Hour of the Wolf

by Andrius B Tapinas

  The Head of the Department of Alchemy of University Dominium, Jonas Basanavicius, took a quick look at the face of his steam pocket watch and shook his head. He had received the watch as a present on one of his significant birthdays, and was very pleased with it; he never failed to stress that this was the only device that showed accurate time and that the bells were just a relic, good enough for the city residents in the times of Báthory István, but certainly not now and not here – in free Vilnius.

  The watch indicated that there were still a few minutes left until 6 o’clock, but the bells were already losing their steam. For years on end Basanavicius has been trying to convince Vilnius Council to commission the Guild of Mechanics to build the largest steam clock in Europe and install it in the Cathedral Bell tower, but the idea was opposed by the Spiritual Councillor, venerable Prelate Masalskis. Science and oil-stained inventions are one thing, he declared, but eternal spiritual values are something completely different.

  “It’s not accurate, not accurate,” mumbled Basanavicius and, having snapped the cover on, put the watch in a custom-made pocket of his surtout.

  The alchemist checked that he had properly locked the main door of his laboratory. The lock hissed and the red light flashed, which indicated that the alchemist’s sanctuary was safe.

  Basanavicius used the back door to get to a small hallway. The spiral wooden staircase there was so old and creaky that every time the alchemist went down he promised to pay respect to its old age by treating it to the highest quality Steam City grease. But he forgot his promise as soon as it was made. Or maybe he was simply fond of this creaking sound, which was so distinct and so unlike the ones that were produced by the latest mechanical and alchemical masterpieces.

  The staircase ended at an access hatch. Having climbed through it, Basanavicius found himself on a flat roof, in his private alchemist conservatory. As a result of his painstaking efforts, the conservatory was filled with verbenas, evening primroses, deadly nightshades, marigolds, wolf’s aloe and even such exotic plants as mandragora. By all means, compared with the Great Garden of Vilnius University Alchemists, this conservatory was more like the one in a dolls’ house, but it was enough to make Basanavicius happy. However, this time his eyes wandered over to something else. The roof also accommodated his most recent creation – a colossal glider, which he had affectionately dubbed Dragon Fly and which had a substantial B painted on its tail (vanity was a flaw that Basanavicius shared with many other alchemists).

  Vilnius residents had become accustomed to many strange things after the turbulence of recent decades, but they couldn’t say they liked them all. When Dragon Fly, which slightly resembled a farm buggy, set off for its test flight above the city for the first time, the place had been consumed by panic – screaming women hid in gateways and men cried in exasperation: “Where have the damn Legionnaires gone? The Devil knows what is happening in the city but they are nowhere to be seen!”

  It seemed that children were the only ones who became jubilant at the sight of a dragonfly-like machine gliding through the air, and their waving hands greeted the pilot happily. Older city residents, however, wrote an angry letter to Vilnius Council, requesting that madman Basanavicius and his Alchemists be disciplined. They claimed that these monsters had made their life unbearable. But the Council tended to ignore such complaints and, on the contrary, allocated rather handsome sums to University Dominium Alchemists and Mechanics, as the Alliance was anxiously awaiting the start of mass production of small aircraft that would be suitable for domestic flights. Besides, the Council was feeling pressure from the Vilnius Legate, who was urging them to expedite the completion of the work, because it had been a while since he had begun fantasizing about a mobile flying company of Legionnaires. Unfortunately, they still had nothing to boast about. Dragon Fly could only lift one single person into the air, and fly a mere 20 versts[14] before landing. These restrictions were caused by the small capacity of the bottle steam batteries. Under pressure to work faster, the Mechanics would point their finger at the Alchemists, who just shrugged their shoulders and said that the magic gas promethelium – the power source of the large dirigibles – would be of great help here, but it was too expensive for small aircraft and its use was very complicated. Consequently, Dragon Fly was still the only glider that had so far been manufactured in Vilnius. Jonas Basanavicius flew it himself, claiming that he had an allergy to steam trolleys.

