MY HEART IN STONE
PART SEVEN:
Uneasy sleep turned into restlessness some time before the break of dawn. Rachel
showered again, if for no other reason than to wake herself up completely. Today,
she would have a little excursion, ask around about a castle, talk to people, find out
about Grovensky Construction; so she put on jeans, tennis shoes, and sweater. She
would play tourist and see how far she got. In a last minute impulse, she took the
star brooch and pinned it to the wide band in her hair, smirking slightly at her
image in the mirror. A bit fancy for just a day about town, but it connected her to
her friends and she needed their presence as much as possible. Slipping the long
strap of her purse over her head, she spent a few moments in a quick prayer and
left the room.
Then she stood outside the Mini Hotel and munched slowly on a kolache bought in
the hotel’s restaurant, letting her eyes adjust to the still-dark shading of the street,
for the sun had yet to rise over the hills, much less the tops of the buildings.
“Perhaps there is a place you would like to visit first?”
Rachel turned to find that the hotel owner, the thin wizardly man that had greeted
her the day before, was beginning to open the windows of the lower building,
unlocking the gift shop for another prospective day.
“Lots of places,” she replied, gamely. Okay…here goes…aim straight for what
you want. “One of the reasons I came was that I heard about a very romantic
building, a castle?”
“Ah yes! Czesky Krumlov! That would be north of here,” the old gentleman smiled
and nodded, pointing up the street to their left.
“Um…well, I do remember reading about that but, there’s another one. I think it’s
called Neviditelny? Castle Neviditelny…yes, that’s what I was told.”
She wasn’t sure if it was the morning shadows that made the man’s face go severe
or not, and he turned so quickly away from her to fiddle with some stubborn latch
on one of the windows that the impression was quickly shifted away. When he
turned back to answer, he was smiling, but not quite as warmly.
“There is a castle of that name, yes. But it is private property and they don’t allow
visitors.”
Rachel bit her lip to keep from pushing. The slight chill in his answer carried an
answer of its own. Sighing, she finished her kolache and bought an area map, thinking
how she had not even left the hotel and already she was meeting roadblocks.
“Well then, what else can I see?”
He took his pen and marked a map of various places around the city, recommending
cafes in various areas. The Park to the east with various trees and statues, the bridges
crossing the river that looped through the city, the large square, the other castle,
and so many other little nooks and niches that Rachel’s head began to swim. With
a laugh, he sent her off with the directive to ‘just explore.’
By mid-day, Rachel had to stop and remind herself of the real reason why she had
come this remote part of Bohemia, so enchanted was she by the cobblestone streets,
historic architecture, and food. Much of the morning had been spent hovering
about the tremendous gothic cathedral ensconced on the embankment of the
Chlad River, reading and listening to guided information, sitting for a bit in one of
the pews to stare up at the arched arcades of the domed ceilings.
She very nearly burst into tears after several minutes of staring at the sacristy with
its intricate gild-work and iconic paintings, the windows behind the altar filling in
the space between more columns, like the dusk sky in the pine woods at home. How
very like the cathedral spires Cort spoke of when he repeated what Father Michael
told him, she thought. It could not be helped that she felt her soul loom upwards,
ascending with columns that strained to touch heaven,and concluding its futility,
interlocked with the beams above her head, restrained by the orderly webbing.
Sitting in the second pew, all alone, her heart and sight rising to that, she felt so
close, yet so separate, from all the forces that could aid her.
It really hurt, sitting there, feeling that, and not having him beside her.
So, after more prayers and lighting a candle at the side altar, Rachel found the
southern bridge and walked along a street until she saw signs for the town park, a
well-shaded nook along the river, almost diagonal from the cathedral. Here she
found a lime tree almost as old as the city itself, taller than any sycamore she had
seen at home.
It had become a kind of meeting spot for various events throughout its long life,
and standing under its wide strong branches, she could see why. She also found
white pines and cypress from America and she couldn’t help but linger there,
either, the incongruity of what she expected and what she found making her smile
once more.
A protesting stomach however, made her turn back towards the center of town
where some of the tastier restaurants were known to be. In the market square, at
a table with a view of the Plague Monument, Rachel feasted on potato pancakes
and soup, wiggling her toes to circulate blood after a morning’s hard travel, and
basking in the pleasant cool air of the day, a temperature that Rachel found she
absolutely adored, coming as she did from sweltering coastal climes. While weather
reports had predicted partly cloudy skies, the blue above had been nearly spotless,
so a summer’s day like this one was more like the rare autumn evening she had
come to know.
