Tales from the Uplands Read online

  Tales from the Uplands

  Alma T. C. Boykin

  Tales from the Uplands

  © Alma T. C. Boykin 2015

  Cover Art: Anita Young

  Silver, Plows, and Powers

  Martin Rozemberg half-smiled at the man’s bored tone, but only half.

  “Another Green Man?”

  The woman nodded. “That makes one in every church or chapel we’ve seen this week. There must be something to them, a reason for them.” She sounded eager, and Martin wondered if she leaned toward the “neo-Celtic” part of New Age.

  “Carvers liked making them, they are decorative, and you didn’t have to worry about conforming to Catholic doctrine like getting the right attribute with the right saint or confusing Ham and Jarius or something.” The man shrugged and covered a yawn with one hand, revealing a wedding band. “The fan vaulting’s amazing.”

  His wife looked up at the ceiling. “It really is. What does the book say?” She walked over to where he stood, rested her hand on his shoulder and looked up; eyes on the delicate stone lace eighty feet above their heads while her husband read the page in the Saint Barbara’s church guidebook aloud. Martin leaned back in his pew and frowned at the pillar closest to the tourists. Had the woman glanced at the column, she’d have seen another head carved into the capitol, this one scowling at the world, boar tusks curving out of his growling mouth, traces of red paint still visible in the folds of stone around the carving. Across the nave the green man and the red faced eachother. Outside, their larger cousins stared with blind stone eyes out across the valleys surrounding Kutna Hora. Martin knew their story very well, perhaps too well, and shivered. There’d been a very good reason his family had avoided Kutna Hora, why it had been a self-governing royal and then imperial city.

  Martin enjoyed a few moments of quiet before the next group of tourists arrived. Well, asking for quiet in a Global Committee for Monuments Protection World Cultural Site brought about as much success as asking water to flow uphill. He shrugged his coat into a better fit, nodded to the altar and gave the ladies at the door a little salute. They’d let him in gratis since they knew he’d come to do research in the mining records for a major history of engineering project. After all, everyone knew about Dr. Professor Martin Rozemberg, or so it seemed when he tried to find a quiet corner just to play tourist. He tugged on his hat to ward off the light drizzle and made his way down the steep stone road twisting down to the mining museum and archive. He took his time, wary of another fall on the damp-slick cobbles. A battered, blue, out-of-town Opel chugged up the road despite the “pedestrian zone: residents’ cars only” and he dodged into a doorway, silently glaring at the fool behind the wheel.

  He found a sort of refuge in the archive tucked into the mountain, behind a private door in the mining museum, halfway between the city hall and St. Barbara’s and St. James’s churches. Mrs. Svoboda had already set out the record books he’d asked for, and Martin settled in to work. He adjusted the light so he had a good view of the fading, crabbed script of the mine director’s weekly report, this one dating to September of 1395. The man wrote in dog Latin touched with bits of early Czech, better than some but not what Martin’s teachers had used, and it always took a little time to get into the script and language.

  As he read, Martin’s chill returned. “Paid for the silver today. Hans, Karl, and Paulus on second turn. The mountain is content and the ore stream in that tunnel is still wide and easy to track.” What would his sister make of those words? If the Power of Kutna Hora made him nervous, how did true Guardians react to it? Or was that why the mountain and surrounding are had never had a Guardian, not after the last Premyslid king died? Martin made a note of the date and the event, then turned the page and read less worrisome reports about the quantity and purity of the weeks’ ore, men and the shifts they worked, and the cost of tools and timber.

  In November the king had visited Kutna Hora, Martin read, but work continued. Martin found a few more accidents before reading again those cold words, “the mountain is content” in an entry for January 1396. So he had contact with the Power, Martin thought. I wonder if that’s why his wife separated from him? He’d found that note in the parish records five years before, shortly after the couple had arrived in Kutna Hora, and had thought it interesting enough to pass on to a colleague who’d been working on a book about medieval family life. Given the quality of the Power at Kutna Hora, Martin could guess what sort of person might be willing and able to work with it, and he knew that few women would stay with that kind of man unless they were desperate, or had made special arrangements. Well, be that as it may, the mining master’s account confirmed the legends.

