing a quiet little song . . .”

  Maybe if we’d kept listening it would have turned out that the flowers were being collected for some gross, abominable purpose, but we moved on to our table and didn’t hear the end of the story.

  In contrast with the vampires’ gathering, everything here really was very pleasant indeed—especially if you didn’t listen too closely or try to look through the cosmetic spells.

  The room was full of smiling women, young and old, all eager to give Nadya a peck on the cheek and give me a hug. There was an abundance of pink clothing on display—my daughter was almost the only one wearing black. There were little jokes and quips, bright smiles, pieces of cake floating from one table to another on saucers, tea being poured—as well as wine, beer, and cognac. The Conclave of Witches was like a flock of pink, fluffy animals, all chewing intently and wagging their little tails.

  But the first rule in dealing with cute, fluffy animals is not to poke them with your finger—unless you happen to be wearing thick gloves.

  “Sisters!” one of the witches sitting at our table called, getting to her feet. Her voice sounded strong and steady, and it filled the entire space—the same trick that Nadya had used a little earlier. “Our modest community is honored today by the presence of Nadezhda Gorodetsky and her father, Anton Gorodetsky.”

  I winced. Yes of course, it’s very flattering when your children are well known and highly thought of. But it’s still rather sad to know that you’re nothing more than an appendage to your own daughter.

  “We all know what is happening,” the witch continued. She was slim, with olive skin, black eyes, and hair “the color of a raven’s wing” as the poets loved to say. “I, Ernesta, greet our guests on behalf of everyone and promise them all the help that we can give.”

  That sounded very encouraging. A bit of help, for a change.


  “Thank you, Ernesta,” I replied, getting to my feet. I had heard about the speaker before; she was a Spanish witch, one of the most revered in the community. But there was something strange here . . . “May I ask a personal question?”

  Ernesta smiled and nodded.

  “I thought that you had been in the Inquisition for many years now.”

  “Since 1891,” the witch responded politely. “Are you surprised that I am at the Conclave?”

  “Yes.”

  “The Conclave as an organization is not involved at all in the opposition between the Watches. We have Light Ones among us. And in general, the Conclave is rather like a special-interest club for girls.”

  I permitted myself a smile, since that was what was expected of me.

  “So I am able to serve in the Inquisition, while remaining a witch and participating in the Conclave.”

  “Good,” I said with a nod. “Then tell me this: As both a member of the Conclave and a serving Inquisitor, do you know how the information on the Two-in-One came to be lost? Such important information about a god, engendered by the Twilight? The Sixth Watch was still remembered in the Middle Ages. What happened after that? Why are we still floundering about, scrabbling for crumbs of information and unsure of how to interpret it correctly?”

  Silence descended—the witches even stopped chewing.

  “I cannot answer that,” said Ernesta. She wasn’t embarrassed—there isn’t any way to embarrass a witch—but she clearly did not like the question. “Information of such great importance should not have been lost. But it really is missing. There are certain secondary documents of some importance, hints, references in books . . . If you would like to know my opinion . . .”

  “I would,” I said, nodding.

  “The information was deliberately destroyed. And a number of Others must have been involved in destroying it. Light Ones, Dark Ones, Inquisitors, magicians, witches, vampires . . .”

  “The Sixth Watch must have been involved,” Nadya exclaimed. “Isn’t that it?”

  “Bravo, little girl,” said Ernesta. “That’s exactly it. We came to the conclusion that the members of the Sixth Watch had intentionally obliterated the memory of it.”