Arcane gateway, p.28
Arcane Gateway, page 28
part #1 of His Name Was Augustin Series
“You’re a lot more skilled than I thought,” my father charged in a tone that sounded half dismayed and half dead.
I sidled away from him and gripped my Apfelschorle bottle more tightly. “I can’t just hide my head in the sand forever, Pappi. It’s not in my nature.”
My father sighed, and when I looked at him, I saw that his countenance appeared defeated, the wrinkles in his forehead more pronounced than usual. “Just remember that your Mutti felt the same way you do now,” he cautioned me with a solemn nod. “I don’t want to lose you the way I lost her.”
I set my juice bottle upon the coffee table and reached out to hug him, longing to wipe the pain from his face. “You won’t,” I promised. “I’m not having kids. And I’m not trying out any of the dark stuff,” I added, though that was a lie. It was easier to ignore Wuotan’s appearance outside my dorm when I sat with my father in a peaceful mountain retreat. Despite what the demon lord may think, I did not believe time travel to be inherently evil.
Beth and I spent the entire week vacationing with my father, enjoying the comforts of the cabin as well as the offerings of the surrounding area. We included Joel on several occasions—Thursday afternoon at an indoor waterpark and Friday evening at an ice skating rink—and my father ultimately invited both Beth and Joel to visit us in München next summer. I urged them to take him up on that offer, for that would make it easier to coordinate our venture into the eleventh century.
My father spent some hours apart from Beth and me, each time claiming that he had business to accomplish. Once, he asked for my campus library card and my login in order to find out information about the school’s finances—and about the two abusers that I had not punished. I told him that he did not need to worry about the guy with the dreads and the joint, for he had been too high to comprehend what was going on that night. But he told me on Friday morning after breakfast that the athlete was about to meet a reckoning, a vengeful glow in his eyes as he put on his coat and grabbed the car keys from the kitchen counter.
Beth and I exchanged one terrified glance while we sat across from each other tending our bowls of cereal. I could tell by my father’s tone of voice that I had no chance of dissuading him now. So I cried out, “Please, Pappi, don’t get caught! And make sure nobody blames me for what you’re about to do!”
My father shot me a nefarious smirk and said, “Don’t worry. They won’t.”
Chapter Twenty-nine:
The Cryptic Teuton Priest
My father left for München on Sunday, not having offered an explanation regarding his proclaimed reckoning. I heard tales floating around campus the next day about a male student who had gone to the hospital with “venereal complaints,” which prompted everyone to speculate on whether he had chlamydia or something worse. Whether that story had any connection with my father’s doings, I could only guess. I wondered if he had cornered Zack in a dark alley and cut off his testicles.
Soon afterward, Beth, Joel, and I relocated to an apartment complex about fifteen minutes from campus by car. Most of the renters there were elderly, and the complex offered no student discount like the cheaper places nearby. Thus it became our reprieve from the insanity of college life, and the three of us made a new habit of staking out territory in the student center in between classes and practice. I enjoyed the freedom that being a town student afforded. I no longer had to fear someone combing through my possessions and swiping the Torstein. Since Beth, Joel, and I all harbored a strong faith in God, Wuotan could not possess any of us to accomplish his dark plots.
Nightmares returned to me as a result of my trauma, and on some nights I would wake in a cold sweat, the smothering sensation I remembered from years ago tightening my chest. It angered me that the stout fool had covered my mouth at the outset of his abuse. That and the vodka down my windpipe likely reminded my subconscious of my brother’s suffering, stirring up reactions that had not plagued me in ages.
I started spending half of the night in spirit form whenever panic nipped at my heels, doggedly trying to train myself to function properly on a lack of sleep. At first, doing so made me nervous, for I feared that Wuotan might appear in the ethereal realm to haunt me. But after a month of sensing nothing but peace and tranquility from the nighttime elements, my wariness began to drift away; and I started to enjoy exploring the surrounding mountains and streams in a place where no mortal beings could harm me.
