Mystic Passage

Approaching Muniche

Approaching Muniche

We arose shortly after sunrise and ate some more fruit before packing up and heading back to the river. Joel softly complained about the lack of coffee; he said that he had woken up with a headache. “Once we get to Muniche, we can find out how the locals deal with things like that,” I responded, thinking again that I needed to learn a few things about herbal medicine while in the past, along with all of the Teuton secrets hidden away from the common people.

The radiance of the morning sun prompted me to think positively again. The weather was warm, the birds were singing, and it was obviously summer. Perhaps we would reach Muniche later that day and the next step of our adventure would begin. I had spent quite a bit of time thinking everything through early that morning, concluding that in spite of the Torstein’s loss, hope remained for us yet. After all, we were bound for the greatest of the Teuton cities, Muniche—and its Keyholder was that noble Prince from our histories, Otto von Bayern. It had been he who had created the Torstein, and he also had discovered the organ song that could open the gates of time. If Joel and I could befriend him somehow within the next two years, maybe he would give up the secrets of his song so we could return that way. Of course, that would be a foolish plan if we remained commoners throughout our time in Muniche. Thus I resolved to present myself as an educated, noble-born lady who had come upon hard times, and I felt certain that Freia could do the same. That might give us a better chance to establish ourselves in the city, and perhaps we could someday gain an audience with the Prince himself.

Joel once again took up the position as rower, while Freia and I sat toward the front of the log as we drifted downstream. When I was not teaching Joel some useful statements in Teutonica—such as “hello,” “my name is Joel,” “I come from England,” “my Teutonica is poor,” “could I rent a room,” “could I buy some food/beer,” “are there nuts in this dish,” “please,” and “thank you”—I exchanged more words with Freia in a mixture of Teutonica and her own dialect, which shared quite a few similarities. I discovered that she had joined the Gypsies willingly but that afterward they had used her terribly. “Once we had gotten far enough away from my people, the Gypsies put me in chains like a dog,” she told me, her comely face darkened by the memory. “They forced me to perform at many villages and manors, painted me like a heathen, ordered me to dance like a harlot. No one recognized me, and they abused me when I tried to speak out. They are a terrible people.”

I shivered at her story, silently thanking God that He had rescued us from those heathens, even if it had meant committing murder. “I doubt all Gypsies are like that,” I remarked, thinking of the few I knew in my own era. There had been one Gypsy girl in my high school, and aside from her occasional fantastic outfits, I had never noticed anything amiss.

Freia shook her head at me, negating my attempt to redeem them as a whole. “I’ll never have dealings with them again,” she stated shortly. “The Teutons are right about that.” She glanced at me a bit uncertainly.

Her statement piqued my curiosity, and I wondered what my people were right about concerning the Gypsies. “Are those Gypsies going to stop at Muniche?” I asked her, considering the propinquity with which they had camped.

She shook her head again, brushing some of her hair back from her face, looking startled that I did not know. “Gypsies never perform at Teuton cities. They aren’t welcome. That group passed by Augsburg a few weeks ago and did not stop. They’re headed for Slavic lands.” Her lips turned downward in a slight sneer.

Perhaps that explained why the Gypsy leader had reacted so strongly when I had asked him if he spoke Teutonica. But I frowned at Freia’s words, knowing that while my people had never been the most tolerant, they were also not the most bigoted, at least regarding those they allowed to dwell in their communities. Teuton histories claimed that there had been both Jewish and Slavic sections in many of the ancient settlements. “Why aren’t Gypsies welcome at Teuton cities?” I asked, honestly curious.

“You’re a Teuton. You should know.” Freia eyed me guardedly.

I thought fast, then gave her my best excuse. “I’ve been away from Teuton settlements for quite a while. I’ve forgotten many things.”

