The Fox Knows Many Things: An Athena Fox Adventure

by Mike Sweeney

  Really? Jousting? I could barely make out the details, and distance made the announcer indecipherable, but the banners and the brilliant colors draped over the horses made it definitive. Oh, cool! But I still wasn’t getting down that cliff. Not in one piece. Cisterns I could climb. This was a bit too serious for me.

  I retraced, getting back on ground that felt more solid. Then turned right — there seemed to be something like a gentle slope in that direction and the bridges I’d spotted from the cliff had been in that direction. It of course wasn’t that simple. The rock was rugged, with deep cutbacks that made me have to veer off more than once. But eventually it flattened out, and the trees thinned out into what looked like plowed land.

  In time I found an actual trail. There was even a sign, although it was of no help. Three arrow-shaped boards listed the kilometers to a variety of German place-names I didn’t recognize. I picked the trail that seemed to lead in generally the right direction — a trail that was also marked with a smaller sign containing a mute cartoon of a donkey. Nope. No idea.

  Oh, wait. I still had the phone, and I had a data plan. I pulled it out. The map ap wasn’t much help. The area around me was a solid block of green, threaded with a couple of narrow brown lines that came nowhere near where the GPS thought I was. But I did seem to be heading in the direction of Ebernburg.

  The trail wound back and forth in multiple switchbacks as it descended. It sloped enough to bring that familiar burn to my calves. Walking downhill was, in its own way, as hard as walking uphill, but I’d lived for years in San Francisco. In places, the trail was steeper than that, just some stones or logs shoved roughly into the dirt to give a little more traction. I sensed the Germans weren’t overmuch on coddling their hikers.

  The transition to flat ground was sudden. It was almost manicured, after the wilder terrain winding around the Rotenfels. I looked back up. That really was a hell of a cliff. The GPS was useful now. I crossed the highway and tracks and used it to find my way to the nearest bridge.

  I had my crowd now. Some of them were in costume. At least one was in armor. Most were moving in the same direction, away from where the jousting had been, and I followed. I didn’t have a plan. I was still a little light-headed from the hike, and from the events that had made it necessary. Now that I was on solid ground again I could feel the little knot of pressure in my knee where I had bashed it, and the pull around the hip where I’d twisted that same leg. I was ready to sit down and gather my wits and take stock. And water. I could really use some water.

  There were lights and music ahead. Seemed to be an older section of town. Or maybe the whole town looked like this; I’d only seen Germany from the window of a speeding Mercedes. White walls with high, small windows, a few with those exposed beams. Half-timbered, that is. I swung a corner and found myself in a strange new world.

  People in robes and hats with plumage, street stalls in rough-hewn wood, a strolling musician playing a lute, live music and the smell of roasting meats and a whole lot of beer. It was noisy and crowded and absolutely wonderful.

  No, I hadn’t taken a turn into a handy time machine. The main street was a perfectly ordinary paved road with concrete sidewalks. Not all of the crowd were in costume. And the costumes were hardly period. That is, they weren’t any specific period. Witness the little boy with the plastic sword and the How to Train Your Dragon t-shirt. Others, however, had put in more effort.

  The really cool thing is all ages were doing it. There was a little girl in a white princess gown standing very straight at a stall selling clay owls and embroidery. Her mother and older sister were nearby in traditional dress. A balding, white-haired man looked completely comfortable in gold-trimmed blue robes, suede boots and a sword belt. There was something that stood out for me about many of the people in costume; that they didn’t look like they were wearing a costume. They were wearing clothes, clothes that fit properly and were properly worn in.

  The smell of hearty food was overpowering. And yes, I was hungry as well as thirsty. I went looking for a place that still had some table space. Passed more than one street stall or stand of rough wood. A number of places with leather goods or raw leather. There was a certain abundance here. Wait. Wasn’t this what they called the Hesse? The bread-basket of Germany? Lots of cows meant cheap leather, right?

