Back Cover
The Unhewn Stone
A Novel by Wendy Laharnar
When teenager, Stefan Gessler, answers the call to restore his family’s honour, he discovers it takes more than superior education and pride to equip him for life in the Middle Ages. His dangerous adventures test his courage and challenge his beliefs.
Immersed in the turbulent events of the Wilhelm Tell legend, Stefan pretends to be a wizard when an avaricious sibyl mistakes him for an alchemist. The shape-shifting sibyl and an evil knight have diabolical reasons to want the wizard dead.
Faced with his own demons and those of medieval Switzerland, how will Stefan complete his mission and escape the fourteenth century...alive?
Life in the Middle Ages is a dangerous game, even for Üserwäälti, the Chosen One.
The Unhewn Stone
by Wendy Laharnar
Published by MuseItUp Publishing at Smashwords
ISBN: 978-1-927085-45-5
Copyright 2011 Wendy Laharnar
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
Dedication
For
Teobald, Natalie, Mark
Because of you, I matter.
&
Sara, Ryan, Gabriela
My spiralling points of light
I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.
Michelangelo Buonarroti 1475-1564
Acknowledgements
*The Swiss words in the Uri Canton dialect are from Conny Wipfli-Bürgler. Any errors belong to the author.
Map of Lake Luzern by Rosalie Skinner
Chapter One
The Gift
Bürglen, Central Switzerland
December, Present day
High in the attic, above the fuss and commotion of the party preparations, Stefan Gessler stepped around his old Saint Bernard and reached for the Saint Nikolas costume on the back of the door. He pulled the gold satin shift over his head. It smelled of camphor; stale, like this ancient Gasthüüs; stagnant, like his life. The leather of a long, black boot tightened over his gammy leg. He moaned and wished to be any place but here.
‘Stop it,’ a familiar voice sang inside his head. ‘You are on the brink.’ Stefan glanced at the portrait above the bed. Always, the handsome jester on the rearing black horse laughed at him through the cracked canvas. His costume had green and crimson trousers patched at the knee and a faded three-tailed hat with tiny bells on the ends. His cloak swept forward as if windblown, its colour matched his purple-blue eyes. They were Gessler eyes, the same as Stefan’s and his grandfather’s. Perhaps in the distant past the jester entertained Bürglen villagers, too. He would gladly change places with this ancestor.
A sharp knocking sent his dog bounding across the floor. Stefan shoved his arms into the sleeves of a scarlet robe and hurried after him to greet the only person who ever bothered to climb the third flight of stairs. He flung open the door. “Come in, Ääni. I’m almost ready.” He hugged his grandfather.
The old man’s skin smelled like the damp timber of the Gasthüüs. He wore his green velvet magician’s coat trimmed with gold. It weighed heavily on his frail frame, causing him to stoop more than usual, and the matching hat looked too big for his head.
Ääni smiled. His knurled face creased like an old tree trunk. “Your guests are arriving, but before we go downstairs I have something for you.” He slumped on Stefan’s swivel chair, taking a moment to catch his breath. Then he produced a pack of cards from his pocket and offered them to Stefan. “Shuffle them and place three upside down on the desk.”
Stefan hesitated. “You want a quick look at my future?” He scratched the ridged scar on his face and neck. Hesitantly, he took the pack from his grandfather. “Not sure I’m ready for this, Ääni.”
Outside, squares of yellow light from windows in a rival guesthouse across the road changed the darkness to an eerie grey. Snowflakes settled on the stunted pine tree at the front and on the timber heaped for the night’s bonfire. Cold, sharp mountains lurked like grotesque giants. Stefan shivered.
He placed the top three cards on the desk and turned over the first one. “There. Death. I knew it. I had a bad feeling about this.”
Ääni seemed unperturbed. “Next.”
Stefan revealed Temperance, reversed. Ääni pursed his lips and frowned.
Stefan fingered the last card. He closed his eyes and prayed it would reveal something special in his future. Maybe The Chariot, to speed him away from this narrow valley or, better still, The Lovers. He flipped the card.
The Fool.
‘Perfect,’ said the voice inside his head. He glanced at the portrait and at his grandfather. They were both smiling at him. He took a swig from a bottle of Klosterbräu and ruffled his dog’s fur. At least he had one true friend in his cloistered world. “Ah, Spitz, we’re only fit to chase Hirsch in the snow.”
Spitz raised a heavy eyebrow and uttered a throaty ‘nnnnh’. His wagging tail knocked over Stefan’s guitar. It hit the floor with a metallic twang.
“Not now,” Stefan chided. “The deer must wait. Tomorrow we’ll go on the mountain, I promise. Tonight, duty comes first, even on the eve of my birthday.”
“The Neukom girl asked for you,” Ääni interrupted. “Pretty young woman. She winds her plait around her head the way your Grosi did. Heidi isn’t it?”
“What?” Stefan had turned away to search for the broad black belt of his costume. He shifted a cardboard bishop’s mitre on the bed and looked behind the pillow. “Uri’s sister? Heidi?” he murmured. “I don’t know how she wears her hair, she’s just a kid.” He found the belt behind the computer screen and buckled it around his middle. He took another gulp of beer.
Ääni averted his eyes and said, “I have a special birthday present for you. It’s very old.”
“Cool.” Stefan tried to sound excited, but the prospect of a long night in these boots while leading revellers through the town stifled his enthusiasm. He turned down the central heating. His head ached as though squeezed in a vice. If only he owned the silver Kawasaki in Mallier’s window, the one with the red and black trim.
Ääni’s cerulean eyes locked onto Stefan’s and glistened with the moistness of age. His lips tightened in a wry smile. He didn’t speak, but Stefan heard his voice, ‘Be careful what you wish for. You might get it.’
“Ääni, you read my mind. Hey,” Stefan said lightly, “maybe, one minute you’ll see me,” he snapped his fingers, “the next I’ll be gone.”
“Will you take poor old Spindel with you?” Ääni asked. He rose and patted the Saint Bernard.
“You know I call him Spitz, and no, I don’t think he wants to leave here.” A twinge of guilt niggled at Stefan. He’d disregarded Spitz in future plans. He finished the beer and placed the bottle next to the other empties on the desk. “Ääni, your beard needs a trim.”
‘Tut, tut.” The old man swept his arm in a flourish across Stefan’s desk. “Lahabiel, Lahabiel,” he whispered. The empty beer bottles changed into stacks of coins.