She glanced toward Joel, who was ignoring us, then lowered her voice as she replied, “When you burned the fetish and the Tarot cards last night, I thought you knew everything. Gypsies practice sorcery; they do not worship God. The Teutons have been a Christian people for centuries, yet they still have their own . . . traditions.” She paused, looking at me significantly, and continued, “You used your ice when you came to me on the log yesterday. That sort of sorcery is beyond what the Gypsies understand. They do not trust the Teutons. The Teutons, also, do not trust Gypsies, for they consider their sorcery to be divination”—she spoke the word in Latin, to my surprise—“and Teutons forbid such things, so it is said.”

I had comprehended most of Freia’s explanation, and it surely gave me a lot to think about. I had also caught her wary tone of voice as she discussed my people and their abilities, and I realized that I had to find out one thing from her, at least. Looking her straight in the eyes, I inquired, “And what’s your opinion on Teutonic sorcery?” I hoped that she did not hold me in the same light as the Gypsies.

She kept silent for a long moment, breaking away from my gaze to look at the waters beneath our log, her expression pensive. At last, she raised her eyes to mine once more and answered in no uncertain terms, “It doesn’t frighten me any longer. a***e is far worse than sorcery.”

Joel and I also exchanged several lengthy conversations in English while we drifted toward our goal. I finally explained our situation to him, and he listened closely, hardly interrupting even to interject a touch of humor. I described the Teuton tribe and their history as well as I could, noting that I had chosen to come to this particular era in order to see both the triumph and the downfall of the Teuton people. I had figured it would be a learning experience, I told Joel, especially since few people in modern Germany properly appreciated Teuton history.

I related the tales of Prince Otto von Bayern, the one who had discovered the methods of bending time. I also described the upcoming fall of Muniche, which had led to the Prince’s mental breakdown and ultimate suicide. “We will likely see how having everything crumble in one’s fingers drives a man insane,” I concluded, beginning to consider for the first time what it would be like for Prince Otto when it came to pass. Though I was nowhere near as power hungry as the typical man, I could imagine the agony of such a defeat.

Joel nodded thoughtfully as he steered us down the River Isar with strong, steady strokes. “So, since this Prince Otto was the one who made the rock,” he said at length, his eyes on the water, “and you say he also wrote some sort of song that made time travel possible”—he looked at me briefly, and I nodded—“maybe we could . . . convince him . . . to share his song with us.” His hazel eyes gleamed with possibilities, a rather nefarious smile spreading across his face.

I heaved a frustrated sigh, knowing that Joel had a lot to learn about the Teuton people. “If we ever get to see him, that is,” I said. “We’re commoners at this point, and I doubt we could get an audience with the Prince, even if we pawn all of our jewelry, which I’d rather not do. If we can find refuge with the nobility, we may end up meeting Prince Otto one day. But I strongly urge you, in spite of your self-confidence, to not try to force him to tell you anything.” Half of my mouth quirked upward in a wry smile as I clarified, “He’s a Teuton priest, a member of one of the strongest castes of Teutons. The priests are the ones who guard our traditions, who learn how to control all of the elements, who know all of our ‘sorcery’ as Freia calls it. A man has to go through t*****e to become a Teuton priest in the first place. If Prince Otto doesn’t want to give us any information on his song, I doubt you or I could ever convince him otherwise.”

Joel huffed, muttering something about witches and warlocks. “So I guess that means we’re still trapped here unless we die,” he translated.

“That’s right, and I’m not really wanting to try that out just yet. And either way, we can’t do Teutonic ritual suicide if we want to get back home alive.” I had to explain the concept to Joel, who gawked at me, looking disturbed.

“So just because Prince Otto happened to find out the secrets of time travel, that means anyone who dies the way he did ends up bound for heaven or hell?”

“Something like that.” I shuddered a little at the way he had phrased it. “Our best bet for getting back to 2000 would be to get Prince Otto’s song. I’d honestly rather not attempt any type of suicide, just to be safe.” Joel agreed and remarked that we may very well die in the upcoming battle if it held any similarities to what he had read in Lord of the Rings. I rolled my eyes at his apparent fascination with Tolkien’s works and turned my attention back to Freia.