  It’s fair to say that after Dragon Fly had been used to put out the fire in Pohulianka, the residents’ anger had subsided. But no one knew what the future held for Dragon Fly as it was a very low-flying machine. Ordinarily dirigibles flew very high, and could only be seen by the naked eye only when landing at Viscigavas airship port, while Dragon Fly was almost within arm’s reach.

  The glider had a fuselage made of wood, with two little wheels, and its two graceful wings were covered in tear-free Belgian canvas of the highest quality. The flywheels of Dragon Fly were turned by a small steam turbine, the funnel of which emerged behind the pilot’s chair. With the help of compressed steam and ropes the pilot controlled the wings: a similar ornithopter was once sketched by Leonardo da Vinci. The wings helped the apparatus get off the ground and stay in the air, but Dragon Fly could not fly for long as it didn’t have enough steam.

  The Department of Alchemy, together with its leader Basanavicius, was constantly perfecting the drawings of the glider. The Alchemists had connected the turbine to the propeller at the front, and it helped the ornithopter to stay in the air. They had later added a control stick, a navigation magnifier on a pole and a small parasol to protect the pilot from the rain or the blinding sun.

  Basanavicius got into Dragon Fly and adjusted his position on the pilot’s chair, which was upholstered in felt and fabric. He pulled the ropes, moving the wings, then clutched the handle and sharply pushed the metal rods into the battery necks. The steam in the batteries hissed and filled the engine. The propeller grumbled and started to turn – at first slowly, then faster and faster. At that moment the alchemist was expertly pulling and releasing the ropes, and a second later Dragon Fly flapped its wings and gently pulled off the University roof. Once in the air, Basanavicius swiftly wound the wing ropes onto special poles behind the control stick and, to stop them unwinding accidentally, secured them on metal hooks.

  The engine only had enough power for the start and a few manoeuvres during take-off, and all the rest had to be done by the wings, while the control stick was used to control the glider.

  Basanavicius was puzzling over how to increase the steam battery capacity or how to install more batteries to make the engine more powerful, but his efforts had born no fruit. It was obvious – what the ornithopter needed was promethelium.

  The engine of the Alliance – this was the sweet name given by the Alchemists to promethelium.

  Developed in the Alliance’s alchemy laboratories, promethelium (which was lighter than hydrogen and less flammable when combined with hot air and even hot steam) was one of the greatest discoveries of the last century. With its introduction, dirigibles became safe and fast and could carry heavy cargoes and fly long distances. The formula of promethelium was a jealously guarded secret, it was produced exclusively in the cities of the Alliance, and the price was set by the Rothschilds. Promethelium and the Alliance became inextricably connected and many people speculated whether at the time of the negotiations on free cities with the Russians, the Turks and the Austrians, the Rothschilds had already known about the gem that would be developed by the Alchemists of the Alliance. The large European nations were furious – they felt deceived. And besides, their secret services had suffered a miserable failure in attempting to decipher the promethelium code. There were no suggestions of an alternative either. Neither recently discovered helium, nor attempts to power dirigibles with electricity or coal could even remotely be compared to the potential of promethelium.

  Nevertheless, promethelium was still insanely expensive and was only used
for major giants of the air. Midgets like Basanavicius’ glider had no choice but to be content with steam.

  Leaving behind a belt of white smoke that had been puffed out by its chimney, Dragon Fly made a circle around the tower of St John’s Church and charged ahead. Basanavicius’ eyes felt blinded by the evening sun, so he slipped on tinted goggles and adjusted the position of the parasol. As he had no other flights planned for tonight, he generously charged the engine with steam, trying to reach the maximum altitude as quickly as possible.