She had returned to the square just after the rush for lunch, so the many café
tables that had been dragged out to take advantage of the warmth of the sun put
her under a gentle radiance that softened her muscles; to the point that when her
stomach had said there was enough, and her brain said time to get back to business,
her body ignored both and willfully kept her in the seat so she could watch the
other tourists and bask in the age of Hromada’s magic.
Gerta was running late making her ten o’clock rounds that morning, which only
served to accentuate an already bad day, a kind of Monday that was worse than
usual, if only by the fact that the first announcement she received when she came
in was that Cort had been moved. To the tower. Every one else seemed to take
that in stride, even Henri, who was still absorbed in his own tasks of making sure
that Mikol’s hammer did not fall upon him. She could see the edge that Henri
walked with him every day, knew that it showed up in her eyes. And any time one
went up to the tower, it did not mean they came down the same way. She supposed
that was why the decision to move Cort to the tower felt like a punishment to her.
Because she had dared get too close...
When she wasn’t swallowing down fear for what else Mikol might decide to do,
Gerta was searching her memory for those days when she had cared less about her
emotions and more about the intricate technology that she had been encouraged to
learn. Somehow, the old ambition had died within her and all she could feel was a
kind of lost sadness that it would do no good anyway.
When she passed through the square on the way back to the footbridge across the
river, back to the cold, cold ridge of Neviditelny, it was well past the usual lunch
hour for both residents and tourists. More often than not, the city had healthy
amounts of backpackers traipsing through at odd hours, mostly college students on
a grand tour, or just youngsters hanging about with the same carefree lackadaisical
nonchalance they would have at home. This was something she and all the other
residents of Hromada were accustomed to, their numbers only noted when a
random member got too full of himself and went out of bounds in his behavior.
So it was something of a surprise to Gerta that her eyes fell upon one young woman
sitting in the open space outside one of the authentic Czech eateries, her finished
plate pushed to the side, and her feet positioned on an opposite chair, her chin
resting on a hand as she propped it up on the arm of the chair, gazing out across
the square, lost in thought. It could have been the expression on her face, Gerta
later reasoned. It was as sad as she had been feeling that day. Or it could have
been the gaudy flash of a brooch pinned to the black stretch band in the girl’s hair,
a many fingered star-shaped bauble that, despite its extreme dressiness on such a
casually dressed woman, seemed to…fit.
Gerta didn’t realize how close she had moved to the girl or how intensely she had
been staring at the pin until the girl looked up, caught her eyes, and then looked
away, embarrassed, shifting down a bit into her café seat as if to make herself
smaller.
How rude of me, Gerta chastised herself, and stepped over.
“I do apologize,” she said, smiling as winsomely as she could. “I could not help
noticing the pin in your hair. It catches the light so well, its almost like a beacon.”
The girl blushed a bit and sat up straighter, smiling back at her shyly.
“It’s okay. I know it's really showy, but it was given…lent to me as a kind of good
luck charm. I’ve done so much walking so far today, Id forgotten it was there.”
“A good luck symbol? Are you in need of luck? I hope nothing has gone wrong,”
Gerta said, telling herself it was out of mere politeness, but already she was curious
about the girl. She was not like the others who stayed at hostels and ran about
seeking the next beer hall. If not backpackers, there were middle-aged groups on
package tours or on second honeymoons. Rarely did a lone individual show up as
out of the mainstream.
The girl seemed to hesitate, turning a shade paler, and then flashed another smile.
“In a way of speaking, I am. That is, Hromada has become something of a quest
for me.”
A quest? Gerta put her hands in her pockets to keep them from fidgeting in the
ball she usually made when intrigued.
“I hope I am not rude in asking what sort of quest?”
The girl paused for several long moments, as if lost for words. Gerta watched her
put her feet back on the ground and rub her palms down the length of her thighs.
“A place for my wedding,” the girl finally replied, and seemed to wince at that, a
split second expression that was replaced by bland pleasantry. “I had heard about
a couple of the cathedrals…and castles…here, and I wanted to see for myself.”
Gerta felt her eyebrows rise, even though engaged couples seeking some romantic
fairytale setting was not unheard of here in this medieval city. With the many red-
tiled roofs and gothic lines and cobblestone streets, who could resist imagining
their day of bliss as part of its backdrop?
“Will your fiancé be pleased with this place? What does he think so far?” Gerta
heard the words fly out of her mouth, although it went against every rule of
etiquette she had learned. “I’m sorry…it is none of my business…”
“Its okay,” the girl replied again, with a laugh. She stood up, coming eye level
with her. “My name is Rachel, Rachel Keirs. I’m from Texas. How am I going to
find out anything if I don’t answer questions? Or ask them for that matter. If you
can point me in the right direction, I’d greatly appreciate it.”
“Gerta. I work for Grovensky Construction.” Then Gerta stared at Rachel, slightly
aghast that those words had slipped out of her mouth. She hadn’t planned on saying
them. How often did she go out of her way to couch her responses in neutralities
and euphemisms? Dear God, if Mikol heard her now!
Again, a quicksilver expression passed over Rachel’s face, one she covered up with
a genuine smile.
“Pleased to meet you,” she said, holding out her hand, and they shook.
He spent the night in the throes of the strangest dreams he'd ever known and lay
in the large bed the next morning, going over them, wondering the "why" of them.
After what Henri had explained yesterday, no wonder very little made sense any
more. He was still trying to wrap his brain around the concept, but it was all very
foreign to him and he felt rather as though he were on some small raft in the middle
of a vast sea, with no shore in sight anywhere. How was he, then, to know which
way to go? So he lay there, letting the current take him. He had no paddle, no sail,
no way to cause himself to go a certain way, anyway. Folding his fingers across his
stomach, he attempted to abandon himself to providence.
His dreams, though, wouldn't let go of him, wouldn't let him find the quiet peace
he needed for abandonment. He knew he'd already lost the memory of parts of
them, as is the way with dreams, but what he did remember was terribly confusing.
He was back in Redemption in that last moment he could recall when the town
began exploding on both sides of him. But in his dream he did not fall, was not
covered with rubble, he stood there in the smoke, trying to see. He knew something
had come after that, but whatever it was was simply gone right now. He felt like he'd done something...something else...and tried desperately to recall. Then the smoke
had swirled even more thickly around him, making it hard to breathe, impossible
to see. Someone was there in the smoke...there with him. He wanted to call out a
name, but the name eluded him. He tried to touch the form, but his hands found no
substance. In the dream, he'd felt this great sense of loss envelope him and tears
stung his eyes as he recalled it. What could he have lost? He sighed, muttering,
"Probably myself. That's all. Probably myself." Nothing was as he had believed,
nothing. He had, in the most real sense, lost himself. He was far from all he knew
and all he thought he'd known was not even real. "Oh, God help me!" he moaned,
rolling onto his side, burying his face in the pillow.
"Are you not entertained?" The phrase came hurtling into his brain. Where had
THAT come from? Entertained? Why would he be entertained? What did that
have to do with anything? He wondered if he were on the edge of madness? As
desperately as he was trying to adjust to this new reality, he was not sure he could
do it. Not at all. He wanted to be back in Redemption, even with the explosions,
the rubble. It was what he knew, where he belonged.
Rising, he went back to the small window, staring at the hills, rank after rank of
them, as far as the eye could see. It was beautiful. He had never seen the like of it,
never. But he yearned for his desert. The sudden memory of the scent of pines
came to him. Pines? Pine trees did not grow where he lived. Had lived, he amended.
Yet he could smell them clearly in his mind and the memory of it filled him with
emotions, a strange mixture of peace and yearning. Yes, he must be going mad.
There was nothing for him to hold on to, no guiding star for him to find his way.
His sense of lostness was nearly overwhelming. Again tears formed, tracking slowly
down his cheeks as he gazed at the hills.
Then Mikol was there, standing not far behind him. Cort turned and Mikol saw
the wetness on his face. "Are you lost, Cort?" he asked softly.
Cort nodded mutely, dashing at his tears with the back of his hand. He had not
wanted anyone to see. He had learned to keep his grief held close, private.
"Come," Mikol invited, gesturing to the table and its small chairs. "Sit with me a
while so we may talk."
Cort looked at a chair then silently walked to it, taking a seat. He had slept fully
clothed. It was all he had left of what he was. Mikol smiled, then followed.
Cort studied him across the table. "Who are you?" he asked finally.
"Mikol, my name is Mikol Grovensky."
Cort's hands were clenched tightly in his lap under the table. Memories of poker
games in saloons came to him with their similarities to this moment. He felt careful,
cautious, as though he must be watchful with his cards. This man was not like Henri.
This man looked at him with the eyes of a hunting falcon. "This...castle...is yours?"
"It is," Mikol nodded, waiting to see what Cort needed to find out from him.
"You came to Arizona to find me?"
"No, I have never been to Arizona."
"How...then? Where?"
Mikol was thoughtful for a moment. Cort had no memory of his retrieval, of Emerald
City, or Gladiator. "Some one else retrieved you. I merely...continued...the process."
He preferred that Cort not remember anything or anyone connected with Sid.
"Are they here...that person?"
"No, not here. They have gone...elsewhere. They have no further connection with
you."