Stefan held one of the coins to the light. “Das isch en Schwindel. Why don’t you work your magic on my face and leg?” He threw the fake coin to his grandfather, but it dropped on the floor, rolled under the bed and disturbed the small hamster in the pile of dirty clothes. He dived for the animal.
With another sweep of his hand, Ääni changed the coins back into bottles. “Ah, Spindel, Schwindel, only you can fix that.” He moved to the back of the room where shelves bowed under the weight of old science books and magazines. “I see you kept my books.” He leafed through a magazine. “Do you trust me?”
“What a question? Of course I trust you.” Stefan caught the hamster and locked it in its cage, just in case. Once, Ääni had changed it into a double-headed snake that flicked its tongues at Stefan. It took the old man two days to change it back.
On the far wall, where the ceiling sagged least, Ääni opened the wardrobe door. “Remove this floor board for me, bitte?”
Stefan knelt on the shabby rose patterned rug, turned back the embroidered sleeve of his festive costume, and leaned into the wardrobe. He found the small knothole at the end of the middle board, slipped his finger in, and lifted out the panel.
“I discovered your secret panel years ago,” he said smugly. “See, I found your magic cards and knotted string, a few silk scarves and…” Stefan tugged at a bunch of magician’s flowers clamped between Spitz’s teeth. “Bad dog. Drop it!”
“Now open the real secret panel.” Ääni sounded equally self-satisfied.
“But—”
“You should feel a knob. It’s a slide lever, quite small. Drag it hard to the left.”
With a frown, because he’d examined this recess many times over the years, Stefan ran his fingers under the ledge and against the back wall. His hand brushed a lump of rough wood full of splinters. Nothing else resembled a lever. He closed his hand over it and pulled sideways. A panel in the back wall of the closet fell forward. It exposed a storage area two hands deep. Inside, a square tin box, its side the length of a man’s forearm, rested on its edge.
Ääni chuckled. “Things aren’t always what they seem. You looked no further when you found the first secret panel. It pays to look beyond the finish line.”
“Good one, Ääni,” Stefan called over his shoulder. “What’s in it?” As he reached for the box, the air in the secret panel crackled with tiny blue sparks. An invisible force drew his arms forward and clamped his hands around the cold tin. He lifted the box and held the treasure close to his chest. A pleasant sensation fizzed through his arms. Reluctantly, he passed the box to Ääni.
On its rough cut lid, two S’s intertwined on a rod, like snakes hissing at each other. A single red stone in the eye of one snake flashed in the light. Stefan tried to lift the lid, but Ääni stopped him with pressure on his hand and placed the box on the bed.
“You’ll need more than brute strength to get it off. I could give you a magic incantation, but why use magic if a physical means is at hand? Use this.” From his trouser pocket, he withdrew a short screwdriver and prised the lid on either side to loosen it.
Stefan bent over the box. A musty odour rose on the air. “It’s a book. Magic tricks?”
“No. Lift it out.” Ääni’s grin reminded Stefan of the jester above the bed.
Stefan carried the book to his desk. The potent energy in his arms progressed to his neck and tingled down his spine. He swept the Tarot cards aside to make space in front of the computer. Lamplight spilled a yellow glow across the stained cover to reveal the same graceful S pattern cut deep into the leather. He liked the old smell and brought his face closer. He gasped at the title.
Opus Magnum
by
Stefan Gessler
“That’s my name!”
“Yes, and you share his birthday, December 23rd, the day known as the Secret of the Unhewn Stone. This Stefan Gessler wrote his ‘Great Work’ at the end of the thirteenth century. I want you to be the next guardian of this secret heirloom, but I suspect you will need to trust outsiders to assist you in your duty.”
“Where did this come from, Ääni?”
“It’s not known when the tradition began, but down through the generations, our grandfathers passed this manuscript to their first grandson on his eighteenth birthday, with the instruction to keep it safe for the Üserwäälti. Why, we don’t know, but my Grossdädi believed, and I’m inclined to agree with him, that this Chosen One has something to put right.”
“Does Father know about this?”
“No. Your father knows of Hermann Gessler, of course, from Schiller’s Wilhelm Tell, but no one has heard of a Stefan Gessler, except those who guarded the manuscript. I suggested your name to your mother.”
Stefan untied the brown thong which kept the book closed. Sketches, numbers and strange symbols filled the pages. He rubbed his palm over the parchment, conscious it might crack like the canvas in the jester’s portrait, if over handled.
“Late thirteenth century, you said? What type of handwriting is this?”
“I believe it’s Gothic.”
“It’s beautiful, not a left-handed scrawl like mine. I’d smear the ink.” Stefan read the Latin verse aloud:
Rejoice Oh Heart. Great Travail’s gift complete
Wrought in augury, faith and hope replete,
The vision once my mind conceived in youth,
Doth flower in mine hand, alchemic truth.
This golden Orb, exceeding every dream
O’er these walls to yon Citadel by Schächä stream
From hence transporteth mine unaltered state.
Stinging Joy, Life’s zenith. Pride doth God create.
Stefan looked up at his grandfather. “He sounds excited. Is this a message?”
“It could be. The poet speaks of an orb which transports him from one place to another. Will you guard this?” Ääni tapped the book. “And keep the family tradition alive?”
“Yes. This is more than an heirloom. It’s a living voice from our past. I don’t know what to say except Dankä villmal.”
“Happy Birthday, Stefan. May life’s journey lead you home.” Ääni held out a wizened hand, but Stefan ignored it and hugged him.
Spitz barked and jumped on both of them.
“Down, Boy. Geez, you weigh a ton,” Stefan complained.
The old man pulled away and wiped his moist eyes with his knuckles.
Stefan returned to the manuscript, interested in the sketches of a domed furnace and an ornate egg. A message beneath the diagrams read, ‘Convert the elements, and you shall have what you desire’.
“By ‘elements’, he means earth, wind, air and fire, doesn’t he? If I can alter them somehow, will I get my motorbike?”
Ääni laughed. “I’ve studied this manuscript for years, and even I can’t apply it to our time.”
“Maybe there’s a magic potion in here to fix my face and heal my leg. Listen to this, ‘Concerning dark blood: to destroy, mix with the blood from two just souls.’ And what about this one? The author claims he has an elixir to turn base metal into gold. ‘First grind the stone that burns, mix with equal parts of…’” He stopped at the torn page. “Oh no, someone tore it out.”