Thankfully, it became clear that Dave had no diseases. My anus remained sore for about a week, but no lesions or strange discharge appeared. I thanked God on several occasions for sparing me from the horrors of the hospital, a place that would doubtless have exacerbated my resurrected trauma. Beth had begun to read an old book on herbal remedies in preparation for our medieval journey, and I looked forward to learning more about natural medicine while we traversed the past.
I flew to München on the Saturday before Christmas, excited for the chance to experience my homeland during the holiday season. Though I loved my cousin and her family, their traditions could not compete with browsing the Christmas markets and celebrating the New Year in mirthful German fashion. My father greeted me with appropriate fanfare when I stepped into the Thaden house, enfolding me in a strong embrace and pledging once again to keep me safe from harm. I assured him that I could take care of myself at home, but his earnestness warmed my heart.
On Wednesday evening after dinner, I crunched through a dusting of fresh snow in my backyard to meet Hans at his cottage. He had decorated his front door and windows with twinkling white Christmas lights, and a ribboned wreath dotted with pine cones hung upon his door. He swung the door open before I had a chance to knock, and I kicked the snow off of my boots before stepping inside. A tree aglow with sparkling lights and tinsel stood in the far corner beside his chair, and I saw four Christmas pyramids set up in various places around the room, the flames atop their candles glimmering in natural yellow-orange. “Not wanting to give the impression of darkness during the holidays?” I asked as I removed my boots and set them by the floor mat.
Hans made a guttural sound in his throat in response, and I straightened up to shrug my way out of my winter coat. He stood waiting to take it from me, and I did a double-take when I saw that he wore the priestly robes, clad in darkness from chin to the ground. “So much for that idea,” I muttered in English as he hung my coat upon a hook beside his front door. I stepped away from him and glanced at the Christmas tree again. It looked about a head taller than me.
“Sit down, Swanie,” Hans instructed. I sensed him sweeping past my back in a quest for his kitchen. “I’ve got Glühwein on the stove that’s nearly finished, so make yourself comfortable.”
I had thought I smelled a touch of cinnamon. I smiled a little and sat on his brown couch, feeling cozy in his parlor despite his arcane attire. “Are you planning on casting a spell on me tonight with your potions?” I called out to him, relaxing against the back of the couch and tugging the sleeves of my violet sweater down over my hands.
“Actually I have a meeting to attend tonight at midnight. We recently caught a Teuton criminal who had been robbing banks in his spiritual form.”
“Oh gosh,” I interjected, looking toward the clock that hung beside one of his paintings of München. It was only seven forty-five, so we should have enough time to discuss most of my recent experiences. “Is he going to be sent to that dungeon north of the city?”
“He will be punished, yes. But tonight we’re going to find out what he did with the money.” Hans reentered the room holding two steaming mugs. He handed one to me and turned for his chair, his face hidden in shadow.
I had no concept of what such an interrogation would entail. “Torture?” The word crept hesitantly from my mouth, and I drew the Glühwein close.
Hans chuckled and settled himself upon his chair. “You need not concern yourself with it,” he said ambiguously, blowing on the contents of his mug.
I quirked my lips and rolled my eyes internally. Apparently tonight was to be an equivocal night on the Teuton priest front. “So did my Pappi tell you why he came to visit me?” I asked, figuring that it would be best to move on from the thief’s approaching fate. I wondered whether he had studied for the priesthood or if he had just worked out the mysteries of the spirit himself.
“He said that you’d gotten tired of the vulgar culture in the dorms and needed advice on rental property.” Hans’ hooded head was pointed in my direction, his face still in shadow, his pale fingers cupping his mug against his chest.
I smiled a little, recognizing again that my father knew how to guard what few secrets I told him. None of his employees had any inkling of the assault I had experienced. So far I had told no one but Lise, who had emphatically reminded me that what had happened was no fault of my own.