  Two tough-looking men in their thirties passed and they were wearing armor. Plate armor. Real metal, and it looked extremely functional. The jousting I’d seen from far above. These were contestants. I didn’t know if they did padded sticks like the SCA or blunted weapons or real steel. Actually, I didn’t know if they were competing for earnest or if this was scripted like professional wrestling. I had a strong feeling it was the latter. Several Popes had denounced jousting back in the day and the reasons were just as good now.

  Others were dressed more simply; an ankle-length dress with long, wide sleeves and a snood. Or a poet shirt, cuffed boots, and a belt. More than one had a cow horn slung about their neck on a leather cord. I’d seen them for sale at one of the leather places. What was that about?

  I passed a stand selling staffs for magicians, crystal balls, potion bottles; everything you needed to play in your local LARP. So that’s where Vash had found his finery. I couldn’t blame him. I was tempted to buy some stuff myself. I saw the glint of light on steel. The guy at the next stall was selling armor. That was even more tempting. I suppressed a lingering shiver from the business up in the woods. I was glad that was over with.

  I found a courtyard of low stone walls nicely decorated by ivy. A trio of women in medieval dress carrying equally period looking instruments were on a makeshift stage. I caught the tail end of an announcement, “…auf Hildegard von Bingen.” Then they started playing. One instrument was shaped like a large ungainly lute and had a crank on one end. The others had wooden recorders, which they employed between verses sung in achingly precise harmonies.

  It was lovely, even if I couldn’t understand a word of it. I couldn’t understand a word, period. This was Germany for the Germans. I’d yet to see or hear a single word in English.

  Athens. I’d only been where there were signs in English. I’d only communicated in English. I’d hung out with other tourists — the only local I’d spoken more than a couple of words to was Biro, and he was obviously a foreign student. I needed to fix that. I needed to be better than that, if I actually wanted to learn anything while I was there.

  I approached the bar. The older, round-faced woman in Renn Faire peasant dress waited calmly. “Ah,” I said. “Guten abend.”

  “Abend.”

  “Wie geht’s?” Oh, Gods-rotted classroom instincts. Too many “conversation” drills in that one German class I’d taken back in junior high. The slightest flick of a frown crossed the woman’s face, then she pretended she hadn’t heard. “How are you doing?” was a wee bit too familiar to use on a stranger. “Um…” I searched my memories. “Wasser, bitte?” I ventured.

  She brought out a bottle of sparkling mineral water. Okay, language error. I pointed at it. “Wasser?”

  “Mit oder ohne Gas?” she asked in return.

  “Um…”

  “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?”

  Okay, that one I knew. “Nein,” I said. “Do you speak English?” I asked hopefully.

  “Nein.” She wasn’t smiling, but the way she’d echoed me said she was amused by the conversation. There was no line waiting behind me. That probably helped.

  “Fine. Ein bier, bitte.” That was better anyhow. When I thought about it, I hadn’t seen anyone with a water bottle yet. Did they even do water in Germany? Or was it all beer, all the time? I had some former roommates who would agree with that idea.

  It was surprisingly expensive. A full seven euros. Fortunately, I had a few smaller notes on me. Bar lady must have caught something in my expression. She hooked a finger towards where a stack of glass mugs stood under a sign. Something about five euros. No idea.

  “Danke.” At least I’d fulfil
led Océane’s “hello” and “thank you” goal. But I was going to have to add “please” to the list. Far too useful to do without.

  I found a seat and quenched my thirst. Tasted like a Pilsner. Well, at least it wasn’t Bud.

  No WiFi. I hated to think of what all this data was going to cost me. Frankfurt and the airport was over seventy kilometers away, I read. Unless Mario Andretti was working for Uber now, I’d missed my flight. Did Germany even have Uber? A quick search and it looked like they’d gotten banned due to a difference in German laws. Without a good connection, I wasn’t going to waste time looking further into it.

  Trains. They had a lot of trains here. I’d seen trains as we drove in. I’d crossed a track getting here. I tapped the icon, and the ap came through for me; train connection from a station in town, and it would only take two hours!