We ate an early dinner on our log when we saw that the forests beside the Isar had begun to thin out, interspersed now with cropland and grazing livestock. Several times we saw laborers in the distance, and once Freia pointed out a manor high on a hill surrounded by a low stone wall. Civilization was fast approaching, and I continued to rehearse our fabricated story in my mind. We were noble adventurers returning to Teuton lands after many years abroad. We sought asylum and were willing to learn any sort of necessary work or trade.

We began to encounter more and more small boats as we paddled on, most of them manned by fishermen. Joel tried to steer us clear from them as much as possible, not wanting to provoke any resentment or disturb their work. I suggested that they probably caught trout to sell at the manors and the city. Freia affirmed my assumption, adding perch and carp to the list. I told Joel that it was a pity I had not thought to bring the proper tools for fishing, or to catch some of the many geese and ducks we saw floating along the Isar as we drew nearer to Muniche. Overall, the fishermen ignored us when we passed through on our log. A few of them threw confused looks in our direction, and one of them called out to us in a rather plebian-sounding form of Teutonica, asking if our boat had sunk. I chuckled and advised Joel to wave at him companionably on our way by.

The sun had already set, the sky transitioning to a deep blue, when we first spotted the stone towers of Muniche in the distance. I rose up onto my knees to get a better look, not trusting my balance to allow me to safely stand. I invoked my ice into my eyes to sharpen my vision, taking in the extent of the ash-colored walls, built from solid stone, stretching at least twenty meters into the air. The turrets at each corner and above the gates stood higher than that, dotted with tiny windows and ornamented with curling walkways and ivy. Though I could not see the buildings of the city itself due to the height of the walls, I did catch a glimpse of several tall towers in the midst of its borders. One resembled the steeple of a cathedral, and the others looked like part of a castle, probably the Bayern fortress. A soft orange glow rose above the city as the night deepened, the light of countless torches and oil lamps assuring the weary traveler that life beckoned from within.

When we neared the closest corner of the city walls, my eyes picked out a drawbridge fast approaching, leading to the nearest gate into Muniche. I pointed it out to Joel, suggesting that he land our log for the last time close to the dirt road that followed the Isar to the bridge. He drew us up to the riverbank and held out his hand to help Freia and me dismount safely before retrieving our bags. “I doubt they’ll let us enter the city this late at night, but maybe we’ll find someone who can tell us where to find shelter until morning,” I suggested.

Joel grunted, shouldering both leather bags with the comment that he had to start playing the role of the proper gentleman. Freia and I took the lead once we reached the road, walking together like good friends. Though her face betrayed just a hint of fear as we progressed, probably due to some wariness of walking outside of a city at night—and a Teuton one at that—she carried herself with poise and calmness, looking relieved that she drew near to freedom at last.

The certainty had begun to grow within me that Freia and I would become close friends before my time in the eleventh century was up. She was so beautiful and refined, kind and cheerful in spite of what she had been through in the past year. I wanted her to be my friend. While we walked that deserted road to the raised drawbridge, my element cautiously testing each shadow to ensure that no thieves awaited us, I began to consider what the repercussions would be if I told Freia that Joel and I were from the future. I wanted to know more about her, and it was only fair that I should tell her about myself in return. Would telling someone that I was from the future be counted as interference with history?

As we neared the place where the drawbridge of Muniche obviously rested when it was lowered, I saw what appeared to be a guard shack right at the edge of the river, with a light glowing in its window. I gestured at it pointedly and said to Joel, “Maybe the toll taker will lower the bridge for us.”

“Toll?” Joel gave a silly smirk, one leather bag hanging from each of his shoulders. “How much is it going to be? I only have a couple bucks with me.”

I rolled my eyes, wondering if he had actually stuffed some U.S. dollars into the pockets of his trousers. Then I turned to Freia with a serious question. “Do you think the toll taker would lower the drawbridge at this hour?”

Freia frowned thoughtfully, shaking her head, obviously well versed in the traditions of medieval cities. “Not after dark,” she replied. “He may be able to give us some advice on where to safely spend the night, though. Bridge keepers usually know such things.”