I considered how to word the truth for a few seconds, then decided to just drop it like a bomb. “Actually I was raped, and someone stole the Torstein.” I blew on my Glühwein and took my first sip. I hoped that Hans would not ask for details. If he did, I may have to tell the story as a spirit to stave off any potential panic. Part of me wanted to mention Wuotan’s involvement, while my instincts told me to keep that to myself. I had a feeling Hans might tell me not to use the Torstein if I brought up our demon lord’s schemes.
“What?” Hans stated after a beat of silence, his tone sounding flat.
I shrugged one shoulder and gazed at the wooden pyramid that stood on his windowsill, watching its blades slowly turn from the heat of the candles’ flames. “I got lucky I was on my period at the time, so he went in my butt instead. And I got the Torstein back thanks to a friend of mine.” I heard Hans give a scoffing sound, and I eyed him dangerously. “What’s funny?”
He shook his head once and raised his mug to his lips. “I apologize, Swanie. It makes me laugh to this day that a rapist would run away screaming at the sight of menstrual blood.”
My lips curved into an uncertain smile. “Apparently poop is less disgusting to men? I definitely shouldn’t have wiped.” Then we both started laughing in earnest, a small portion of my shame evaporating at the ridiculousness of it all.
“So did you have him arrested?” Hans inquired in a conversational tone, as though we discussed something as blasé as the weather. I saw his pale lips caress the rim of his mug, the only portion of his face that the candlelight seemed to touch.
“No, I attacked him in my spiritual form. I pushed him out a window, and he broke several vertebrae in his back. Now he’s paralyzed from the waist down.” I jeered through my nose at Dave’s dismal fate. He would never rape again.
Hans remained silent for at least half a minute, and I watched the movement on the Christmas pyramid again while I waited for his response. Would he think I had gone too far? Would he reprimand me for using my ice in such a way? I took a deep breath, inhaling the mystical scent of the wine, silently praying for strength if my most trusted mentor decided to rebuke me. But to my surprise, when he spoke again he said, “God spare me from the justice of Swanhilde von Thaden.”
I looked hesitantly toward him. “Do you think I went too far?” I brought the mug to my lips and moved a portion of wine around in my mouth.
“Whether you went too far is debatable. But I would advise you to keep your actions to yourself. When Teutons take the law into their own hands in a foreign land, they can’t expect the legal system to back them up.”
“Right. Of course. Beth and Pappi are the only people who know, so I should be fine. It’s not like I’m going to make a habit of pushing rapists out of windows. It did give a sense of satisfaction, though,” I disclosed with a smile.
“If you did, far be it from me to dissuade you.” Hans sounded amused.
I grinned, grateful that he seemed to appreciate my act of revenge, though I had taken it in the heat of passion. I liked Hans for a reason. He did not seem to hold to the chauvinistic views of standard Teuton priests.
“This time I made sure nobody saw my frozen body while I was in the spiritual realm,” I mentioned, thinking back to the mistakes I had made while helping Vreni in similar fashion so long ago. “I made the crossing in the bathroom and locked the door. And the rapist doesn't know anything about Teutonic magic, so he shouldn't figure out why he fell out the window.”
Hans raised his eyebrows at me, approval glinting in his dark blue eyes. “Good work.”
I smiled and looked down at my mug, memories of my odd encounter with a dark spirit arising in my brain. Should I tell Hans that Wuotan had played a role in the assault, or should I keep that part to myself? I'd probably be better off holding that secret close for now. Hans might want me to quit school and stay home if he finds out a demon has been stalking me.
So instead, I asked Hans whether he would be willing to keep the Torstein safe at his cottage during the spring semester. Although I lived in an off-campus apartment now, the potential for thievery had burgeoned like a cancer in the back of my mind. I did not fear thieves on the Thaden grounds, for if anyone ever thought to break in, they would go for the main house, not the detached cottages. Hans agreed with my assessment and promised to lock the Torstein into the safe in his bedroom closet.