Cort had the tip of his tongue out, pressed between his lips. He did that unconsciously
when he was deeply processing information. Mikol repressed a smile at the sight of
it, having seen all the other movies with men who were Cort's counterparts, knowing
each of them did that very thing.
"How much time has passed? Since I left the movie. How long?"
Mikol cocked his head, about to give Cort a considerably large new item to process.
"You are in the year 2006. How long since you were retrieved is of no import.
What matters is that you understand where you are."
Cort's mouth had dropped open. He blinked rapidly as bits of turquoise tried to
latch onto parts of his vision. He fought it, pushing it away with will power alone.
Mikol saw the struggle of it in Cort's eyes and coiled his muscles, ready to spring
to his feet should it be required.
The last he remembered he had been standing there in 1885. His jaw trembled
slightly. 2006? Oh, God...he was more lost than he could ever have imagined. "It
can't...be!" he gasped.
"It can, Cort. It is."
He was beyond caring if the man witnessed his anguish. He folded his arms on the
tabletop, burying his face in their nest, then cupped his palms over his head. The
aqua was still swirling somewhat. Should he just...let go? Should he let it take him?
Was there any reason, any at all, he should not? If he did, would he end up back in
Redemption, back in that thing these people called a...movie, back where he belonged?
Maybe. Maybe he would. Nothing was holding him here. There was nothing for
him here. He'd thought when he watched his mission burning that his world had
ended, but it hadn't. It had...now. It was worth a try. He pulled his will back in,
letting the aqua come.
When Cort's hands slipped limply onto the table, Mikol knew he had waited too
long. He buzzed Henri, then flipped his chair over as he sprang to his feet, grabbing
the back of Cort's jacket, pulling his head up off the table. "No!" he hollered. "No,
you DON'T!!!"
He practically slammed Cort out of the chair and onto his back on the flooring.
Bending over him he began to slap his face, hard, harder. A moment later when
Henri popped his head up through the entrance, he was aghast. It looked like
Mikol was beating Cort to death. The young man lay on the floor, his head jerking
violently from side to side as Mikol hit him.
"MIKOL!" he cried.
Without looking up or pausing in what he was doing, Mikol shouted, "Get over
here!"
The stinging of the repeated slaps was having an affect on Cort. He couldn't detach
himself completely, couldn't manage to let the aqua take him. Each time he tried,
his face burst with the pain, drawing him back, keeping him attached. Again and
again he tried and again and again the stinging held him.
Henri flung himself to his knees beside them. "What in the name of God are you
DOING, Mikol?"
"He's trying to leave," Mikol hissed through a clenched, determined jaw, smacking
Cort yet again.
Then Henri understood. No matter how it looked, Mikol was doing the right thing.
But it was a painful thing for him to watch. He flinched with every blow.
Finally Cort gave up. "Stop, Ratsy," he croaked. "No more."
Mikol sat back on his heels, his hands burning. "Get him some ice, Henri." Cort's
cheeks were brilliant red, streaked with the white imprints of Mikol's fingers.
Gathering Cort up, Mikol lay him on the bed.
The aqua was gone and he was left drifting in blackness, his face ablaze as though
he lay in lava. He was floating in that night when Ratsy had beaten him, on and on
and on, had ended with that one great smash of his gun butt on the back of Cort's
right hand. He heard, vaguely, someone order ice. Ice. Yes. Ice to cool the lava.
Then sudden coldness was pressed to his face, stinging at first touch almost like the
hitting. He moaned and tried to twist away.
"Rest, Cort, rest," came a familiar voice. "It's Henri. You're going to be all right.
It's over. It's ok now."
His eyes fluttered open. "Doctor?"
"Yes, it's me, Cort. I'm here now. Just rest and let me keep the ice on your face."
Cort sighed, closing his eyes again. It felt like a stampeding herd had run over his
head.
"He is stubborn," Mikol pronounced from a few feet away. "It took a lot to stop
him."
Henri turned his head, looking at Mikol. "Perhaps that very stubbornness is what
will help him survive this," he said seriously.
"Stay with him," Mikol ordered. "I'll be back later."
Henri kept the two ice packs pressed gently to Cort's face. "Ah, my young friend,
and what did you think you were doing?"
"Go...going...home," Cort whispered, finding it hard to speak with the ice packs
where they were.
Henri sighed, setting the packs to one side. "I understand," he said, brushing
wandering waves off Cort's forehead. "I do." He sighed again. "But there is no
longer a way to do that. I'm so sorry."
Cort's hand moved across the velvet, curling over Henri's as the only anchor he
could find. "Help me," he murmured, then fell asleep.
ON TO PART EIGHT
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