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  She approached them, her tall father glaring at her with murderous intent. He mother had tears in her eyes, of relief, anger, and a wry admission of pride.

  “Horst, gently with her, now, she is safe. Please,” Wally’s mother pleaded. Her father stood, impotent with rage, and, for a moment, nobody spoke, until Wally commanded the mare in a voice that was no longer that of a child.

  “Park, Boudicca. Park out, now,” Wally issued the order to her newly named mare, who complied, spreading her legs wide for her rider to dismount. It was the first willing direction Horst had seen the mare take since her arrival. He was stunned, but then looked at his daughter and realized he should not be.

  “Boudicca? An appropriate name for a spirit like hers. Or yours, Waleska,” Horst granted, his anger fading, replaced with something more like respect. Her mother sobbed lightly and rushed to hug Wally, admonishing her to never bring fear like this to their home again.

  Wally looked up at her parents, their faces colored with relief and grudging admiration. “But mother, I wasn’t afraid. I’m never afraid. Not even when I saw you and father standing here. And Boudicca . . . she was going to like me. They all like me. I just picked her, that’s all.”

  26

  Florida

  It was full dark, and Wally cleared her throat from the doorway where she had been leaning and speaking. “I know that there may be more questions, but they can wait. Ring is tired. Risa, you go home. I will stay with Ring. In the morning, we will talk again. For now, rest.”

  Her tone crackled with authority, and she slid past our friends who filed obediently from my room, saying their goodbyes in various degrees of thoughtful shock. Risa patted my arm and asked Wally if we needed anything. “No. Take my truck home, sleep with that beast on the couch, and, then, in the morning, think about what we will do next. I don’t want you up all night scheming.” Her gaze took us all in. “We will be fine.”

  With that, Risa left, the front door shutting with a thump. Muted voices followed her outside, as I expected. This evening had been too jarring for the psyche of our friends. It was only one discussion, but it would have to do for now.

  Wally placed a bottle of water next to the bed, but it wasn’t for me. Wordlessly, she disrobed, then put on a t-shirt and climbed into bed. She rested on an elbow, looking at me softly. “We will not allow this thing to happen again, you know. We will be too vigilant, and Risa is smoldering with her anger. You know this.”

  I nodded, drifting with the weakness borne of healing. “We take care of each other. Thank you for staying.” It didn’t seem adequate, even to me, knowing how close we were. The bond superseded normalcy and edged into a connection that was forged rather than grown. We had seen too much and disguised our fears with glibness and play. That time was gone.

  Wally cocked one coltish leg on my stomach and began dragging her fingers across my brow. It was intimacy and caring in the purest state. Her hair lay on my shoulder, like a golden zephyr. I was safe. Tonight, I could heal. A deep sigh left me, and I slept.

  27

  “What am I looking at?” Morning was unkind to me at first as my mind and body began to limber up after an extended sleep. Wally had been a lithe companion, keeping me still and restful for ten hours. I knew that, soon, I would feel renewed, but, right now, I felt disjointed and muffled. Risa and Wally sat on the bed, coffees in hand. Mine was untouched as I struggled to a sitting position. I was tense and wanted to be in motion, but Risa put an envelope in my lap. I was immediately curious. It was airmail. International. And it was addressed to all three of us, an unheard of occurrence. There was no return address, but the stamp and postmark were Cyrillic.

  “This is Russian?” I asked Risa.

  “No. Polish. The postmark is from a highly unusual place, but, when you read the letter, you’ll understand.” I opened the heavy paper envelope and took out a meticulously folded set of pages. The heft was significant, hinting at a mannerly respect for the fading art of penmanship. There was wealth in weight, too, and a feel of vellum. I knew the words would be as carefully crafted. I was not wrong.

  Dear Hring, Risa, and Waleska,

  I apologize for the presumption that this letter represents, but I wish to begin a dialogue concerning matters of some delicacy with which your assistance will be invaluable. In the spirit of honesty, let me dispense with any possibility that the information I possess shall ever be shared with anyone outside my home. You may be assured, upon my honor, that all members of my household practice the utmost in discretion. The facts of this letter will not be known to the rabble that cannot--and will not--understand the sensitive nature of your chosen occupation. You have my word, and should you consider rendering me assistance, you shall have far more.

  I am a steward of sorts. I reside in an area that you would consider both remote and primal, but one that is beautiful, nonetheless. My house is surrounded by a crescent of green forest that has been undisturbed since the glaciers left the continent we call Europe. I am from no country and call no nation my own, but, rather, belong to two places: the forest and the subterranean spaces below.

  Some time ago, my family began an undertaking that was anathema to the time and social class from which we hailed. You must understand that feudal Europe was not bereft of good leadership but that history has a penchant for remembering the bad. I prefer to believe that our attempts to preserve and protect certain elements of this place reflect the very best of humanity. My detractors have branded me vainglorious and foolish. I leave your judgments of my actions and work to you, alone.

  I like to think that I am more than a mere herdsman, and, over the years, I have nurtured my passion as a craftsman who works in stone. Or, to be more precise, an artisan of jewelry. I again defer to your taste and cultural leanings to render decision upon my skills. I sincerely hope that, in my work, you will see the passion and relationship I have labored to build with each bauble. I have amassed a considerable collection from my hobby, nearing a count of 300 pieces at this time. I work quickly, and, as I hope you will find, have a superior network of suppliers from which to choose my materials.

  And, now, to the point. Please forgive my digression, but I cannot ask so grave a question without proper context in order to impart the scope of the task.

  The 300 pieces of my life’s work are, at this time, missing. They were stolen in a single act of criminal brazenness that riddles me with anger and doubt. I do not need remuneration for these objects--of that I have no pressing desire. My interest lies elsewhere. I am, however, emotionally bereft after this act of betrayal because the thief is, in fact, my daughter.

  And I believe that Hring and Elizabeth have already met.

  Should you deign to hear my proposal in full, I will be most thankful. It is, of course, centered on tracking these objects for the purpose of familial unity rather than a punitive action against Elizabeth. Please take your time to consider the matter, and contact me for a video conference at your soonest convenience. I have limited electrical power here but am available for brief periods, and I offer the full capabilities of my sporadic modern communications to you at any time.

  I remain hopefully yours,

  Baron Cazimir Byk

  I dropped the pages wordlessly and looked into Risa and Wally’s faces. Naked fury simmered under the surface of both, and more than a little fear. This was our first great unknown in our years together.

  “This Elizabeth has been a busy girl.” My tone was cool and dry. Inside me, a vertiginous glut of emotion caromed about. Here was a connection to our problem--my tormentor--but the questions the letter raised were potentially deadly. To respond to the Baron, if he was, indeed, such, was to reveal and confirm the contents of the letter as they pertained to us.

  We would also be discarding a decade of carefully crafted anonymity. Risa took up the letter and reread it, her eyes plundering the paper for additional clues. Wally leaned in and sighed. “Before we contact him, let us agree on what we share and what we ask.
And we must contact him. He has already shown part of his hand. He has sources. Very good ones. We must contact him today, yes?”

  I knew she was right. Risa knew she was right. Our silence was our blessing. Wally took an envelope from her purse and flattened it on her thigh, ready to write.

  “So, what do we ask him first?”

  28

  At some nameless juncture in the afternoon, the lack of protestation from my body slyly announced my healing was nearly complete. I could inhale without constriction or pain. After two solid meals and some time on the dock, I realized that I was merely delaying our conversation with the good Baron. I woke Wally, who was dozing in the chaise lounge, and we walked inside to gather Risa, who had thoughtfully set the table with her laptop, a speaker link, and chairs crowded in unity. Risa was pouring wine. I motioned for two more, and we settled at the table in a breathless crush. Risa was in front of the screen; Wally and I flanked her. The camera on the top of the screen was a small, gleaming eye, devoid of color. I couldn’t look away. My hand reached for Risa’s leg even as I my fingers twined with Wally’s long hand on the chair back. We were ready, and I knew that we were also overwhelmingly curious. Risa tapped the touch screen and placed a request for a video chat. The picture-in-picture was a blue square, and, then, with a blink, the Baron was there.

  He was dressed simply in a white linen shirt, his hands flat on a fine-grained wooden table shaded with a patina of time and use. His eyes were dark but friendly, his short graying hair modestly combed in the manner of a businessman. His nose was long, and he had a mobile mouth with a hint of smile. An overall patrician air, but approachable, nonetheless. The table was neatly populated with the tools of an artist. His workspace was lit by a single lamp, a bronze post capped by a narrow burgundy shade. A small vise rested to his left, with a silver ring perched birdlike in the fine jaws. Beyond the lamp’s casting, the room stretched into darkness. Hints of a large space bulged from the recesses behind him. A grandfather clock uttered a single soft bong and fell silent. After seconds of mutual observation, he spoke.

  “Most importantly, thank you for accepting my invitation to speak. I am Cazimir, and I would offer you, first, the opportunity to ask me what questions you will. I shall freely answer anything you might wish, but let me first assure you of one simple fact: I am most certainly not immortal. If anything, I am painfully aware that my time is limited. How I express this awareness is something I hope you will allow me to share.” The introduction was delivered in a way that revealed the Baron as highly mannered but aware of the discomfiture present. He folded his hands in a gesture of patience and supplication and then stilled.

  Our collective wariness was denuded slightly by his appearance and speech. Nodding slightly, Risa sensed our decision and began.

  “If it is not too rude, may we ask a series of questions in order to maximize our time together?” It seemed reasonable that we wanted to learn as much as possible in the most direct method. Risa thought of logistics in her sleep. I usually just snored. Then again, so did Wally, albeit in a much more beautiful manner. When the Baron smiled and said, “That is quite agreeable,” we were off to the races.

  “How did you find us, and what is the potential reward for assisting you? And, just where are you? Right now, that is?” These seemed like broad enough issues to give us a platform to decide if we would move forward with this . . . partnership or just excuse ourselves with as little exposure as possible, although I suspected we could forget anonymity of any kind in the future.

  The Baron twitched at his cuff and got comfortable in his chair, the wood creaking in mellow protest as he leaned back. “At the risk of seeming patronizing, may I share some history first, and then expand upon it as you see fit?” We gave our assent, and he paused, thinking.

  The Baron, a man of whom we knew nothing, then began to tell a story that spanned millennia. History, as he told it, began in a place that was remote and ancient. The Baron spoke of giants.

  29

  Cazimir

  I built my house among looming oaks. Not any ordinary trees, these were behemoths of stately grandeur, their canopies spreading out in vigorous disarray. Even the location of my lodge defies description, being a borderland between modern nations that remains untouched even today. For the sake of brevity, I will spare you the many names and call this place the Bialowicza or, simply, the forest. Between Belarus and Poland, the vestige of the great European wood thrives, protected and nurtured after brief periods of threat.

  This home of mine is much more than a preserve. It is a place of invasion, retreat, and resurgence over time. Only the forest remains continual, timeless, and unknowable. Humanity is a recent addition to this sacred ground, following on the heels of mega fauna that rumbled about in a shaggy diaspora, their horns and feet marking the landscape as they lived, bred, and died over millennia.

  With beasts came hunters. From the depths of human time, the forest was visited by men, alternately frightened and bold in their desperate war for survival. When the great ice departed, travelers from the Danube began to arrive, and, upon settling, they began to dig. Copper was beaded, hammered, and shaped into tools of cultures known now only by their relics. The Lengyel, the Polgar, the Malice cultures, gone. Yet, we would learn about them as a result of their apparatus used in daily life, crafted from clay and stone. Flint was worried from ground, tools were shaped, and the first-named peoples, now long forgotten, embarked on the enormous task of shaping the upper European Plain into a locus for their descendants. They hunted game for fur, tendons, meat, blood, and bone in numbers that established humanity as the dominant, sometimes ruthless, master of the Bialowicza. Among their prey was the Wisent, a medium-sized bison that is in the forest to this day. But it was the pursuit of the enormous bull, aurochs, a heavily muscled, horned steer that ranged through the European plain, that would change my family history.

  Romans were, originally, a martial society that prized the science of warfare and self-discipline among soldiers. But, the arrival of viticulture became a sort of undoing for these warriors, as the state they fought to protect began to corrupt with each successive Bacchanalia. Gone were the rigors of a society devoted to the morality and structure of Rome. And, so, the Circus Maximus became the light from Rome’s long, meteoric arc of dissolution.

  Left to her own devices, the decaying Empire was forced to distract her people from the increasing difficulty of their lives. Human gladiators battled each other and beasts from every Roman province--and beyond. Wolves were pitted against bulls, bears against lions, and combinations of predators churned the bloody sand of the arenas to the howls of drunken mobs screaming for blood.

  They were rarely disappointed.

  The aurochs became a favorite. Huge, aggressive, and incredibly agile for such a large beast, the slashing horns and hooves spun death for man and animal, alike, when they pitted against the bull. Their performance in the ring would be their undoing, as arena procurators combed every acre of the aurochs home range, eventually driving the once prominent herds into rarity, rumor, and legend.

  But the auroch was crafty, and, deep in the confines of the Bialowicza, the remaining members of the species found a place to hide. For a thousand years after Rome was sacked by waves of Vandals and Goths, the bulls of the forest hid and thrived, their small herd picking delicately through the oaks and birch. They were relatively safe, but meat is a commodity, and the feudal system of Europe led hunger to the doorstep of many rustic families. It is at this point, in the sixteenth century, that my family intervened as a bulwark between the hungry poor and the fatted elites.

  My progenitor built a lodge, but there was no hunting, only nurturing a small group of regal beasts whose breath layered the early morning sun in a verdant swath of meadow. This Baron, my namesake, was the first ranger, a man who knew the value of the aurochs and the oaks and the river surrounding his secret lands. Our family’s existence was simple but rewarding, and education about our property was a premi
um concern. So, we turned our curiosity to the land under, not just around, our holdings, and began to dig where others had never gone, in natural fissures, bluffs, and caves.

  The fruits of this secondary occupation are what you will soon hold in your hands.

  We were rapt. He was a brilliant speaker, his tone that of a natural teacher. Our fascination was shattered with a harsh knock at the door, jarring us from our receptive mood.

  “I’ll get it.” Wally uncoiled from her chair and went to the front door, disappearing outside for a brief moment. The Baron watched from the screen, smiling.

  “Delivery. From the Baron? How did you do that--magic?” Wally’s tone was suspicious.

  “Not magic. Federal Express,” The Baron, a man we would now call Cazimir, laughed across the miles as we fell to the package, our curiosity burning. Wally prised a small rosewood box from the fat envelope.

  “The box slides out, right to left,” Cazimir offered helpfully, as the wood was polished to be seamless. Inside was a wonder.

  A necklace dangled from Wally’s hand, eliciting a collective noise of appreciation from the three of us. This was art. A single square of silver was chased with copper in the form of a stallion in profile, one bead of carnelian marking the eye of the proud animal. A chain of small silver links attached cleverly to a fore and rear hoof that touched the border of the two inch shape. The horse seemed to pulse with life in the metal. If ever there was a debate about what Cazimir’s primary pursuit should be, the piece ended it with finality.