From there, I updated him on my adventure plans. The addition of Beth had already proven to be a godsend, for she had dug up further information on clothing styles and culture norms from the library. She had also thought of things that I had not—we would need hairbrushes sans plastic, as well as edible provisions like dried fruits and meat. I planned on ordering handmade leather shoes and bags from a small shop downtown before I returned to the U.S., and I would also check the local Christmas markets for items appropriate to our upcoming venture.
Hans seemed disgruntled about my decision to take an American along on my next journey through time. I did my best to explain my reasoning, mentioning that my cousin had known about the Torstein for years already and that she had an interest in history as a librarian. I told him that I felt that it was safer to involve an outsider, since she would not be tempted to blab about her experiences to those with no knowledge of Teutonic magic. As fun as it would be to bring Erika with me, her red hair would likely stand out in an era when widespread travel was uncommon. I did not trust any of my other Teuton girlfriends enough to share my secrets with them, so Beth was truly my best option.
“I suppose you make valid points,” Hans conceded at length, rising from his chair and retrieving my empty mug from his coffee table. “If you wish to take the risk of meddling with evil, that’s your choice, and it’s not my place to dissuade you.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving me wondering what exactly he meant by that. Since Beth and I had gotten caught up in eleventh century plots over the past few weeks, I had only rarely thought about the dark roots of the Torstein. Wuotan’s one-time appearance had faded into the back of my mind as I worked on a fresh dress of red-violet linen, the one I planned to wear when I opened the portal.
“Are you pouring some more Glühwein?” I called out, hoping that he had made enough for seconds.
“I am,” I heard him reply, and I got up to use the bathroom, looking forward to continuing our conversation. Discussing Teuton secrets with a priest was something I always enjoyed, even when the priest in question chose to be enigmatic.
When I returned to the parlor, I saw that Hans had already situated himself in his chair once more, blowing softly on a new steaming mug. I sat down and took up my own mug, crossing my legs beneath me on the cushion. “So. The ‘meddling with evil’ factor. Can we figure out a way to get around that?”
Hans’ figure appeared even darker now, as though he had set himself apart from both the candlelight and the twinkling bulbs garnishing his Christmas tree. “Prince Otto uncovered the mysteries of time travel thanks to Wuotan himself, according to the writings of history,” he reminded me in a cautionary tone. “We both know that a demon’s ways are not to be taken lightly. Consider the dangers of the blood-transfer, the one Teutonic ritual that invokes him directly. Also consider the counsel of God: demons are liars, their gifts soiled with death.”
I stared at Hans, suddenly feeling cold even though I held a warm mug in my hands. “But . . . I mean . . . if we’re going to use that argument, then we could say that Teutons shouldn’t use their elements at all, since we got our blood from a pact made with Wuotan millennia ago.”
“No one alive today knows the specifics of that pact, for it was made before written records became common. Enough good has sprung from Teutonic gifts over the years to raise doubts about their demonic origins. But the priestly records agree that the Torstein arose from Prince Otto’s desperation to fix his mistakes, to destroy what we know of history. Wuotan was likely disappointed that the Prince chose to die instead.”
“Well . . . I’m not planning on going back and stopping the fall of the Teutons. I’m not trying to tear our culture apart. I want to observe and learn, like the spell to open the gates says,” I pointed out.
“And if your journey to the eleventh century results in your death? Would it be worth it?” Hans spoke the question in a grating tone, and I thought I could see his eyes glittering in the shadows covering his face.
I chewed on my bottom lip and took a sip of Glühwein before answering. “If I die in the past, I’ll return to the present. That’s what the writings say.”
“I hope, for all of our sakes, that the writings are true.”
Chapter Thirty:
Preparations
Hans had given me a lot to think about, and I felt as though dark spirits watched me walk back to the main house after we parted ways for the night. I had never thought to question history’s claim that a time traveler need not fear death unless they committed ritual suicide—Prince Otto’s choice of death. It made logical sense that the Teuton priest who composed the Song of Time and created the Torstein would weave threads of magic into his fatal act, threads that would bind the traveler to the past and compel them to enter eternity. As long as Beth and I stayed away from the Rhine River, we should be fine.