  The wind had caught the glider and swept it above the pre-determined maximum height. Upon detecting this, the navigation stick altimeter beeped a warning. Dragon Fly began to shake but Basanavicius ignored it; being well into his sixth decade, the alchemist had forgotten about his age and ailments and was admiring the scenery down below, which he had seen many times before but never got tired of – the Neris flowing across the city, church spires gleaming with gold, red rooves and patches of greenery. Underneath the Town Hall dashed by, the cramped Blots were left behind to one side and New World opened up ahead. New World, flooded by newcomers, was expanding rapidly. They didn’t seem to feel much affection for their new home, which was known as Vilnius’ underbelly among the commoners: the birds-eye view was blemished by mountains of rubbish.

  Basanavicius turned the navigation stick to the left and Dragon Fly changed direction towards the upmarket Antokolis. The Neris here wound around the hills, of which holiday makers and gouvernantes with their children were very fond, and its waters here were as pure as if the river itself had been cleaned.

  The alchemist turned the glider, positioned it over the bend of the river and followed it downstream. Steam City – the city’s biggest source of pride, as well as its worst polluter and headache – sprawled to the right. Thirty years ago this area was embellished with the sleepy Snipiskes district and the green expanse of Tuskulenai Park nearby, but now it had been overtaken by this bulging industrial monster discharging a constant stream of pollutants into the river and covering its waters with a thick veil of grease. The citizens were grateful to Basanavicius and his Alchemists for the mechanical nets that had been installed by Green Bridge and were destroying the pollutants and cleaning the river.

  The alchemist allowed Dragon Fly to rise higher. In the distance he saw several excavators glistening in the sun, reminding him of giant insects with one antenna. Vilnius had decided to revive its trade with the German town of Memel, and the Neris river bed had to be dredged to make it wider and deeper to allow the passage of large cargo ships. From the moment it began implementing the plan, the Alliance had not skimped on labour or money: hundreds of people and powerful machines had embarked on something that earlier generations could have only called madness – they were transforming the bed of the river. Even if the Tsar’s officials were rolling their eyes, they did not interfere with the work.

  Basanavicius’ gaze roamed even further. With his eyes beginning to water, he pressed his lips tightly together. Beyond the perimeter of the city unfolded Lithuania – his own country, occupied by the Russian Empire. The Empire had no choice but to put up with free Vilnius and the whole of the Alliance, but it kept this border under enhanced supervision. Armoured Russian trains ran along purpose-built tracks encircling Vilnius. The Governor-General had issued an order: illegal attempts to gain access to Vilnius and other cities of the Alliance would result in death by firing squad. Obviously there were legal ways to get into Vilnius, and one could travel in a scheduled dirigible or on a train. But such passengers were subject to thorough checks, and besides, few people were minded to spend their month’s wages on a seat in a dirigible, or part with a chervonets[15] in return for a train ticket. One way or another, Vilnius’ population grew rapidly as people travelled here on foot, in farmers’ buggies, or some daredevils even by clinging to the metal underbellies of trains. Their desire to settle in Vilnius remained strong even in the face of frequent executions at the border.

  “You’ll see, it won’t go on forever,” said Jonas Basanavicius, possibly to the setting sun or possibly to himself.

  The altimeter beeped a warning again and the alchemist glanced at the equipment. After Dragon Fly had reached the maximum height, controlling it properly became of uttermost importance – the pilot had to stop the wind from buffeting it around. Basanavicius started to reduce the amount of steam in both turbines. Dragon Fly stopped ascending and glided forward.

  Green Bridge emerged ahead. Before he reached it, as the pilot of a flying apparatus, he was obliged to make contact with the Navigators’ Tower on the Hill of Gediminas. (Duke Gediminas would probably turn in his grave knowing that his castle had become a flight-control centre).

  This requirement of the Navigators was sneered at by aces in high speed dirigibles and racing biplanes, who also called it ‘the folly of the tower rats’, but the majority of pilots, Basanavicius among them, diligently complied with the orders. With his right hand clutching the navigation stick, his left one started moving the magnifier, which was set towards the top part of the pole. He caught a ray of sunshine and placed a lens with the coordinates of the current flight on top of the glass, and then directed the tool to the left, towards the Navigators’ tower.