“I’ve often wondered about the missing piece of parchment,” Ääni said. “The edges suggest it’s been cut rather than torn.”
“Ste-e-efan.” His sister’s voice revved like a Kawasaki. “Come down. Our guests have arrived. Ääni, are you still up there?”
Stefan pulled a face.
Ääni returned the manuscript to the tin and replaced the lid. He thumped it with the heel of his hand and picked up the screwdriver. “Lahabiel, Lahabiel,” he whispered and rubbed the red transparent handle between his hands until it glowed. “Keep my PB100. It looks like a simple tool, but to me it’s magic.”
Stefan noticed the manuscript box didn’t affect Ääni. He dropped the screwdriver into the desk drawer, placed the box on the floor, and slid it under the bed into the pile of dirty clothes.
“STEFAN!”
Stefan called down the stairs. “I’m almost ready, Marta. Ääni will be down in a minute.” He re-entered the room to find his grandfather with the cardboard mitre held out for him. Its cellophane inlays caught the light, creating the colourful effect of stained glass.
“I see you have a new mitre this year. Very nice. Is this Marta’s work?”
“No, I think she told me Heidi made it,” Stefan said. He lifted a beard of white wool from the back of his chair, pulled it up to hide his scar and snapped the elastic over his ears. It smelled of stale tobacco and beer. His family owned that smell. It oozed through the creaky floor and dripped from the sagging ceiling. It clung to the rickety balustrades and seeped under bedroom doors. No one escaped it, but Stefan would, one day.
In front of the mirror, he combed his fair, shoulder-length hair and accepted the elaborate metre-high bishop’s hat from Ääni. It made him look too thin and much too tall to be a credible Saint Nikolas. He shook his arms to straighten the wide sleeves. In this gold embroidered, scarlet satin, he’d be the most conspicuous person at the party, yet unrecognizable, except for the unique purple blue of his Gessler eyes. He glanced at the portrait. In a trick of light, both horse and rider winked at him.
“Ääni, do you think, in this disguise, it’ll be easier to talk to Ursula Novak? I can be myself when I’m hidden.”
Ääni shook his head. “You don’t need to hide your scar behind a cotton wool beard to sweet talk that little she-bear. She sees no one but herself. Don’t lose your identity, Stefan, not for her or anyone.”
A moth flew in front of the overhead light. Its tiny wings cast large inexplicable shadows. Unnerved, Stefan reached for Spitz and buried his fingers in the dog’s warm fur. Spitz rubbed against Stefan’s leg and sneezed. The moment passed. Stefan adjusted the mitre and picked up a wooden staff. “I’ll see you downstairs, Ääni. Wish me luck.”
Chapter Two
A Dream Come True
Stefan ducked through the attic door, careful not to tread on the hems of the ‘bishop’s’ robes. He limped behind Spitz down the staircase with its shaky balustrade. On the landing, he stood watching guests enter the dimly lit vestibule. Their thumbs-up told him he looked impressive. Priest-like, he swept his right arm through the air, conscious the light above the stairs played on the sleeve’s gold embroidery. He inscribed the sign of the cross above their heads.
A collective, “Ahhh,” rose from the guests. They called to him, “Stefan, um, Saint Nikolas, Wunderbar! Happy Birthday.” They reached across each other to hang their coats on wall hooks in the cramped foyer. They crowded around the Saint Bernard and waited for Stefan to descend.
Marta had left a large sack on the landing, but Stefan found it too heavy to sling across his shoulder so he dragged it down the rest of the stairs. He greeted the guests with forced laughter when they tried to kiss him on both cheeks. The fake beard saved him the ordeal. He plunged his hand into the sack and handed out little burlap bags filled with chocolates, cookies and clementines. “Happy Solstice and Merry Christmas,” he said to the guests who moved past him into the crowded restaurant noisy with talk and accordion music.
A villager said, “Dankä, Stefan. Aren’t you nice to hand out presents on your birthday?”
Tinsel and huge clumps of green holly hung from a low beam. Stefan thought they were as tacky as the exuberant greetings between ordinary friends. He squinted through the haze of tobacco smoke at guests squeezed onto wooden pews under highly polished pine tables. Those pews, indented over the years by so many derrières, sagged like the panelled ceiling and the floor. The windows behind them, which admitted spectacular mountain views in daylight, appeared blank against the night. The walls crept towards each other.
His mother brought plates of sausage, sauerkraut and fried potatoes to the tables, and Marta smiled at her aunts and pipe-smoking uncles as she placed plates of pork knuckles and schnitzel before them. Stefan looked to the left and watched his father serving from the bar. He caught sight of his brother in the crowd. Young Albie balanced two platters of bread cake. The flustered, “Yaw, Yaw,” of the cook in the kitchen rose above the noise. His parents shouldn’t have closed their Gasthüüs to strangers. Tourists would have enjoyed the festivities more than he did.
Spitz shook by the open fire. Stefan wondered why anyone bothered to light it. The fire excited Spitz’s fleas and added to the body heat in the smoky air. Taking a pork knuckle from a tray, Stefan encouraged Spitz away from the flames. His dog’s fur smelled cleaner than the damp woollen clothes steaming on the guests.
Stefan returned Uri’s wave from across the room and answered Heidi’s gentle smile with a nod. His tall hat teetered. All the while he searched the crowd for Ursula. Poor Ursula, it couldn’t be easy to depend on her father for transport. Stefan owned an old Teffli, but if he bought the Kawasaki he’d get rid of the scooter and whisk Ursula away. She’d be so grateful.
“How about some magic tricks, Saint Nikolas?” called a voice from the crowd.
Stefan shook his head. “Later.”
“A song, perhaps?”
Uri reached him with a smile. “Hey, you make a great Samichlais.”
“Yeah, thanks. Will you help me give out the rest of the souvenirs?”
“Sure. Ursula is with a friend in the side room. You should be the one to go in there. She might give Saint Nikolas a kiss in exchange for her little treat.”
Stefan’s skin grew hot under the fake beard. “Idiot.” But as he made his way to the sack at the bottom of the stairs, he dared to hope.
They took armfuls of the coarse, little bags. Stefan distributed his and excused himself to the people who blocked his way. He stopped in the alcove. Ursula draped her dark curls and her pink satin-covered arms around a boy with his back to Stefan. She stared at Stefan, raised her hands to the back of the boy’s head and kissed him. The boy tightened his grip and lifted her off the floor.
Stefan backed away and bumped into Ääni in his haste.