  I looked up. The trio had gone instrumental for the next number, with a big side-slung drum, a regular lute, and something that was curved like a cane and had a warm, buzzing tone. Two men in costume were weaving their way across the courtyard. They had robes with embroidered crests on them and fancy hats. People were nodding in greeting or stopping them for a few words. Maybe these were aldermen or whatever you had in towns in this part of Germany, and the costume was actually robes of office of an earlier era.

  That’s the thing I really loved about this all. It was celebrating history, yes. But this was a living history. They had actual connections to the history they were enacting. Their direct ancestors had done this. The crafts on display were techniques they used in their daily lives in the farms and workshops, the period-looking buildings around them were current and occupied dwellings.

  But it was also a playful relationship; witness the plastic swords and the wizard staffs. This wasn’t an event trying to replicate a specific place in time. It was an event celebrating the general idea of an earlier age.

  I drank more Pils and went back to work. I had the Expedia ap loaded and it threw me a couple of options for flights. The early one would be a push. The last flight of the day, that is, going the way I needed to go, left at 11:25. Sorry, make that 2325. Had to start thinking in European time. One transfer; Athens by way of…Istanbul?

  Oh, cool! Istanbul! Yeah, it was only a five-hour layover. Not even enough time to get out of the airport, but, Istanbul! That is, Constantinople! How cool was that? I found myself humming the “They Might Be Giants” song under my breath.

  I just needed to be on that train by 8:00. I clicked through to the Deutsche Bahn website and confirmed the details. Then stood. It was time for some of that food I’d been smelling.

  On the way I figured out the business with the mugs. There was a deposit. And that’s what the cow horns were for; it saved you a trip. I didn’t get a cow horn. But I did get another beer.

  I re-crossed the Nahe on a tiny pedestrian bridge downstream from the larger one that carried road and rail high on concrete pillars. The path to the bridge led down to nearly the banks under the canopy of trees, the orange light of pedestrian lamps barely lighting the way. The bridge itself was only a few feet above the river.

  It was quieter on this side of the Nahe, and the air was strange and sweet. I found wide paths paved with flat stones that swept in gentle curves through well-manicured grounds. Medical-looking buildings stood about, separated by wide swaths of green. My route took me in the same direction as a few scattered others. I heard snatches of German in the distance, the quiet grumpy sounds of a sleepy child or two. These other pedestrians peeled off the route until I was walking alone.

  An increase in humidity and the trickle of water caught my attention. Just off my path were towering wooden structures, mysterious panels laced with branches and smelling of salt water. I thumbed up Wikipedia but I couldn’t really read while walking, except to see that this was a mineral water spa, just like Graham had said, and that this had something to do with the treatments being offered. That, and something about radon gas. Radon gas?! Well, it had been going on for centuries and people didn’t seem to be dropping dead from it, so I suppose I shouldn’t be worried either.

  The main drag of Bad Münster proper — I had yet to see the Stein it was “am” of — was that of a very small town. The Rotenfels loomed against the sky, and in the other direction, an equally spectacular if better forested rise apparently held the remains of a ruined castle at the peak. The buildings were low, few over a story in height. It hardly needed the vineyards climbing the hills behind them to give it a rural, farming town feel. The ap gave the two-lane road I was following through the center of town the somewhat enigmatic name of “48.” I was going to guess it was part of the Federal highway system.

  And what the hell was I doing walking in the dark, alone, in a strange town? Okay, sure, this was Europe. Things were different here. But this made twice this trip I’d been out alone on the streets in the middle of the night. And a whole bunch of social conditioning was trying to tell me this wasn’t what smart girls were supposed to do.

  I could see the station ahead. The Bahnhof. Hey, if flüghof was an airport, and Bahnhof a train station, then was Hof a building? Like Gasthof or, um, Hasselhoff? But what did that make Haus?

  Hardly mattered. In a couple more hours, I wouldn’t need to strain my non-existent Deutsch any more. It wouldn’t be long before I was lofting away through the air, back to Athens and my hotel and the rest of my stuff and the remainder of my vacation.