  #

  That night, after a good supper and several glasses of a decent red wine, Martin retrieved his copy of the Book of Silvery Tales from the bottom of his bag and settled in to reread the section about Kutna Hora. His father had skipped it when Martin and Ludmilla were small, and Martin knew why now. He certainly wouldn’t read it to his eight-year-old son, not even when Wetzl clamored for scary stories. “Once upon a time,” he read.

  “Once upon a time, in the days after our father Adam and mother Eve had been banished from Eden, a fallen angel wandered the Earth, one too prideful even for Hell. In the course of his meandering and walking up and down across the world he found his way to a mountain between Rip Hill and the Vltava River. Deep in the heart of the mountain, he made his home away from the eyes of the Lord and St. Michael, or so he thought. The spirits already in the land fled, leaving the mountain barren and cold, bereft of trees and flowers. The dark angel carved a palace, spreading shadows through darkness, smearing brimstone and fouling the rocks, remaking the infernal to his liking. Over time, long before the first men came to the mountain, the barrenness spread, ruining that which had been fruitful. Trees withered, grass faded to brown dust, and even the birds shunned the land.

  “But St. Michael had seen his enemy’s path. He called on one of his brave warriors to drive the fallen one out of hiding, before the blight extended and poisoned more of the Lord’s good world. The bright one called a challenge, but the dark spirit remained in his fastness, behind walls of stone and brimstone. The bright one attacked, driving deeper and deeper into the dark, hot depths the shadowy angel had carved. The two fought and what happened no mortal can say, but the blight retreated, fading, and life returned until by the time the first people arrived at Kutna Hora, rich stands of timber and deer, bears, boar, and other life flourished.

  “No man still living recalls who saw the glint in the water of the stream, the shimmer that stayed after the man or child picked up the bit of rock and found gold and silver. But the birthplace of that silver and gold remained hidden. Men ventured up the mountain hunting game, women and children gathered berries, nuts, and mushrooms, and found nothing. But those who went to the mountain in search of riches never returned. And so it remained until the time of the first kings, when Princess Libuse took a husband for her people.”

  Martin looked away from the book, flipping the pages past the story of Princess Libuse and the people who settled on Prague hill, the Hradcany. He whispered, “She married a premsyl, one who turned the earth. But he didn’t use a plow, or at least not the kind the storytellers claim.” According to House tradition, Premsyl had been a Guardian, one of those who had the gifts necessary to ally with the Powers and to act as their eyes and hands in the world of men, and he’d already come into his guardianship before he married Libuse. Martin suspected that she’d had more than a touch of the Gifts, or whatever her tribe had called them, herself, at least enough to recognize the man’s abilities and to see how she could use them. Tradition said her people had begun grumbling about being ruled by wo
men. Martin suspected they wanted someone strong, and in those days that meant the physical strength of a warrior, in this case boosted by the powers of a Guardian. And it had been one of their descendants, the bastard son of one of the Premylid princesses, who had opened the first mine on Kutna Hora.

  But the silver and gold came at a price. The Power of Kutna Hora remained wild in a way that reminded Martin of the stories he’d heard about the being called Logres, the Power of Britain. The men who allied with the Power absorbed some of that wildness as well, or so the records suggested to Martin. They’d paid for the church of St. Barbara with the silver and gold of the mountain, and decorated it with green men and red men, the red men a warning about what lurked below the stones of the crypt. The Catholic Church had accepted St. Barbara’s and consecrated it, but the Church’s church sat below the crest of the mountain, dedicated to St. James. Saint Barbara, patroness of miners, oversaw the town from the watch point above everything else; St. James the pilgrim defended the valley, and the mine entrances and town hall perched between, on twisting cobbled streets. And the kings of Bohemia visited, but left Kutna Hora alone. Not until the Habsburgs claimed three crowns and, briefly, united the Powers as well as the Houses behind them during the Ottoman Wars, did anyone from outside dare to approach the Power of Kutna Hora.

  The folktale had been correct, almost, Martin knew from his sister and from House accounts that included bits of the Powers’ histories as well. A long time ago, long even to the strange senses of the Powers, two of their number had fought over this area. The geothermal energy and the energy trapped in and around Rip Hill made it a very rich feeding ground, and the creatures had disputed the “turf.” Some human had been present, perhaps, or the first humans sensitive enough to attract the attentions of the Powers had been told fragments of the story. Over time the truth became spirits, then angels, battling for the resources of the area. One book Martin’s father read had speculated that the two Powers had extinguished themselves in the fight, leaving a lot of waste energy for a third Power to scavenge.

  If so, scavenging had warped the Power. Or perhaps any Power willing to take in that sort of remnant belonged to a different class of being than those Martin’s people associated with. Either way, it demanded payment far beyond what most requested in exchange for leaving the miners alone. “How many through the years?” Martin wondered aloud. Mining, never a safe occupation, provided multiple ways to die: explosions, suffocation, being crushed, murder, falls, drowning, being scalded by boiling water from thermal springs … I hope I never meet anyone allied with this Power.

  Martin put the books away and fell asleep. Medieval script and aging eyes combined to make him tired. If he dreamed, he did not remember the dreams.

  A week later Martin sat back from the desk, looking down on the final page in the last ledger in the series. He’d reached the end of the period covered by his proposed study. The book concluded in 1471, with a note that work had stopped in the deep and mid-level mines because of flooding. Martin glanced through his notes again, looking for the last mention of the mountain’s satisfaction, and found nothing for the previous six months. The former supervisor had died that same month. Had the new man been a Guardian, or the Kutna Hora equivalent? No, I don’t think so. He’s just a normal mining master, nothing more or less. And the Mountain is not pleased. Martin did not cross himself as his ancestors would have, but his shoulders tightened before he made them relax.

  A light hand tapped on the door. He looked up from the book, and then turned to the right. “Yes?”

  “Professor Rozemberg?” Mrs. Svoboda stood in the doorway, her hands busy twisting and untwisting a handkerchief. She glanced to the side, and shifted her weight the other way a few centimeters as if making room for someone. “I’m sorry to bother you, Dr. Professor, but Mr. Kovar would like to look at some of the later records. I asked him to return later, but his schedule is rather complicated, and …” Her words trailed off and she scooted sideways a little more.

  Martin got to his feet as a stocky man, as wide as he was tall, appeared in the doorway. The hair on Martin’s neck shot up and he caught himself reaching for something to put between himself and the stranger. The man’s iron-grey hair matched his grey jacket and grey shirt. Dark blue eyes snapped with an odd fire over a flat nose and wide mouth. A bit of the tune “Hall of the Mountain King” played in Martin’s mind, and if he were casting people for a film, Martin would have picked Kovar to play that king. “No, Mrs. Svoboda. In fact, I am finished with these, so you may put them away.” That way she’d not have to worry about the archive’s maximum-book rule. And he could get away from Mr. Kovar.

  “Oh, thank you Dr. Rozemberg.” Her relief made him wonder if the other man had been pushing her. “I’d been planning to ask Mr. Kovar to work in the board room, but this will be much better. Thank you.” She bustled into the room, pulled on a pair of gloves, and picked up the book, shutting the covers with reverence before carrying it into the safe. Martin collected his papers and supplies, triple checking everything before he closed the folder. He did not wait for Mrs. Svoboda to return from the manuscript safe before easing out of the room, or trying to. Mr. Kovar remained in the doorway.

  “Excuse me,” Martin said.

  Kovar looked at him. Martin felt pressure against his shields as Kovar, or the creature that looked through his eyes, tested his defenses. “Mrs. Svoboda said you are researching old technology. Mine technology. Do you wish to see some in place?”

  “Yes. I have an appointment to visit the facilities in Príbram.”

  “There are better examples closer.” Kovar pointed down, below the floor of the museum. “If you will stay another day I will be happy to guide you.”

  And leave me below? “Thank you for the generous offer, Mr. Kovar, but I have a previous commitment.”

  “Pity. The materials here are far more accessible than those at Príbram.” The pressure on Martin’s shields increased, like cold fire sliding up and over his defenses, eroding them. He started sweating from the strain of trying to reinforce his shields without showing the effort.

  “Was it 1751 or 1752 that you wanted to see first, Mr. Kovar?” The question broke the men’s silent battle.

  “1751, please, Mrs. Svoboda.” Kovar stepped aside as he walked into the room, allowing Martin room to escape.

  Two weeks later Dr. Rozemberg noticed his sister frowning at the newspaper. “Bad weather forecast?”

  “No.” She looked up and tapped the paper three times with one long, pale finger. “You were in Kutna Hora how long ago.” Her question sounded most un-question-like.

  “Two weeks ago. Why?” A terrible sense of knowing swept over him. He got up and walked around the corner of the breakfast table to peer over her shoulder.

  “Tragedy at Kutna Hora: Two Dead,” he read. A couple had been walking on the trail in the valley below St. Barbara’s when a chunk of rock broke free and fell, killing the couple and a dog, and injuring a third person coming the other direction. Engineers were looking at the rock face to try and determine what had happened, but the recent heavy rain may have been to blame, according to Mr. Kovar, a mining engineer currently overseeing the investigation.

  Brother and sister shared knowing looks. “The mountain is satisfied?” she asked.

  “The mountain is satisfied.” But for how long? Martin did not want to know.

  Rumbles of Justice

  Thunder growled, rolling off the sheer slope of the bare, grey peak. A summer storm, snagged on the sharp stones, snarled, tossing lightning against the mountains. Far below, in the valley between the high peak and the hillside town, a stranger ducked away from the storm and picked his way along the trail beside the stream, hoping to get away from the storm and the mountain both. He thought he felt someone watching him, as if the very stones noted his passage through the valley below.

  Ranaulf ducked again as thunder echoed down the mountain’s face, rolling across the narrow valley. He stopped under so
me pines, taking shelter in the shadows of their deep green branches. The lord of the castle farther down the valley must have ordered them left, he guessed, for firewood or building timbers next year. Wind whipped through the tops of the trees, whistling and hissing, and Ranaulf pulled the heavy cloak tighter around his shoulders. The rain and storm couldn’t reach him through the dense boughs. Ranaulf allowed himself to relax for the first time since leaving the Mur Valley.

  The wench had deserved it, had asked for it, her and her uncle both. Ranaulf had stayed a night in a farm-inn on the Mur River trading route. He’d paid with good coin, catching the girl’s eye. Gold and silver always caught their eye, he knew from trading down in Venice and along the Drava. The priests were right on that at least: women succumbed to temptation far more easily than men did. The girl, a comely wench with a roll to her step that told him she knew more of the world than she admitted, had agreed to show him to his chamber after the evening meal. The family’s barn-house boasted a separate guest area, away from both animals and the farmer’s own living area. That suited him quite well. He had no desire to have his pleasure interrupted, especially not by a brother or father pretending that the girl hadn’t been given permission to warm guests’ beds.

  A gust of cold wind swirled around the trees and Ranaulf ducked. The wind had been just as cold that night, making the chit’s company even more welcome. When he blocked the door she’d protested, pretending that she didn’t understand what he wanted, then trying to fuss and act innocent. She’d resisted a little, just enough to let her claim that he’d forced her, no doubt, but had yielded in the end. She hadn’t fussed the second time he’d taken her. She’d stayed the night and he’d enjoyed her a third time in the morning, well before dawn. Ranaulf left her a few copper coins, the usual price charged by the whores in the cities, and left.