  The Navigators’ tower replied shortly, sending over three brief amber blinks. This signified that the coordinates had been approved and an air corridor granted. Basanavicius was well aware that the next scheduled passenger dirigible from Krakow was to appear under the Vilnius sky at 9 o’clock, and that it was his responsibility to do all he could to avoid getting in the giant’s way. Therefore, the signal from the tower was only a formality, a friendly wink to an old friend.

  There were occasions, however, when the tower put on a real festival of multicoloured lights. This happened when they greeted a private foreign aircraft or for the pilots of a scheduled dirigible arriving in Vilnius for the first time who did not display a good sense of direction under the Vilnius sky. Many residents still remembered vividly the coloured fireworks two years ago, when a gigantic zeppelin named Charlemagne, belonging to the Krupp AG Company, had paid a visit to Vilnius.

  Having established contact with the tower, the pilot of Dragon Fly tried to locate his destination.

  Different areas of Vilnius were like chalk and cheese. Well-off Antokolis was quietly dozing off, while the student favourite, Mirth City, was carousing madly; if Steam City was stern, New World was ruled by chaos. Foreign craftsmen and traders made themselves busy throughout the day in the Blots, while in the Troubles one could say the same about thieves and fraudsters. But each area had its own special place in the overall picture of Vilnius and the absence of any of them would have made the view incomplete. Yet there was a quarter – Zverynas – which didn’t quite seem to belong in the collective picture. A loop of the Neris, like a wall, had enclosed it away from the other world of Vilnius, the world which was always rushing, creating, building, buying and selling, as if keeping Zverynas behind in the last century with the noblemen Radvilos and their guests hunting roe under the hundred-year-old linden trees. In Zverynas there were no workshops or factories, there were no noisy cafes, restaurants or hotels. Even the joy houses here were not open to the public and operated by invitation only, hidden from curious eyes behind tall fences and thick hedges, their windows disguised by heavy velvet curtains.

  The spirit of Zverynas (locals called it the raison d’être) revealed itself most gloriously on long and sultry summer evenings. Then it seemed that life had come to a standstill and no one wished for it to hasten its pace. Dogs, tired from the heat of the day, lazed about on gravel streets, gouvernantes and their children quietly strolled in little parks, while the parents, right from their little villas, waved to young Jewish boys cycling around on tricycles with canisters of beer, and before long were savouring the tiny hint of sweetness in a glass of Szopen. In the shade of Zverynas residences one could catch sight of old men intermittently arguing over matters of politics and playing cards, while the more
observant could even spot lovers alternating between kissing and drinking cruchon. Major political news did travel as far as Zverynas, and the card players would occasionally have a heated argument about the decisions of the Alliance and the future of Vilnius, but most of the time locals here were as interested in city life as the stray dog Mitekas, sprawled on Slope Street, was in dirigibles. When the shadow of a giant airship floating through the sky draped itself over him, all he gave was a sluggish little woof. Zverynas lived a life of its own. The area was connected to the city by a bridge, which rested against St George’s Avenue on the city side, but the residents of Zverynas shared the view that it was more of a nuisance than a means of crossing the river. A while back the Vilnius Street Trolley Company had been toying with the idea of building trolley tracks to Zverynas, but, due to the clear indifference demonstrated by the locals, had abandoned the idea. As it happens, both sides were pleased with the outcome.

  Newcomers in Zverynas were usually met with distrust, so very few chose to settle there. But for Nikodemas Pranas Tvardauskis, on the contrary, this permanent apprehensiveness of the locals was a compelling factor. When this man, one of the greatest scientists in Vilnius and Head of the Department of Mechanics at the University, suddenly gave up his promising career in University Dominium, busybodies were choking on their own words trying to convince everyone that Professor Tvardauskis had a plan for an even greater achievement. As a cosy place on the City Council was not likely to be of great interest to him, he probably intended to pursue a senior post in the Alliance Ministry of International Relations, which would give him an opportunity to descend on some exceptionally soft chair and remember Vilnius with a light tug of nostalgia.