  Okay, with one significant detour. But that was to the good, too. Istanbul! The ancient city on the Bosphorus, the last capital of the true Roman Empire, the seat of the Ottoman Empire, and so much more. I started humming the song again. Add that one to the scoreboard and I was well on my way to becoming an actual world traveler.

  The station, when I got nearer, had one low station house and two platforms under typical wing-shaped awnings of concrete and steel. The crossing gates were already down. I looked back. There was a light that was probably the train. Almost there! The station seemed deserted, save for a gray Mercedes van parked in front. Idling in front. With the running lights on. And the window rolled down.

  The same van that had driven me to the dig site.

  My breath caught. They were waiting for me. Had to be. As if nothing had happened. Did they think I was an idiot?

  Maybe they were innocent. Maybe it had just been one crazy up there, and I could get into a comfortable van and be whisked back to the airport (or put up in a nice hotel to wait for a more convenient flight).

  The door opened and the money man got out. He was as blond as I remembered, and as tall. The light was bad and I couldn’t see much but as far as my stomach was concerned, he was built like Rutger Hauer. My fists curled. I wasn’t going to fight him. I didn’t know how to fight him. But my fists curled anyhow.

  There was a smile. I don’t know if it touched his eyes because they were still in shadow. That distinctive squeal of metal came; the train was pulling in. Maybe, if I pretended to play along, I’d have a chance.

  I forced myself to walk closer.

  I was ten feet away when he finally spoke. “Is it safe?”

  Words of nightmare. That refined Prussian accent and all. Too many bad guys, too many bad movies flashed through my mind.

  I bolted.

  Not towards the station entrance; towards the road that crossed the track. I hurdled the crossing guard. Caught my foot. Dropped shoulder by instinct, rolled twice when I hit, shoved myself back up with desperate strength.

  My hands were stinging and the knee was throbbing again. I pushed harder, boots slamming into the gravel of the right-of-way. The platform was chest high. Without slowing I launched at it. Scraped the length of a forearm as I slid like a Little Leaguer trying to steal Third, slammed the bad knee into the concrete rolling to my feet, and tottered into the nearest door.

  As the train door closed behind me I thought I heard a short bark of laughter from the platform. My pursuer. And he had sounded amused.

  CHAPTER NINE
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br />   JUST BEYOND THE carriage door, it was all stamped sheet metal. Luggage parked against a bare wall, a short stair leading down to a low-ceilinged compartment holding a handful of bicycles. The wall was good support as I wheezed, catching my breath.

  There was another flight of stairs; I staggered up them and dropped into the first seat I saw. Other passengers looked up. At least one pair of pursed lips. This wasn’t New York rules, apparently. No unwritten rule against eye contact. I looked back into one pair of judgmental eyes and mouthed, “Syngnómi.”

  Whoops. Wrong language. Oh, never mind. It wasn’t like I’d woken up anyone with my dramatic entrance.

  The cushion was soft. Fabric smelled new. Fancy. I punched up the DB ticket site and made sure the bar code was showing.

  I’d bought my tickets online while I was still on my first beer.

  What was it back home, about noon? I should probably check in. The gig went sour, I sent.

  You get paid? Drea must have been watching her phone.

  Yeah. I got paid. I sighed. How could I explain all the weirdness I’d gotten myself into? I’ll be a little late getting back to Athens. I’m taking the midnight flight. Turkish Airlines to Constantinople. I mean Istanbul.

  Where are you now?

  Train. To Frankfurt.

  Well, you are going to have to tell me all about it when you feel better.

  Yeah. I felt unutterably weary. Pulled my bag across my lap and stuck the phone in it. It was a very nice bag. It had come from one of the stalls at the medieval market. And it had a possibly priceless archaeological artifact in it.

  A dozen stations passed in a haze. Only a few names stood out. Bingen. Was that where Hildegarde had come from? Wasn’t that what “von Bingen” meant? Mainz, which if I understood from Newman’s — Xander’s — lecture had been a Roman capital. The train was very smooth. It would be so easy to fall asleep. No. I’d wait until I was safely in the air.