I nodded, and we stopped at the door of the small, wooden shack. I elbowed Joel, indicating that he should be the one to knock. He gawked at me in obvious disbelief, then stepped up to the door, dim light seeping through the cracks in the wood. He knocked sharply, twice, and called out “Hello?” in decent Teutonica. He glanced back at me, and I whispered the correct words for “Is anyone there?” slowly and distinctly. He repeated them, slurring the phrase a bit. I pursed my lips.

Footsteps sounded within the guard shack, followed by the noise of a latch being unfastened. A moment later, the door swung open inward, revealing a rather plump, friendly-looking man, about thirty, with brown hair and beard and shiny blue eyes. He wore a tunic and pants bearing some similarity to those which I had sewn for Joel. I congratulated myself silently on my success in style. His hands were thick, and from his belt there hung a rather formidable mallet. He looked at each of us in turn, quickly determining that we were travelers and posed no obvious threat. Then he asked in Teutonica as strangely accented as the fisherman’s, “How may I help you?” training his gaze on Joel.

Joel stared blankly, and I realized that I would have to do all of the talking, though that may be improper for a woman. After choking out the words I had taught him earlier, “My Teutonica is poor,” Joel gestured at me, and the toll taker’s blue eyes locked with mine.

I took a deep breath, praying that I would sound articulate. “Forgive me. My companions have never been to a Teuton city before, nor are they familiar with our language,” I began, speaking as properly as I knew how. “We have journeyed a long distance and seek refuge for the night. Could you grant us any assistance?”

I could tell from the toll taker’s expression that he thought that my Teutonica sounded as strange to him as his did to me. He recovered himself quickly, however, and bowed at me, the symbol of medieval propriety. “I should be able to help you, my lady, although I can’t lower the bridge for you at this hour without official permission.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “That is quite all right, but my companions and I would like to enter the city in the morning, if possible. How much does it cost to make the crossing?” I asked, glancing at his mallet, knowing that he likely wore it to discourage toll evaders.

“Only two Thaler to enter Muniche, my lady,” he responded, bowing again. “To exit it is free. Each gate charges the same fee.”

Thaler must be the local currency, I figured, and I wondered what the toll taker would think if we paid him with one of the Gypsy’s gold chains. It may be worth a shot. He looked like an honest man; I could see it in his pleasant expression. “Hey Joel, get one of those gold chains out of your bag,” I told him, then turned back to the toll taker. “Would you allow us to pay you in advance?” I asked, speaking the words in advance in Latin, as a test. I heard Freia give a quiet gasp beside me.

The toll taker’s eyes bugged and he took a step back, especially when he saw the golden chain that Joel had pulled from his bag. “Oh, my lady, I could not,” he said, the words tumbling out. “My boss would have my neck. If you’d like somewhere to stay for the night, take that road to the first manor over the hill.” He pointed one thick finger at the crossroads beyond us, jerking it toward the southeast. “My wife’s uncle owns that estate. His name is Count Helmut von Meldorf. Tell him Garin Zeuner sent you. He certainly will let you stay the night.”

I nodded and indicated that Joel should put the gold chain back into his bag. “Thank you kindly for your help, Mr. Zeuner,” I said brightly, dropping a quick curtsey. “We’ll gladly relate the tale of your graciousness to the count, should we meet him this night. Thank you.” I ducked my head and stepped toward the crossroads as Freia and Joel echoed my thanks. The toll taker nodded at us as we left, replying profusely that no thanks were required, wishing us safety and a comfortable evening.

Moments later, the three of us entered the path to the Meldorf estate, and I filled Joel in on the majority of my conversation with the toll taker. He complimented me, saying that I had handled myself well, and I commented that everyone we had met so far around Muniche seemed to speak with a strange accent. As the flickering lights of the manor appeared over the hill, I gave a contented sigh, looking forward to a restful night before confronting the issues of tomorrow.

Chapter Five: