The Vyšehrad Drowned

17. Anything For Love

The world froze, and Perun found himself back outside of the scene, watching a screen in his mind. Then, the film recommenced, the reel of his memory speeding up, moving faster and faster, skipping and jumping over hours at a time like uncomfortable bumps in a country road.

He felt drained, as if all of his emotions had been wrung out of him and he was nothing more than a cloth pegged out to dry, flapping loose in the breeze. He'd already seen more than he wanted to, and yet the most pressing questions had yet to be answered. The film of his life raced on towards an event he had no idea how he would react to when forced to relive it. Would it knock him flat, like a fast right hook to the jaw, or would he be able to keep a grip on his emotions and accept the information he was being given?

If he had the choice, he'd jump the whole thing and find the next time Old Veleček appeared. That's what he wanted to see. Not how much of a fool he'd been.

Because he had been a fool, an embarrassing fool who had allowed himself to be caught up in the problems of someone who clearly didn't have their problems under control. He'd been the proverbial fly in the spider's web, struggling to free himself before the spider ate him. And then ate herself. He couldn't believe it. He'd made himself vulnerable and that in turn had made him volatile, a combination that would -- could – only lead to him into a potentially very dangerous situation for them all.

On fast forward, he saw himself questioning the box office boy, who seemed to only be able to point him somewhere else. Then he took a horse cab back to Small Side, climbed the stairs to the apartment, and braced himself before going in. He saw himself arguing with Libuše when she awoke: the tears, the screaming, the thrown pillows, the kisses, the love and the loathing, and the eventual tender lovemaking in her huge oak bed before he left for the night.

Luckily, he couldn't hear what was being said, but that wasn't necessary. The actions, the drama of the confrontation, was enough to know how it had turned out. He'd demanded to know her source; she'd refused to tell him. He'd raged; she'd screamed. They both had threatened; they both had pleaded and cried.

Perun shook his head. He was starting to understand Veleček's worry, and perhaps even his involvement. If any relative of his had got themselves into this type of situation, he would have stepped in, too. And Veleček had stepped in, somewhere, somehow. That was a certainty. Thus far, however, he'd not seen him anywhere. It was as if he was suspiciously absent from these events. Like an important side character waiting in the wings to make their appearance in the third act.

The only thread he had to go on was the vision of the manor in the forest. And that was nothing more than a memory of home. For a few moments, Perun wondered where it was, his home. It was somewhere in Bohemia, that was evident from the architecture, but a place like that could be anywhere and in any direction out from Prague. He had no feel for it. It was simply a place he remembered.

The reel zoomed on, days and nights running together until everything was a singular blur. Then small explosions, like sparks of burning magnesium, appeared, and the reel began to slow and finally locked onto one, unmoving frame.

Night time.

The inside of a factory.

Hulking machines twice his height stood in a shadowy line, the cogs and wheels connected by belts of steel, and even a few with thick cloth sheets covering parts that made them appear lumpy and misshapen. Fat chains with gigantic hooks on the ends dangled freely from the ceiling at intervals and everything was illuminated by bluish moonlight falling through a long bank of windows made up of hundreds of small panes.

Perun took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever he was about to experience, and stepped into the image.

A chill bit at him, clawing at his face and the thin, exposed strips of skin between his gloves and the cuffs of his coat. Drafts of wind gusted up from somewhere, rustling and creaking the machinery, tools, paper, who knew what. Distantly, he felt himself shiver involuntarily. In the time machine it was anything but cold, but the physical memory he was reliving had taken over and made what was inside the film more real than what was outside.