“Come outside, Stefan. They’ve lit the bonfire. It’s after midnight, time to cut your cake. What’s the problem?”
“I look ridiculous. Mother shouldn’t embarrass me like this.”
“She’s proud you were born at Winter Solstice. You’re her Solar Child.”
“It’s a stupid tradition.”
“Make her happy.” The old man put his hand on Stefan’s back while they followed the crowd to the front yard. “What did you think of the cards?”
“The Death card? I just discovered what that means. A relationship died before it even started. I’m the Fool.”
“What of Temperance reversed?”
“Grossdädi.” Stefan sighed. He glanced at the star-filled sky and shivered. “I don’t know what it means. I have to blow out the stupid candles.”
People packed the small front yard and spilled onto the road. They walked around the bonfire and leaned back from the spitting sparks while they tried to keep warm. Standing apart from the others, near the stunted fir tree, Ursula linked arms with the unknown boyfriend. Stefan fumed, but he wouldn’t want to meet that big fellow alone on a dark night.
His parents came out of the crowd. They looked like everyone else in their thick, dark coats, double wrapped scarves and heavy boots wet from the deep snow.
“Happy Birthday, Son,” his father said, and his mother wrapped her arms around him.
Stefan pulled away, embarrassed.
His mother led him to a portable table with a huge guitar-shaped cake. Two rows of nine candles blazed along its neck.
“A hot guitar. Dankä, Mother. It’s perfect.”
“Come on. Blow,” his mother said. “And make a wish.”
“Be careful what you wish for,” Ääni whispered close to his ear.
Stefan wanted to be someone, a whole person, not just an unfortunate entertainer, but that would never happen, so he wished for the Kawasaki in Mallier’s window. He imagined Ursula, her arms around his waist, her head against his back, while they rode to Luzern and the city lights.
With a deep breath, he blew and extinguished the eighteen candles at once. The crowd clapped. A sudden wind gust whipped the snow near the little table, and sparks leapt from the bonfire.
His mother gripped his hands. “You’re cold. We’ll soon warm you. We couldn’t hide your present inside, so—” she smiled at the crowd, “everyone, if you’d like to follow the string.”
“What?” Stefan half whispered, half gulped. “I’m eighteen, not eight.”
“Follow the string Stefan,” his aunts insisted.
“Go on Saint Nick,” Uri said.
“Go on, Son.” His father handed him a beer.
He heard Ääni’s telepathic voice, ‘Take care.’
He glanced towards Ursula. She stood in the shadows absorbed in conversation. Her indifference stung him. He grabbed a cow horn from a group of men at the front of the crowd. “Where are the Tryychler?”
“Here.” A dozen strong men with huge, iron bells tied to their waists hurried forward.
“The Chlais-Jääger?” Stefan yelled.
“Here, Saint Nikolas.” The Klaus-hunters dressed as pretend bishops raised their torch-lit mitres above their heads.
“Are the whip crackers ready?”
The sharp sound of whip-cracks echoed in the night when the men responded to his call.
Stefan put the horn to his lips, and in true Swiss style blew two short notes followed by one long one.
The other horn blowers and three trumpeters repeated the rhythm.
Women carrying fire-sticks lit from the bonfire joined the single file of riant guests.
“Let’s conga,” he called from the head of the musical procession. Horns, bells, and whips sounded in the night to ward off the dark and evil spirits.
The villagers formed a noisy, fiery chain, and kicked out their legs behind Saint Nikolas who limped beside the orange, nylon string. They passed through the gate, crossed the road to the churchyard, rounded the headstones in the cemetery and passed the little chapel built on the spot of the legendary Wilhelm Tell’s house. They danced down the steep cobblestone path until they reached his uncle’s timber mill.
Trestle tables loaded with Swiss chocolates and pastries, barrels of beer and stacks of bottled wines drew the crowd under the metal awning.
Stefan sat like an oversized bishop on a stack of timber. “Enjoy yourselves. I see Frau Ganter’s Chäs-Chiächli.” He waved to a tiny old lady near a tray of hot cheese tartlets. She beamed at him and curtsied.
“But Herr Hoffmier,” he called, pretending to pout, “I can’t see your Spitzbüäbä.”
Spitz barked at the sound of his name.
“The little cookies are right over here, Stefan. I wouldn’t let you down.” The pastry cook threw one of the jam biscuits to Spitz and one to Stefan who tried to catch it in his mouth, but it lodged on the wool-beard. He retrieved it to the general laughter of the crowd.
At the sound of music from horns, violins and an accordion, women and girls removed their coats and swirled around the dance area in colourful skirts and scarves. Ursula danced with the boyfriend.
Stefan couldn’t dance even if he wanted to. His right leg ached and his foot turned in more than usual. He smelled the damp wood and sawdust and tasted disappointment. He was leaden, useless, like a rough stone easily thrown away. Spitz’s affectionate nudge didn’t lighten his mood.
When the music stopped, his father came and stood beside him. He rapped a knife against a glass. “May I have your attention everyone?”
“Shh, shh.” The dancers huddled together in front of Stefan.
The night air seeped through the satin costume and chilled Stefan’s bones. He rubbed his hands on Spitz’s warm fur.
“A speech, short, very short,” his father said. “It’s once in a lifetime a boy reaches manhood. You’ve made your mother and me proud of you, Son. You’ve done well in school. You’ve kept out of trouble. And all I can say is; don’t take too many risks, keep up the good work and you’ll probably turn out half as good as me.” He waited for the chuckles to die down. “No seriously, value what’s left of your youth, and have a long and happy life.”
“Here, here.” The crowd applauded. The laughter and their broad grins like open-mouthed clowns, created a surreal carnival atmosphere. It made Stefan queasy.
Spitz barked. Stefan rose and shook his father’s hand. “Dankä, Father.” He spoke in a hoarse whisper.
His father beamed. “And now I’d like to present you with your ticket to freedom.”
A ticket? To where? When? Stefan couldn’t believe this. How did Father know he wanted to get away from here?
“Albie, do the honours please?”
Stefan’s brother disappeared around the shed. When he returned, he wheeled a motor bike. A huge red bow covered the seat of the Kawasaki from Mallier’s window.
Stefan jumped off the logs and tried to speak, “The Töff, the Kaw…K…” His throat closed. Like an idiot he coughed out words which didn’t make sense. A blathering Saint Nikolas. Spitz yelped and jumped on him.
Uri handed him a wine glass. “All your Christmases and birthdays have come at once, have they, Stefan?”
Stefan downed the wine and turned to his father. “How did you know? I said nothing about this.”
His father indicated Uri and Heidi. “Your good friends told us.”
“I didn’t know they knew.”
Uri clapped Stefan on the back. “Sit on it, see how she feels.”
Spitz sniffed the big bike and tugged on the ribbon ends. He glanced first at Stefan and back at the bike. He wagged his tail and let out a quiet moan as though he knew this machine pleased his master.
“It’s all right, Spitz, I won’t leave you.” Stefan pulled up his bishop’s robes and straddled the bike. He straightened the elaborate mitre and noticed Ursula move closer. “But a guy can dream, can’t he?”
“How does it feel?” Uri’s face glowed with pleasure.
“Fantastic. Now I have this, I don’t need my Teffli. Would you take it?”
Uri blushed. “Well, I mean, you shouldn’t just give it away.”
Heidi squeezed her brother’s hand.
Stefan slapped his friend on the arm. “Sure I can. The old scooter’s yours. Let’s get on with the party.”
“Try it out, Stef,” Ursula purred, suddenly beside him. “Go for a spin. I’d like to try it.”
“Wait till the morning,” Ääni advised.
“Go now.”
Ursula’s fingers brushed his hand. Her dark eyes shone in the lamplight. “Show us what you’re made of.”
“Okay. I’ll do a couple of kilometres to get the feel of the bike. I might take one or two of you for a ride.” His happiness blurred Ursula’s pretty face.
The crowd roared when Stefan revved the motor. He shuddered with the bike, anticipating its power. The applause followed him as he steered the Töff onto the side road. Snow formed walls on both sides.
He cruised to the main road, changed gears and sped down the hill around the bends to Altdorf. His grip tightened on the handlebars as if to hold the machine on the ground. He feared the power under him might cause the bike to leave the road and fly. Smooth and fast. Pure exhilaration. His dream come true. ‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Ääni warned. Stefan sped through Altdorf, passing by his old school, passed the hotel on the corner and the dress shop, passed the windows stocked with costumes and masks for next month’s Carnivale. He skidded around the fountain in the square, passed behind the Wilhelm Tell monument and headed back to Bürglen and Ursula.
Full of confidence, the ‘bishop’ on the silver Kawasaki whooped up the hill and turned into the timber yard. Ursula waited in front of the others. She would have the first ride.
Spitz bounded out of the shadows, tail wagging, ready to pounce. Stefan swerved the heavy bike, but couldn’t control it. The Kawasaki skidded on the wet track, clipped Spitz and knocked him to the ground. Stefan fell into a pile of snow against a stone fence. The new bike crashed behind him.
Spitz howled. Women screamed. Men ran to Stefan. They helped him stand and lifted the bike out of the way. The tall paper mitre lay crumpled in the snow. Pain flashed through Stefan’s hip and leg, but nothing seemed broken. Spitz lay still. His big eyes stared at Stefan.
Stefan pulled off the beard and limped to his dog’s side. He dropped to his knees.
“How could this happen, Spitzli? You’ll be all right.” He held his dog’s head in his lap and stroked the sodden fur. His tears splashed on Spitz’s face. Spitz yelped when someone touched his side. Blood formed a patch on his coat and trickled from the corner of his mouth.
Herr Kramer knelt beside Stefan. “I’ll need to operate.”
“I’ll get the truck and we’ll get him to your surgery,” Stefan’s father said.
Stefan patted Spitz’s head and dabbed snow on his bloodstained mouth. “The snow should have cushioned him,” he sobbed.
“There are logs under here with sharp splinters. See?” Herr Kramer pointed to a timber spear in the snow, one end embedded in Spitz’s left side. “Just bad luck”
Heidi came to kneel beside Stefan. She patted the dog’s head. “Don’t move him. He hasn’t much time.”
“Leave me be. Bitte.”
Heidi hesitated, but then moved back into the silent crowd.
Stefan looked into Spitz’s clouded eyes and pushed his face into his dog’s damp fur. He knew when Spitz’s laboured breathing ceased, but he didn’t move until Ääni pulled him away.
“We don’t suffer for nothing, my boy. Take heart, there is always a reason.”
The crowd dispersed.
Chapter Three
Their Favourite Place
At daybreak, Stefan’s father helped lift Spitz’s hessian shrouded body onto the back of their truck. A lump formed in Stefan’s throat and tears stung his eyes. He wished he hadn’t snapped at Spitz when he jumped on him in the attic. I’m sorry Spitz.
In silence, they drove to Brügg, above Bürglen, to the Neukoms’ cable car. Uri and Heidi waited by the open door and helped Stefan lay Spitz gently on the floor of the enclosed lift.
Herr Neukom shook his head sadly at Stefan. “Everyone loved Spitz. He kept the deer away from my door.”
Stefan smiled with moist eyes. Sorrow threatened to overcome him. He turned away to focus on the mountain where houses looked like little brown dots on the slopes. He climbed into the lift behind his friends who rested their skis against the glass. Herr Neukom secured the door and sent them up the cable into a collar of cloud.
When the lift passed the first station, the Neukoms’ wooden chalet stood out against a stand of spruce trees. Beyond the trees, the outcrop Stefan called the Tower rose ten metres above the ground. The Tower symbolized the one secure place in Stefan’s life. A natural stack of limestone and grey black rocks, it glistened with chunks of golden pyrite. He’d bury Spitz there, at the base, where he’d romped with Rosie, Heidi’s Saint Bernard.
The lift stopped at the second station with a jolt. Heidi jumped out and steadied it for the boys to carry Spitz’s body to the Seilbahn. The box slid down the wire, and they skied after it to the chalet where they transferred Spitz to a sled and collected their shovels.
Heidi hurried inside the house and returned with her guitar. “I put Rosie on the chain. She’ll recognize Spitz, and she won’t understand,” she said as they skied to the Tower.
Stefan planned never to come here again, but he must rebury Spitz in solid earth as soon as possible after the thaw, before Heidi’s Rosie dug him up. He raised his eyes skyward to the sharp mountain peaks. Menace stirred in the eerie stillness.
They dug a hole in the snow at the foot of their rock tower deep enough for Spitz’s body. Stefan squatted beside the grave, his mind screamed in remorse. You died because I’m stupid. Forgive me. He reached inside his coat and pulled out the magician’s flowers Spitz had chewed on in the attic. If he could turn back time, Stefan wouldn’t wish for the Kawasaki. He wouldn’t drink. Agony hammered his brain. Happy Birthday, Stefan!
He barely noticed the mournful music Heidi played on her guitar, or how Uri rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, but a movement at the corner of the chalet caught his eye. A deer stepped forward, stopped, stared at him for an instant, before shooting off across the snow. He remembered the promise he’d made to Spitz, ‘Tomorrow we’ll chase Hirsch on the mountain’. Stefan’s heart broke. He bent into the grave, patted his dog through the hessian bag and wept.
If he could be as selfless as Spitz he’d make amends, somehow. He rose, wiped his eyes and dropped the silk flowers into the grave. He shovelled a lump of snow into the hole. “Uf Widerlüägä, my friend, I’ll always remember you.”
Uri and Heidi came forward. Heidi touched Stefan on the arm. “Can we pray?”
Stefan nodded.
Heidi bowed her head and closed her eyes. “Father in Heaven, I’ve heard animals don’t have souls. I don’t believe it. Please make Spitz as happy in your kingdom as he was here on Earth with Stefan. Amen.”
“Amen”, the boys repeated.
Stefan held Heidi’s hand. “Dankä.” He held it for a long time, and kept his lips clamped hard to fight back tears.
Uri cleared his throat. “Come on Heidi, we’ll fill in the hole. Climb the rocks Stefan. Take the guitar. You feel better when you play.”
The crisp morning air stung Stefan’s face like the bruises from the crash stung his body. He climbed over the rocks with a skill mastered over the years in spite of his lame right leg. He settled on the halfway ledge. This place would always belong to him and Spitz, the scruffy old dog, and the boy who played raw, immature, energetic music. They had found refuge here, safety from ridicule and embarrassment, freedom to dream their dreams and to make mistakes. Here Stefan allowed himself to be happily imperfect. He plucked the strings without interest and watched his friends fill in the grave. He strummed methodically with his callused fingers. Slowly at first, then faster, his fingers flew from chord to chord testing, taking risks with the sound, repeating, discarding and improvising. A new combination of melodic chords thrilled him with a happy shiver. He stopped, clapped his hand over the strings to still the sound. He had no right.
The clang of distant cowbells merged with the echoed twang of his guitar. Strange how life goes on for some, but for him…In a sickening wave of grief he wished he’d never been born.
As though in agreement, the rocks trembled beneath him. He heard a dreadful crack. Thunder within the rocks hurt his ears. Crack. A crevice opened and another gaped below him. Crack. Would the Tower swallow him alive?
Uri called from below, “Come down. There’s a tremor in the ground.”
Nudging Heidi’s guitar behind him, he threw himself flat against the rock face and slithered like a lizard away from the fissures. He knew every foothold, every crack and crevice to grip. Small rocks came loose under his good foot. A larger one broke away. The bedrock shimmied like Spitz when he shook off fleas. Stefan continued down, clawing at the rocks. His hands tore on the rough surface. A rock struck him on the side of the head. His parched mouth tasted like chalk.
Uri pointed frantically with both arms above his head. Stefan looked up. The highest point of the rocky outcrop broke away.
Uri’s helpless voice reached him through the noise of crashing rocks, “Jump, Stefan. Jump now.”
He jumped.
In mid air, he splayed his legs. Gritty limestone stung his nostrils and slammed his eyes closed. Rock fragments bounced off him. He covered his face with crossed arms. The Tower tossed him like debris onto the ruins of this favourite place. He hit the ground hard and rolled away from a boulder. A breath escaped in a scream. Heidi’s guitar shattered beneath him.
Uri pulled him to his feet. They stumbled over the rubble to the clean snow. Stefan’s hands bled. He reached in his pocket for his blue woollen gloves and put them on. A lump was forming above his right eye.
“Earthquake?” Stefan gasped.
“It couldn’t be, not in one spot. This is weird. The Tower’s been solid for millions of years and in minutes…what a mess.”
They stared at the rubble, five metres high.
“Unbelievable.” Heidi cried.
A groan came from the other side of the mound.
“It’s another tremor. We’d better get back to the house.” Uri pushed Heidi away from the rocks.
“I have to see. Wait here.” Stefan limped around the rubble. The groan became a long, low moan. Smoke drifted from the snow. A man smouldered. Without thought for his own painful leg, Stefan ran forward and scooped handfuls of snow onto the charred form.
“Uri, Heidi, Come quick!”
The man moaned and gasped. “My soul! Tell them I came.”
“Tell who you came?” Stefan dumped more snow on the man.
The burning man wheezed. He held a shiny round object in his blackened hand. “My orbis,” he said. “Take it.”
Stefan took what looked like half a gold ball the size of a large grapefruit. Its heat singed his glove, and he dropped it on the snow. “Who are you?”
The man disintegrated before his eyes.
“Who is who?” Uri panted as he came up to Stefan.
“A vagrant just died here. Look.” A dark stain spread across the snow where Stefan pointed.
“What are you talking about? There’s no one here.”
“He must have been behind the Tower when it came down. He burned from inside. Like spontaneous combustion.”
Heidi gripped his hand. “Stefan, you’re distraught. Come home. Eat something warm.”
Embarrassed, Stefan pulled his hand away. “We must tell someone. The police?”
“Tell them what?” Uri said, clearly irritated. “You found a body, but it isn’t here?”
“He spoke to me. How did I get this?” Stefan reached for the jagged basin-like object. It felt spongy and cold. He handed it to Uri.
“I haven’t seen anything like this before,” Uri said. “It’s broken in half. Where’s the other piece?”
“I don’t know. All I know is the man held it. It burnt my glove. See?”
“You said he spoke.” Heidi kept her voice low as if afraid to hear the answer.
“I know it sounds crazy. I wish you would believe me. I don’t lie.”
“You are very upset. Sometimes grief—”
“He said, ‘My soul’ and ‘Tell them I came.’ Then he gave me this thing. He called it his ‘orbis’.”
“Well it certainly sounds like you saw something. What’s this?” Heidi bent to pick up a piece of black twisted metal. “This looks like it might have been a buckle. Do you want it?”
Stefan dropped it in his pocket. “Let’s look for the other piece of this gold thing. You do half believe me, don’t you?”
“Half,” Uri and Heidi answered in unison. Brother and sister smiled at each other and slapped their palms together.
“Let’s find it. It should be somewhere near where the vagrant died,” Stefan said. “But in the upheaval it might have been thrown wide. We should spread out.”
By mid afternoon, Stefan admitted defeat. He turned to leave, when Heidi pointed to a golden glow on the toppled Tower. She scampered over the rocks. “I don’t think this is fool’s gold, it’s too big, but I can’t dislodge it. We might need a jackhammer to get it out.”
Stefan reached into his pocket for the black melted metal they thought might be a buckle. “What if the man came from somewhere else? What if this belonged to him? What if it has special properties?”
“What if we try it?” Heidi laughed.
Stefan climbed to the spot beside her, conscious of the dangerous loose boulders. He poked the pointed end of the metal lump into the crack. He scratched and turned and pried, but nothing happened. The gold sphere refused to budge. He helped Heidi climb back down. “Maybe we need a magical incantation. Ääni might know, but he prefers to use physical means, if he can.”
“There is a way; we just have to find it.” Heidi took the gold basin from Uri. “This feels so beautiful. It’s kind of spongy, but keeps its shape. It looks like it’s from another world.” She turned it over and ran her finger inside the smooth shell. “What a pretty pattern. Two S’s twisted together.”
“Show me.” Startled and suddenly excited, Stefan turned the shell and looked inside. “I’ve seen this pattern before. In a book Ääni gave me.”
“Could the man be an alien?”
“No. He looked like us, and I understood him.” With the ‘orbis’ clutched in his hand, Stefan climbed over the unstable rocks again. He held the object close to the crack where its other sphere lay embedded.
“Hey,” he called. “This half clamped over the other one, like a magnet.”
A loud hiss, like steam from a boiling kettle, emanated from under the gold basin. The rock cracked. Stefan pulled hard. A chunk broke away with such force Stefan fell backwards and landed in the snow. Uri helped him to his feet.
Heidi scampered over the ruined Tower and put her hand in the empty space. “It isn’t here. Where’s the other piece?”
“I have it,” Uri called. “It came free, but took some of the rock with it. It split again. You know what, I think this is dangerous. We should keep the two pieces separated and leave the rock embedded in this one. Something awful might happen if we join them.”
“Uri, you carry the piece with the rock in it, and I’ll pocket the empty one. I should tell Ääni.” Stefan couldn’t shake the image of the burnt man who spoke and looked familiar. He must have been real.
Heidi scrambled down the rocks. “We’ll come with you.”
“The Tower destroyed itself in sympathy with Spitz,” Stefan said. “This awful rubble is my fault.”
“Don’t blame yourself,” Heidi insisted with a frown. She retrieved her ruined guitar, but threw it back onto the rocks. “Rubble doesn’t look so bad when it’s covered in snow. Our favourite place is truly sacred now,” she added with warmth in her voice. “This is a giant monument to Spitz. There’ll be no need to rebury him in the spring.”
* * * *
They shared the chairlift down with an elderly man in a tweed jacket and Ferrari cap and a young girl, probably his granddaughter. She fiddled with the ends of a long red scarf that hung loose under her grey coat collar. From their sodden shoes and foreign speech, they didn’t belong here. Stefan wanted to tell them he had just buried his dog and to show them the strange gold ball, but a deformed innkeeper’s son shouldn’t approach tourists. Sad how lives touch but don’t connect.
At the lower station, Stefan waited while Uri and Heidi spoke to Herr Neukom. He watched the foreigners hurl snowballs at each other as they disappeared around the bend. Would he ever be as free and light-hearted as them?
Heidi gave her father a peck on the cheek. “We’re off to the Gessler Gasthüüs. We have urgent news for Stefan’s Grossdädi, don’t we Stefan?” Her nose crinkled and her cheeks dimpled when she grinned. The sun slid from under a cloud.
On the low stone bridge over the river, Stefan saw the traveller’s long red scarf snagged on the wall. He took it and double wrapped it around his neck. It smelled of lavender and warmed him. He’d return it, if he met her again.
Chapter Four
The Manuscript
In Stefan’s attic bedroom, scientific magazines and the alchemist’s Opus Magnum lay open on his desk. Ääni peered through a magnifying glass at the strange half sphere. His hands trembled while rotating it. “Wunderbar! Amazing! I can’t believe it.”
Stefan pulled up a chair for Heidi to sit beside his grandfather. He stood behind her and adjusted the traveller’s red scarf to cover his scar. Like a snow mask, the scarf hid his discomfort from Heidi. Why, he wondered, should she suddenly concern him now? In a muffled voice, he asked, “What is it, Ääni? This ball has the same markings as the manuscript and the tin lid. Did they belong to the same person?”
“Yes,” Ääni answered, his eyes trained on the ball. “I know what this is. It’s—and yet, it can’t be.” The words caught in his throat. “There should be another half.”
Uri sat with one thigh on the edge of the desk next to Ääni. From his jacket pocket, he removed the spongy gold with the rock jammed inside. With a cheeky grin, he swept the sphere back and forth under the old man’s nose before he handed it over.
Ääni’s cerulean eyes widened and sparkled. He cupped both spheres in his hands to test their weight. “I’ve studied diagrams of this in the manuscript, but never in a million years did I imagine I’d hold it. Where did you find it?”
Stefan hesitated. Ääni might think him gullible, even delirious. “It found me. I know it sounds absurd.”
“Tell me.”
Almost in one breath Stefan told Ääni where they buried Spitz, of the appearance of the vagrant after the tremor brought down the Tower, of the spontaneous combustion and how difficult it was to find the second half of the ball.
“Do you think it’s all connected?” Heidi asked.
Ääni smiled at her. “If you mean the burial and the tremor inside the rocks, no, I don’t. But, the appearance of the man and the tremor, this is significant.” He turned the parchment pages. They crackled like autumn leaves underfoot. He pointed to a poem where the decorations of scrolls in a square and cherubs in a leafy rose vine, all but hid the first letter ‘O’
O mortal Love, forgive this wretched man
No care of Death I thwart Greed’s evil plan
North of Schächenbach, in fear I flee
Yet bless’d, the gateway found, I have the key.
To rocks above the ridge, I take this orb
Where Cosmic Magic will my self absorb.
This day ere Sol’s last kiss, my path untrod
To vanish or return, the will of God.
“Schächenbach? That’s our river Schächä,” Heidi said. “And the rocks above the ridge, that must be our Tower.”
“I’m convinced,” Ääni said, “by means of this orb, this ‘cosmic magic’, the man you saw travelled through the rocks and the energy generated caused the tremor.” He handed the hollow half of the orb to Stefan and touched the rock jammed inside the other shell. “What you found is the magic orb described in the manuscript by the ancient scientist.”
Uri slid off the desk and looked closer at the manuscript. “How can you be sure? The idea of someone time travelling is ludicrous. No offence.”
“Alchemists usually concentrated on chemistry and tried to change base metal into gold, but this one knew about cosmology, too, especially the Wurmloch. On many pages of the manuscript he gave us diagrams, equations and documentation too complicated for my old mind, and I dare say, too cryptic for all but an astrophysicist to fathom.”
Ääni held up the golden object to the window and let the sunlight play on its surface. Little sparks frizzled above it. “Somehow, by means of this orb, he stumbled on a way to expand the space inside a Wurmloch and hold it open long enough for a man to move through.”
“Black magic?” Stefan asked.
“Maybe. Or this could be the elusive material with negative energy density scientists theorize about. They know it’s there, somewhere in deep space. If this is it, the gold orb could reverse gravity. What a dangerous find.”
Uri reached out to take it. “Should we tell someone, the museum or a scientist?”
Ääni drew back and clutched the orb. “Nein. Absolutely not. This belongs to Stefan. You two are sworn to secrecy.” A look of greed manifested itself in the old wizard. He stared long and hard into their eyes until they agreed.
Stefan cringed at the sight. Nothing good could come from this.
Uri’s expression soured. He sat on the desk, “What’s the big deal, anyway? Are these old basins worth anything?”
Turning abruptly from Uri, Ääni spoke to Stefan, “Everyone’s birthday represents a new beginning, but the day known as the Secret of the Unhewn Stone is the symbol of Endings and Beginnings. According to the manuscript this is the author’s birthday, the same as yours. Seven hundred years ago, the alchemist claimed December 23rd was also the Winter Solstice. This makes him a Solar Child, like you.”
Stefan sighed and shook his head.
The old man wheezed. “Let me finish. If the Solstice and the day known as the Secret of the Unhewn Stone are aligned, what magic power might the right person release, especially a Solar Child on his birthday? Naturally, the alchemist would choose this day for the transit— a new beginning. I believe the ancient Stefan Gessler materialized at your Tower.”
“No! You mean he came across seven hundred years? No wonder he burned up on entry,” Uri scoffed.
“From the poem it’s clear he knew he mightn’t survive the transit, but something impelled him to try.” Ääni coughed into his hand. “I wonder what.”
Stefan paced the room. He looked at the floor and watched the hamster tread on its wheel. The distasteful idea the corpse with supernatural powers was somehow related to him through his name and birthday, appalled him.
“Don’t link me with that apparition.”
“Were you there when he appeared?” Ääni looked at each of the friends, but they shook their heads.
“We didn’t see anyone.” Uri muttered.
“Maybe I imagined him smoky and charred,” Stefan answered, peeved. “He barely mumbled, ‘My soul’, and, ‘Tell them I came’ before he disintegrated.”
“My soul? Are you sure?” Ääni’s excitement raised the pitch of his voice.
“His words were blurred, but he spoke our language.”
“What time did this happen?”
“Mid morning. Maybe closer to noon.” Stefan looked to the others for confirmation.
Heidi nodded, but Uri shrugged and shifted on the desk.
Ääni held Stefan’s gaze. “When you study the manuscript you will find this Stefan Gessler agreed with old folk legends, which claim we have spiritual doubles, an ‘other’, who protects us. With you, haloed no doubt, by the midday sun, he must have thought he recognized his Higher Self in you.”
“He looked familiar.”
“How?”
“The blueness of his eyes.”
“Gessler eyes?” Ääni asked.
Stefan glanced from Ääni’s face to the portrait above the bed. “I guess they were.”
“Look at this,” Heidi squealed. “I turned to a blank page and words appeared. At first I saw nothing but a shadow. Now this.” She traced the gothic letters with her finger while she read from the manuscript,
Like brash Hermann’s taxes, wild rumours soar
Three Cantons united, rumblings of war
The rabble is rising, peasants rebel,
Led by our neighbour, the bold Wilhelm Tell.
My father, the Heedless, a man without peers
Misunderstands warnings, resents what he hears.
Damned by hypocrisy, damned by the sword,
Send Hermann a saviour. Restore him, O Lord.
“Are you sure this wasn’t here all the time?” Uri asked.
“Of course I’m sure.”
“You can write anything on a blank page,” Uri sneered. “All it takes is invisible ink, or lemon juice.”
A wicked smile on Ääni’s face worried Stefan more than Uri’s scepticism. He glowered at his grandfather. “You think, because we have this orb, we should respond to the mysterious message, don’t you?”
“Why not?” The old wizard stood and stretched. His elbows cracked. “The alchemist found the Wurmloch. He opened the pathway. Why couldn’t someone return to the time when he activated the orb? I mean, if someone should go now.”
“It’s too dangerous,” Stefan pouted.
Ääni grinned. “The manuscript instructs us to wait for the one we will recognize as the ‘Üserwäälti’.”
“This alchemist?”
“Nein, the one chosen by the alchemist.”
“Who?” Stefan inhaled deeply through the acrylic scarf. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. A pulse thumped in his ears.
“Who, indeed?”
“You, Stefan.” Heidi’s smile held too much enthusiasm.
Stefan grunted. “To do what?” Sweat dampened his forehead and his palms. The hamster wheel squeaked under the bed, setting his teeth on edge.
“The alchemist gave you his treasure,” Ääni said. “He trusted you to use it. ‘Tell them I came,’ he said. In my book that makes you the ‘Üserwäälti’.”
“Nein, nein, nein. I’m not the Chosen One. Forget it. He didn’t write the last message, anyway. It’s a different style altogether and says ‘father’ not ‘brother’.”
“This is ridiculous. Wilhelm Tell’s a legend. Did he even exist?” Uri asked. “Besides, ours is a neutral country thanks to him, so those medieval battles were good for us.”
Ääni rotated the gold sphere. “The writer wants someone to save Hermann Gessler’s life. The governor is so determined to maintain law and order he can’t see the risk to himself and everyone around him.”
“I can understand ‘uncle’ Hermann,” Stefan said. “He took his responsibility seriously, from what the legend says. It couldn’t be easy to govern medieval mobs and allocate taxes to benefit everyone.”